by Tamer Lorika
Letters from the Sky
By Tamer Lorika
Published by Queerteen Press
Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.
Copyright 2012 Tamer Lorika
ISBN 9781611523164
Cover Photo Credit: Zoom-zoom, Alexplat
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs
All Rights Reserved
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.
* * * *
My Dear Reader:
Many young girls spend their adolescence dreaming of their perfect wedding—the colors, the dress, sometimes even the husband. I spent most of my formative years daydreaming about exactly how my acknowledgements page would look.
That’s…really sad, actually.
To my family, of course, for continuing to let me take up space at the kitchen counter and not yelling too much when you trip over my laptop cord. You’re always supportive.
To ALL of my friends, even the ones who shake their heads disparagingly more often than they actually talk to me. Especially to my writing buddies: Becky, Paige, Alkisti, Daniel “Estonia,” Liet, Emma, and Noel. You’re all amazing friends, you know that? I also give a shout-out to Prussia and Emmy and their inappropriate shenanigans, our unwilling Nathen, Schumacher and Gustav, and adorable Erin H.
For Clara, for your tireless editing, and Poppa Brad, for the final push I needed to get my manuscript out there.
To my teachers, especially: Mrs. Erami, I still hear you squawking “Ethos! Logos! Pathos!” in my head (as well as something about caves and women’s body parts); Mrs. Erice, for editing my play so kindly; Mr. Kennedy, for your entertaining conversations about Canada, imperialism, and certain teenagers whose brains have not caught up with their mouths; and, of course, Mrs. Parsons, for letting me write for the stage and loving all of us.
Finally, the dedication I’ve been planning since I knew you:
To Shira and Tatiana, for laying the tinder
To Mr. Moses and Mrs. Paris, for setting the spark
And to those who have been my flame
Thank you.
I love you all.
Tamer Lorika
Letters From the Sky
By Tamer Lorika
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 1
It was afternoon, but with a sucking gasp of wind and air, the sky grew dark, bleaching to grey and green and sickly orange. The town below was large and wooden, miles away from nowhere and far too close to everything else. The breath of it froze, stretched, and the sky broke open.
A rift ripped its way across the cold air; the light inside was blinding-bright and phosphorescent green, inhaling the clouds and the grey.
It creaked—the town below creaked like a waking beast, stretching its muscles and old, splintering bones. There was a vague feeling of panic, of stilled feet and upturned faces, but nothing concrete, only the crack and groan of houses and buildings and anything nailed down.
The things that weren’t nailed down went first.
The refuse in the street, the dust of gardens, the washing—all were sucked into the sky. They whistled and flashed and were sucked into the blindness and then, only then, did people begin to be afraid.
They ran out into the street and watched the cobblestones float from beneath their feet and slowly, with a stretch and vicious suction, they, too, began to float.
Gravity was nothing, did no more than pull their bodies opposite, and they began to scream; great cracks sounded as bones shattered and houses wept and things were swept off, crashes, yells for family or help or gods…
To the watcher on a far-off hill, it was quiet. The silhouettes of debris and bodies rose against the sick light, ascending home. A spotlight shone on the town; the hills and fields and land around were death-silent and black-green.
Certainly, the time to act was soon, but she wasn’t afraid, couldn’t be afraid, because in things like this she was always safe, would always be…
* * * *
Jeanne’s eyes opened, slowly. The light was gone, the sound was back, and she was alone. The pedestrian sounds of old house and creaky floorboards and the click and scrape of crickets filtered in through the open window. A dream, then, as she had thought. But not the dream she had been hoping for. Ah. Alone. Then perhaps today…
She tripped over to the cool window, leaning out and breathing in the night-cold, her scalp tingling, small fingers curled on the sill. The pink glow of morning slipped over the sloped roofs of dark wood houses. Red sky in the morning. And the air smelled burnt and beautiful.
A day for wind.
Before Maman could click up the stairs and call for her wakefulness, Jeanne scurried back over to her tipping desk and ripped a page from a school notebook. She wrote:
I haven’t seen you in a week but I still hope you’ll come back for me. I’m sorry, I know you say to trust you but I guess I’m still too young or scared. I feel strange sometimes and I don’t know why.
She folded it in half, carefully, and stuck it under her pillow.
“Jeanne?” Maman called quietly, carefully opening the door to the small attic room. “Time to wake—oh, you’re up.” Her voice rose to its normal pitch. “Come here, then, and let me braid your hair.”
Jeanne moved to sit at the edge of her bed on the quilt Gramaman had pieced for her only last spring, for her thirteenth birthday. Maman strode to the desk, retrieved a brush, and sat behind Jeanne, combing through her dark curls with measured strokes. Vaguely, Jeanne was aware it could have been comforting.
Maman took her time pulling the girl’s hair into two thin braids, tying them with elastic. She never turned on the bedside lamp, and Jeanne allowed herself to drift slightly, nodding off, before being woken by a sharp tap on the head.
“Go get dressed, then come down to breakfast.”
“Gramaman made sweet rolls last night?” Jeanne asked, hopeful.
“You know we have no sugar left,” Maman answered reprovingly.
Jeanne bit her lip. “But I smelled—never mind.”
“There’s oatmeal,” Maman said, as if in consolation. She disappeared down the narrow steps to the rest of the house.
Heart jumping, Jeanne inhaled the scent of yeast and cinnamon and smiled. She pulled out a neat flannel skirt, a blouse, and her loafers and socks, and stripped off her nightgown in a coy manner, as if someone were watching her.
The radio was on as she skittered heavily down the stairs. Papa was tuning it, frowning over the dials as a grainy voice filtered in.
“…Lombard was bombed early this morning, following a mass drop of propaganda pamphlets…”
Jeanne sat quietly at the table, her feet still unable to touch the linoleum, and began to
spoon honey into her oatmeal bowl, vaguely thankful for the hives in the field just outside the little township. She felt strangely heavy and sleepy, though she knew she shouldn’t. It was an odd sensation.
“…Drops have been scattered across the entire country, targeting large cities and rural areas with little discretion…”
“Oh, turn the cursed thing off, Jacques. I just got Suzette to fall asleep.” Gramaman shuffled into the kitchen, tying on the apron she wore like some sort of uniform.
“There’s no other way to get news, Momma. The papers are local—city bills don’t come for almost a week,” Papa argued.
“Well, it’s nothing a little girl needs to hear in the morning, now is it, Jeanne?” Gramaman asked with a smile, pressing a kiss to Jeanne’s forehead.
Jeanne swallowed a lump of oatmeal and flashed a small smile back at her. It was as she had thought—the smell of cinnamon yeast did not cling to this person; it never did, even when Gramaman was baking. She wasn’t the source.
Jeanne ladled more honey into her cereal. Papa turned up the radio, but it was drowned out by static, and the news wasn’t of much importance, anyway. From the other room, Suzette sent up a baby-wail for food or attention or a million other necessities, and Maman made a disapproving noise. Gramaman just shook her head, elbowed Maman away from the sink, and took over washing the oatmeal pot. “Go to her. Apparently Gramaman isn’t enough to stop her crying.”
Maman smiled in a half-grateful, mostly-frazzled sort of way and left the room, heading for the living area where the bassinet sat. Jeanne scraped her bowl, clipped over to Gramaman, and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m off to school now.”
“Cotillion today?” the old woman asked with a smile.
“No, that’s not until next week.”
“Aren’t you excited?”
Jeanne frowned. “No…?” She knew that was the wrong answer but…was she excited? She had barely thought of it, too focused on the day-to-day weather and the prayer for dry, windy days.
“I waited for Cotillion with such excitement when I was your age,” Gramaman said with a conspiratorial wink. “You get to learn all the new dances and all the etiquette.” She dropped her voice. “And, of course, you get to stand very close to all the boys.”
“I heard that, Momma,” Papa said distractedly from his perch in front of the radio. “I don’t want my daughter ‘standing very close’ to anyone yet. You hear me, Jeanne?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good girl. Now, off to school.”
Gramaman patted her arm. “You can stand close to whoever you want to, dear. Don’t listen to your papa. If your mama hadn’t been completely hanging off of him at the senior dance, they wouldn’t be together today. He’s just far too shy, that one.”
Jeanne nodded obediently and ran up the stairs without answering.
At her desk, she gathered her books into a pile—it was only the slim maths primer, a notebook, and her pencil, which she stuck in her pocket. It barely fit, as stuffed as both her pockets were—with bits of string and a piece of tinfoil, a note Paris had passed to her in class, the chocolate wrapper she had emptied last week that still retained its scent. Clutching her things to her chest, she nipped down the steps and out the door into the blue-grey morning.
It was cold outside, and she wished she had brought a jacket, but truthfully, the cold didn’t bother her so much—not enough to go back in and wrap herself in extra layers. Instead, she walked down the cobblestone street toward the end of the block. She could see Paris and Jedrick there already, Paris tapping an impatient foot, her arm slung through one of Jedrick’s. The dark-haired beauty looked tired and irritated and about ready to snap at someone. Jedrick just looked harried.
Jeanne smiled quietly to herself, raising a small salute of a wave towards them. Paris scowled back, beckoning her closer. The boy at her side leaned in, asking her a question at a volume that excluded Jeanne from the conversation, and Paris pointed at her, mouthing an obvious complaint combined with Jeanne’s name. Jeanne followed the daily argument in her head, knowing it by heart.
She’s finally here, Paris would be saying, and her fist shook with the pronouncement.
Thanks, but you could have just said that in the first place, would be the annoyed reply as Jedrick squinted into the dawn mist. Instead of pointing inanely.
Sorry, forgot. And Paris would appear mollified just long enough for Jeanne to approach them.
“Morning, Jennie,” Jedrick said calmly.
Jeanne smiled back softly. “Good morning yourself. Waiting long?”
Jedrick just shrugged. “Don’t think so—”
“Yes!” interrupted Paris. “Can you really not eat breakfast faster?”
“Sorry.”
“Paris, it’s not even seven yet,” groaned Jedrick.
“How do you know?” the girl demanded. “You can’t see the clock tower.”
“Yes, but I can hear it.”
As if on cue, the clock tower began to intone the morning greeting to the vichy with the seven bells of the hour.
“See, we still have almost half an hour to get there,” Jedrick pointed out.
Paris just pouted. “Excuse me for wanting us to be on time and ready to face class properly!” Jedrick and Jeanne rolled milky and ashy eyes, respectively.
“Come on, Jeddy, I’ll guide you.” Jeanne offered her arm to the boy, who took it gratefully.
“Good. Paris always runs me into ditches and things,” he complained, and they began to walk away.
Paris barely noticed, too busy pouting. When she did, her two friends were already halfway down the block. “Wait up!” she called, running after them. “You guys are no fun.”
Jeanne and Jedrick dissolved into giggles. It wasn’t particularly funny, but it was early in the morning, Jeanne had eaten almost a half a bowl of honey, and Jedrick was always a mystery—and Paris began to laugh too, because she hated being left out of a joke. They continued on to school.
* * * *
As they entered the low, dark building, things began to get crowded and loud, and the half-tranquil morning stretched so thin was forgotten completely in the rush of humanity. Jedrick shrank closer to Jeanne, and Paris flanked his other side.
“Watch out,” she warned the boy. “The whole hallway is crawling—Jeanne, this is why you need to walk faster in the morning!”
Jeanne ducked her head slightly. “Sorry.”
Jedrick put a hand on her forearm. “It isn’t a big deal. Paris just treats me like a cripple sometimes. It’s maddening.”
“I do not treat you like a cripple!” she squawked. “Would you rather me and Jennie left you on your own to navigate the hallway?”
He didn’t reply, just shrugged out of Jeanne’s grip and began to stride through the screeching crowd on his own, dodging a group of boys kicking a football across the floor and coming to a stop directly in front of the door to his classroom. He smiled back at the girls. Jeanne clapped. Paris pouted for the second time that morning.
“I’m not blind,” he protested.
“Only half,” Paris retorted.
Jedrick shrugged and waved. “Believe what you want. I’ll meet you guys for lunch?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need to. It was the same every day. Jeanne and Paris didn’t wave back, but took care to call out their goodbyes before walking to class 8C.
Feeling odd without the third member of their party, Paris and Jeanne linked arms. “To class?” proposed Paris.
Jeanne nodded. They took off down the hall, having significantly more trouble dodging the football boys than Jedrick had.
The teacher wasn’t in the classroom when Jeanne and Paris arrived, though that wasn’t much of a surprise. Ms. Milovskaya always seemed to stumble in just as the minute hand hit the six and the electric buzzer rang for the beginning of class, taunting a tardy violation herself. The students were therefore rowdy, knowing they wouldn’t
be caught or chastised for another ten minutes, at least.
“Paris!” Monique squealed, blonde curls bouncing as she grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “Paris, Louis said he’d walk me home today! He said he’d walk me home!”
Paris let out a squeal of her own, dissolving into some language only teenaged girls knew.
Or some of them, at least. Half-welcoming the distraction, Jeanne slipped away to find her seat.
She liked her desk. It was a large, wooden, clumsy affair, as was the rest of the furniture in the room. The top flipped up, and inside were a few pencils and her textbooks. It smelled faintly of cedar, though she was certain the wood was little more than something cheap and reminiscent of plywood. It didn’t matter the logistics of it, really, as long as the smell was still there.
The desk stood in the back of the room, right by the window, so close Jeanne could lean her temple against the pane, the way she did now. Some days, the sun was so gold and warm, she could sink against the glass and fall asleep. Today the pane was cold and beginning to shiver slightly. The sky still stood so low and grey, and Jeanne was happy. It would stay like this all day, she hoped.
She ran her fingers against the pungent wood of the desk top and thought quietly to herself. Paper, she needed paper…
A notebook would suffice. She flipped it open, frowning at the lines inside, and began to sketch anyway. A curve of a cheek appeared, not too round, but kind and high and exotic; the long, straight, soft rope of black hair followed, and an eye: frowning, but there was something behind—
The door to the classroom swung open, the plastic pane in the cheap door creaking. Ms. Milovskaya fell in, still talking. “Marianne, I have class. Yes, I’ll see you—” She shut her mouth with a wide-eyed glance at the classroom, and Jeanne couldn’t help but think of a doe. A head poked into the room—Ms. Roma, the school nurse, grinned at the students, and waved cheekily.
“Sorry to interrupt, kids. I’m off!” She winked at Ms. Milovskaya and disappeared, shutting the door behind her.
Ms. Milovskaya covered her eyes with one hand for a moment, then took a deep breath, suddenly clapping her hands. “Well! It’s time for class to begin, everyone take their seats please.”