A Field Guide for Heartbreakers

by Kristen Tracy

  At every stop the train lurched with dramatic force, sending me sideways into fellow passengers. It didn’t matter how tightly I held on. The same thing happened to Veronica, though I don’t think she minded, because she was positioned next to a young, dark-haired businessman wearing what looked to be a soft and expensive dark gray suit.

  “Where did he come from?” she whispered.

  “Malostranskeˇ stop.”

  I decided our fellow passengers didn’t really look all that different from Ohioans. Their clothes and faces resembled those of people I’d expect to see walking through the mall on a Saturday. The only exception to this was their footwear. Both the young and elderly were clad in shoes that looked considerably orthopedic.

  When the metro stopped at Staromeˇstská, Veronica was first off the train. I clumsily dashed out behind her.

  We rode an escalator up into the daylight. Hurrying down the sidewalk, I realized that we were at the same place where the tour had ended yesterday.

  “There’s the castle,” I said, pointing across the river.

  “I’m not blind,” Veronica huffed. “This way. The school is around the corner.”

  Charles University was old, stone, and impressive. I didn’t remember seeing it on the tour. We climbed a set of shallow stone steps and entered through a set of heavy wooden doors. Veronica immediately began climbing the central stairs. When we got to our room on the second floor, Veronica yanked on the door and then said, “Shit.”

  “Is it locked?” I asked.

  She pulled a credit card out of her purse and wedged it into the door near the lock.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. I was shocked. Unless you count her locker, I’d never seen her break into anything before.

  The door popped open and she smiled. “Entering. Now, the reason we’re here early is so we can secure our seats strategically.”

  “Good idea. We should sit by the door in case we need to use the bathroom.”

  “Yeah,” Veronica said. “Because nothing turns a guy on more than a girl who’s intent on emptying her bladder. Seriously, Dessy, can you try to think like a cheetah?”

  “Probably not,” I said.

  “We want to penetrate the guys’ circle,” she said.

  “You make it sound so sexual. Can’t you just say that we want to sit next to them?”

  Veronica walked to one of the chairs and smiled like a devil. “This is how it will go. Guy ass. My ass. Guy ass. Guy ass. Your ass. Guy ass.” She walked down the row and slapped the back of a chair each time she said the word “ass.”

  “How on earth do you know where the guys are going to sit?” I asked.

  “A lot of it’s mental,” she said.

  I glanced around the classroom. Things looked dilapidated. Huge maps of Europe hung on every wall except the windowed one. There was an aquarium too, containing a keyboard and several feet of cable. Was this an omen? Veronica remained fixated on the chairs.

  “And how will that work?” I asked.

  “Don’t you remember that time that I moved a balloon across the floor using just my mind at your birthday party two years ago? It’ll be a lot like that.” Veronica tapped her temple.

  “Oh my god,” I said. “This plan is bonkers.”

  “You’re not going to say that after it works.”

  “You really think you can control the other workshop participants?”

  “Yeah.” She plopped down in a chair. “We need to capitalize on every moment. Every second.” She snapped her fingers in quick succession to emphasize, I assumed, the dramatic passage of time. “Do you want to know what I said in my e-mail to Boz last night?”

  The way she was treating Boz upset me so much that I hadn’t asked her about it.

  “No,” I said.

  “I said, ‘I’m enjoying every second of this place.’ And it was the truth. And I will continue to live my truth.”

  She climbed onto her chair and then up onto a table. She lifted her index finger and jabbed it heavenward. “My truth!” she yelled.

  “Get down,” I said. “You’re going to freak people out.”

  Veronica leaped off the table. “Adventurous girls make guys horny,” she said. “That’s why superhero chicks give guys boners.”

  “Superhero chicks? Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Hawkgirl, Wonder Woman, Supergirl, Zatanna, et cetera, et cetera. It’s way obvious.”

  “Maybe it’s their low-cut tops, skintight clothing, and gargantuan breasts.”

  “Either way, adventurous girls are turn-ons. Big time,” Veronica said.

  “You act like you know everything,” I said.

  “I know a lot,” she said. “Admit it.”

  I didn’t want to fight. Why was I picking a fight? Why not just agree with her? Veronica Knox did know a lot. Even her superhero-chick observation had merit.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  She ran to my side and hugged me. “Isn’t it amazing how we’re incapable of fighting for longer than thirty seconds?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Okay. You sit here,” she said.

  I sat.

  “I’m going to sit here.” She slid into a chair and pulled out the stories for workshop.

  “Now that you’ve actually met these people, are you really going to make snarky comments about their work?” I asked.

  Veronica looked at the ceiling and blinked several times. “Probably,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I want to look smart. I mean, it’s a lot easier to rip something apart than to offer useful feedback. Have you ever wondered why delinquents vandalize cars and mailboxes and abandoned buildings? It’s because it’s so much easier to wreck something than to build it.”

  What she said made sense.

  “Besides, the stories are a little freaky,” Veronica said. “I like Kite, and I wouldn’t mind hooking up with him, and going all the way to first base, or possibly second. But after reading his piece, there’s no way he’s going to third with me, because I think it’s pretty obvious that he’s a sexually injured person.”

  “I’m not sure I’d say that,” I said.

  “You’re not sure of a lot of things, Dessy.” Veronica looked down and started to read.

  “How can you tell that he’s sexually injured?” I asked. “He wrote about a goat.”

  Veronica groaned. “You think he wrote about a goat. And on the surface it may look like he wrote about a goat, because he was using the word goat, but trust me, the goat is a metaphor.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah, Kite is either talking about his last failed love or his mother. Either way, he’s sexually injured. That becomes totally obvious during the milking scene.”

  “Wow. I completely missed that,” I said.

  “We’re not dealing with high school material anymore, Dessy. We’re tackling college issues.”

  I was already nervous about commenting on the stories. It was pretty clear that they had been submitted by people who were older and knew what they were doing. Would they even want my opinions?

  Probably not. My anxiousness turned into nausea. I glanced at Veronica. She appeared fine. I took a deep breath and tried to appear fine too. Today we were discussing two stories: Kite’s and Brenda’s. Yes, I’d already scribbled comments. But after Veronica’s revelation about Kite’s goat, everything I’d written seemed so obvious. Why hadn’t I dug a little deeper? I flipped through both stories again. Brenda’s was set in Maine. It was about a woman who buys a lobster at the grocery store and then takes it to the ocean and sets it free. The story ends with her returning to the grocery store to buy a crab.

  “The lobster story isn’t about sex,” I said.

  Veronica kept her head down while she talked. “Right, it’s about confronting mortality.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s what I wrote. Because the lobster lives.”

  “We don’t know if that bottom-feeder survives,” she said. �
�She never even tells us if she took the blue rubber bands off its claws.”

  “We’re definitely supposed to root for the lobster,” I said.

  “Dessy, the story isn’t really about the lobster or the crab. It’s about her. And maybe some fixation she has for an uncircumcised fisherman. Did you read that description of the fishermen she sees in the grocery store?” Veronica looked at me and waggled her eyebrows, then she licked her thumb and turned a page.

  “Oh my god,” I said. “I missed everything!”

  I furiously began marking up both stories. I continued to make notes even as the group straggled in. Waller sat two seats away from me. So much for Veronica’s powers of mental persuasion. But as he passed he brushed against my arm with his arm and its thick forest of hair. It was the hairiest arm that had ever grazed my skin. I loved it so much that I kept hoping he’d regraze me. But he didn’t.

  Annie Earl came in with Brenda, and they sat next to each other. Brenda glared over at us, and I didn’t know why.

  “I got your note about the goulash,” she said.

  “Cool,” Veronica said.

  I leaned over the empty chair between us and asked her, “What did you do?”

  Veronica smiled. “I got up in the middle of the night and ate most of it.”

  My eyes got big.

  “Calm down. We didn’t miss much. I’ve had better.”

  Frank ended up sitting right next to Veronica, and Roger sat beside me. A slightly chubby girl with a lot of tattoos sat by herself. Kite sat on the other side of Veronica. Except for Waller, everybody sat exactly where Veronica had planned. I was amazed.

  “Let’s go ahead and get started,” Mrs. Knox said.

  My pulse raced. I flipped back through the stories again. Everything began to blur. I wasn’t ready.

  “As all of you know, I’m Tabitha Knox. My specialty is the short story, and that’s what we’ll be working on in this class. One of my favorite quotes on writing is, ‘You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.’ Some people think that writing is all about putting your butt in a chair. That’s a wrongheaded approach. I’ve met plenty of writers who spend too much of their lives sitting, waiting for the magic, waiting for the spark. They wait at their desks like a shipwrecked sailor waits on the shore of a deserted island, unshowered, desperate, nutritionally compromised, and fashion challenged.”

  Everybody laughed at this, even Veronica, who must have heard it dozens of times before.

  “As writers, we need to learn to rescue ourselves. We will work hard in this class, because writing is hard work. In addition to the stories that we’ll workshop, I’ll also be assigning small amounts of reading. Flannery O’Connor. Raymond Carver. Joyce Carol Oates. Stuart Dybek. Ralph Ellison. And more. Because writing isn’t just about writing. It’s also about reading.”

  “I agree,” Veronica said. “I hope we get to read some vintage Hemingway.”

  “Probably not,” Mrs. Knox said. “Hemingway isn’t my favorite.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll also be assigning small writing exercises. Sometimes I’ll collect them and sometimes I won’t.

  “Here’s my philosophy for workshop,” Mrs. Knox continued. “We start with what’s good. After we’ve discussed what’s working, we can move into more critical areas. You aren’t allowed to say that you don’t like something without offering a thoughtful reason. Don’t discuss typos during the workshop. If you have grammatical concerns fix them on the page. We want to get to the meat. We want to give the author nine extra sets of eyes. We want to show them where their story succeeds and where it may be falling short. And one last thing, no commenting or contributing while we’re discussing your story. It’s your job to absorb and take notes. You can make clarifying inquisitions at the end. Questions?”

  “Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?” Veronica asked.

  Mrs. Knox nodded. “Yes. I was getting there. Who’d like to start? Say your name and where you’re from. And tell us something interesting about yourself.”

  It looked to me as if Mrs. Knox was trying to maintain a neutral position with Veronica in front of the class. And it also looked to me as if Veronica was trying to act very mature and collegey.

  “I will. I’m Veronica Knox. And I’m from Ohio. I like to run, salsa dance, and bake. And I can hold my breath for six minutes and twenty-nine seconds.”

  I heard somebody gasp. Veronica beamed. I’d never seen her do any of the things she listed. And as for holding her breath? I had no idea why she’d told that whopper.

  “Wow. That’s tough to follow. But I’ll go next. I’m Roger Kobe. I’m from Chicago. And I’m a Cubs fan.” Roger pointed to his hat. “And don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m a loyal dog. I’ll be a sophomore at Northwestern where I study English and Education.”

  “I’m Waller Dudek. Also from Chicago. Also attending Northwestern. And I like the Cubs, but I got tired of having my heart broken annually, so I don’t claim a team. Also, I want to add that I’m not a fan of Hemingway either.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table. This set off small vibrations that traveled through the wood and into my bones. I felt flushed. Then he glanced at me, and I took it as a sign to go.

  “I’m Dessy Gherkin. I’m from Ohio. And while I’m not a Cubs fan, I do like watching big cats at the zoo.”

  Roger laughed.

  Veronica mouthed, “What?” But I liked my answer. I thought it showed pizzazz.

  “I’m Frank Adler. I’m from San Diego, and I’m a student at UCSD. And this is the first summer that I haven’t spent working at SeaWorld or the San Diego Zoo since I was fifteen.” Frank looked at Veronica and me and gave us a knowing grin.

  Why did he grin? Did he think I was fifteen? Did Veronica and I look fifteen? I felt my ears grow warm. I wanted to shout, “I’m not fifteen. I’m seventeen! And a half! World of difference.” But I held myself together.

  “Kite Geld. I’m from Escondido. It’s near San Diego. I study at UCSD too, and when I was seven I kissed Shamu.”

  “And what was that like?” Roger asked.

  “Damp,” Kite said.

  People laughed. I think this meant we were beginning to bond.

  “I’m Brenda Temple. I’m from Bar Harbor, Maine. I love seeing new things. Traveling. I guess I’m the kind of person who, when I encounter a closed door, I like to open it. I also enjoy watching whales and independent films.”

  “We’ve got a lot of marine life enthusiasts,” Mrs. Knox said. “I wonder if any whales made it into the stories.”

  “I’m Annie Earl Wert. I’m originally from Omaha, but I currently live in Coral Gables, Florida. No real whale or baseball interests. I knit. And play the banjo. And I once had dinner with Ronald Reagan.”

  Nobody laughed. I think I heard a small gasp.

  “The dead president?” Veronica asked.

  “He was living at the time,” Annie Earl said.

  The next person jumped in before Annie Earl could elaborate.

  “I’m Corky. Just Corky. I don’t like using my last name because I feel it defines me in a way that is inauthentic to my ambitions. I think capturing whales and imprisoning them in fish tanks is a hostile act. But don’t worry, I’m not an ecoterrorist. Bombs aren’t the way I plan to change the world. What else? I like to hike. I’ve survived a plane crash. And I once killed a mountain lion with my shoe.”

  Corky looked a lot like how I pictured her after I read her sticky note. Again, nobody laughed.

  “With your shoe?” Veronica asked. “Were you wearing vicious high heels?”

  “Boots,” Corky said. “The lion attacked my sheltie. I kicked it off of my dog and then stood on its neck until it suffocated. It was a young cat. A size I could handle. I protect what’s mine.”

  She unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and took a sip.

  “Oh my god,” Veronica said. “That’s amazing.”

  “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Corky said.r />
  “Okay. Thanks, Corky. Moving on. Does anybody have any questions?” Mrs. Knox asked.

  Nobody had any questions.

  “Kite, why don’t you start. Please read from your story. Just a page or so.”

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Yep,” Mrs. Knox said.

  “I’d like to read from the milking scene.

  “The barn smelled like Indiana and it made me miss California. I’d left San Diego and her crowded sidewalks and thoroughfares two weeks ago. Everything about her felt missable, even the faint stench of piss. I approached the goat slowly and offered her my hand. I expected her to lower her moist snout and sniff it the way a golden retriever would, but she turned away from me and stamped her hind legs. Like a nervous girl on prom night, she knew what I was after.

  “‘Come,’ I said. I rubbed my hands together to warm them. No, I didn’t really connect with my country cousins, but I could milk their goat. I reached down for her udder. It was warm and rubbery, and when I touched it, she released a bleating refusal. But I didn’t back down. I shoved the bucket under her with one hand, and with the other I yanked her teat. Not softly, but hard. I wanted milk.”

  I felt myself stand up. My knees turned to jelly. No wonder Hamilton dumped me. Things were starting to make sense. This was all about my second flaw. Dessy, you enjoy life’s surface pleasures so much that you resist looking for the deeper meaning. You have an analytical mind, but you don’t use it. Kite’s metaphor was right there for me to see, and I had missed it. I hadn’t applied my analytical mind!

  I hurried to the door and thought about my original comments on Kite’s story. “I’d enjoy more details about what the barn looked like.” “How many cousins did the character have?” “What color was the goat?” All of them missed the obvious. Kite was writing about sex. SEX. I hadn’t gone below the surface.

  My head swam. I felt so stupid. And young. How could I have overlooked the sexual connotations of a young city boy milking his first country goat? Kite didn’t stop reading. I walked out into the hall and shut the door behind me. I sat down and concentrated on breathing. I pictured my lungs taking in air and pushing the oxygen through my blood. If I didn’t focus like this, I was worried I’d hyperventilate and pass out. This sort of panic had hit me once before. The wounded owl incident.