in two weeks and your five-hundred-word story is due Wednesday. I want succinct prose. Quote at least two sources, and if any of your facts are incorrect, you will fail the assignment. I don’t have to tell you to proofread now, do I?”
When a student asked about the computers, Ms. Chu said, “You’ll get access to the Weekly account, and your use is restricted to submitting articles and formatting the paper.”
I stayed after class to ask her about a topic for the first assignment. She suggested a feature on the lacrosse team, and when I frowned, she said, “Or write a piece about the Birch Grove Foundation, which administers our scholarships. Twenty percent of the student body receives some form of financial aid. A student started a feature on it last year, but she got the flu and never finished it. You can ask Mr. Shaunessy in the administrative offices about the foundation.”
* * *
I forgot the frustrations of my day when I unlocked the door to my cottage and heard the phone ringing. I ran inside and grabbed it up. “Hello!”
“Hey, Jane? It’s Lucky.”
My throat constricted. “Oh, hi, Lucky!”
“How’s it going?” His voice was lighter than Jack’s and didn’t have that annoying, sardonic edge. “School okay?”
“It’s good. I’m taking Night Terrors with your mom.”
“Everyone loves that class. Okay, you know that tutoring thing? Chemistry? My parents say I should start it right away and not fall behind. I can come over there on Saturday around noon if that’s okay.”
“That would be great.” I spoke too fast in my eagerness. “I mean, I’m available then.”
“Okay, see you then.”
“See you.”
I hung up and thought, Lucky and me and money for tutoring . I closed my eyes so I could imagine his face, his long body, the wink he’d given me, the smell of him, the feel of his breath against my cheek. I knew absolutely and without any doubt that girls like me never got guys like Lucky, but that night in my own bed, I imagined him and what it might feel like to kiss him and to have his hands exploring my lonely, unloved body.
As the evening comes on, an incomprehensible feeling of disquietude seizes me, just as if night concealed some terrible menace toward me. I dine quickly, and then try to read, but I do not understand the words, and can scarcely distinguish the letters. Then I walk up and down my drawing-room, oppressed by a feeling of confused and irresistible fear …
Guy de Maupassant, “The Horla” (1887)
Chapter 10
The next day, Constance and I had Mrs. Radcliffe’s Night Terrors. The headmistress stood in front of us holding a thick book with a maroon leather cover. “Let’s begin with a poem written in 1748 by Heinrich August Ossenfelder. It’s called ‘Der Vampire.’”
She waited until the room was completely silent and then she recited the poem:
“And as softly thou art sleeping
To thee shall I come creeping
And thy life’s blood drain away.
And so shalt thou be trembling
For thus shall I be kissing
And death’s threshold thou’ it be crossing
With fear, in my cold arms.
And last shall I thee question
Compared to such instruction
What are a mother’s charms?”
She opened her hands, letting go of the book, and it hit the floor with a loud slap. Many of the girls jumped in their seats and several laughed nervously. Mrs. Radcliffe smiled. She said, “Does everything that goes bump in the night have a nasty bite?” We laughed more comfortably.
“Why does every society, every culture have stories about monsters, such as those that drink blood?” she asked. “The universality of these tales says something about our own humanity, but what? Are we afraid of what is outside lurking in the night, or do we dread the darkness of our own souls?”
We went through the poem line by line, and I discovered it was about a man threatening to give a vampire’s kiss to a pure maiden. Mrs. Radcliffe caught my eye and I
When a student asked about the computers, Ms. Chu said, “You’ll get access to the Weekly account, and your use is restricted to submitting articles and formatting the paper.”
I stayed after class to ask her about a topic for the first assignment. She suggested a feature on the lacrosse team, and when I frowned, she said, “Or write a piece about the Birch Grove Foundation, which administers our scholarships. Twenty percent of the student body receives some form of financial aid. A student started a feature on it last year, but she got the flu and never finished it. You can ask Mr. Shaunessy in the administrative offices about the foundation.”
* * *
I forgot the frustrations of my day when I unlocked the door to my cottage and heard the phone ringing. I ran inside and grabbed it up. “Hello!”
“Hey, Jane? It’s Lucky.”
My throat constricted. “Oh, hi, Lucky!”
“How’s it going?” His voice was lighter than Jack’s and didn’t have that annoying, sardonic edge. “School okay?”
“It’s good. I’m taking Night Terrors with your mom.”
“Everyone loves that class. Okay, you know that tutoring thing? Chemistry? My parents say I should start it right away and not fall behind. I can come over there on Saturday around noon if that’s okay.”
“That would be great.” I spoke too fast in my eagerness. “I mean, I’m available then.”
“Okay, see you then.”
“See you.”
I hung up and thought, Lucky and me and money for tutoring . I closed my eyes so I could imagine his face, his long body, the wink he’d given me, the smell of him, the feel of his breath against my cheek. I knew absolutely and without any doubt that girls like me never got guys like Lucky, but that night in my own bed, I imagined him and what it might feel like to kiss him and to have his hands exploring my lonely, unloved body.
As the evening comes on, an incomprehensible feeling of disquietude seizes me, just as if night concealed some terrible menace toward me. I dine quickly, and then try to read, but I do not understand the words, and can scarcely distinguish the letters. Then I walk up and down my drawing-room, oppressed by a feeling of confused and irresistible fear …
Guy de Maupassant, “The Horla” (1887)
Chapter 10
The next day, Constance and I had Mrs. Radcliffe’s Night Terrors. The headmistress stood in front of us holding a thick book with a maroon leather cover. “Let’s begin with a poem written in 1748 by Heinrich August Ossenfelder. It’s called ‘Der Vampire.’”
She waited until the room was completely silent and then she recited the poem:
“And as softly thou art sleeping
To thee shall I come creeping
And thy life’s blood drain away.
And so shalt thou be trembling
For thus shall I be kissing
And death’s threshold thou’ it be crossing
With fear, in my cold arms.
And last shall I thee question
Compared to such instruction
What are a mother’s charms?”
She opened her hands, letting go of the book, and it hit the floor with a loud slap. Many of the girls jumped in their seats and several laughed nervously. Mrs. Radcliffe smiled. She said, “Does everything that goes bump in the night have a nasty bite?” We laughed more comfortably.
“Why does every society, every culture have stories about monsters, such as those that drink blood?” she asked. “The universality of these tales says something about our own humanity, but what? Are we afraid of what is outside lurking in the night, or do we dread the darkness of our own souls?”
We went through the poem line by line, and I discovered it was about a man threatening to give a vampire’s kiss to a pure maiden. Mrs. Radcliffe caught my eye and I
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