thought, No, please don’t call on me , but she did. “Jane, what are your thoughts?”
“Well, he’s like, um … He’s like a pimp. He seduces the innocent girl and she thinks he loves her, but he’s only using her. He’s taunting her even at the end about her powerlessness to resist him and about everything she’s lost … a mother’s love.”
“That’s a good analogy, Jane, but could the author have used the supernatural to represent a more real fear? What could blood symbolize?”
I brooded on the poem through the discussion that followed. When someone mentioned menstrual blood, I expected giggling, but the students were serious as they made associations between fertility and blood, fear of death, and the penetration of a bite and coitus. They even used that word, coitus, and the only other time I’d heard another girl use it was Mary Violet, when we’d met.
“Thus life, death, blood, sex, power, innocence, and corruption all come together in these two brief stanzas,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “Please read Johann Ludwig Tieck’s ‘Wake Not the Dead’ for our next class.”
The bell sounded and we began leaving the classroom. Mrs. Radcliffe stopped me as I passed her desk. “I’m glad you participated, Jane. Did you enjoy the class?”
“It’s definitely more interesting than Western Classical Lit.” I paused. “The poem’s disturbing.”
“It is, isn’t it, even after more than two centuries. I’ve always been fascinated by our perception of those things outside the norm.”
“Jack told me you read fairy tales to them at night.”
“Lucian wasn’t interested, but Jacob always loved hearing folktales from the Old World about goblins, elves, will-o’-the-wisps, magical kingdoms … Some kids have an imaginary best friend, but my son had a whole grove of make-believe creatures. He was less interested when I discussed fairy stories as a reaction to the Industrial Revolution.” Mrs. Radcliffe handed me a few pages. “Here’s the syllabus, and you can pick up your books for this course in the administrative offices.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Radcliffe.” As I took the pages from her pale hand, I thought of the line “in my cold arms” and I also thought of Lucky’s warm hands as he bandaged my cut.
After class, I went to the admin offices, got my books, and visited Mr. Shaunessy to interview him about the scholarship fund. The older bald man rattled boring facts and statistics before walking me to the door. “A pity that Bebe isn’t here for your story. She was on full scholarship, like you, but abandoned the school for a European jaunt with some unreliable relative.” He sniffed.
I wanted to slap him, but I kept my voice calm. “Every foster kid I’ve ever known would give up anything, everything, to be with their family. I know I would.”
“Birch Grove is family.” He shut the door before I could respond.
I stormed into the hallway, where Mary Violet was using her reflection in the glass of a framed portrait to fluff up her silver-gold curls. “Why are you vexed? That’s what my mother always says. She says, ‘Why is my family determined to vex me?’” Mary Violet accompanied this statement by placing the back of her hand on her forehead, and I laughed.
“I’m vexed because I’ve had to deal with vexatious people. Mary Violet, do you know that Catalina had the nerve to say that my ‘new friends’ were snobs?”
“Oh, it’s absolutely true. If someone doesn’t think I’m fabulous, I’ll have nothing to do with her. Catalina’s not all bad, though. She thinks my hair is splendid. Why were you talking to Mr. Shaunessy?”
“I interviewed him for my story on the student aid program.”
“He’s a darling. My mother loooves him. She has him for tea, and they moan about how no one cares about culture anymore and Art with a capital A, and then she gives him massive checks.”
“Your mom donates money to the school?”
“Oodles. As fast as Daddy makes
“Well, he’s like, um … He’s like a pimp. He seduces the innocent girl and she thinks he loves her, but he’s only using her. He’s taunting her even at the end about her powerlessness to resist him and about everything she’s lost … a mother’s love.”
“That’s a good analogy, Jane, but could the author have used the supernatural to represent a more real fear? What could blood symbolize?”
I brooded on the poem through the discussion that followed. When someone mentioned menstrual blood, I expected giggling, but the students were serious as they made associations between fertility and blood, fear of death, and the penetration of a bite and coitus. They even used that word, coitus, and the only other time I’d heard another girl use it was Mary Violet, when we’d met.
“Thus life, death, blood, sex, power, innocence, and corruption all come together in these two brief stanzas,” said Mrs. Radcliffe. “Please read Johann Ludwig Tieck’s ‘Wake Not the Dead’ for our next class.”
The bell sounded and we began leaving the classroom. Mrs. Radcliffe stopped me as I passed her desk. “I’m glad you participated, Jane. Did you enjoy the class?”
“It’s definitely more interesting than Western Classical Lit.” I paused. “The poem’s disturbing.”
“It is, isn’t it, even after more than two centuries. I’ve always been fascinated by our perception of those things outside the norm.”
“Jack told me you read fairy tales to them at night.”
“Lucian wasn’t interested, but Jacob always loved hearing folktales from the Old World about goblins, elves, will-o’-the-wisps, magical kingdoms … Some kids have an imaginary best friend, but my son had a whole grove of make-believe creatures. He was less interested when I discussed fairy stories as a reaction to the Industrial Revolution.” Mrs. Radcliffe handed me a few pages. “Here’s the syllabus, and you can pick up your books for this course in the administrative offices.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Radcliffe.” As I took the pages from her pale hand, I thought of the line “in my cold arms” and I also thought of Lucky’s warm hands as he bandaged my cut.
After class, I went to the admin offices, got my books, and visited Mr. Shaunessy to interview him about the scholarship fund. The older bald man rattled boring facts and statistics before walking me to the door. “A pity that Bebe isn’t here for your story. She was on full scholarship, like you, but abandoned the school for a European jaunt with some unreliable relative.” He sniffed.
I wanted to slap him, but I kept my voice calm. “Every foster kid I’ve ever known would give up anything, everything, to be with their family. I know I would.”
“Birch Grove is family.” He shut the door before I could respond.
I stormed into the hallway, where Mary Violet was using her reflection in the glass of a framed portrait to fluff up her silver-gold curls. “Why are you vexed? That’s what my mother always says. She says, ‘Why is my family determined to vex me?’” Mary Violet accompanied this statement by placing the back of her hand on her forehead, and I laughed.
“I’m vexed because I’ve had to deal with vexatious people. Mary Violet, do you know that Catalina had the nerve to say that my ‘new friends’ were snobs?”
“Oh, it’s absolutely true. If someone doesn’t think I’m fabulous, I’ll have nothing to do with her. Catalina’s not all bad, though. She thinks my hair is splendid. Why were you talking to Mr. Shaunessy?”
“I interviewed him for my story on the student aid program.”
“He’s a darling. My mother loooves him. She has him for tea, and they moan about how no one cares about culture anymore and Art with a capital A, and then she gives him massive checks.”
“Your mom donates money to the school?”
“Oodles. As fast as Daddy makes
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