not?”
“How did you know?”
“The little State girl blushed and blushed as we all ripped into it. Very satisfying, I must say. Usually you start off the first meeting with one of your own poems so it’s actually pretty good.” “All right, enough flattery, I’m cheered up already,” I said, and
I was. I looked around, and in the foggy afternoon light my dull neighborhood looked cheerful–the lawns, the throwaway coupon books on everyone’s porch, Natasha’s gum on the street, moist as a kiss. It must have been pathetic fallacy again.
“That wasn’t flattery,” she said imperatively. “Flan, you’re ex- tremely talented.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, poking at the gum with my shoe. I realized it was probably water in the flask–nobody drank liquor while chewing peppermint gum at the same time.
“You are ,” she said, putting the car back in drive. In the back of my mind I said a silent prayer for those pedestrians who would be in Natasha’s way. Especially the ones in ugly hats. “I just know that you’re going to do something that will make the whole world sit up and take notice.”
Friday September 17
Is this funny or am I just suffused with end-of-the-week giddi- ness? V ’s mother won’t let her go to the dance because of some stupid (rich old family name) family commitment. Lily, Douglas, Natasha and I were sitting around at lunchtime making up catty nicknames for her. I can’t repeat any of the suggestions of nick- names, because they all play off the Queen Mother’s first and last names, both of which are of course secrets. But it makes no differ- ence; suffice to say that the one that stuck we found hilariously funny. Satan . We laughed and laughed, there in the courtyard, Natasha with her bright red lipstick,
Douglas in another one of his linen suits, this one a sort of off- white, Lily with her tortoiseshell glasses and me looking surpris- ingly slim, I think, in these gray pants I used to have back then. We elaborated and laughed some more, imagining cute polished mother-of-pearl horns sticking out of her carefully shellacked bun, a pitchfork kept in the elephant-foot umbrella stand in V ’s hall. Satan . Of course later this nickname would get us into heaps of trouble, but that morning it was hilarious.
OH MY IT’S LATER
Tonight tonight tonight. Those were the words to that song and how true they are. Tonight tonight tonight. I had honestly forgot- ten over the summer the surreal, stupid but irresistible deadly charming intensity that is a Roewer dance. Was that a sentence? I’m checking…yes it was. Subject and verb both, and that’s how I feel, too. Tonight, tonight, tonight I am both subject and verb. I can’t seem to stop moving, and you’d think a bottle of cheap champagne is a depressant, right? But as you know, you gorgeous black leather notebook, I know shit about biology. Flan, begin at the beginning, it’s a very good place to start, all those lessons about narrative structure are melting away under all this fizzy wine.
Two New Year’s Eves ago (how’s that for beginning at the begin- ning at the beginning) my parents had a party and it was no problem at all sneaking one of the five boxes of champagne up to my room during the hubbub, they were having me act as waitress all night anyway so I felt it was my due. It lives under the bed, where my parents never check (plus, the fact that my parents have disappeared this year means they never check anything). On special occasions I take out a bottle. I took one when I got home
from boring boring school and called folks to see who wanted to meet early at the lake for cocktails before actually proceeding to the dance. I couldn’t get ahold of Natasha, Jennifer Rose Milton said coyly that she already had plans but would see me at the dance (of course, I would find out exactly what sort of “plans”–narrative structure, Flan, narrative structure), and Gab- riel was weird about it. He said he didn’t want to
“How did you know?”
“The little State girl blushed and blushed as we all ripped into it. Very satisfying, I must say. Usually you start off the first meeting with one of your own poems so it’s actually pretty good.” “All right, enough flattery, I’m cheered up already,” I said, and
I was. I looked around, and in the foggy afternoon light my dull neighborhood looked cheerful–the lawns, the throwaway coupon books on everyone’s porch, Natasha’s gum on the street, moist as a kiss. It must have been pathetic fallacy again.
“That wasn’t flattery,” she said imperatively. “Flan, you’re ex- tremely talented.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, poking at the gum with my shoe. I realized it was probably water in the flask–nobody drank liquor while chewing peppermint gum at the same time.
“You are ,” she said, putting the car back in drive. In the back of my mind I said a silent prayer for those pedestrians who would be in Natasha’s way. Especially the ones in ugly hats. “I just know that you’re going to do something that will make the whole world sit up and take notice.”
Friday September 17
Is this funny or am I just suffused with end-of-the-week giddi- ness? V ’s mother won’t let her go to the dance because of some stupid (rich old family name) family commitment. Lily, Douglas, Natasha and I were sitting around at lunchtime making up catty nicknames for her. I can’t repeat any of the suggestions of nick- names, because they all play off the Queen Mother’s first and last names, both of which are of course secrets. But it makes no differ- ence; suffice to say that the one that stuck we found hilariously funny. Satan . We laughed and laughed, there in the courtyard, Natasha with her bright red lipstick,
Douglas in another one of his linen suits, this one a sort of off- white, Lily with her tortoiseshell glasses and me looking surpris- ingly slim, I think, in these gray pants I used to have back then. We elaborated and laughed some more, imagining cute polished mother-of-pearl horns sticking out of her carefully shellacked bun, a pitchfork kept in the elephant-foot umbrella stand in V ’s hall. Satan . Of course later this nickname would get us into heaps of trouble, but that morning it was hilarious.
OH MY IT’S LATER
Tonight tonight tonight. Those were the words to that song and how true they are. Tonight tonight tonight. I had honestly forgot- ten over the summer the surreal, stupid but irresistible deadly charming intensity that is a Roewer dance. Was that a sentence? I’m checking…yes it was. Subject and verb both, and that’s how I feel, too. Tonight, tonight, tonight I am both subject and verb. I can’t seem to stop moving, and you’d think a bottle of cheap champagne is a depressant, right? But as you know, you gorgeous black leather notebook, I know shit about biology. Flan, begin at the beginning, it’s a very good place to start, all those lessons about narrative structure are melting away under all this fizzy wine.
Two New Year’s Eves ago (how’s that for beginning at the begin- ning at the beginning) my parents had a party and it was no problem at all sneaking one of the five boxes of champagne up to my room during the hubbub, they were having me act as waitress all night anyway so I felt it was my due. It lives under the bed, where my parents never check (plus, the fact that my parents have disappeared this year means they never check anything). On special occasions I take out a bottle. I took one when I got home
from boring boring school and called folks to see who wanted to meet early at the lake for cocktails before actually proceeding to the dance. I couldn’t get ahold of Natasha, Jennifer Rose Milton said coyly that she already had plans but would see me at the dance (of course, I would find out exactly what sort of “plans”–narrative structure, Flan, narrative structure), and Gab- riel was weird about it. He said he didn’t want to
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