CHAPTER 13

Remembering

“I just think that she comes across as super needy and obsessive, and I just think that it’s, like, well, why did she sleep with him? I mean, she couldn’t have really thought that a hookup with some random guy was really going to turn into anything real,” Pinched Bralette said.

“I have to agree with that. I think most people who have random hookups don’t really think it will last,” a short, self-indulgent boy named Hunter said.

She didn’t have it in her to listen to the group today. She took notes as best she could, unsure of anything that she felt, or what time it was, or whether there really was anything beyond her breathing in that moment. The voices of the people around her were clear and distinguishably their own. She wrote “Everyone has a voice that is their own” on her paper and underlined it twice as they complained about the first line of the story.

She thought of a ballet class she’d taken as a child. The instructor, Madeline, had lined the class of six-year-old girls up in a tight little row. Leda had a vivid memory of herself looking down at her leotard and her little ballet shoes. She’d tap the toe of her ballet slipper against the linoleum because she loved the sound of it. After lining them up Madeline handed out a different animal hand puppet to each girl. The girls were meant to dance with the puppets on their hands. Leda wanted the horse or the cat puppet; she’d have settled happily for the dog or peacock; the only one she didn’t want was the dinosaur. Just not the dinosaur. Please, anything but the dinosaur. She got the dinosaur. When Madeline handed it to her, pulling it taut over her little hand, she didn’t complain. She’d learned the dance instructor had little affection for children or things they desired. She’d once sent home a little girl who cried over not getting the pink streamer.

After the puppets were in place, each child was instructed to take a leap over a small beanbag marker on the floor. Leda liked the little beanbag. She wanted to hold it in her palm and feel its weight, but she couldn’t, so she just stood there with her dinosaur, tapping occasionally against the floor. She waited in line to take her leap. The girl in front of her, a dark-haired girl with bony shoulders and a white leotard, skimmed the edge of the beanbag with her foot as she landed, and Leda thought that she could do it better, that she could leap over it and not touch it at all. She got as far a running start as she could and leapt with all her childhood might, believing in her beanbag-leaping abilities, believing that she and this dinosaur were really dancing. Her mom took a picture of her in her midair euphoria and hung it up in a pink frame on her bedroom wall across from her bed. Every time she’d look at it she’d think of the dinosaur, and that it wasn’t what she really wanted. She was leaping over the beanbag, though, and so really it was a good day, and this she would remember too.

“I don’t like the whole thing about her hands being like the ocean or the water or whatever it is. I mean, what does that mean?” Hunter said.

No one ever questions songs, she thought. No one ever questions what songs mean, you just listen to it, and you love it. Fuck you all. She sang her favorite line of “Oblivion” over and over in her head. It’s my point of view. It’s my point of view.

Her phone vibrated in her bag. She looked down at it quickly; a girl she used to know from middle school had messaged her on Facebook. What could she be messaging me about? What is it that is keeping me from screaming right now?

The class continued in the way that it did. There was apparently so much wrong with her story, so much wrong with her. She thought of herself then, going to law school. Becoming a real estate agent. Something far away and tangible. She thought of herself in a gray pencil skirt saying, “Objection!” or “There’s one and a half baths.” I’d look good in a pencil skirt, she thought. Years later she’d order one from Nordstrom, but when she tried it on she’d think it made her look hippy. It didn’t, not at all. She looked long and lean in it, and when she pulled her hair back, standing sideways, looking at her reflection in the mirror, she looked maybe the most beautiful she had ever looked. Despite her intention of sending it right back, she’d neglect to return it and would find it months later buried in a hall closet, creased in a plastic bag. She’d donate it to charity. “It’s brand-new. Somebody should get some use out of it,” she’d say as she handed it over. As if “brand-new” could mean something in this context, she’d think.

As the class began to wind down, she checked the clock and promised herself ice cream at home. In a half hour you’ll have ice cream. Patricia pulled herself forward in the way she always did when she was about to speak, slow and level like a great ship. Here we go, Leda thought. Now she is going to tell me why I suck. I know I suck. Let’s go home and have ice cream and be a lawyer.

“Thank you, class, I appreciate everyone’s comments on this very interesting piece that Leda has turned in. I’d like to start off first by saying that I don’t, for the most part, really agree with anyone’s comments. I think this is what I would describe as an honest piece. This retelling of a bad one-night stand is vulnerable and painful, and, quite frankly, brave. And while I appreciate Abby’s point that the heroine comes across as needy, or obsessive, or dependent on a man, I’d say that that is what is sort of genius about this. Now it is debatable whether or not the character succeeds here, but I’d hesitate to call her a failure. And the story itself is far from a failure.” Patricia leaned toward Leda, handing off her notes. “And if I had a crystal ball, I’d say this story will be published.”

Suddenly it was as if air had been pumped back into her lungs. She felt like her body was rising, as if she were leaping far above the class and their comments, not touching them even along the edges. It was the absolute most fearless she could ever feel.

She wanted to thank Patricia as she left the class, but she didn’t know what to say so instead she just smiled. Patricia smiled back and started walking out with her.

“I do really think that story is quite an accomplishment, and you need to send it out to publications. Have you been sending any of your work out?” she said.

“No, I mean, I really haven’t. I’ve always felt that my stuff lacks a certain polish.”

Patricia shook her head, steady as a ship. “It’s easy to always question and to never feel quite ready, but you are ready, and you should be sending your stuff out.”

Leda tried to keep pace with Patricia’s step. Her walk was heavy and long. Something about her that could have been deduced from the way she spoke, and the thinness of her lips.

“It’s so encouraging to hear you say that. It’s just so easy to get discouraged.”

“Don’t be.” Patricia turned toward the elevator. “Are you going this way?” she asked.

“No, I have another class on this floor.”

“Well, if you ever want to stop by my office for a chat, please feel free.”

“Thank you. I’ll definitely do that sometime,” Leda said.

“Great. Well, you have a good night.”

“Bye.”

As Leda walked away she regretted not saying “Thanks, you too,” after Patricia had said “have a good night,” but the thought was little disruption to what she would consider to be one of the best conversations of her life. She’d relive it years down the line, remembering it as Patricia having told her she was a great writer. She’d forget the long, heavy walk and feeling sorry about saying “Bye” instead of “Thanks, you too.” She would remember the way Patricia said: “Don’t be.” And she’d remember how when she got home she immediately sent off a story to The New Yorker even though she knew it wouldn’t get published.

“It’s more symbolic than anything,” she’d have said if someone asked her why she submitted it, but of course no one ever did. She was alone as she sent it, she was alone in her “Bye,” she was alone eating the bowl of cookie dough ice cream and how sweet it was.