From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,
posted by conTessaofthecastle:
Daphne knew she couldn’t stay hidden. Whoever was in that carriage must have magical powers also, to have felt her presence. She recalled the words her mother spoke, the night before Astoria and Daphne left the Coven, “When a witch acts, she must do so deliberately or not at all. Magical intent must be chosen, not stumbled upon, or its effect will be disastrous.”
Soph.
At dinner, Professor Forsythe announces that Grace will read her poetry in the lounge later, and everyone is invited to attend, but it isn’t mandatory. Grace tells one of the other girls that Professor Forsythe, Joan, and Celestine are planning to take the evening off and go into town, which explains why the three of them disappear before dessert.
Before we leave the table, Grace stands up. “Even though I’m reading from my own recent material tonight, I thought we’d put on an impromptu poetry slam first. Let’s be very casual about it. You don’t have to prepare anything. Instead, plan to just say something if the mood strikes you. It can be serious or silly, topical or not. Let’s all put on pajamas and sweats and have fun with it.”
As we clear our places, I hear rain outside, something I didn’t expect since it has been so cold. Climbing the stairs, I ask Tess if that means winter is letting up already.
“I don’t think so, Soph. Joey texted that a surprise ice storm just passed through there. He’s stuck at home.” Her face clouds over before she changes the subject. “Those teachers shouldn’t be out in this. Listen to that wind.”
Back in our room, the tip of a tree branch brushes against the window as it whips around. It’s too dark to see outside. Tess remarks, “That means the roads will be bad. It rains, then it freezes. Everything will be covered with ice.”
I change into yoga pants, noticing that Tess keeps her jeans on, rather than putting on pink sweats or her camouflage pajama bottoms. We go back down to the lounge with everyone else, taking seats on one of the couches which line three sides of the room. I guess no one decided to stay in their room.
Grace stands up at the front in a sweatshirt and plaid pajama bottoms. “I’m sure some of us know what a poetry slam is, but for those who don’t, it’s a performance competition. People get up and deliver poems about whatever subjects matter to them. Usually the audience judges which are the best, but I thought we’d try something different. We won’t bother with winners or losers. However, each girl’s poem should be linked somehow to the poem that went before it. If you have a different topic, think about how you can connect it to the girl who’s just gone. This is from a Persian practice called mushaira. Let’s try it.”
At first, no one volunteers. We stare at each other until Orly puts a hand up. “May I go first, Grace?”
Orly stands. She looks around at the group.
“With best intentions, kindly or not, you all empathize with my dilemma.
Only you don’t.
“You think you know I’m between two worlds, male and female, inside and out.
But I’m not.
“I’m a girl. I’m not caught between being a boy or a girl.
I’m a girl. I’m not halfway or in transition or lost.
I’m a girl.
“You’ve seen me insulted and you think I’m hurt.
Darlings, you’ve no idea.
“I’m a girl. I’m not wounded by a carrot.
I’m a girl. I’m not defined by anyone else.
I’m a girl.
“Let me tell you my dilemma.
How do I approach this world?
“I’m a girl. That’s all I should have to say.
I’m a girl. That should be enough.
Maybe I shouldn’t even have to say that.
“But I’ve been through more than your average girl.
I’m a trans girl. I’m proud that I’ve made it to where I am.
I want to be recognized.
I want you to validate my triumph over a cruel biological fluke.
I want you to know that I had to strive to be fully me.
I want you to understand: That’s okay.
I want you to think, “She did it. She’s beautiful.”
“I’m a girl and I’m a trans girl.
Do I need to say I’m both?
Can I just show up?”
No one speaks when Orly sits down, but a few girls are making jazz hands. I can’t hear anyone breathing.
I’m surprised when Yin gets up next. I was just about to, but she beat me to it. Her voice is clear.
“I was wrong.
I played along.
But you’re above the fray,
And what you say,
That’s the way
We should get along.
“You can just show up.
It is beautiful.
You are beautiful.
No one can tell you what you are.
You’ve defined yourself in ways most of us never will.
I can say back to you, ‘You’re a girl. You’re a trans girl.’
I don’t have your answer.
But if there is an answer, I believe you’ll find it.
If you just show up, I’ll just show up with you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Chris. She darts out of the room toward the stairs. No one else seems to notice.
Tess.
When Yin finishes, everyone snaps their fingers or makes jazz hands. Soph stands up to take a turn when, suddenly, the lights go out, plunging the room into darkness. The snapping stops, and I hear Keisha say, “Hey!”
“Would you turn the lights back on, please?” It’s Grace. “Come on, very funny.”
The wind howls, and the rain beats on the windows. I tell Grace, “I think the power’s out. It happens in ice storms. The cables break in the wind or pull away from the telephone poles. Who’s got their phones?”
A few lights go on around the room. I can’t make out any faces, just bright little spotlights. “We don’t all need to use them at once. We should conserve the batteries in case the lights don’t come back for a while.”
Grace gets up, “I’m going to find candles, and then we’ll continue. Everyone stay put, please.”
“This is like a horror movie,” Peggy says. “The grown-ups leave and the next thing you know, we hear the killer upstairs.”
As if on cue, a loud thump and the sound of breaking glass come from upstairs. The building shakes. A couple of girls yelp.
I say, “It sounds as if a tree fell, maybe that one outside our room. It could have broken our window.”
Someone asks, “Where’s Chris?”
“I saw her leave after Yin’s poem.”
“Do you think that was her upstairs?”
I am sick of Chris, but we should make sure she’s okay. “Can someone text her or call her to see where she is?” No one speaks up.
That’s when we figure out that no one has her cell number.
“Why would we, Tess? She’s been awful.” Keisha says. “She wouldn’t even work on our group project.”
“Because, Keisha, she could be hurt or frightened. She’s part of our group. I should have gotten her number. Whether anyone likes her or not, you don’t leave a soldier on the field.”
“Chris as a fallen soldier—I’m not touching that one,” Orly jokes. The others murmur assent. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Chris is mad at both Soph and me. I thought she was still friends with Janaye and Clover. She had some supporters, at least at the beginning of the week. But everyone’s reaction to Orly’s poetry must have felt like a slap in the face. Orly continues, “We all heard glass breaking. She could be hurt.”
“I’ll go. She’s right next to our room,” I offer. “I want to see if our window broke anyway.”
“No, she moved up to the third floor. I saw her,” It’s Soph.
“Then I’ll go up there. I still want to see if our window’s broken.”
Soph volunteers, “I’ll go with Tess. Anyone else for follow-the-leader?
No one else speaks, so I stand and put my cell phone light on. Soph takes my hand as we walk back to the stairs. That startles me.
“Peggy said it’s a horror movie. I can’t watch those alone.” She squeezes my hand. It feels nice.
We climb the stairs to the third floor. All the doors are open except one. I drop Soph’s hand to knock. There’s no answer. I point my cell phone at myself and raise my eyebrows in a silent question.
Soph whispers, “Well, she doesn’t like me. You ask.”
I knock again. “Chris? It’s Tess. Are you okay? Everyone else is downstairs.”
We hear her inside. “Go away. I’m fine. I’m not going back downstairs.” Her voice is thin, as though she hurt herself or is frightened.
“Chris,” Soph asks, “are you sure you’re okay? You don’t sound fine. And we heard a crash downstairs.”
Chris coughs, then speaks to us through the door, “I think that tree outside fell over. Just leave me alone.” She sounds a little better this time, but not much.
“Chris, please come to the door. Let us see that you’re safe, and we’ll leave you alone.” I try to sound as if I know what I’m doing.
Chris is quiet for a minute or two, then the door cracks open inward. Chris squints at the light from my phone. The wind howls behind her, much louder than it should be from inside a building. Her face is blotchy; she’s been crying.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
* * *
From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,
February 14, 2018
The slam poem enlightens us, so true.
The villain alights, into black, not blue.