From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,
posted by conTessaofthecastle:
Astoria stood in front of Daphne. The hood of her heavy cape was flung back to show her golden hair, unmistakable anywhere. She held a mug of some steaming beverage in her hand. “You’re home,” Astoria said. She carefully set down the mug and came closer.
Soph.
I’m relieved to be with my group for the final session this morning. I like the way our piece came out. The ballad is a hodgepodge, with stanzas by each of us, in our respective styles. We adapted the story of Freya, who cried golden tears when her husband Od disappeared. In the real myth—duh, oxymoron—Freya put on her magical cloak and flew around the earth to find him. When she discovered that he’d been banished and turned into a sea monster, she stayed by him to console him. But he got killed, and Freya was so pissed off that she threatened to kill the other gods until they put her husband into Valhalla, their heaven for warriors. We made Freya marry both a husband and a wife. She meets Od early and he puts her amber necklace of love, the Brísingamen, on his own neck to make Freya fall in love and marry him. On her wedding night, she meets another goddess, Stola, and they instantly fall for each other without the Brísingamen. Od is inconsolable and runs away. Although the Brísingamen effect has worn off, Freya misses Od and uses her feather cloak to change into a bird and find him. She intends to use the Brísingamen to bind Stola to Od, but when she introduces Stola and Od, they find themselves attracted to each other without it and they throw a three-person wedding. Freya has children with Od and romantic love with Stola, the moral being that, in relationships, you offer different things and obtain different things from different people.
Gabriela, Yin, and Ellen each took the voice of a character, and I got the narration stanzas, because we agreed that my formal style worked better for me as a storyteller than as a participant.
When we show Grace the whole thing, she brings Professor Forsythe over.
I hope that Professor Forsythe likes it. I’ve almost given up on her, but Professor Forsythe is still my best hope for getting into Minerva College next year. The week is almost over, and still she hasn’t seen anything I’ve written. I like the way she speaks to us as a group; she isn’t casual, but she never lectures from a podium or with notes. She says smart things, from the heart and the mind combined. I’ve even forgiven her for forgetting everyone’s names at first.
So, when Professor Forsythe puts on her rimless reading glasses and begins to read “Freya Reimagined,” I’m on the edge of my seat with my legs jiggling. Yin nudges me as if to say, “What are you, five?” I put my hands in my lap and lean back, holding my legs still. I watch Professor Forsythe’s face, her brow furrowing and relaxing, her mouth pursing, then smiling.
“Marvelous. Creative. Funny, but you have a real point here. I see Homer and Swift, but also some Steinem and, well, who’s the comedian it recalls? Maybe Ellen DeGeneres. And from what we’ve seen and read from each of you, you’ve played to your strengths stylistically in your individual voices.” I swear she looks at me for a split second. Then she continues. “I have to move on to the other groups now, but I recommend that you each think about why your own style works in each role and contrast it with each other’s styles.” She leans back and smiles. “I wonder if you’d like to read it aloud after dinner. It would be a nice way to cap our final night.”
I’m so excited that I can barely wait for the break to text my friends.
[From Soph to Gordon, Lally, and Mibs] Great news!!!
This time, all three are around.
[From Gordon to Lally, Mibs, and Soph] Wutz her name?
[From Soph to Gordon, Lally, and Mibs] Not that.
[From Gordon to Lally, Mibs, and Soph] Then wut?
[From Soph to Gordon, Lally, and Mibs] Group project so good we’re reading it to everyone 2night.
[From Lally to Gordon, Mibs, and Soph] U Rock.
Mibs sends a smiley face.
[From Gordon to Lally, Mibs, and Soph] Wutz up with the other things?
This brings me back to earth. I want to tell them about Tess. I could use the support. But I can’t explain.
[From Soph to Gordon, Lally, and Mibs] Nothing much.
* * *
At lunch, Tess and I steer clear of each other. Last night was so great. So was this morning before breakfast. I thought we connected in so many ways. Is Tess ashamed of me? Herself? Us? I want to say something, but I can’t in the dining room or the lounge. I’ll have to wait until tonight. We have a few minutes before the group session, so I take out my phone to text my friends, but none of them responds. I decide to try Freddy.
[From Soph to Freddy] Hey—you there? How was the bunny slope?
Freddy responds right away.
[From Freddy to Soph] Awesome—did what you said. Instructor was *nice*.
[From Soph to Freddy] Now what?
[From Freddy to Soph] Wut?
[From Soph to Freddy] What happens now?
[From Freddy to Soph] Dunno. Best ski vacay ever. Even parents are happy.
[From Soph to Freddy] Do they know?
It takes Freddy a few minutes to respond.
[From Freddy to Soph] No. Not going there.
How can Freddy stand this? Tess has a hostile home, and Joey’s father, well he sounds creepy and scary. Freddy’s parents should be able to handle it. They’re in the City where anything goes. After the initial surprise, Mrs. Peckett would probably be thrilled that her son is gay.
[From Soph to Freddy] What do U need, F?
[From Freddy to Soph] Not the third degree.
Back at the table, Professor Forsythe talks about the peer review. “We’ll take an hour and a half so that each person can read and think about the work they’ve received. If anyone wants to, they can discuss the work with the author quietly so as not to disturb the group. You should use this chance to inform your understanding of what the author is trying to say.”
“Tomorrow, after we come back from touring Minerva, each of you will present to the group your final work and the person you’ve exchanged with today will comment on it. You should be prepared to describe it. Then your partner will explain what she thinks of it in a constructive manner.”
* * *
I like Gabriela, but her poetry is very different from mine. She writes about loss with a stilted rhyme scheme and a fluid structure. I like the way she staggers lines of different lengths and she uses language that comes across as natural. Her poetry is about her father dying when she was young. She has a couple of lines about her mother which I don’t understand. I tell her it should be clearer, and she ducks her head. We talk about it for a while.
I give Gabriela my Spenserian sonnet. It’s the first time I’ve been able to mix up the lines like this and have them make sense together.
I could see the world as wide, bright and full,
Though without companionship, was alone.
With optimism, feeling, capable,
Love I’d find, corporeal, flesh and bone.
But first I learnt the limits of my zone
Of vision. I don’t see all that is there.
My knowledge, my beliefs, what I have known,
I can expand if she will only share.
This world’s not right, us, a clandestine pair,
Confined, contained, shut up in our small room.
If concealed even here, can anywhere
There be a place for us to finally bloom?
I don’t know if the dark can be endured.
I wish I could see us both assured.
Gabriela reads it with her brow furrowed. “I don’t think I understand, Soph. I see that it follows that pattern, but I’m not sure I understand it or agree with it. What are you saying?”
I’m disappointed. I was excited for her to read it. “I was trying to create a character who is optimistic, but finds someone who is too scared to be open about their relationship. It makes the protagonist doubt whether she can stay with them.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know! If you keep something secret, that means you’re ashamed.” I’m surprised.
“Always?”
“Yes. Always.”
“But can’t there be good reasons to keep some things quiet?”
“Not when you have something amazing and important together. Why wouldn’t you be open about it?”
“I don’t know, Soph. Two people could have strong feelings for each other but still have reasons to keep it private. Take Romeo and Juliet.”
I don’t agree with her, but this is a writing workshop, not a personal philosophy class. We move on to some of my earlier poems, so she can see how my work has progressed during the week. I show her my first poem here, with the Shakespearean rhyme scheme, and tell her how I was able to free myself to the more complicated Petrarchan and Spenserian structures.
“They still seem pretty structured to me.”
“You’re missing the point! I love the structures and I want to be able to work within them. They have a rich history and are worth bringing into the twenty-first century.” I can’t tell if she doesn’t like the structures or if she thinks I shouldn’t be fitting my work into them.
I’m relieved when Joan comes by to speak with both of us.
“Soph, you’ve done a big part of what you came here to do. But now I’d like to see you take the next step, push beyond your goal, and take your work up a level.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, having gotten to the more complicated forms, you should try something you didn’t set out to do, something more than your goal.”
“Like what?”
“That’s not for me to say, Soph.” She smiles. “I’m confident you can figure it out. Poetry has structure, style, content, and emotion. What would you like to expand in yours?”
I’m frowning as she turns back to Gabriela.
Tess.
They pair me with Orly for peer review.
Orly and I both take our writing samples into the lounge, but some of the other girls are there and I ask her if she wants to come up to our room where it’s quiet.
She hesitates, then asks, “Are you sure?” I can hear a little tremor in her voice, as though she’s nervous. I nod and smile, and we walk up the stairs.
Orly sits on Soph’s bed, and I sit on mine. We agree to spend a half hour reading each other’s work. The chapter I have is about Orly’s memory of a summer day.
Lawrence Irwin drowned right in front of me the summer I turned five. I don’t remember it. My ten-year-old sister Rose was supposed to be watching me. By her account, she went to the snack bar, fixing to buy us a popsicle with the dollar bill Mama gave her, when she heard the ruckus, all whistles and screaming. Four lifeguards leapt from their high chairs and dove into the deep end of the pool.
Rose says I was still whining for the popsicle as she stood by the pool, terrified and mesmerized by little Lawrence under the water in his star-spangled trunks, his face tinged blue.
We went to the pool most days of that hotter-than-blazes summer. Mama, Daddy, and Meemaw worked all day, and the pool was where all the kids in town went. A few of the stay-at-home moms were officially in charge, rubbing on sunscreen and handing out Band-Aids to their own kids and any others who landed in front of them. No one really thought about whether it was safe. Of course it was safe; it was Allenton, Georgia. We had two stoplights, a Pepsi factory, and a pine mill out by the used-car dealer on Route 17.
I don’t remember Lawrence or the lifeguards or everyone getting out of the pool at once. I wasn’t there, in the back office of the changing house, when the manager, poor Mrs. Bowen, surrounded by paramedics, pulled out the alphabetical membership list to call Lawrence’s mother and let her know what had happened. Our names were so similar, and Mrs. Bowen was so shaken, anyone could understand why her finger landed like a bug on “Erwin” and she never reached the Irwins.
Mama got the call at her desk in the reception area of the local community college. She said later that she could barely hear Mrs. Bowen whispering into the phone. But Mama heard the word “drowned” and she flew out the door without her purse, not even telling her boss she was leaving.
I don’t remember Lawrence, but I will never forget Mama’s arrival that day. She pushed her way through the crowd of adults and children near the empty pool. First she grabbed Rose, but when she saw me fussing and grabbing for the forgotten popsicle in Rose’s hand, now gone to a sticky, orange mess, Mama hollered. I froze, terrified. She grabbed me hard and held me for several long minutes while she wept. I squirmed in embarrassment and Rose petted her shoulder, both of us still in the dark about why she flew off the handle like that.
“I’ve got you, baby,” she told me over and over. “I’ve got you always.”
Soph thinks I have it hard, but reading this piece makes being who I am feel pretty simple, even if parts of it are still not easy. I tell Orly I’m glad she wrote it, because I’ve never met a transgender person and maybe lots of people who never have either will read her story and learn about her life. But I’ve also never met anyone from Georgia and that part is interesting too. She writes in a way that makes it sound like its own planet, not just another state in the same country as New Hampshire. It makes me wish Chris would read it.
After she finishes reading I say, “Can I ask you a personal question?” I’m not sure how she’s going to react.
“I can guess. You want to know when I first figured out I was a girl.”
“No.”
“Really? That’s usually what people ask.”
“I was just wondering what made you decide to tell.”
Orly looks at me as though she’s trying to figure something out, and I can feel my face turn red. I shouldn’t be asking her these kinds of questions. But she says, “I was little. It wasn’t a question of telling. I acted the way my sister acted. And when my parents tried to treat me like a boy, I just knew I had to correct them. I never thought about keeping quiet.”
She stands up then, stares out the window, and says, “And now, anyone who didn’t know me then doesn’t ask. I like that.”
“Not having to explain yourself all the time?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. She shrugs, but she doesn’t look mad. I’m not sure what else to say.
After Orly leaves, I go upstairs to grab a computer to work on my final chapter. I know how the story is going to end. It’s funny how making that decision to write the characters doing something out of character actually made me figure out how to write this story differently. Maybe this conference has taught me something.
But as I’m headed down the third-floor hall, I spy Chris in her room through her door, which is open a little. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m knocking on it.
* * *
From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,
February 16, 2018
Am I allowed to be feeling this hurt?
Heartsick, I want to proclaim, to assert.