Title:
Author: a tattered rose
Rating: PG-13? If you can watch the show, you can read this.
Disclaimer: Not mind.
Summary: Doesn't Mr. Dimitri seem like the sort of teacher who would give out his e-mail address?
[If anyone notices, and is concerned, yep, this story is now labeled PG-13. Nothing has changed, but on reflection, it *is* a controversial relationship… Better safe than sorry, but again, if you watched it, reading this should not scar you for life.]
[I also fixed numerous, rather embarrassing errors. I'll probably find more… Sorry for the awkwardness. I wrote this and posted on a whim, during a few hour stretch in the wee hours of the morning… Never my strongest editing time.]
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Chapter 1
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He was gone.
The first time she finished "On Love" she cried until time had no meaning. Awakened by her mother's call, she found the pillow still damp, hairs stuck to her cheek from the moisture.
She pushed past her sister to get into the bathroom, ignoring the other's irritated complaints. A glance in the mirror showed the worst: she stripped and slipped into the shower without looking again. Ideally, she wanted to not think again. Sleep would be nice. The past night she had been so exhausted that no dreams came. If she could just slip back under the covers…
But no. Just wash away thought with water. Get through the day. Follow directions, conform to habit, do not think.
Sheer will took her through the kitchen, past her mother and into the car. The radio kept her blank on the ride to school. Jessie, beside her, kept quiet, knowing why there were still the faintest traces of red rimming her step-sister's eyes.
School was easier than one would assume. Focus on copying down the teacher's words. Smile and nod at friends and acquaintances alike. Pass up homework and take the quiz, focus entirely on each task as it came.
So intent was she that it took the sight of a stranger, in the seat that used to be Mr. Dimitri's, before she remembered what it was she had been avoiding.
"Hello class. My name is Ms. Albrecht. Your teacher is going to be out for the term-" The collective glances, side comments and whispers of the class caused her words to falter. She didn't know why he was gone, then. "-and I will be replacing him. I have his lesson plans here, but first attendance, until I learn all your names." She flashed a hopeful smile. The class in general reacted favorably. Likely no more than three or four years out of college, Ms. Albrecht was attractive, and had the aura of a rather nice, rather popular person.
Grace heard the words, but was trying not to register them. When her name was reached on the role call list, it took the whispers and friendly poking for her to give the customary 'here.'
"Okay, that's good." Checking off the final name, Ms. Albrecht flipped through the book of lesson plans. "For you guys… You've been working on journals? Since we're getting to know one another, how about we all spend this class writing. Tomorrow you can hand them in, so I can get to know you all. I'll write an entry too, and then I'll share tomorrow, so that you can get to know me." Another smile, warmly received and returned. "Yes?" She indicated a student who had her hand raised. "A topic? Um, how about you all start writing about your favorite out of school activities. But feel free to go beyond that; this is creative writing!"
Grace pulled out her journal and a pen with the others. He had had a habit of scrawling notes or comments in the margins of their entries. The sight of his handwriting sent a shudder through her. Folding back the page, then the next, and the next, she stared at the blank paper.
And stared, repulsed by the thought of writing in her journal, for another teacher.
But orders were orders. Trying not to think, she started writing.
I am Grace Manning. I guess you know that, since my name is on the front, but this seems like a more friendly introduction. Or more formal.
It's funny, how everyone always wants to divide time between "in school" and "out of school." Like life is this unit, cut into separate, neat chunks. And we all live this double life, where in-school automatically counts for less, because it is assumed that we don't want to be here, and thus anything worthwhile in our lives must occur out of school. But it isn't. I act. I like to anyway, and when I'm in a play my life is centered around the stage, learning my lines, becoming another person. It doesn't matter whether I'm in school or not at the time.
And in one way, doing a play is the most school-centered thing you can do – at least a high school play. Everyone there walks the same hallways, has the same teachers, and probably knows some of the same people, or at least hears the same rumors. And practice is in the building, so you practically live at the school. But it's also not school at all. If they're good actors, people aren't themselves. And if they aren't good, and are still themselves, then you can still be someone else, and so those people are just strangers anyway, and it doesn't matter.
But when they are good, and rehearsal is just flowing, everyone is linked. And it doesn't matter if you are best friends or enemies, because together you are making something beautiful, and you both care so much about it being born perfect that differences don't matter. That's what made the last play we did, "As You Like It," so great. No one was perfect, scenery got caught and messed up, and people were on stage at the wrong times, but we were the play. Mr. Dimitri made us that way. He pulled us together, and drove us, like we were giving birth to this thing, this play, and he was the midwife, coaxing us into producing this wonderful piece of art.
No other director I've had has done that. Ever. It was Mr. Dimitri. He was special. And people don't seem to realize-
On that note the bell rang, and students around her began packing their things. Grace couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare at the lines she had written. She couldn't even see them, as tears filled her eyes, but that didn't matter.
Most of the students were gone. Someone was coming up to her desk and she got up and left without looking at them, swinging her backpack over her shoulder, and clutching the journal to her chest. She moved among them, not with them, fleeing and hiding in the tide of bookbags and conversation.
She had lost her battle. The closest bathroom wasn't far, yet she was barely through the door before the first tear slipped down her cheek. A group of freshmen girls were gossiping in front of the mirrors, and turned to look at her as she burst into the room. The far stall was empty though, and she ran for it, throwing down her bag, then collapsing on top of it.
There were no tears.
They were there, ready, but unnecessary. All her pain was expressed through her posture, and the very fact that she was on the bathroom floor, head drooping and breath coming in irregular, harsh gasps. It briefly occurred to her that were she on stage, this is how it would be. Tears, hard to see from a distance, were all but unimportant.
Shoes appeared outside her stall, and a voice asked if she was alright. Katie's.
Of course not, how could she be? "Yes, can you just go away?" Her tone didn't allow for disobedience, and Katie left.
The bell rang again. Grace didn't move. She did put down her journal, still open to the half-finished page, and continue writing.
-they don't realize how great he is. How brilliant, and true to himself and art and us too, if we would realize it. They shouldn't have suspended him, and he shouldn't have left. It isn't fair that we would be called into that office, to be judged by people who didn't know either of us, and would put more credence in the gossip of sniveling incompetents rather than me. Shouldn't I know if I was being hurt? Why should my mom have more say that I do, when she wasn't even there?
I don't regret it. And if I die at 100, on my deathbed I will smile, and when asked why I will respond "because I did one thing right in my life, one great thing" and they will ask "what is that?" thinking, perhaps, of my Pulitzer, if I win one, or that I graduated from college or had a child… And I will say "I kissed him" and they likely won't know what I'm talking about but it won't matter because I will be dead the next moment, and will have taken that memory, that moment, with me.
Why was it right? Because it was true. Everyone runs around lying. They say nasty things about "friends" that they eat and laugh with the next hour. People date, and lie even more, about how much they love, or what they like, or how far around the "bases" they have gotten. They don't even care about love, just being able to have someone to go to dances with, and have a relationship to talk about.
Everyone lies. I lie. But I didn't lie, not that once. Not to myself, and not to him. I don't know if I love him, if I am infatuated, if I have a crush. All I know is that if love is being completed by someone, if a soul mate is someone whom you understand deeply, and who makes you become who you should be, makes you become better and grow, then Mr. Dimitri is my soul mate, and he is the first person I have ever loved.
Which is why my actions were the smartest, the purest, the truest of my life. I "risked it all" by telling him, except that I didn't. All I risked was my pride. Those things that really mattered, who he was and what I felt, couldn't be ruined or changed. And okay, that I choose that kiss as the hallmark, the symbol of it all, is trite. I should rather pick a moment, when our eyes met, or when I acted or when I finally completed a story, which would not have been started without his guidance… Ideally, this moment should occur years from now, when all I have left of him is the memory of that brief span of time we were together, in soul, before ignorance tore us apart. I don't, because yes, I am unduly influenced by the simple romance of 19th century authors. And because he would have kissed me back. I kissed him for myself. So that whatever happened, I would always have that moment. Like the seed. I think it was Toni Morrison, who wrote about how even after she stopped fishing, because her father pointed out the fish's side, she still remembered the exultation and carefree nature of being on the water, pulling fish into the boat. And that memory was a seed, which grew in her mind, and allowed her to understand those feelings, and write them, giving them to her creations. That kiss is my moment, when I wanted something so badly that I took it.
I kissed him. It wasn't much of a kiss, as kisses go. I've kissed before, and this was so much more. There was no spit, or the high school attempt at eroticism. It was intimate. Distance he maintained, the sensibilities of everyone else, all dictated that we would never get that close. So it was the idea, more than anything, which we threw back into their faces, threw back all their unwanted 'morality' and 'rules.' Yes, We. Our lips met, and he didn't move. Neither of us did, at the shock of the connection, the 'forbidden fruit.' And he didn't move. Under my hands I could feel, or at least sense, his body shaking. For that moment, at least, his mind, heart, body, soul even, wanted one thing, and I was giving it to him. And at least for that moment, he was powerless to refuse it. I think, more than anything, that was why I pulled away. Because next he would have overcome his 'moment of weakness' and parted from me, with the words 'you should go' uttered as a plea as much as order. Just as in the car, that time. And I would again be the one to need. Even if he had given up, given in, and shown me a new world, he would later regret it, in word if not heart.. So I broke the contact, spoke the words, and could leave happier than I had ever been. I, like a heroine in a novel, left him watching after me, dazed and silent from the confusion and turmoil of his different bits, for once totally vulnerable, while I was comparatively strong and sure.
The one perfect moment of my life. One which life didn't hand me, but which I took for myself. One that could fuel a lifetime of writing, each book, each story, each line closer to expressing all that was those few moments.
The bell rang again. Grace didn't hear it, kept writing, the tears finally spilling out unconsciously wiped or blinked away, like automatic windshield wipers, so she could see. It took a familiar voice, calling her name, to make her put down her pen and remember her surroundings.
"Grace?"
"What?" She heard herself, as if someone else was speaking through her mouth. She wondered that her voice bore no trace of tears, and that those on her cheeks found no new followers.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"Because it's starting to get late-"
"I know. Just give me a moment. Did you need a ride, or anything, Jessie?" She dried her face on her sleeve, and tried to draw out some of the heat of her face into her palms and the back of her wrist.
"No, I'm fine. I'm just- Katie told me what happened. And I guess… I don't understand, but I know what you're feeling, if that makes sense. So I'm… I'm just here, if you need to talk, or anything." One pale hand came up to rest tentatively on the stall door. She couldn't believe in Grace loving Mr. Dimitri. But neither could she deny that love wasn't always to be found in the expected places.
"I'm fine." She opened the door, and indeed, looked well enough. "I just sort of need to be alone right now. But I'll see you later?"
Jessie was still worried. But maybe it was best to let Grace alone, for a while more. "Okay, I'll see you later." And she was gone.
Grace could hear her whispering to Katie, right outside the door. She stood in front of the mirror, using cold water to fade the telltale red and cool her inflamed skin. Voices moved down the hallway, and a troupe of girls filtered into the bathroom. Katie must have been standing guard while Jessie checked on her. Needing to get away, she gathered her things and walked out. There were glances, but a girl crying in the bathroom was too common an occurrence for special notice.
She got into her car, threw her things into the back, and was halfway home before she realized she didn't want to go there. So she turned around, heading instead for the library. It wasn't busy at this time of day. A few mothers, weary, read to their small children, or tried to keep them silent as they looked for the latest Danielle Steel or Mary Higgins Clark. A couple of adults, and what were clearly college students, either sat at tables, surrounded by piles of books and paper, or were planted in front of one of the computers. She chose the latter.
Lacking direction, she signed on to her yahoo account. Three new messages. She opened a joke from her father, sent back a comment to the effect that it wasn't humorous. Opened one from a friend, giving her the date and time for a proposed study session. Needing to write it down, she fished notebook and pen out of her backpack, vaguely aware that she was being rational, was acting without barring thought and that something must have changed. She grabbed her journal. She didn't realize it, but flipped open the cover, preparing to write on the inside…
…to find something already written there.
August Dimitri: ADimitri@earthlink.com
She started, but only because she had forgotten about it. E-mail, so impersonal, had never been a necessity. In class, at the play, after school… All her questions were asked and answered face-to-face.
But now…
At a sudden thought, she looked down at her hands. They were motionless. She was calm, or doing a good job of convincing herself… Why?
The torrent of writing had done what that of tears couldn't. She understood. Understood why and what and how she was feeling, and so was no longer at the mercy of blind emotion and helpless confusion.
She opened the screen for an out-going email, and entered his address. Then paused. For the 'subject' she typed 'Re: journal entry," an inside joke, perhaps, for herself, but hadn't she earned it?
But then she was stuck again. Fingers tapped on the keys, making satisfying staccato noises, but accomplishing nothing else.
Mr. Dimitri,
Again she thought, tapping at the keys. Or August she added.
It was strange to go into class today, without you up front, teaching us.
Another pause.
I read "On Love." It is amazing. In one respect, it invalidates any and all writings I may ever produce. It's too good, too perfect… much better than anything I could dream of writing. But it also makes me want to write. To see if I can somehow embody the core essence of love, or anything, that well, exposing it, by my different voice and experience and situation, in a new way. I'm not sure if that's what you meant, but I guess it doesn't matter since the outcome is the same.
Stream of consciousness had gotten her this far. But this wasn't what she had really wanted to say.
The whole situation… Everything got to me today. I started writing, and I think I understand some things. Stuff that I didn't before, and that makes it okay if I never see you again or talk to you, or if you never even read this.
Which isn't to say I'll forget you. No matter what happens, or happened, you gave me the greatest gift. Nothing I write, no acting I do henceforth will be unaffected by your influence. Like when I finally 'used what I was feeling,' and truly acted, as one is meant to act, how that was the best thanks I could give.
So what I'm trying to say is thank you. Thank you for believing in me, and showing me a way. And thank you for something else too. Something that's even more important, to me, but I know you don't want to hear it, so it will remain unsaid, though present.
Grace Manning
While typing she felt her thoughts moving full circle. A check told her the same: that while there was some awkwardness, she had said what she wanted. She left the errors. They added something, perhaps in honesty. Her confession, sent into the void, would go out as it was recorded by her fingers.
She hit send.
