what fresh hell
Everyone in my house is sick except Vivi. We had to send her out for the evening with her grandparents, because no one here could keep up with her. Terrible sore throats, racking coughs, fever, body ache, and chill. Yeck. And can we recall, oh gods of irony, that I was sick not two weeks ago? I've been in bed for three days.
Gilbert Perez is going nowhere. Fever excuses this. But, oddly, I did write the first page of another fiction I will probably never finish (I have way too many of these). What do you get when you take my high school experience, turn it 270 degrees, add going on twenty years of perspective including seven seasons of Buffy, and sprinkle a little Handmaid's Tale on top? Possibly this:
The masks were passed out in homeroom, first thing.
Remy was eying the box they had come in - all printed with government seals, notices in boxes, the pyramid-and-eye of the new regime. Or New Regime, as Remy had it in her head. Remy was the sort of person who couldn’t resist an ironic capital letter, if only in the privacy of her own mind. Capital letters and irony helped her Cope with the Present Situation.
Ms. Tighe, who was the sort of teacher who once had had her students call her Annie, had left the box on her desk, to prop up her own thin authority. She walked up and down the rows of girls, putting a plain white mask on each desk. She hadn’t reached Remy yet. The whole side of the room she hadn’t reached was muttering and shifting; chairs and desks were squeaking against the waxed linoleum. The other half had fallen quiet.
Kelly Shumacker, in the next row, had just got her mask. She waited until Ms. Tighe had rustled forward a few steps before she snuck a glance at Remy. “What fresh hell is this?”
“Shakespeare,” murmured Remy, absently, because it was obviously a quote, and that was what you did with quotes from Kell, you sourced them. Remy didn’t know that one, but when you didn’t know you guessed Shakespeare. It was like guessing Pele when Trivial Pursuit threw you a soccer question: Eventually you were bound to be right. Remy and Kell liked Trivial Pursuit, except for the orange questions (sports), even though it was hopelessly retro. They were girls who knew things. They had t-shirts to that effect. Remy’s today said “I am the sort of person who finds self-refernial humor amusing.” But that was hidden under her uniform broadcloth.
“It’s Dorothy Parker, you moron,” said Kell. “And I’m not playing. Can’t you see it’s not a game?”
“Girls, please,” said Ms. Tighe, helplessly. And she clicked a mask down on Remy’s desk.
Right. I hope that's out of my system now, but it doesn't feel like it.
Anyway, I don't think I should write about contemporary (or alt.contemporary) teens for contemporary teens. I flatter myself that I can craft a convincing young person on the page -- it's a trick, and not everyone who tries to write about young people pulls it off -- but I'm an outside to today's teen culture, and I think it would show.
Gilbert Perez is going nowhere. Fever excuses this. But, oddly, I did write the first page of another fiction I will probably never finish (I have way too many of these). What do you get when you take my high school experience, turn it 270 degrees, add going on twenty years of perspective including seven seasons of Buffy, and sprinkle a little Handmaid's Tale on top? Possibly this:
The masks were passed out in homeroom, first thing.
Remy was eying the box they had come in - all printed with government seals, notices in boxes, the pyramid-and-eye of the new regime. Or New Regime, as Remy had it in her head. Remy was the sort of person who couldn’t resist an ironic capital letter, if only in the privacy of her own mind. Capital letters and irony helped her Cope with the Present Situation.
Ms. Tighe, who was the sort of teacher who once had had her students call her Annie, had left the box on her desk, to prop up her own thin authority. She walked up and down the rows of girls, putting a plain white mask on each desk. She hadn’t reached Remy yet. The whole side of the room she hadn’t reached was muttering and shifting; chairs and desks were squeaking against the waxed linoleum. The other half had fallen quiet.
Kelly Shumacker, in the next row, had just got her mask. She waited until Ms. Tighe had rustled forward a few steps before she snuck a glance at Remy. “What fresh hell is this?”
“Shakespeare,” murmured Remy, absently, because it was obviously a quote, and that was what you did with quotes from Kell, you sourced them. Remy didn’t know that one, but when you didn’t know you guessed Shakespeare. It was like guessing Pele when Trivial Pursuit threw you a soccer question: Eventually you were bound to be right. Remy and Kell liked Trivial Pursuit, except for the orange questions (sports), even though it was hopelessly retro. They were girls who knew things. They had t-shirts to that effect. Remy’s today said “I am the sort of person who finds self-refernial humor amusing.” But that was hidden under her uniform broadcloth.
“It’s Dorothy Parker, you moron,” said Kell. “And I’m not playing. Can’t you see it’s not a game?”
“Girls, please,” said Ms. Tighe, helplessly. And she clicked a mask down on Remy’s desk.
Right. I hope that's out of my system now, but it doesn't feel like it.
Anyway, I don't think I should write about contemporary (or alt.contemporary) teens for contemporary teens. I flatter myself that I can craft a convincing young person on the page -- it's a trick, and not everyone who tries to write about young people pulls it off -- but I'm an outside to today's teen culture, and I think it would show.