there is orange in this icon
It has suddenly decided to get hot again. We were getting cold days, the kind of weather I love - finally autumn - and then suddenly, yesterday, it was 32°C (so 89°F, I think? or thereabouts?) and I had soccer tryouts. I was somewhat unimpressed.
Today is Harmony Day, which translates into us having a non-uniform day at school and the Safe Schools Committee (yeah, you read that right) holding a stall to sell us baked goods. There is also a fashion parade of different world fashions, which is kind of an interesting idea. We were told this in assembly yesterday, and then one last girl walked up to the mic and was all "Oh, and try to remember the spirit of Harmony Day, too? Which is to value and respect each other's differences. Thanks." But she was all meek and quiet, like the real point of the day was to be "Non-uniform! Food! Fashion!" and she was standing up there with her morals and such and getting all self-conscious.
Or, you know. Maybe I'm just reading into it too much. Anyway, the other nifty thing about Harmony Day is that its colour is orange, so we have bbeen asked to wear orange. I don't know about you guys, but I own no orange. It's not a part of my wardrobe at all. I was hypothesizing that perhaps they only picked orange because there were no colours left for "days" like this, you know? Soon our entire year will be filled up with days for charities and other good causes, and we're definitely going to run out of colours. (Today is Topaz Day! That's right! Please wear Topaz in support of...)
Okay, enough rambling. Though I feel like I do this waaay too much, I'm going to ask you guys to read over some original fiction for me. There is a national writing competition that I'm entering (I entered it last year, too) and I'm not so sure about this story, if it works or not. I tend to find you LJ friends are much more likely to a) take the time to read and b) give concrit, not just praise, so. It's 1500 words, theme is finding your way back.
The first night Grace is back home, her mother cooks a hearty meal, an autumn meal: pumpkin soup. When Grace walks in the door, duffel bag slung loosely over one shoulder, her father shuffling through the door behind her, the whole house is warm and it smells like bread dough.
“Well,” her father says, just a short breath, and when she turns to look at him he’s smiling at her, a broad grin she’d almost forgotten she was familiar with.
“Yeah,” Grace replies, and she toes off her shoes and pads down the hallway to the kitchen. Her mother is standing by the stove, humming along with the classical music on the radio, wearing a familiar red-checked apron. It’s awkward to hug her mother with the bag in the way, with her baggy sweater putting too much fabric between them, but they manage.
“Hello,” her mother whispers, breath tickling, blowing the hair that’s grown to curl around her ears, and Grace shifts that impossible inch closer.
“Hi.” Grace’s voice catches on her mother’s cardigan.
“Dinner is ready, whenever you are.” Her mother pulls back and Grace turns to pad out of the kitchen.
The door to her room is closed, and the blank chalk board hanging on it rattles when she cautiously opens the door. It’s still her room, maybe a little cleaner than usual, because her mother has dusted and the edges of her bedspread are tucked in tight. Grace sits down heavily on the bed, lets the duffel rest at her feet, and stares at the pile of Christmas presents carefully stacked in one corner.
She cocks her head a little, studying the pile and trying to remember what each of the boxes held, but then she catches sight of her ballet shoes peeking out of the closet, and she suddenly feels very hungry.
***
The next day, Grace doesn’t bother to go to school. She sits outside on the back deck in her pyjamas instead. They are her Christmas pyjamas, the ones that were tucked neatly beneath her pillow, and she thinks about how odd it is to have pyjamas she can only wear for maybe three weeks of the year, and how odd it is that she is wearing them in March.
The door creaks open and her mother walks out to hand her the phone, her smile too wide.
“It’s Abbey for you, dear,” her mother says, and Grace glances up sharply at the last word.
“Okay,” Grace says, and runs her fingers over a bright red Christmas tree on her shin before reaching out for the phone. “Thanks.” She turns away from her mother and stares down at her toes to answer. “Hey.”
“Oh man, I can’t believe you’re back!” Abbey exclaims in a rush, and then proceeds to continue talking in a rush for maybe three minutes straight. “But oh my gosh, how are you?”
Grace considers for a moment, wiggling her toes and contemplating whether or not to paint them. “I’m okay.”
“Are you coming back to school soon? We’re learning, like, so much, you have no idea,” Abbey drawls, and then laughs her high-pitched laugh. Grace smiles; she’d forgotten how much she loved to hate that laugh.
“Maybe,” Grace replies, and then there’s an expectant pause from both of them. “Soon, I think. Next week, probably.”
“Okay, awesome!” Abbey says, and then hesitates for a second. “And…are you coming back to the studio, do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Maybe forced nonchalance is more convincing over the phone, Grace thinks, and decides that her toenails would look best in a green, to match her pyjamas.
“Tonight, even? You could stop by, just to say hi to everyone. We have this new teacher, she’s awful!” There’s that laugh again, Grace thinks ruefully, and Abbey continues to talk.
***
Dinner is quiet, just like it’s always been. Now, though, the silence settles, thick over their plates, their skin, their words. “I think I’m going to stop by the studio tonight,” Grace says, and she feels as though she can watch the words sink to the table, heavy between them.
“Oh,” her father says with genuine surprise, and he glances at her mother.
“Are you sure-?” her mother starts to ask, stopping herself short.
Grace shrugs and dissects a green bean. “It’s been a while.” This is an understatement, but none of them are going to say it.
“Do you want-?” Her mother begins, and this time Grace cuts her off.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll just walk. It’s not too far.”
Her mother looks like she’s going to ask again, but instead she cuts a piece of steak in one swift movement and keeps quiet. The silence settles in again, comfortably.
***
The walk to the studio isn’t a long one, but Grace hasn’t walked anywhere for three months. She takes the scenic route, stopping by the vintage record store and the tiny chocolate shop and her favourite photo gallery; the usual places. She almost buys a hot chocolate from the café just around the corner from the studio, but then she remembers hungry bodies and resentful eyes and walks straight by.
The studio - up one flight of clanging stairs, past the old advertisements pasted on old brick, along the patchy carpet, through the frosted door - is huge and bustling. It’s a maze of different rooms and corridors, all with the same white-washed walls and too much echoing space. Grace ignores the girl behind the desk and steps over the hip-hop dancers sprawled across the first waiting room and takes a familiar path to the Ballroom. There’s a small atrium outside, and Grace curls up in one of the old vinyl chairs. She tucks her feet underneath her and tugs the sleeves of her jumper down so they hug her palms, and then leans to the right just enough to see in the door.
Abbey is about four people in down the line, watching carefully in the mirror as she does her arabesques. She glances to the door and Grace pulls back sharply, leans to the other side. It’s too late, though; there’s the sound of steps on creaking wooden floors over the concerto, and then there is Abbey.
“Hi!” She grins at Grace and leans down to pull her into a quick hug. “Did you want to come practise?”
“Oh, no,” Grace says, and she’s captivated by the line of feet in identical shoes she can see past Abbey’s legs.
“Are you sure? I know you don’t have your stuff, but we have spares.” Grace looks up to face Abbey’s smile, and shakes her head.
“I’d be pretty bad,” Grace says, and this time finds a stray blonde hair trailing out of Abbey’s bun to focus on.
“It’s okay! You just need to-”
“I said no, Abbey,” Grace snaps, and even though she’s still staring at that single hair, she sees the blurred image of Abbey’s face falling.
“Well, okay,” Abbey says, and her voice lilts in the way it always does when she’s trying to hide something. “It was nice to see you, Grace. Talk to you soon, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Grace says, and feels something churn in her stomach as she watches Abbey walk back into the Ballroom. She tugs her sleeves tighter down around her fingers and gets up. She’d forgotten how classical music grates on her nerves when she’s not dancing.
***
Grace starts school the next week. She sits with Abbey and Paige in every class, just like she did last year, and moves almost on instinct through the halls. Her teachers are pretty much the same, and so are her classmates. She hadn’t forgotten how much she dislikes school, and why.
“That’s Grace Franklin - yes, that Grace-”
“-been away since Christmas -”
“-had some weird breakdown-”
“-heard she was anorexic. You know dancers…”
“…been in the loony bin, or somethin’-”
“-abusive parents, I don’t know-”
“-it’s just what I heard.”
Her mother picks her up after school, after Grace has walked down the hallway, gazes sticking to her like flies on honey, after she’s had her meetings with the principal and the guidance counsellor.
“How was your day?” Her mother has her hands perfectly set on the steering wheel as she stops obligingly at the crosswalk, fixing Grace with her thousand-watt smile.
“Can you take me to the studio?” Her mother stumbles a little on her response, and Grace takes over. “Yes, I’m sure. Please?”
“Okay.” Her mother drums an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel, considering. “Your bag is in the back.”
“My--” Grace turns in her seat to see her worn blue bag sitting in the back seat, complacent, nonthreatening. “Oh,” she mumbles, and stares at the small scrap of pink fabric barely visible through the top. “Thanks.”
“That’s alright,” her mother replies, and this time the smile is softer, more for herself than for Grace. Grace settles back into her seat and turns the radio dial to the classical music station.
And how is everyone's week going so far? Anything new and exciting happening in your lives? I hope you're well!
Today is Harmony Day, which translates into us having a non-uniform day at school and the Safe Schools Committee (yeah, you read that right) holding a stall to sell us baked goods. There is also a fashion parade of different world fashions, which is kind of an interesting idea. We were told this in assembly yesterday, and then one last girl walked up to the mic and was all "Oh, and try to remember the spirit of Harmony Day, too? Which is to value and respect each other's differences. Thanks." But she was all meek and quiet, like the real point of the day was to be "Non-uniform! Food! Fashion!" and she was standing up there with her morals and such and getting all self-conscious.
Or, you know. Maybe I'm just reading into it too much. Anyway, the other nifty thing about Harmony Day is that its colour is orange, so we have bbeen asked to wear orange. I don't know about you guys, but I own no orange. It's not a part of my wardrobe at all. I was hypothesizing that perhaps they only picked orange because there were no colours left for "days" like this, you know? Soon our entire year will be filled up with days for charities and other good causes, and we're definitely going to run out of colours. (Today is Topaz Day! That's right! Please wear Topaz in support of...)
Okay, enough rambling. Though I feel like I do this waaay too much, I'm going to ask you guys to read over some original fiction for me. There is a national writing competition that I'm entering (I entered it last year, too) and I'm not so sure about this story, if it works or not. I tend to find you LJ friends are much more likely to a) take the time to read and b) give concrit, not just praise, so. It's 1500 words, theme is finding your way back.
The first night Grace is back home, her mother cooks a hearty meal, an autumn meal: pumpkin soup. When Grace walks in the door, duffel bag slung loosely over one shoulder, her father shuffling through the door behind her, the whole house is warm and it smells like bread dough.
“Well,” her father says, just a short breath, and when she turns to look at him he’s smiling at her, a broad grin she’d almost forgotten she was familiar with.
“Yeah,” Grace replies, and she toes off her shoes and pads down the hallway to the kitchen. Her mother is standing by the stove, humming along with the classical music on the radio, wearing a familiar red-checked apron. It’s awkward to hug her mother with the bag in the way, with her baggy sweater putting too much fabric between them, but they manage.
“Hello,” her mother whispers, breath tickling, blowing the hair that’s grown to curl around her ears, and Grace shifts that impossible inch closer.
“Hi.” Grace’s voice catches on her mother’s cardigan.
“Dinner is ready, whenever you are.” Her mother pulls back and Grace turns to pad out of the kitchen.
The door to her room is closed, and the blank chalk board hanging on it rattles when she cautiously opens the door. It’s still her room, maybe a little cleaner than usual, because her mother has dusted and the edges of her bedspread are tucked in tight. Grace sits down heavily on the bed, lets the duffel rest at her feet, and stares at the pile of Christmas presents carefully stacked in one corner.
She cocks her head a little, studying the pile and trying to remember what each of the boxes held, but then she catches sight of her ballet shoes peeking out of the closet, and she suddenly feels very hungry.
***
The next day, Grace doesn’t bother to go to school. She sits outside on the back deck in her pyjamas instead. They are her Christmas pyjamas, the ones that were tucked neatly beneath her pillow, and she thinks about how odd it is to have pyjamas she can only wear for maybe three weeks of the year, and how odd it is that she is wearing them in March.
The door creaks open and her mother walks out to hand her the phone, her smile too wide.
“It’s Abbey for you, dear,” her mother says, and Grace glances up sharply at the last word.
“Okay,” Grace says, and runs her fingers over a bright red Christmas tree on her shin before reaching out for the phone. “Thanks.” She turns away from her mother and stares down at her toes to answer. “Hey.”
“Oh man, I can’t believe you’re back!” Abbey exclaims in a rush, and then proceeds to continue talking in a rush for maybe three minutes straight. “But oh my gosh, how are you?”
Grace considers for a moment, wiggling her toes and contemplating whether or not to paint them. “I’m okay.”
“Are you coming back to school soon? We’re learning, like, so much, you have no idea,” Abbey drawls, and then laughs her high-pitched laugh. Grace smiles; she’d forgotten how much she loved to hate that laugh.
“Maybe,” Grace replies, and then there’s an expectant pause from both of them. “Soon, I think. Next week, probably.”
“Okay, awesome!” Abbey says, and then hesitates for a second. “And…are you coming back to the studio, do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Maybe forced nonchalance is more convincing over the phone, Grace thinks, and decides that her toenails would look best in a green, to match her pyjamas.
“Tonight, even? You could stop by, just to say hi to everyone. We have this new teacher, she’s awful!” There’s that laugh again, Grace thinks ruefully, and Abbey continues to talk.
***
Dinner is quiet, just like it’s always been. Now, though, the silence settles, thick over their plates, their skin, their words. “I think I’m going to stop by the studio tonight,” Grace says, and she feels as though she can watch the words sink to the table, heavy between them.
“Oh,” her father says with genuine surprise, and he glances at her mother.
“Are you sure-?” her mother starts to ask, stopping herself short.
Grace shrugs and dissects a green bean. “It’s been a while.” This is an understatement, but none of them are going to say it.
“Do you want-?” Her mother begins, and this time Grace cuts her off.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll just walk. It’s not too far.”
Her mother looks like she’s going to ask again, but instead she cuts a piece of steak in one swift movement and keeps quiet. The silence settles in again, comfortably.
***
The walk to the studio isn’t a long one, but Grace hasn’t walked anywhere for three months. She takes the scenic route, stopping by the vintage record store and the tiny chocolate shop and her favourite photo gallery; the usual places. She almost buys a hot chocolate from the café just around the corner from the studio, but then she remembers hungry bodies and resentful eyes and walks straight by.
The studio - up one flight of clanging stairs, past the old advertisements pasted on old brick, along the patchy carpet, through the frosted door - is huge and bustling. It’s a maze of different rooms and corridors, all with the same white-washed walls and too much echoing space. Grace ignores the girl behind the desk and steps over the hip-hop dancers sprawled across the first waiting room and takes a familiar path to the Ballroom. There’s a small atrium outside, and Grace curls up in one of the old vinyl chairs. She tucks her feet underneath her and tugs the sleeves of her jumper down so they hug her palms, and then leans to the right just enough to see in the door.
Abbey is about four people in down the line, watching carefully in the mirror as she does her arabesques. She glances to the door and Grace pulls back sharply, leans to the other side. It’s too late, though; there’s the sound of steps on creaking wooden floors over the concerto, and then there is Abbey.
“Hi!” She grins at Grace and leans down to pull her into a quick hug. “Did you want to come practise?”
“Oh, no,” Grace says, and she’s captivated by the line of feet in identical shoes she can see past Abbey’s legs.
“Are you sure? I know you don’t have your stuff, but we have spares.” Grace looks up to face Abbey’s smile, and shakes her head.
“I’d be pretty bad,” Grace says, and this time finds a stray blonde hair trailing out of Abbey’s bun to focus on.
“It’s okay! You just need to-”
“I said no, Abbey,” Grace snaps, and even though she’s still staring at that single hair, she sees the blurred image of Abbey’s face falling.
“Well, okay,” Abbey says, and her voice lilts in the way it always does when she’s trying to hide something. “It was nice to see you, Grace. Talk to you soon, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Grace says, and feels something churn in her stomach as she watches Abbey walk back into the Ballroom. She tugs her sleeves tighter down around her fingers and gets up. She’d forgotten how classical music grates on her nerves when she’s not dancing.
***
Grace starts school the next week. She sits with Abbey and Paige in every class, just like she did last year, and moves almost on instinct through the halls. Her teachers are pretty much the same, and so are her classmates. She hadn’t forgotten how much she dislikes school, and why.
“That’s Grace Franklin - yes, that Grace-”
“-been away since Christmas -”
“-had some weird breakdown-”
“-heard she was anorexic. You know dancers…”
“…been in the loony bin, or somethin’-”
“-abusive parents, I don’t know-”
“-it’s just what I heard.”
Her mother picks her up after school, after Grace has walked down the hallway, gazes sticking to her like flies on honey, after she’s had her meetings with the principal and the guidance counsellor.
“How was your day?” Her mother has her hands perfectly set on the steering wheel as she stops obligingly at the crosswalk, fixing Grace with her thousand-watt smile.
“Can you take me to the studio?” Her mother stumbles a little on her response, and Grace takes over. “Yes, I’m sure. Please?”
“Okay.” Her mother drums an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel, considering. “Your bag is in the back.”
“My--” Grace turns in her seat to see her worn blue bag sitting in the back seat, complacent, nonthreatening. “Oh,” she mumbles, and stares at the small scrap of pink fabric barely visible through the top. “Thanks.”
“That’s alright,” her mother replies, and this time the smile is softer, more for herself than for Grace. Grace settles back into her seat and turns the radio dial to the classical music station.
And how is everyone's week going so far? Anything new and exciting happening in your lives? I hope you're well!