Fic: Just Watch
Title: Just Watch
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 1410
Notes: This is set after "Catcher in the Rye", written in Salinger's style. Originally a short story for my English class. For those of you who never read the book, Phoebe Caulfield was the younger sister of the main character, Holden. This is an outside-view character study of her after the events of CITR.
It's hard to describe some people. They just have that way of moving or speaking or smiling that you know, that you can recognize across a room. But I just hate it sometimes when people--teachers, especially--expect you to put it all into words. It's like those things in science that you can't put together. Different units or something like that. You just can't do it.
Phoebe Caulfield was like that. It seems like there’s nothing wrong with her when I describe her with the damn English language. She’s pretty, she’s tall, she’s got nice eyes, and red hair. But the nice kind of red. The kind of dark red that reminds you of something in the autumn, but you can never really tell exactly what.
You see? That’s what I’m talking about. Maybe you could pick her out of a room, if you narrowed it down to all the tall pretty people with red hair and all. But not if she was with other tall pretty people with red hair. Then what would you do? Say, “Will the real Phoebe Caulfield come forward please?” That’s not the way it works, it never is. The teachers want you to describe them, right? But it still doesn’t work. I mean, whoever’s reading it still isn’t going to know which pretty redhead is Phoebe, so it’s useless.
I don’t talk to her much. I kinda wish I did. There are always those people who you watch from a distance, learning their quirks probably better than the people next to them are, memorizing the way they walk. I always think that maybe one day I’ll get to talk to them, to say something or strike up a conversation or something like that. But it never really happens, so I just watch. It’s funny how much you can know about a person from watching them. She was like that. I watched her a lot, Phoebe. She knew a lot of people, you could tell. People were always saying hi to her and all, asking her how her weekend was. But she never went up to them-except if they were alone. If someone was sitting alone, she’d go up to them all right. Sit down right next to them and everything, like she was their best friend. But she didn’t have a best friend herself. People just said hi to her.
Remember the conversation thing, the thing that never happens with the people you watch? Well, I talked to her this one time. Longest conversation I’d ever had with her. She was standing on the corner of 5th and Kendall, I remember. I had a bag of peanuts in my hand, I think. Something I was eating. And it was cold for the middle of fall, but she was wearing short sleeves and a skirt with strappy red shoes that went up her calves. I remember them being really bright, those shoes. “Typical crazy high schooler,” my mom would have said if she had passed by. She was standing there, her back to traffic, very angry at a guy in front of her.
You see what I mean with this English language? “Angry” isn’t what I mean. You don’t know what I mean, because I can’t describe it. It was something on her face, something I could recognize. If I were more poetic and all, I’d probably say there was fire in her eyes or something ridiculous like that, but I’m not. I could just tell. Maybe it was the way she was standing with her hands down by her sides, but her shoulders all the way back, and her chin just like that. The guy looked like one of those serious philosophical types, the kind you want to avoid being alone with. Dressed like a homeless person, I thought. Even worse than a “typical high schooler”.
He left just before I walked up. I tried to look after him, see where he went, but I couldn’t. Phoebe saw me looking, and said, “My brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“I had three,” she said.
That damn English. How can I tell you how she said it? She just did. But there’s more to it than that. Something you can feel even if I can’t put it into words. It was like she was trying to keep her voice straight, but you could tell. So you knew that if she hadn’t tried, it would have come out different. And that makes you wonder why.
“Had?”
“One died,” she said. She was still staring after where her brother had disappeared.
“Where are the rest of them?” I asked. “I’d never seen that guy before.” I was really curious, I mean it. Sometimes people aren’t sincere when they ask that sort of thing, they just want to keep the conversation going so they don’t have to deal with silences and all. But I really wanted to know.
“One’s in Hollywood,” she answered. There was something about the way she kept her voice-she wasn’t trying to keep it straight, she was trying to keep it nice. Like if she had just said it, it would have been angry or mean or something. “And I never know where the hell Holden’s going.”
She looked down when she said that, like someone had just yelled at her. Her ponytail was coming loose, I noticed. I had the oddest urge to reach up and fix it. “You don’t talk much?” I asked.
“D.B.’s too busy with movie stars,” she muttered. Now that time she didn’t even try. She just shoved her hand in my bag of peanuts and dumped them in her mouth. I didn’t complain. “And Holden and I just argue.”
Why do some people do that? Using proper English, I mean. Like ‘Holden and I’ instead of ‘Holden and me’. It just sounds pretentious sometimes. Not with her, though. It just sorta came out. Like it would sound weird coming from her any other way.
And now I wasn’t really sure what to say. Definitely not “At least you have brothers.” That just sounds awful. Like your life is so much worse than theirs. And definitely not “I’m sorry”, because then the question is always “For what?” and you never really know how to answer that one.
“Family sucks,” I finally said. And don’t ask me why I think so, ‘cause I’m not about to tell you. I was thinking of telling her, though. Sometimes I just wish I could tell everyone my life story. Just spill it all out, so someone other than me would know. Then maybe if I forget, or if I die, it’ll still exist. It won’t be like I never lived. And maybe if I wanna talk to somebody about it, I wouldn’t have to go through everything and all, ‘cause they’d already know. It’d be nice to have someone like that.
“It does,” she agreed. And she looked a little happier then, although that’s not the word. She wasn’t happy, really, just…not as sad. She looked up when she said that, you know. Took another handful of peanuts, and put them in her mouth one by one this time. She was still looking where her brother disappeared, though. Kinda down the street a ways, in the crowd. It looked like she was thinking about someplace real far away.
“You’re a good guy, you know,” she said, all sudden. I kinda glanced up at her, surprised. It sounded really sincere, like she meant it. But I knew she said a lot of things like that. Because she did mean a lot of what she said, always. So it always came out like she really, really meant it, and it was the real, god’s honest truth, and you have to believe her, coming from the heart and all. She was just like that.
We parted ways somehow. I don’t remember that part. It wasn’t important anyway. I hate it when people only tell you the stupid part of the story. But it just shows you how much you can learn from watching someone. I felt like we were best friends then. Like I could read her. And that was a nice feeling, you know? Even if I didn’t really know her, it felt like I did. And maybe that’s good enough.
Maybe that’s what we all need. Somebody who we can’t describe in words. ‘Cause the damn English language just isn’t good enough.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 1410
Notes: This is set after "Catcher in the Rye", written in Salinger's style. Originally a short story for my English class. For those of you who never read the book, Phoebe Caulfield was the younger sister of the main character, Holden. This is an outside-view character study of her after the events of CITR.
It's hard to describe some people. They just have that way of moving or speaking or smiling that you know, that you can recognize across a room. But I just hate it sometimes when people--teachers, especially--expect you to put it all into words. It's like those things in science that you can't put together. Different units or something like that. You just can't do it.
Phoebe Caulfield was like that. It seems like there’s nothing wrong with her when I describe her with the damn English language. She’s pretty, she’s tall, she’s got nice eyes, and red hair. But the nice kind of red. The kind of dark red that reminds you of something in the autumn, but you can never really tell exactly what.
You see? That’s what I’m talking about. Maybe you could pick her out of a room, if you narrowed it down to all the tall pretty people with red hair and all. But not if she was with other tall pretty people with red hair. Then what would you do? Say, “Will the real Phoebe Caulfield come forward please?” That’s not the way it works, it never is. The teachers want you to describe them, right? But it still doesn’t work. I mean, whoever’s reading it still isn’t going to know which pretty redhead is Phoebe, so it’s useless.
I don’t talk to her much. I kinda wish I did. There are always those people who you watch from a distance, learning their quirks probably better than the people next to them are, memorizing the way they walk. I always think that maybe one day I’ll get to talk to them, to say something or strike up a conversation or something like that. But it never really happens, so I just watch. It’s funny how much you can know about a person from watching them. She was like that. I watched her a lot, Phoebe. She knew a lot of people, you could tell. People were always saying hi to her and all, asking her how her weekend was. But she never went up to them-except if they were alone. If someone was sitting alone, she’d go up to them all right. Sit down right next to them and everything, like she was their best friend. But she didn’t have a best friend herself. People just said hi to her.
Remember the conversation thing, the thing that never happens with the people you watch? Well, I talked to her this one time. Longest conversation I’d ever had with her. She was standing on the corner of 5th and Kendall, I remember. I had a bag of peanuts in my hand, I think. Something I was eating. And it was cold for the middle of fall, but she was wearing short sleeves and a skirt with strappy red shoes that went up her calves. I remember them being really bright, those shoes. “Typical crazy high schooler,” my mom would have said if she had passed by. She was standing there, her back to traffic, very angry at a guy in front of her.
You see what I mean with this English language? “Angry” isn’t what I mean. You don’t know what I mean, because I can’t describe it. It was something on her face, something I could recognize. If I were more poetic and all, I’d probably say there was fire in her eyes or something ridiculous like that, but I’m not. I could just tell. Maybe it was the way she was standing with her hands down by her sides, but her shoulders all the way back, and her chin just like that. The guy looked like one of those serious philosophical types, the kind you want to avoid being alone with. Dressed like a homeless person, I thought. Even worse than a “typical high schooler”.
He left just before I walked up. I tried to look after him, see where he went, but I couldn’t. Phoebe saw me looking, and said, “My brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“I had three,” she said.
That damn English. How can I tell you how she said it? She just did. But there’s more to it than that. Something you can feel even if I can’t put it into words. It was like she was trying to keep her voice straight, but you could tell. So you knew that if she hadn’t tried, it would have come out different. And that makes you wonder why.
“Had?”
“One died,” she said. She was still staring after where her brother had disappeared.
“Where are the rest of them?” I asked. “I’d never seen that guy before.” I was really curious, I mean it. Sometimes people aren’t sincere when they ask that sort of thing, they just want to keep the conversation going so they don’t have to deal with silences and all. But I really wanted to know.
“One’s in Hollywood,” she answered. There was something about the way she kept her voice-she wasn’t trying to keep it straight, she was trying to keep it nice. Like if she had just said it, it would have been angry or mean or something. “And I never know where the hell Holden’s going.”
She looked down when she said that, like someone had just yelled at her. Her ponytail was coming loose, I noticed. I had the oddest urge to reach up and fix it. “You don’t talk much?” I asked.
“D.B.’s too busy with movie stars,” she muttered. Now that time she didn’t even try. She just shoved her hand in my bag of peanuts and dumped them in her mouth. I didn’t complain. “And Holden and I just argue.”
Why do some people do that? Using proper English, I mean. Like ‘Holden and I’ instead of ‘Holden and me’. It just sounds pretentious sometimes. Not with her, though. It just sorta came out. Like it would sound weird coming from her any other way.
And now I wasn’t really sure what to say. Definitely not “At least you have brothers.” That just sounds awful. Like your life is so much worse than theirs. And definitely not “I’m sorry”, because then the question is always “For what?” and you never really know how to answer that one.
“Family sucks,” I finally said. And don’t ask me why I think so, ‘cause I’m not about to tell you. I was thinking of telling her, though. Sometimes I just wish I could tell everyone my life story. Just spill it all out, so someone other than me would know. Then maybe if I forget, or if I die, it’ll still exist. It won’t be like I never lived. And maybe if I wanna talk to somebody about it, I wouldn’t have to go through everything and all, ‘cause they’d already know. It’d be nice to have someone like that.
“It does,” she agreed. And she looked a little happier then, although that’s not the word. She wasn’t happy, really, just…not as sad. She looked up when she said that, you know. Took another handful of peanuts, and put them in her mouth one by one this time. She was still looking where her brother disappeared, though. Kinda down the street a ways, in the crowd. It looked like she was thinking about someplace real far away.
“You’re a good guy, you know,” she said, all sudden. I kinda glanced up at her, surprised. It sounded really sincere, like she meant it. But I knew she said a lot of things like that. Because she did mean a lot of what she said, always. So it always came out like she really, really meant it, and it was the real, god’s honest truth, and you have to believe her, coming from the heart and all. She was just like that.
We parted ways somehow. I don’t remember that part. It wasn’t important anyway. I hate it when people only tell you the stupid part of the story. But it just shows you how much you can learn from watching someone. I felt like we were best friends then. Like I could read her. And that was a nice feeling, you know? Even if I didn’t really know her, it felt like I did. And maybe that’s good enough.
Maybe that’s what we all need. Somebody who we can’t describe in words. ‘Cause the damn English language just isn’t good enough.