Perfect Circles

"Please sit down," I pointed to the yellow chair and she slumped into it, her head bent.  I could see the blond roots sprouting from her black hair. She crossed her arms, an impenetrable fortress.

The pose was classic eighth grade. She made my job easy today by wearing a black tank top. I noticed no vertebrae screaming out like prayers. This wasn't an eating disorder. And if she was cutting, it wasn't on her arms.

Yet, she was in my office, clutching a twisted pink paper. She had never been here before. Something had changed. Or snapped.  "Kassie, please read me the referral form."

Her eyes were red-lined with tears and smudged with eyeliner. She held my gaze long enough that I wanted to check my teeth for errant lettuce."Haven't you already read it?" she mumbled, "Can't you just give me ISS?"

This was the part where I was supposed to give her a lecture about respect. Instead, I allowed her to dangle. "Read it, please."

She sighed and began: "Kassie Miller threw a donut at me after I intercepted a note. She knows that notes are not acceptable in our learning environment." She placed the note in her lap, and studied her scuffed Chuck Taylors.

"What happened? Have you lost your mind? I'm not even going to ask why you had a donut in algebra."

Folding the referral form, she laughed, "I guess because it was funny."

I pictured the soft cake, perhaps pink with sprinkles, flying through the air. As it made sweet contact with Mrs. Sombrowski, did the frosting coat her glasses? Leave crumbs under her pearly pink nails?  It was kinda funny. She'd be milking this one in the teacher's lounge for weeks.
 
I settled my features into a frown. "There's nothing funny about assault, young lady." 

She sat up straight, the chair legs creaking."What would you know about assault?"  Her eyes flashed, indignant. "What would you know about anything?" Each word was vinegar, lingering in the air.

Bingo. Finally, some emotion. I stared at her, and let her swim in her words for awhile.

She waited, then bit her lip as I let the silence grow between us. The clock ticked. One minute. Two. "What?" she said. "What do you want?" 

I had her. I rolled up my sleeve, taking care with each button until I exposed seven perfect circles, almost the shape of donuts. "Hey," I said, "Look at me."

She turned, and raised her eyebrows. The circles, haphazard plums and grays, crept up and down my forearm, twisted and violent.

"Do you know what these are?"

She shook her head, but I saw it. Deep inside, she knew.

I pointed to a circle above my elbow. "Cigar burns. From my Dad. This one's for letting the dog pee in the house." I rubbed my forearm. "This one? That's for bringing home a B. In algebra." Inch by inch, I covered each donut, until all she could see was my sleeve, my daily mask. 

I sat down, crossed my arms across my chest.  "So yeah. I know a little bit about assault. I suspect you do, too."

It was a guess. But survivors tend to recognize each other, and I decided to take the risk.

Her eyes pooled with fresh tears. Her entire faced turned in on itself. Heaving. Degraded.

She pointed to the intercepted note, resting on my desk--the scribblings that started it all. Pressing it into my hand, she whispered,  "Read it. It's all there."

This is my fictional contribution to The Red Dress Club. We were inspired by a picture of a truly decadent donut. I wear the Red Dress, so I welcome constructive critique.


I will probably continue this story next Friday.

Given Away: Friday Fiction

The red dress club's writing challenge for this week is to craft a short piece of  fiction that focuses on dialogue. I welcome your comments--- good, bad, and ugly.

Given Away

"Dating's so damn expensive, " he said. "I mean, shit, you buy the dinner,  the drinks, and that's, like, rent right there."

I listened to his voice as it sighed through the receiver.

"You're right," I said. "It's not fair. But there's no winning, unless you want to come off like a cheap-ass. Find a rich, feminist chick who is all empowered to pay for your sorry self."

He laughed, and I heard the exhale of his cigarette, "I'm down with feminists. You know what I'm not down with? All the bullshit." He inhaled again, and I yearned for that familiar burn, the delight in the hand-to-mouth motion.

He continued, "The other day, I met up with a girl. We had coffee, laughed a lot. She seemed cool." He coughed. "I was willing to give her a chance, but you know what happened?  She texted me and said she wanted to be friends. I already have friends. I don't need another fucking friend."

I sat on my duvet, ordered online from Pottery Barn, and heard my husband give the boys a bath upstairs. "Well, Sam, what do you need?"

"I miss having a girlfriend," he replied, "I want a girl that's fun to talk to. She needs to be artistic. Funny. I wrote on OK Cupid that if she believed in creationism, that was a deal-breaker."

"Uh-huh."  I twisted my ring around my finger. "Go on,"

"She has to be a Democrat. She has to live in Portland. No long distance shit. She---"

I stopped him. "What if you find an artistic, beautiful woman who wants to do nothing more then lay in bed with you, pay her own way on dates, and create beautiful things while listening to Arcade Fire---BUT...she believes in Noah's Ark. Would that work for you?"

I was proud of myself for mentioning Arcade Fire. I hadn't actually listened to them, but I heard about them on Facebook. I figured it would be something he would appreciate.

"No," he said. "Dinosaurs did not die because they didn't fit on the ark. It's bullshit, and if she believes in it,  It's a deal-breaker."

"Look," I said, "People aren't lists. You can't rule out a person because of one thing. I mean, when I met Keith, he was into hunting. Like, he went into the woods and killed things. He listened to Howard Stern. He wore jean shorts. Jean shorts, I tell you! "

"Well, he doesn't now," my brother replied. "He's cool now. Besides, there's nothing wrong with Howard Stern. You're lucky he married somebody who doesn't like Howard Stern."

I listened to my sons giggle upstairs, and played with my response in head. As I moved the metal round phrases in the palm of my hand, I hoped for Zen clarity in my words.

"That's not my point," I said. "You can't be so picky. If you want to make a life with somebody, have children with somebody, you need to perhaps lower your standards."

He paused, shaping his own words, "You need to back up a bit. I don't want kids. I just want to have fun. Not everybody wants kids."

"I know," I said. "I wasn't trying to say that."

"I'm not done," he said. "I don't want to compromise. I would rather be alone than lose my integrity. So many people just...give themselves away." 

The silence sat upon us like a lead blanket.  I thought of my oils and pastels, stored in the basement, next to my easel. I had moved them to make room for the boys' train table last fall. That was right after Keith sold his motorcycle. 

I heard my husband drain the bathtub, and the soft thumping of the boys' feet overhead. I forced a laugh,  "I guess you better avoid trolling for hot dates at Tea Party rallies, then."

"Thanks, Sis," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Hey," I said, "You'll find the right girl. She might not be who you expect, but she'll be the right girl."

"We'll see," he said. "At least it'll be summer soon and I can take her to free concerts, hiking. Shit like that."

"Exactly," I said. "Look--I gotta go---I love you."

"I love you too. Bye."

I held the warm receiver in my hand, and placed it on the dresser.

I stood up, and walked towards my family.

As I headed upstairs,  I considered the fragile alchemy of compromise and choice.

I wondered how much I had given away.