I
step out of my front door, coffee in hand, laptop case over one
shoulder, purse over the other, and realize that the sun is actually up
over the trees this morning. Last week I could just see the pink glow
that comes right before the big ball of fire pops over the horizon.
What a difference a week makes.
As I get into my Prius, I spill coffee on my denim skirt. The color is
dark enough so that most people won't know, but I'm still pissed. I turn
on the heater in the car. There is a little morning chill in the air,
but I crank it full blast because that's how I dry my hair in the
morning. I turn up my hard rock station and sing before I even start to
drive.
I pull out of my driveway and hope that the bus hasn't gotten to my
street yet. I've been stuck behind the slow, stinky behemoth twice
already this week.
Shit. There it is. Why do I always leave so damn late?
I arrive in the parking lot, and I curse out the Escalade parked next to
me. As always, its tires are over the line of my space, and I'll have
to squeeze out of my car to avoid hitting the Lexus on the other side.
I trot through the parking lot, tripping over my Birkenstock clogs on
the curb. My boss is standing outside, greeting students and faculty,
and reminding parents for the hundredth time that student drop-off is in
the back of the building. He laughs at my stumble before tapping his
watch and giving me a stern look.
"If you didn't wear those hippie shoes, you might be on time for work, Mrs. Davenport."
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
I greet the secretary and sign in. I don't have time to stop at my
mailbox, but I vow to check it later. I stop twice to chat with
colleagues, but not for long. We're all busy; we all have things to do
before the bell rings.
A student stops me in the hallway to ask about a make-up test. I tear a
piece off the grocery list in my purse and write her a pass for third
period. I remind her that she was supposed to make it up two weeks ago,
so she must remember today.
I pass a student that has been in my class for three years. "Nice shirt," I say. It's a Metallica shirt.
"Thanks, Miss Davenport. You have awesome taste in music," he replies.
"I know," I call back to him over my shoulder.
BANG! I jump, not knowing what it is. I look over my shoulder, but I try not to let on that I think something is amiss.
I hear a loud girl's voice telling her boyfriend he's an asshole for dropping a stack of books and scaring the crap out of her.
When I finally reach my classroom, I can't find my keys. There are
students lined up at the door, whining about how heavy their books are. I
try to hurry. My stuff is getting heavy too.
Aha! I clipped them to my belt loop already.
I put my things in my classroom, pick up my lukewarm coffee, and go
stand by my classroom door in the hallway. Usually the teachers across
the hall and I chat while we wait for the bell to ring, but Mrs. Costa
is absent today. Mrs. Peterson is later than I am this morning, and
she's flying in at the last minute. It's casual Friday, and I see that
she has taken it to the extreme. Yoga pants. Interesting choice. I'm
sure she thinks the same about my Birkenstocks.
I smile and greet my students as they enter the room. Some return my greeting; some merely grumble. It's early. I understand.
The late-bell rings, and I start my get-to-class routine. I make arm
gestures like a flight attendant, and rhyme like Dr. Seuss. It doesn't
get them to class any faster, but the dickhead who teaches in the
classroom next door is a real asshole about it. I've seen him stand with
a clipboard, filling out disciplinaries as the kids race down the
hallway after the bell rings. I know. Rules are rules, but I pick my
battles.
This morning is completely typical. The only deviation from the script
has been Mrs. Costa's absence. As I'm about to shut the door, I see
Aaron Jackson heading toward my room. He's been absent, but I'm
surprised to see him so early in the morning. He doesn't usually get to
school until second or third period. He's not a fan of getting up in the
morning. Or of school. Or of life in general.
I smile and ask Aaron if he's stopping by to get last night's homework. He looks me in the eye and doesn't speak.
And my day suddenly stops being so typical.
For a moment I feel like I'm giving birth. Like my uterus is being torn in half. But I already had my babies.
Then I see the pain.
It's silver, like stainless steel. It surrounds me, muffling the sounds
of teenagers laughing and sneezing and talking and phones buzzing on the
desks. A minute ago some girls were jousting verbally, each trying to
establish that her seasonal allergies were, by far, the worst. Now I
hear the wah-wah-wah of their whining from ten miles away.
The world is melting in silver. I taste it, like I used to taste the
metal bar on the baby carriage when my mother would take me for a walk
around the block. It quenched my thirst, that cold, silver bar.
I remember ice skating on the puddle in front of our house. It was so
cold that year, just like now as I sit on a frozen puddle. The silver
glint of my double-runner skates is oozing through my body. I shiver.
Why am I sitting on a skating rink in the road?
I look around and see my fourth grade teacher, holding her silver
pointer, tapping it on the board as we recite multiplication facts. I'm
terrified because I don't know the sevens, and she's about to call on me
with that pointer the kind that looks like a pen but telescopes out to
be a big long silver stick and it's pointing at me and my bladder lets
go and now the frozen puddle is warm.
I hear a scream and another and another and I don't know where I am or
why I taste the stainless steel of the metal bar of the baby carriage or
why I see silver sequins blowing past me, like icy metallic sleet
falling on me stinging my tin foil skin.
My sister is calling me but she died and she's buried and gone and
buried in the stainless steel casket so small and sad. Everyone says
it's a pity because she was just a baby.
Why am I wrapped in tin foil like leftovers from Easter dinner why so I
won't fall apart because I'm melting and my silver insides are leaking
to my outsides and the puddle gets colder and deeper and I'm skating
with Todd on a pond this time and I love him and he lays me down on a
blanket in the snow and takes off my tin foil wrap and slides his smooth
silver shaft inside my body and I love him even though I am cold.
And my babies my grls aren't bbies anymore I see slvr rattles and cups
and baby earrngs where are their braces why are their brcs mltng dwn thr
chns and a silver iPad for each of them on Chrstms mrnng.
Tdd puts that slvr ring n my fngr and tlls me we wll b tgthr forvr but
dont thnk he can com wth evn thgh I hve th shny rng n m fngr tht says
frvr.
Silver
Cold
Quiet
Dark
Nothing
Peace
White
Noise
Light
PAIN
TERROR
^_^^_^^_^^_^^_^^_^^_^^_^^_^^_^
"Her eyes are open!"
"Where?" I barely manage to whisper.
"You're in the hospital, Mrs. Davenport. You were attacked by a student at school this morning."
"Dead?" I try to say.
"No. We thought we were losing you at first, but you're going to make it, honey."
"Todd?" I rasp.
"He's right outside. I'll have him hold your wedding ring, OK?"
"Silver...one?"
"Yes, but I'm pretty sure it's platinum."
"Dying?"
"No, no. You'll be back in front of your classroom before you know it."
"Tell them..."
"Shh, honey. Don't try to talk."
And someone bursts into the room, saying, "Sorry I'm late. I had an Earth Day clean-up at my kids' school."
Earth Day. April twenty-second. And I almost died.
Almost in the Earth Day.
"Tell them...I FUCKING QUIT."
Sexpossessed by Ian Saul Whitcomb
