a_little_wisp
02-16-2009, 07:07 PM
I glanced idly at Alison Ferris’ black-painted nails as her short fingers, covered in ink, closed around the strap of her black Hello Kitty bag.
“Have a good week, Alison.”
She winked and flashed me a white smile. “Yeah, will do.”
I placed her papers away in her file. “Oh, and you can tell Ms. Mortell to come in.”
I must say, I was very pleased with Alison Ferris. Despite her morbid style of dress and the unusually stylish fictional suicide notes that were circling around the creative writing department, she was certainly on top of her game. The world certainly was changing!
Helen Mortell entered, nodding politely at Alison as she passed – Alison was already heading down the hall.
The smell of rot followed in Helen’s wake as she made her way to the seat. She swatted away a fly, and then stopped in front of the desk.
“Why do you have two desks?” There was laughter in her tone. “It makes me feel so far away from you, Dr. Brom – practically out the door.”
I simply nodded and gave her a half-smile. “Just trying to keep it professional, Ms. Mortell.”
She sat down and laid her white bag to the side. I got a glimpse at the colorful embroidery on the side that read 'Plant More Flowers'. Then she turned to face me, and I think she smiled, but as she had no lips or eyebrows, it was hard to tell.
She was looking well. A little thin, surely, with some stitches keeping her elbow attached to the upper arm, but dressed like a wild gypsy. She wore a colorful scarf about her hair, a brightly patterned peasant shirt and skinny jeans, topping it off with cute baby doll shoes patterned with flowers. The colorful, playful jewelry that hung around her neck and wrists jangled and jingled with every movement and motion she made. That was somewhat annoying.
I pride myself on my observational skills. Countless times they have helped me to figure out students, their study habits, their general opinion of a course. This one was easy to figure out: she likely spent most of her days shopping, trying to fit in with the new hip, ‘urban’ crowd - trying to be an individual by conforming - reading only the classics that were required, Wikipedia-ing philosophical concepts and spending her days in Starbucks’ seriously pondering over the quotations on the cups. I knew her type.
“How’ve you been, Ms. Mortell?”
“Call me Helen, Dr. Brom.” She smiled toothily, her browned skin stretching over her ivory bones. “And you know, I’ve been pretty good.”
Of course you have, I thought,observing her grades. You probably spend every night drinking yourself into oblivion. God, I hate this job sometimes.
“Ah. And what do you think of this semester’s grades?” I didn’t look up at her for a moment.
She rolled her eyes. Her breath then caught in frustration as one of her eyeballs stuck in place, the iris’ gaze fixed upwards. She smacked at the side of her head, causing a patch of hair to fall to the ground. When knocking it back into place didn’t seem to be working, she took out eye drops and dabbed a bit onto the whites of the eye until it slid back into place.
“You know,” she said, tucking away the drops into her bag. “I’m not pleased.”
She wasn’t sincere. I could tell. She didn’t sound it.
“You did this last semester.”
“I know.”
“You said you were going to try harder. You said you loved English, that it was your passion. I don’t see proof of that here.”
“I know.”
She was, I could tell, one of those who had hoped English would be the easiest subject to major in.
She scratched at her arm, skin flaying away. Maggots poured out from the new abrasion.
“What exactly are you planning to do when you get out of college, Ms. Mortell?” I folded my hands on my desk importantly. Patience, I thought, only ten more minutes of this.
“I want to go into publishing, I guess. Maybe editing. You know I want to write. I’ve told you this.”
Oh, right. Nothing I haven’t heard before – almost every English major wants to be an author. Then, they generally end up like me, teaching.
I thought a moment.
“Ever thought of being a Sunday school teacher?”
Now her lidless, wide-eyed gaze settled on me, and I thought I saw the muscles in her jaw tense.
“I’ve told you this before, too, that I really don’t think that’s up my alley.” Her long, skeletal fingers gripped the arms of her chair. I remembered that now, and realized that this time her reaction had been much less violent. Maybe she was wearing thin.
“So you really think that, with these grades, you’re still going to go to grad school?” I didn’t want to crush her hopes, but honesty was the best route at this point.
She shifted in her seat, tugged at the fabric of her shirt. An awful stench of decay wafted in my direction from the movement. I took out some air freshener and sprayed until the odor was gone.
“I still want to try.”
I think if she still had tear ducts, she would have cried.
“Sir, I really am trying. I’m going to a counselor now and he’s really helping.”
I watched her, holding her gaze. “Ms. Mortell. There’s nothing wrong with being a Sunday school teacher, with settling for less. We don’t always prove to have the skills we thought we did. College is difficult, and it’s not for everyone. There’s no need to be ashamed. As for counseling, if you haven’t fixed it by now, chances are your counselor’s not going to be able to either.”
She shifted again.
“I know you're just trying to do your job, but I… I just have problems, you know?" Her tone changed, her voice speeding up. She was going to offer excuses now.
I sighed. I really didn’t have time for this. I’d heard it all before, and what’s more, there was nothing I could do for it.
“I sit in my room and I know I have things to do, but then I think… I just don’t want to do them, and what good will it do? I’m already late on the assignment, I’m going to fail. I’m going to look stupid.”
You are stupid.
“I want… I want to do well, I want to do as well as I did in highschool, I want to be something, Dr. Brom.” That whine was back in her voice – the one that alerted me to when she was about to cry. “I can’t become a Sunday school teacher.”
She kept going, and I phased her out a bit as she rambled on.
“I’m falling to pieces, sir-”
Lunch break was in an hour. I forgot my Stouffer’s.
“- I’m trying to keep up, but I’m so ashamed of what I’ve become –“ Flies buzzed around the office.
… But if I call Julie, she might be able to bring it to me –
“- like a zombie. I know I don’t seem like I care, like I’m crumbling – “
-Or I could just go to Groucho’s. She was crying now. Well, in a way. Her chest was heaving, and the flaps of skin hanging off her ribs fluttered and lifted beneath her shirt.
She tugged at the remaining skin hanging on her cheekbone and pulled it off. “ - but I care so much, I do, I just – “
“You don’t care, Ms. Mortell.”
“But I do, it’s just like… like a self-fulfilling prophecy, and I have this fixed path I’ve set for myself– “
She was quoting her counselor. I wanted to laugh in exasperation. Good god, I felt bad for that man. It was probably birth controls pills that were doing this to her.
“- and every time I try to change it, I just give up instead. I can’t sleep, and when I do, I sleep too much – “
And you don’t eat at all, apparently, I thought wryly.
“- And I work, and of course I need to work, but even if I wasn’t working, I still wouldn’t do my school work – “
“Ms. Mortell,” I couldn’t take it anymore. “What you’re suffering from is a fit of laziness. It happens to many students. But you cared as much as you say, then you’d do your work - it's that simple. You have a 2.6 GPA and one year of college left to try and fix it, unless you want to waste more money on another year. I would love for you to go to grad school, but I’m just saying that at this point, you don’t stand a chance. I’m not trying to be mean, I’m not calling you stupid, I’m just giving you the facts.”
A cluster of flies were digging at the hole where her ear used to be. She scratched her neck, and one flew away.
I sighed. “Talk to your professors. See what they think.”
She rose and I handed her schedule of next semester’s classes to her. “I like your scarf.”
She nodded, hefting her bag, jingling and jangling and stinking up the air.
I rose and followed her, watching as she lifted her chin before heading out the doorway.
“Ms. Mortell?”
She glanced back at me, one of her eyes drooping out from its socket.
“You forgot this.”
She took her hand from mine and stared at the place at her wrist where it used to be connected, no doubt wondering how she was going to fix that one.
“Have a good day, Dr. Brom.”
“Likewise, Ms. Mortell.”
I turned and grabbed my wallet from my desk drawer.
Groucho’s it was!
“Have a good week, Alison.”
She winked and flashed me a white smile. “Yeah, will do.”
I placed her papers away in her file. “Oh, and you can tell Ms. Mortell to come in.”
I must say, I was very pleased with Alison Ferris. Despite her morbid style of dress and the unusually stylish fictional suicide notes that were circling around the creative writing department, she was certainly on top of her game. The world certainly was changing!
Helen Mortell entered, nodding politely at Alison as she passed – Alison was already heading down the hall.
The smell of rot followed in Helen’s wake as she made her way to the seat. She swatted away a fly, and then stopped in front of the desk.
“Why do you have two desks?” There was laughter in her tone. “It makes me feel so far away from you, Dr. Brom – practically out the door.”
I simply nodded and gave her a half-smile. “Just trying to keep it professional, Ms. Mortell.”
She sat down and laid her white bag to the side. I got a glimpse at the colorful embroidery on the side that read 'Plant More Flowers'. Then she turned to face me, and I think she smiled, but as she had no lips or eyebrows, it was hard to tell.
She was looking well. A little thin, surely, with some stitches keeping her elbow attached to the upper arm, but dressed like a wild gypsy. She wore a colorful scarf about her hair, a brightly patterned peasant shirt and skinny jeans, topping it off with cute baby doll shoes patterned with flowers. The colorful, playful jewelry that hung around her neck and wrists jangled and jingled with every movement and motion she made. That was somewhat annoying.
I pride myself on my observational skills. Countless times they have helped me to figure out students, their study habits, their general opinion of a course. This one was easy to figure out: she likely spent most of her days shopping, trying to fit in with the new hip, ‘urban’ crowd - trying to be an individual by conforming - reading only the classics that were required, Wikipedia-ing philosophical concepts and spending her days in Starbucks’ seriously pondering over the quotations on the cups. I knew her type.
“How’ve you been, Ms. Mortell?”
“Call me Helen, Dr. Brom.” She smiled toothily, her browned skin stretching over her ivory bones. “And you know, I’ve been pretty good.”
Of course you have, I thought,observing her grades. You probably spend every night drinking yourself into oblivion. God, I hate this job sometimes.
“Ah. And what do you think of this semester’s grades?” I didn’t look up at her for a moment.
She rolled her eyes. Her breath then caught in frustration as one of her eyeballs stuck in place, the iris’ gaze fixed upwards. She smacked at the side of her head, causing a patch of hair to fall to the ground. When knocking it back into place didn’t seem to be working, she took out eye drops and dabbed a bit onto the whites of the eye until it slid back into place.
“You know,” she said, tucking away the drops into her bag. “I’m not pleased.”
She wasn’t sincere. I could tell. She didn’t sound it.
“You did this last semester.”
“I know.”
“You said you were going to try harder. You said you loved English, that it was your passion. I don’t see proof of that here.”
“I know.”
She was, I could tell, one of those who had hoped English would be the easiest subject to major in.
She scratched at her arm, skin flaying away. Maggots poured out from the new abrasion.
“What exactly are you planning to do when you get out of college, Ms. Mortell?” I folded my hands on my desk importantly. Patience, I thought, only ten more minutes of this.
“I want to go into publishing, I guess. Maybe editing. You know I want to write. I’ve told you this.”
Oh, right. Nothing I haven’t heard before – almost every English major wants to be an author. Then, they generally end up like me, teaching.
I thought a moment.
“Ever thought of being a Sunday school teacher?”
Now her lidless, wide-eyed gaze settled on me, and I thought I saw the muscles in her jaw tense.
“I’ve told you this before, too, that I really don’t think that’s up my alley.” Her long, skeletal fingers gripped the arms of her chair. I remembered that now, and realized that this time her reaction had been much less violent. Maybe she was wearing thin.
“So you really think that, with these grades, you’re still going to go to grad school?” I didn’t want to crush her hopes, but honesty was the best route at this point.
She shifted in her seat, tugged at the fabric of her shirt. An awful stench of decay wafted in my direction from the movement. I took out some air freshener and sprayed until the odor was gone.
“I still want to try.”
I think if she still had tear ducts, she would have cried.
“Sir, I really am trying. I’m going to a counselor now and he’s really helping.”
I watched her, holding her gaze. “Ms. Mortell. There’s nothing wrong with being a Sunday school teacher, with settling for less. We don’t always prove to have the skills we thought we did. College is difficult, and it’s not for everyone. There’s no need to be ashamed. As for counseling, if you haven’t fixed it by now, chances are your counselor’s not going to be able to either.”
She shifted again.
“I know you're just trying to do your job, but I… I just have problems, you know?" Her tone changed, her voice speeding up. She was going to offer excuses now.
I sighed. I really didn’t have time for this. I’d heard it all before, and what’s more, there was nothing I could do for it.
“I sit in my room and I know I have things to do, but then I think… I just don’t want to do them, and what good will it do? I’m already late on the assignment, I’m going to fail. I’m going to look stupid.”
You are stupid.
“I want… I want to do well, I want to do as well as I did in highschool, I want to be something, Dr. Brom.” That whine was back in her voice – the one that alerted me to when she was about to cry. “I can’t become a Sunday school teacher.”
She kept going, and I phased her out a bit as she rambled on.
“I’m falling to pieces, sir-”
Lunch break was in an hour. I forgot my Stouffer’s.
“- I’m trying to keep up, but I’m so ashamed of what I’ve become –“ Flies buzzed around the office.
… But if I call Julie, she might be able to bring it to me –
“- like a zombie. I know I don’t seem like I care, like I’m crumbling – “
-Or I could just go to Groucho’s. She was crying now. Well, in a way. Her chest was heaving, and the flaps of skin hanging off her ribs fluttered and lifted beneath her shirt.
She tugged at the remaining skin hanging on her cheekbone and pulled it off. “ - but I care so much, I do, I just – “
“You don’t care, Ms. Mortell.”
“But I do, it’s just like… like a self-fulfilling prophecy, and I have this fixed path I’ve set for myself– “
She was quoting her counselor. I wanted to laugh in exasperation. Good god, I felt bad for that man. It was probably birth controls pills that were doing this to her.
“- and every time I try to change it, I just give up instead. I can’t sleep, and when I do, I sleep too much – “
And you don’t eat at all, apparently, I thought wryly.
“- And I work, and of course I need to work, but even if I wasn’t working, I still wouldn’t do my school work – “
“Ms. Mortell,” I couldn’t take it anymore. “What you’re suffering from is a fit of laziness. It happens to many students. But you cared as much as you say, then you’d do your work - it's that simple. You have a 2.6 GPA and one year of college left to try and fix it, unless you want to waste more money on another year. I would love for you to go to grad school, but I’m just saying that at this point, you don’t stand a chance. I’m not trying to be mean, I’m not calling you stupid, I’m just giving you the facts.”
A cluster of flies were digging at the hole where her ear used to be. She scratched her neck, and one flew away.
I sighed. “Talk to your professors. See what they think.”
She rose and I handed her schedule of next semester’s classes to her. “I like your scarf.”
She nodded, hefting her bag, jingling and jangling and stinking up the air.
I rose and followed her, watching as she lifted her chin before heading out the doorway.
“Ms. Mortell?”
She glanced back at me, one of her eyes drooping out from its socket.
“You forgot this.”
She took her hand from mine and stared at the place at her wrist where it used to be connected, no doubt wondering how she was going to fix that one.
“Have a good day, Dr. Brom.”
“Likewise, Ms. Mortell.”
I turned and grabbed my wallet from my desk drawer.
Groucho’s it was!