Jack of Hearts
11-30-2010, 03:57 AM
Fall was swapped for snow and desolate pine trees. I would drift away from textbook toward the window of our classroom and whisper some fantastic name; ‘Enceladus’. Often I was reprimanded for idleness but the habit persisted.
Dozers came to shovel snow from the schoolyard. Their efforts amounted to a dirty pile in the middle of the field. The administration failed to keep the children from sliding down that hill so they conceded with a few stipulations. One required that any child playing in snow, hilled by dozers or otherwise, must wear proper clothing to save from getting soaked. My blue jeans were not adequate and I pleaded with my mother to complete my outfit. Always her eyes were patient and distracted, always she encouraged, “Next paycheck.”
The cold was harsh but the children played anyways. Only a few of us weren’t allowed in the snow but we invented games and fought impulses to glance toward the hill. I imagined a small figure atop it, her purple cap a beacon and waving for me. Our blacktop was covered in ice which we kicked and broke into various chunks. These could be seen flying toward the feet of our enemies or sometimes bystanders if enemies weren’t available. We imagined a service was rendered by clearing the ice. Still, our noble work could not drown out my privileged classmates’ laughter and this caused me some degree of agony.
Class concluded in silence and watching the minute hand. I didn’t understand time, how some people never had it and yet I had plenty; it always brought me things I wanted, like Christmas, my mother home from work or the final bell. The face of the clock, tick marks as railroad tracks and the minute hand a steam-sighing train.
The clock glass showed reflections of Elodie. She was delicate - we couldn’t call her Melodie, ‘m’ was too inelegant and coarse. The name Elodie silently flicked against my upper teeth, sometimes switching with ‘Enceladus’. I tilted my head and stole glances. Blonde hair flowed from her cap and her eyes were pale blue. Elodie's smile said that she was loved. She was marked beautiful by it. Sometimes we touched gazes and her's stroked my body like a softly stringed guitar.
At last our teacher caressed between my shoulders. She tucked a wintergreen envelope into my books. “Give this to your mother.”
Alongside our school came a fleet of buses. The engines growled and the smell of exhaust wafted upwards. The uncertainty of the envelope hurt like drowning. Nearness of other people made it hurt worse. There was shame.
A spectacled girl peered at me from the seat ahead. “Hey, Elodie likes you.”
“What?"
“She wants to meet you after piano lessons. Are you gonna come?”
“… I don’t know.”
“You’d better be there!” She turned away.
I walked home from the bus-stop. Neighborhoods were separated by small tree gatherings and if a person knew where to find breaks they could cross between several streets quickly. Children often played in those but none braved that evening 's cold; it was the kind that quietly filled lungs with water.
The green envelope arrived at the kitchen counter. The living room clock looked out upon my mother’s floral sofa- no train, just my reflection and tick-tocks in its glass. I studied my image and tried to imagine what the letter knew. Fear overcame me and I curled into the cushions. Nightmares contorted into spilt liquid and forced past my throat.
Mother’s key grinded the lock and awakened me. Her scent came in first, a blend of leather and cigarettes. Footsteps click-clacked tile and I heard a bottle of wine clink against the countertop.
“Sweetie, what’s this?”
The envelope ripped. The minute hand stuck in place and I suffocated.
“Your teacher says they’re putting you in the hardest English class, with the sixth graders. They want you to do the after-school program!”
Then she sighed away her delight and snarled, “Bull****.”
I stared at me in the clock glass and searched for anything overlooked… I was relieved, exhausted but mostly confused. My mother’s phone conversation brought me back.
“… Yes, I was happy to hear that. But you seemed to, um, think I’m not very involved with his school work. And that’s just not true. I mean -“
The minute hand ticked and time snuck into the room: Elodie!
“Be right back mama!”
She shoulder-hugged the phone and waved, ‘Ok, I’m busy.’
First dusklight had fallen. I ran through tree breaks where snow soaked through my jeans. Elodie's street; warm light spilled from the windows of her house. Across the way I watched and waited and shivered.
After some time the front door opened and illuminated her purple cap. She stepped out of the light and into the street where hues of frozen blue tinted her body. Tree cover hid me and I feasted my eyes like a glutton; the clumsy and graceful child-movements slightly rocking side to side, the swirls of hair against her cheeks and her wide eyes searching. Her smile promised love. Elodie, minute hand of my soul! The roadway was tick marks. She stepped upon the middle line. Visions of a still sealed envelope returned to me and I started drowning again. She must have known. She must have seen the distant figure in the darkness sprinting between tree trunks.
At home I cried into my mother’s embrace; despite my best articulations I was never able to make it understood what, precisely, was hurting.
Dozers came to shovel snow from the schoolyard. Their efforts amounted to a dirty pile in the middle of the field. The administration failed to keep the children from sliding down that hill so they conceded with a few stipulations. One required that any child playing in snow, hilled by dozers or otherwise, must wear proper clothing to save from getting soaked. My blue jeans were not adequate and I pleaded with my mother to complete my outfit. Always her eyes were patient and distracted, always she encouraged, “Next paycheck.”
The cold was harsh but the children played anyways. Only a few of us weren’t allowed in the snow but we invented games and fought impulses to glance toward the hill. I imagined a small figure atop it, her purple cap a beacon and waving for me. Our blacktop was covered in ice which we kicked and broke into various chunks. These could be seen flying toward the feet of our enemies or sometimes bystanders if enemies weren’t available. We imagined a service was rendered by clearing the ice. Still, our noble work could not drown out my privileged classmates’ laughter and this caused me some degree of agony.
Class concluded in silence and watching the minute hand. I didn’t understand time, how some people never had it and yet I had plenty; it always brought me things I wanted, like Christmas, my mother home from work or the final bell. The face of the clock, tick marks as railroad tracks and the minute hand a steam-sighing train.
The clock glass showed reflections of Elodie. She was delicate - we couldn’t call her Melodie, ‘m’ was too inelegant and coarse. The name Elodie silently flicked against my upper teeth, sometimes switching with ‘Enceladus’. I tilted my head and stole glances. Blonde hair flowed from her cap and her eyes were pale blue. Elodie's smile said that she was loved. She was marked beautiful by it. Sometimes we touched gazes and her's stroked my body like a softly stringed guitar.
At last our teacher caressed between my shoulders. She tucked a wintergreen envelope into my books. “Give this to your mother.”
Alongside our school came a fleet of buses. The engines growled and the smell of exhaust wafted upwards. The uncertainty of the envelope hurt like drowning. Nearness of other people made it hurt worse. There was shame.
A spectacled girl peered at me from the seat ahead. “Hey, Elodie likes you.”
“What?"
“She wants to meet you after piano lessons. Are you gonna come?”
“… I don’t know.”
“You’d better be there!” She turned away.
I walked home from the bus-stop. Neighborhoods were separated by small tree gatherings and if a person knew where to find breaks they could cross between several streets quickly. Children often played in those but none braved that evening 's cold; it was the kind that quietly filled lungs with water.
The green envelope arrived at the kitchen counter. The living room clock looked out upon my mother’s floral sofa- no train, just my reflection and tick-tocks in its glass. I studied my image and tried to imagine what the letter knew. Fear overcame me and I curled into the cushions. Nightmares contorted into spilt liquid and forced past my throat.
Mother’s key grinded the lock and awakened me. Her scent came in first, a blend of leather and cigarettes. Footsteps click-clacked tile and I heard a bottle of wine clink against the countertop.
“Sweetie, what’s this?”
The envelope ripped. The minute hand stuck in place and I suffocated.
“Your teacher says they’re putting you in the hardest English class, with the sixth graders. They want you to do the after-school program!”
Then she sighed away her delight and snarled, “Bull****.”
I stared at me in the clock glass and searched for anything overlooked… I was relieved, exhausted but mostly confused. My mother’s phone conversation brought me back.
“… Yes, I was happy to hear that. But you seemed to, um, think I’m not very involved with his school work. And that’s just not true. I mean -“
The minute hand ticked and time snuck into the room: Elodie!
“Be right back mama!”
She shoulder-hugged the phone and waved, ‘Ok, I’m busy.’
First dusklight had fallen. I ran through tree breaks where snow soaked through my jeans. Elodie's street; warm light spilled from the windows of her house. Across the way I watched and waited and shivered.
After some time the front door opened and illuminated her purple cap. She stepped out of the light and into the street where hues of frozen blue tinted her body. Tree cover hid me and I feasted my eyes like a glutton; the clumsy and graceful child-movements slightly rocking side to side, the swirls of hair against her cheeks and her wide eyes searching. Her smile promised love. Elodie, minute hand of my soul! The roadway was tick marks. She stepped upon the middle line. Visions of a still sealed envelope returned to me and I started drowning again. She must have known. She must have seen the distant figure in the darkness sprinting between tree trunks.
At home I cried into my mother’s embrace; despite my best articulations I was never able to make it understood what, precisely, was hurting.