The walls were textured like canvas. The very room was confined to a building that was the trailer trash of education; a portable. The heat inside was intolerable. It was not that the degrees were so high on the class thermometer, but the class itself. The class, an English class, seemed customized for students to who English was new. Still there were students to whom the language was the only one there was and the pace of this class kept them back scholastically, even worse stuck in precisely the same place. This kind of organization was probably fashioned by a cram of population. Two of the students, in fact, didn't mind the unchallenging pace, but the third was reading test instructions to herself with a bitter sarcasm.
"Remember," she read, "when you cheat, you're only cheating yourself." Then her silent thought bloomed to staggering sound:
"HA!"
Sounds of thirty dropped pencils echoed off the canvas walls. All eyes were staring.
"This system is cheating me!"
In truth the present tense was giving a mild description of the ten years and one day that had already robbed her inspiration and talent to spiritless busywork and intellectual decay. As a child of October she had somewhat the advantage to be collected earlier for the educational drudgery. That advantage hardly did much but to let her end the charade sooner in her lifetime which kept the pearly dew sparkling in her eyes while other resigning students left on graduation day with a sticky deluge which glazed yellow where the windows to their souls should have shone white.
A rather young man, often mistaken for forty due to his tired expression, sat at attention with reluctant bemusement. He was the underadmired instructor who knew flying into a rage at the first sign of trouble was too much energy to spend in the confines of high school bureaucracy.
"Damsel," he address our heroine, with a condescending air, "is there something you'd like to tell us?"
She took up her bat-speckled pencil, shouldered a black denim bag and twitched her freckled nose. "Yes," said she, neatly ripping the test and standing tall, "Good-Bye."
"That was probably the best day I ever spent at that place," she decided while walking home. A clean get away was well in order on the first day, deans too busy with the clearing up of rumors pertaining to hierarchical thrashings and so forth. Damsel let loose a sigh half full of regret half full of hope. Having been so dreadfully bored and disappointed for so long she'd almost gotten used to it enough to try and complete her last two years in public high school. The endurance for monotony had been exhausted from her. Even a new monotony would be better, at least for a while.
Taking the pieces of her exams paper torn asunder, Damsel littered them into the air above with careless abandon. She'd peeled them apart so gleefully that they were small enough to resemble confetti more than business cards as they sprinkled down. Five hearty steps beneath them and the foliage of beech found them forever behind her.
Our Damsel had never before noticed how beautiful the trees; the grass and all shrubbery were until that fortunate day of salvation. The vague and matter-of-fact knowledge of plants had always been told, but the forenoon brought her to finally register it out of all the relief. Even the sunshine, a substance which had never before brought her pleasure, smiled down and coaxed her in a manner she could more than accept. She was almost beholden to it.
Damsel is in fact the given name of our heroine. This was determined to be coined by a mother very allured by fairy tales. We must repeal a possible misconception first. A common phrase, if not the only phrase where the mere word damsel is applied spells out: "Damsel in distress." And as is often misconstrued in cliché sentence fragments is that the two words always relate to one another or both mean much the same thing. Damsels are not irreparably in distress. Damsel is another word for maiden or young girl/woman. At least it's a word both my American Heritage and Webster's II peculiarly agree upon, although dictionaries can change over very long moments in time so buyers beware.
Admittedly our fair Damsel had been in distress not moments ago, but as is quite untraditional in beginning a story, she had rescued herself from it. I realize this part may ally itself with ridicule but when the world is shouting for something new (or at least all the advertising agents of the world do so) it becomes necessary to break with convention. This fits well with Damsel herself, who had learned many times that in order to hold herself in good esteem she must clash with several conventionalities. The only thing that truly disturbed her about this is that she saw herself as more old-fashioned than everyone who argued that she nothing of the sort.
As one of her heroes once said, "Never before have so many people understood so little about so much." It was sorrowfully true. In order to pick up on all the news, a thing that can never be done, we're stuffed with a plethora of bare minimum points, deemed "facts", in order to try and make sense of all things nonsensical. Then we are led to believe that we know enough about everything to have an opinion on it.
She was seen more as scum than merely a curiosity, concluded as a sexual deviant without asking or inquiring herself or otherwise. It was decided she worshipped a Devil she had no proof or speculation of existing, and of course the music she listened to, not to mention the smut she read was lacking any common sense or qualities.
This was all with bare research and of course, presumed in as much arrogance anyone could muster with little imagination and just as little security of being. It put into minds that she suggested their own lifestyles weren't worth leading. It is such a shame so great deal is made from thin air and delusion.
In reality, or the closest approximation, Damsel wasn't going out of her way to argue that black was better than white, nor the Sisters took precedent over the Stones, or that even black lace was preferable to blue denim. What was the point in arguing subjective points? With this in mind, how else could so many assumptions be made about her? How could fellows look on her ankle length, all covering gowns and presumed it proved loose sexuality? When opening a book of the history of tombstones her sanity was questioned.
Why not enjoy violent, X-rated movies like all the other mongrels her age? If only her problems were that of a normal teenage girl. That way they could be solved easily like on all those family situation comedies. It wouldn't be so frustrating to figure out quite what's going on. But she claimed to watch little television after school. Why bother when it was shown so constantly in the classroom? She dared to ask the volume to be * lowered *so she could read of all such nonsense.
What she read was even more disturbing: outdated LITERATURE. Tomes which, in their excess, mocked modern authors' proliference even with merely the pen, inkwell and paper of the times compared to our technological amenities. Volumes so luxuriant in language only college professors ought to read them. Some of her other favorites consisted of obsolete stories wherein writers told dramatizations of biographies the better to cater to a juvenile audience of the forties.
Her jewelry displayed outdated craftsmanship and elegance she lavished cosmetic techniques not seen since the 1930's. Because of these things, although more old-fashioned than extreme she was seen as subversive instead of simply expressive to antiquated design.
Damsel found much strength in old things. They stayed in one piece, more or less, through good times and bad and the value often increased. Of modern things she could be caught scoffing, "Planned obsolescence is the path to oblivion."
This sentiment was, of course, measured and ridiculed in petty arguments over the greatness of the economy, which provided the nations strength.
"Which provides no strength for your doorknobs, your windows, your paints, your screens, nor the very fabric keeping your house standing. I'm sure it was slapped together with sawdust and glue. That'll pick up a pretty penny after it's blown to bits by a little wind if not sloshed too much by the rain before that."
For the most part she could only laugh at the "grown-ups". She knew, as they did not, that the patterns of elders was to disbelieve most of what folks under 23 said as post adolescent gibberish. This was not due to unsound ideas. Because of various discomforts and insecurities in stature the older tend to feel threatened by the possibility that younger fellows could some be as intelligent if not more than themselves.
Dads, a most puzzling and perplexing set of creatures Damsel had ever analyzed, were most struck by any questioning of their authority. (Although she understood in all things there are exceptions.) In subjects that were unclear they could wave off the situation as "just a phase" regardless how long it lasted. Better yet to disregard a subject their juniors might argue as a delusion only peers have trapped them into.
This line of reasoning proved two things to Damsel: 1) Neither Dad nor Grown-Up noticed the similarity in peer pressure to their own lives and 2) Dads didn't take much confidence in having handed down any genetic intelligence in their offspring if they disagreed on anything.
Damsel could hardly blame dads some of the time. What other persons were so conditioned with the expectation, the pressure, even the grievous need to control all things in the household at once. Not to say she agreed with the concepts, but it was a social regimen steeped for ages in many belief systems.
Not much got passed Damsel when she took time to reflect on something. Time to reflect she did take in megadoses. She tuned out bus noise with a headset, cleared her mind of monotony with a paintbrush and carved out her introspection fluidly with a pen.
The one thing that was beyond her comprehension until a number of years later when she looked to the past was the greatest change made the day she walked out of high school at 16 5/6 she had enacted the completing step into an adult. For adulthood, you see, is not measured in whom one lives with or the modern commodities one collects to fit a modern prescription of the required norms (: car, cellular phone, steady wage, and paying rent regularly). Adulthood is gained by the ability to create one's own rules and act upon them consistently.
This ability to create one's own rules was not a trait Damsel saw very often. More so she noticed folks who felt things ought to be a certain way and needed to be reassured that it was correct. This was what separated the adults from the grown-ups and though she searched she was sad to admit she had yet to find an adult parent.
"There must be one," she yawned drearily, and she kept the search open.
As for the occupants of Damsel's homestead; five siblings besides herself and two parents holding up the percentage level for "still married", didn't put up much gasping or grunting on hearing the news that she'd "dropped out". Only a few prods from the younger lad who was inquisitive to his own choices, and perhaps a pet or two stalking by feeling that their favorite midmorning napping spot occupied every now and again by an unexpected carcass was unjust made any noticeable complaint.
Had neighbors or friends been supplied in greater numbers forming a much larger community from which to uphold reputation the parents would have felt the compunction to produce enough shame by which the course of events would be reversed. They themselves unadmittedly had frighteningly little confidence in the public education system and so grievously hated to be parted with what they misconstrued as a pittance of savings that private schooling was quite out of the question. Their motto more unspoken than not was "Only if it's free…" (Almost a wonder having children, and so many, crossed their minds considering the expense.)
As it was, they could hardly expect Damsel to return to a system they had spent years defiling and denouncing to her. All things considered these plain realities did not conflict with her passions.
The first morning she'd walked the long miles back to her house. This distance usually accompanied with a yellow bus ride was invigorating at first, and fell fairly flat at the tail end. Autumn had yet to make itself known and stretches of treeless sidewalk didn't help. The stuffiness of summer humidity was no friend to Damsel. She could make amends with it by the shelter of the track house she named Beaded Bayou:
1) Her mother was a bead freak and therefore looped the entire homestead with bead crafts;
2) 2) There was a creek of sorts nearby, mutilated by man to be something in between a march and a flume. Bayou by title was charitable; a default of Damsel's very design.
Upon entering she noticed the silence. Only such silence was known from being home with an illness or injury. This state of things she had briefly met with in the past was a fast friend upon closer examination. A vague happiness beckoned from out her future. At present a precious fatigue hit her and she let her texts (soon to be returned) slide away, hitting the floor in a crumpled heap. She later noted the release of the books was akin to the feeling of paying up a large debt. Dead weight discharged, she floated up the stairs. All she touched and saw and smelled was reborn in that day. Her room was a far fonder sanctuary than it had been before. Something equitable had happened to change its status.
Damsel removed her pointy shoes, crawled into bed and took a deep, long breath. The sheets cooled her slightly aching legs and baked skin. She squirmed and stretched contentedly wrapped in a perfect garden of linen. A good half hour was spent coiling a pillow, twisting about on the mattress, and observing the oneness and serenity in being alone with the luxury of time barely anyone else had. Other people were off working, going to school, sleeping off the swing shift. That's what made it so special and unlike Saturday, a cacophonous splatter of movement Damsel dreaded. Damsel decided this nothingness a much more wholesome divinity than the misguided clergy she resigned.
Everyone lazy in class had recounted the glory of sleep. Only Damsel reveled in the conscious enjoyment of lying in bed and just being unproductive. But everyone had they're level and even she reached for a book before the last bell rang… miles away.
The phone rang first. It could be anyone, Damsel reasoned, but it ended up being someone she cared about.
Once upon a time, before our story began, Damsel believed her name kicked butt on fanciful, at least among anyone she'd come in contact with. There'd been Chers, Madonnas, a Mary Christmas, and a Davy Jones. She wondered what compelled people two or three generations from her to recycle John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe, albeit at least one of those was a coincidence.
When Damsel made friends with Scarlett O'Hara she dismissed her usual discourse on retaining maiden names. A small hope resided for a while that she could bring it up since Damsel leaned towards a disused French practice of handing down names by gender and therefore she could start now by taking her mother's name. Then Damsel met Mrs. O'Hara and she wasn't Mrs. (Unless you're using the abbreviation with it's original intent: Mistress.)
It may not have been so sour for Scarlett were it not for the many resurrections to the greatness of Gone With The Wind and she found it disheartening that she couldn't keep O'Hara to herself. Even idiots could gloat in a wake of malice and did since they were fond of goading her about her looks, and usually harassed her about her name after savagely losing a worthless argument over dress. It made her skin crawl just thinking over the fact that imbeciles would be able to recall her name, even if it took them a few years. It was like driving a red sports car with a personalized license plate that's simple to memorize. Anyone can tag you, not just the police, regardless of what you're doing.
The guesses were inadvertent. She would say "Scarlett," they'd say "O'Hara?" via the ironic joke. There was something to be said for being on a basis of first name only instead of everyone knowing your last name by proxy of your first.
That was only part of the dissatisfaction. The other was the horrifying recognition Scarlett had at fifteen when she realized her name and favorite color (other than the obligatory black) were also the same word. Thankfully, she did have the resources to accept it after a while; move on and even make her own sport on all such matters.
"Damsel?" came the pert yet sinewy voice of her bosom buddy.
"That would be me." Damsel returned.
"You're home already." Scarlett observed with a little shake in her tone. She expected to leave a message.
"You believe that if it makes you feel better. The truth is I've left my voice at home since no one listens to me in the savage outside world."
A rippling chuckle frothed out of the receiver, "I'm sure this story will wait for tea."
"Where would the element of surprise go if I blurted it out over the phone?"
"No need to spell it out, Dames. I want you to come as quick as you can."
"You've a surprise, too, no doubt."
"Make haste, dear."
"Making," Damsel said, and hung up.
Damsel found a decent enough bookmark, a flap of eye-catching material with silver filigree work. She held it to her face longer than usual. Her freedom glowed out from that bookmark. Something in it represented a back burner in her head. That fire we all have to accomplish our real desires or our flippant ones. Two back burners, one for each category, serious and non. This was the burner of her heartfelt loves and frustrations. Not two hours home from the finish and the fire was heating up with a brightness that made the child of darkness smile. For what that bookmark represented to her was her love of reading and her surprise at the thought of reading what she wanted, nay learning what she wanted, what she felt was important.
Slipping it in the book she couldn't help but let out a squeak of glee went to her vanity table and touched up her face.
Carrying her accoutrements, which meant a book, a headset with tape player, a small note book and pen, along with a little make-up kit, her measly camera, and a cigarette case with the one clove cigarette a day she allowed herself, not to mention a proper bag to set it all in, she stepped out the door.
A blackish-gray cloud hovered in the distance. It was going to be a better day than she thought, reveling in the breeze that carried the cloud. Walking through the neighborhood she noticed the boys playing ball in the street, a brown beast of a van swerved onto the street and a woman screamed, "Terry, Melvin! Watch out! It's UPS!" Even mothers understood the company driving was far more of a danger than street football.
It took the two girls a while to find a café that would serve a proper tea. When they were successes, they promised to always meet at the real teahouse with china and chintz on its tables. For now it was Sputnik's. The trick was remembering Sputnik's used to be named Alphonse's, which was easy since Alphonse Mucha's art draped on every wall and a few windows, one of which they would always take on fair days. There Damsel sat in front of Primrose and Scarlett next to Feather.
Today especially suited Scarlett to sit beside that piece, for she had proven her surprise without saying a word. She had shaven all her hair off to her crown and the rest was ingeniously highlighted with flashy red along the two-inch tips and some further down her black tresses. All of this raised up and out with some form of staying power that let much of the top wisp around like peacock feather ends.
Scarlett stood up as Damsel walked up, and set her arms up by their crooked elbows, her fingers spread in a show of display. Damsel stopped in her tracks and let her bag drop to the ground.
"That is about the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Damsel announced, if softly speaking can be an announcement. Scarlett smiled, her big eyes squishing into almonds. The tea was ready and Scarlett poured.
"So," Damsel began, "you've decided to take on a more American look?"
"It's a chickenhawk, Dames, not a Mohawk."
"Ah, well, there must be a tribe out there somewhere."
"If paternity means anything," Scarlett mused, "I'm sure I've got a dash of it."
"What?"
"Chicken-hican… or well,"
"Doesn't roll off the tongue so well, does it?"
"Ken-hican?"
"Sounds like a bad attempt at Mattel being PC again."
"How about Chick-hican?"
"Another name for riot grrrlz?"
"Ah, Chi-chican,"
"If that look isn't chi-chi, I don't know what is."
"Show off."
After the cream and sugar Scarlett made certain to inquire about Damsel's surprise.
"I read the intro to a test and it gave me the inspiration to take leave of the room, instead of my senses."
Scarlett blinked a wide-eyed blink, "And?"
"I've decided that reaching junior year was goal enough for me."
Scarlett finally found her voice. "You know, I knew you complained a lot, but I thought… Well," she blushed slightly, "I thought it to be the way of things."
They both looked away into the courtyard accompanying the café. Little birds bobbed through the grounds picking up bugs and bits of croissant. Damsel had expected a congratulation, some form of happiness, and at least a smile. It seemed to her that Scarlett was disappointed. She was, but not in Damsel. She was disappointed in herself.
"Damn…" Scarlett said.
"Sel…" Damsel finished.
They laughed.
"I'm sorry, Dames," Scarlett said, looking back at her friend.
"Because I quit school?"
"No, because I let myself believe something vile and despicable."
"Scar," Damsel interjected, "it isn't vile so much as, well, the way of things. This will very much be looked on as rebellion. We're passed that. This is setting in motion one's own directive."
"It's a long way from junior high school," Scarlett pointed out.
"Exactly. So, you've got a nice- er, straitforward district and I got the Ellis Island one. It isn't really anyone's fault, but I'm not going to let myself fall short of my own pace just because I got a hand of deuces."
"Yeah, you're not about to stop and tell people, 'Um, excuse me, forget the immigrants and deal with lil' ol' me please, exclusively."
"That's right. I've got myself for that. They just don't see it as relevant."
"So what now?"
"Now," Damsel smiled, sitting back and folding her arms, "we wait. And while we wait why not collect a few things?"
"Still, I feel kinda stupid…"
"Why?"
"I cut class to get this do."
Damsel went from chuckle to guffaw in three seconds.