A Confession

Even though I know all the rules

I NEVER think that "its" looks okay.

Another Fake Post!

Otherwise known as another All Together With Feeling Excerpt!
--

Oliver calls around nine. “We’re going out, bitch.”

“Tonight?” I’ve been reading all night, and all the websites say Oliver needs time to grieve and process what happened, or whatever. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he’s breaking the rules. The advice all sounds the same as what he got when his mom died. He didn’t follow that, either.

“You want to drive?” I say.

“I would rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I was planning on drinking…”

“I will be drinking tonight.”

“All right, all right. I’ll drive.”

I ignore the drama downstairs—honestly, could it be less important?—and push through the crowd and out the door. I don’t tell them where I’m going, but only because they don’t ask. And only because I don’t know.

The drive to Oliver’s is through a lot of the windy roads with very few streetlamps, the ones that give you time to think. A lot of times this annoys me, and I blast the radio and sing at the top of my lungs to keep my mind from spinning around with stupid shit like boys and homework and my parents. Tonight I don’t mind the silence. I have a lot to think about and, as worried as I am about Oliver, I don’t feel like avoiding any of it, particularly, at the moment.

I park to ring his doorbell, like a good date or whatever, but he comes prancing through the front door before I get a chance to open it. He really pulled out all the stops tonight, and he looks fantastic—some polka dot party dress, with a sash around an empire waist. I think he cut more of his hair off. It looks shorter and spikier than usual. He didn’t wear the falsies, so his whole body is smooth and flat underneath the dress. When he’s in girl’s clothes, I can really tell how thin he is, and it worries me.

“Ready?” he climbs into the passenger seat. His eyes are really done up tonight—smokey silver. I can’t seen any of the bruises on his face, and I wonder how many layers of cover-up he had to put on.

“Where are we going?”

“There is a gay pride festival at the park. I thought we might attend.”

I groan a bit. “I love how you’re always so sensitive to my needs when you plan our excursions.”

“Oh Etta. I’m sure you won’t be the only fag hag present.”

“Yeah, sure, except I’m looking for a boy. What do you call them?”

“Fag hogs?”

“Hogs are girls, Oliver.”

“I suppose those are the fat fag hags, then,”

I give him a look.

“Stop it,” he says. “You are not fat.”

“But some girls are, and I don’t appreciate your making digs at them when they’re not here. I don’t make fun of ugly gay people—”

“Bleh.”

“—homosexuals in front of you.”

“Yes, because that would be insensitive to the ugly homosexual present.”

I frown at him. “Never say that.”

He laughs and looks out the window. “All right, all right.”

He has a bottle of his premium vodka with him, and he sips while he goes through my CDs. “Little Shop of Horrors?” He makes a face.

“It’s a Broadway musical, Oliver.”

“Yes, so was Legally Blonde.” He rolls his eyes. “Little Shop of Horrors is…”

“Is what? I like it.”

“It’s no Heathers.”

“You’re no Heathers.”

“Fair enough, fair enough, though honestly I am not sure how accurate that statement is.” He examines his fingernails—repolished, I notice. “Little Shop is not dark. Little Shop is barely dusky. And it is a metaphor so broad that I find it has very little meaning. It is the most useless warning I have encountered in my large history of musical theater. And yes, upon thinking about it, I would like confirm that I do, indeed, believe that I could be Heathers.”

“It’s not a musical.”

“Yes, you have me there.”

“So put in something you like,” I say. “Whatever.” I don’t want to pick a fight with him tonight, and I’ve gotten too close already. Even though I know we’re just bantering, it’s making me nervous. I don’t want him to make him cry.

Until he puts in Wicked, and then I just want to put his head through my windshield.

I say, “God, Oliver, really?”

“What’s wrong with Wicked?”

“Nothing, except—all right, you want to talk metaphors?”

“Wicked is a metaphorical masterpiece, Etta.”

“Yeah, and Jesus Christ, it knows it. It’s so busy caressing its metaphors that it loses all hope of actual, you know, plot. Or—God forbid—character development.”

He rolls his eyes. “We are allowed to like different things, Etta.”

This burns like a slap in the face.

Skateboard

CLICK to see the full thing.



(A Softer World, the best webcomic in the world. www.asofterworld.com)

The first feeling is exhilaration.

My arms hit the ground. The sound is like a mallet against a crab.
Pure fucking exhilaration.

Beside me, my skateboard is a stranded turtle on its back. The wheels shriek with each spin.

And then--oh. Oh, the pain.

The second feeling is pain.

Naomi’s camera beeps and she makes a triumphant noise in her throat. “You totally got it that time,” she says. “Tell me you got it.”

I hold my breath for a moment until I can say, “We got it.”

--BREAK, page 1


Real post coming soon.

And the winner is....

The committee (uh, me) has voted and the winner is definitely Miss Sarah and her most fantastic kayaking story. I was laughing all over my keyboard.

Sarah, please give me your character name for this chapter of ALL TOGETHER WITH FEELING as soon as you're ready, because I think right now I have her named Tabitha or something. And she is not a cat.

And she could be a boy, too, so no worries there.

OKAY. Thanks so much everyone who participated! Reading your stories was even more fun than I expected, so I think there will definitely be another contest in the near future...maybe a 2-weeks-until-BREAK contest? Maybe a get-in-the-acknowledgments contest?? Hmmm.

All I know is I need to start blogging more often. I judge other bloggers who only post once a week. Juuudge.

Tonight (or like, three days from now, knowing me) I'm going to post a supah-secret deleted scene (okay paragraph) from Break. It was one of my favorite favorite little bits of the book, but it got cut...so we'll look at that and maybe talk about why our writing that we love is, a lot of the time, not our best writing.

Look at me, having an agenda and shit. Damn, am I growing up???

1 Month CONTEST!

In a few hours, it will officially be 1 month until BREAK.

I can't believe this is happening.

In honor of this momentous occasion, I want to hear any funny injury stories you have. Bonus if it involves a broken bone, but it's fine if not--I've never broken any bones myself, so I'm sympathetic if you don't have a story to share...

Give me your stories, I'll choose my favorite and the winner gets to name a character in the next chapter of ATWF. Male or female, doesn't matter. I need some names!

Another Excerpt

Samir didn’t schedule a meeting with me, but he invites me to hang around while he meets with everyone else. I’m organizing his office, he explains to each person who enters. A special favor. I’m going through some old music.

I’m trying to help him decide what to teach the chorus next semester, actually. He’s worked here for six years—since he graduated—and he still can’t make a single decision independently. I wonder who chose music for him before I came around. I assume there was another girl.

He finishes conferencing with a freshman and steps out of the theater and back into his office. He sits on the couch—an old prop, everything in here is an old prop—and pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. He rubs his forehead and the wrinkles he’s starting to get. “Well?”

“Vivaldi for the classical. It sounds beautiful if we can get any kind of wind instrument for accompaniment.”

“We’ll have to hire someone,” he says. “All we have is that sophomore who butchers the tuba.” He pulls at his knuckles. “The sopranos go high in Vivaldi. Can any of the girls really handle it, do you think?”

“There has to be someone.”

“Carly, maybe. Tyla probably could. I don’t know. I’m rapidly losing faith in the sopranos.”

I leaf through the music I’ve examined, rejected, examined again. “We still need a medley.”

“Everyone hated Bye Bye Birdie last year.”

“Bye Bye Birdie is trash. I was thinking The Sound of Music, maybe? Edlewiess…”

He winces. “You’ll make me a laughingstock.”

“I like Sound of Music.”

“Everyone likes Sound of Music, Bianca, but no one but you would ever admit it.” He looks at me strangely then looks down at his lap. He’s smiling in that funny way that wrinkles the skin between his eyes. He isn’t even thirty, and parts of him look so old.

“I don’t see the problem with Sound of Music.”

“It’s an influenza musical.”

“What?”

“The thing you watch on a sick day.”

“Fine.” I flip to the next piece of music. “The Fiddler on the Roof?”

He sighs.

“You can’t hate Fiddler on the Roof.”

“I don’t hate it…” He gestures. “It’s just so slow. The story speeds it up, I’ll grant you that, but can you imagine singing Sunrise Sunset, then Far From the Home I Love, then Anatevka…really, they’re all the same song with different words, they all elicit the same emotional response, they’re all tugging at the same heartstrings with the same harmonies and chord progressions.”

“Rent?”

“Oh, God, Rent.”

I cross my arms. “Come on, shut up. Everyone loves Rent.”

“Rent is very…”

“Overwrought?” I’ll admit this, even though it hurts my singer’s soul.

“White.”

“White?”

“Yes.” He waves his hand towards me. “Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything wrong with—”

“Rent is not white. Collins and Angel and Mimi, Joanne, that guy who sings Christmas Bells—”

“That’s exactly what makes it so white. The racial diversity in the cast is one of the most blatant examples of white construction I’ve seen in ten years in the United States. It’s practically one of those advertisements for a hospital.”

“What?”

“Oh, you know. One black boy, one white boy. Maybe even an Indian boy. A girl with glasses and a wheelchair. An East Asian. It’s white guilt amplified.”

“You should talk.”

“Hmm?”

I mumble under my breath.

He says, “I’m sorry?”

I breathe out through my teeth. “You are a white construction, Mr. Malik. The Arabic man unsatisfied with the artificial rule of the U.S. You are possibly the most blatant white construction I’ve seen in eighteen years in the United States.”

He smiles again.

I don’t know what possessed me to say that. I do that sometimes—snap at him with something completely inappropriate. Ever since sophomore year, when he gave the alto solo to a girl with half my voice, I suppose I’ve made a point to make sure I will not be overlooked.

He stands up. “I suppose you’ll be trying for those Maureen solos, then, hmm?”

“We’re doing Rent?”

“I daresay you made a valid point. Plus, I love the beautiful irony of a Muslim choral director teaching a show that flaunts every race but the Middle Eastern. Have I mentioned I love irony? It really is beautiful.”

Avoiding...

I've been avoiding blogging because I've been a terrible person and have barely written lately. I might switch projects again. Oh my. Luckily, this isn't a new idea, but an old one I've been sitting on for awhile, so it feels like less of a gamble.

Also luckily, I have no idea how to start the new book, so it will have to wait until I think of an opening scene.

I definitely never start anything until I know how it begins, but I know some people go back and write the beginning later. To be honest, that doesn't make a bit of sense to me. Can anyone explain? How do you know how to continue if you never started?

(Less than two months until BREAK!)

(also, a did a new interview which recently went up. Check it out! http://thehighschoolinterviewer.blogspot.com/)