Write what you know. Write what you know. How many students, I wonder, have ingested those four fateful words--have sat, have paused, in front of a blurring computer screen, and thought, What do I know? Write what you know runs circles through their heads, until theyıre not sure of what they know, until theyıre not sure even of what they write.
If I knew, if I were to write, Iıd tell about a late night--a school-night--with familiar shadows on the wall from dimmed bulbs. Yes, with a blurring computer screen, a humming heater, warm socks, and grating yells from the other room. A six-year-old boy watching, crying--uncertain, over-full eyes not fully comprehending, scared. I couldnıt take it, so Iıd take this boy into my room, tuck him into my bed, sweep his cheeks with tissues, attempt to smooth away uncertainties. Like tapering rain, like rain tapering to a soft hiss, tears would turn into sniffles, and perhaps a (half-imagined?) smile. Yes, Iıd hold the boy. Turn on the TV--thank God, cartoons.
But then--I think--like a stumbling drunk whoıs had too much to drink, a yell would barge into the room. A six-foot-six yell with dark (proudly ungrayed) hair and irate eyes. "You took it, didnıt you? You hid it in here! Where is it? Where is it? Where the FUCK is my laptop?" A yell that pushed past me, a big hand on my chest--a noncommittal, half-sarcastic apology for this violation of personal space--a firm shove, sorry, and into the room. Clothes flying; drawers opened; bathroom door slamming; no computer. Boy crying.
Sweep his cheeks, tuck him in, smooth the face, feign a smile. For a little while, make it okay: a blanket, a hand, some cartoons.
Write what you know.
Richard Grey put down the paper, removed the spectacles from the bridge of his thin nose, and inhaled a sharp breath.
Richardıs hand groped for the warm orange-and-white fur of the cat curled next to him on the couch, and his fingers quickly buried themselves in the feline warmth. Each finger moving nervously, quickly--working, massaging through the fur and skin. The cat began purring loudly, and Richard let slip a slight sigh. The assignment for this particular essay had been entirely open-ended: four words, "write what you know." Perhaps he had been a bit liberal in the assignment; looking over this one, however, he realized it had been for the best. Dear God, what had this child been through? Who was around to help him? Was he seeing a therapist? So much to deal with, so young Fragmented thoughts fired through Richardıs mind; he shook his head in a half-hearted attempt to clear them, picked up the red grading pen, and repositioned the green spectacles onto his nose. Felicity, the cat, leapt off the couch distastefully at the sudden termination of her massage. Richard glanced up after her before touching the red pen to the page.
Ben--nice use of internal rhyme; it lends a distinct poetic tone to your narrative. I also appreciate your consonance and assonance along with your extensive vocabulary. Overall, a powerful and surprisingly mature work of writing excellently articulated, beautifully wrought. You earned your A.
His hand--which was noticeably shaking--paused for a moment after circling the grade.
Why donıt we talk sometime.
He tossed Benıs essay onto the top of the "completed" pile, quickly, as though it burned his hand. Letting out a slight sigh, he grabbed the next essay to grade, and shortly became absorbed in the furious correction of split infinitives, comma splices, and subject-verb agreement problems. He left essays red-spangled in his wake: essays on annoying parents, essays on pet dogs, essays on best friends, essays on sports, essays on teachers assigning difficult essays (Hmm, I wonder what teacher that would be? Richard thought) essays horribly punctuated, essays well punctuated but with blatant misspellings, essays that were, simply put, grammatical disasters as he ploughed through the pile of sixty-some-odd high school papers, he seemed to see everything and anything possible, and still one essay stood out in his mind. Ben. I wonder what it took for the boy to write that. Did it hurt, I wonder? Richard closed his eyes. Of course it hurt, you old idiot, he thought to himself. Remembering things like that always hurts.
The next day was Monday; throughout his three sections of Senior English--early morning, just before lunch, and just after lunch--Richard handed back the essays. As usual, the students flipped directly to the back, skipping over the carefully-noted grammatical errors and red-scrawled marginalia, skimming the final comments until their eyes rested at last on the letter grade. From there, some shoulders slumped resignedly; some lips curved into a proud smile; some scowled darkly at a perceived wrong; others looked happily shocked. Richardıs eyes, however, spent the most time studying a certain individual in his just-before-lunch class: Ben, he noted, lingered slightly over the commentary at the end, but showed no outward sign of emotion--no smug satisfaction, no surprised smile. Indeed, Ben displayed none of the reactions that usually accompanies an A grade on a paper. Entirely unaffected, he simply shoved the essay into his backpack and walked out, shoulders straight, eyes forward.
The next day, however, as the before-lunch class filed out of Richardıs room, Ben lingered--but not in an obvious way. He put his notebook into his backpack with special care: slowly, slowly, sliding the smooth notebook into the middle compartment of his blue bookbag. He appeared to contemplate each move before he made it: pencils in zippered pencil case, pen in zippered pencil case, eraser in zippered pencil case, zippered pencil case in backpack, backpack carefully zipped shut. Then, nothing left to do, he turned towards Richard, scrutinizing him with squinted eyes. They stared at one another--close proximity; Ben usually sat in the front row--the vein in Benıs temple pulsed green; his hands fluttered in his pocket, jangling keys. The silence seemed to slide down both their throats, settling uncomfortably, solidly, in their stomachs. Mr. Grey was the first to take on the silence. "So, how are things at home?" he asked, nervously adjusting his spectacles. Benıs eyes looked as though they were caught in a headlight. He blinked, turned away, and shook his head. "That bad, huh?" Ben glanced darkly in his direction.
"Fine. Theyıre fine. Iım fine," Ben said.
"Look, Ben, any time you need to talk, there are school counselors available. And I" his voice trailed off as Ben swept up his backpack and walked quickly out the door.
Ben didnıt come to English class the following day. Concerned, Richard called the office; the secretary told him that yes, Ben was in school--and, upon checking the nurseıs records, she determined that he was in the nurseıs office with a headache. Disappointing, Richard thought; Iıd have thought a boy that bright would come up with something more original than a headache. Nonetheless, the teacherıs eyebrows drew together, concerned, and he stroked his graying beard with nervously dancing fingers. Then, he perched his spectacles on his nose, rapidly finished taking roll, and began class as planned. "Ah, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo! Deny thy father and refuse thy name" he boomed out, accentuating the first syllable of each word, spitting out tiny droplets of saliva as though to reinforce his point. He even managed to startle the drowsy girl in the far back corner, who awoke briefly to draw the hood of her baggy blue sweatshirt tighter around her face. Once Richard began discussing the pertinent points of meter and context in the play--and most of the students began busily taking notes--the girl allowed her head to slip back down onto her chest, hood conveniently shading her eyes. Another day, another lecture, another nap.
And so another, and another; every day, Cecilia--the girl with the blue hooded sweatshirt--took her place in the back of the room, and dreamt of who knows what--certainly not Shakespeare, as far as he could tell. Based on her last essay, if Richard could even remember the exact topic, her dreams would be something about clothes or boys or friends that would do anything for you and wore a fractured "BEST" heart pendant that matched your "FRIEND" one to prove it. Every day, Richard bit his tongue against the sarcastic (and more than slightly disdainful) comment that rose in his
throat--he was a teacher, after all--and let the girl sleep.
Ben did come to class, though, after his headache had apparently recovered. He sat next to Cecilia, and covered himself in similar fashion. He attempted to pull the hood of his sweatshirt down, in a half-conscious imitation of the girl and the other (strikingly similar) back-row wallflowers: however, the hood of his sweatshirt was not quite large enough to cover his eyes. It tended to slip backwards, down his spiky brown hair, uncovering eyes that looked up to Mr. Grey, and back to his own notebook, up again, and then down at hands and fingers moving a pencil brusquely across the page. Next to him, Ceciliaıs notebook lay unopened, her face--as usual--pressed to her chest, a slight droplet of foamy spittle brimming on her half-opened lips. Occasionally, it seemed, Richard would glance at the back corner of the room--and when he did, his lips would purse, as though trying to decide whether or not to let slip an amused half-smile.
Two weeks passed like this: Ben, in the back, next to the sleeping girl and the other nearly-matching wallflowers, leaving quickly the moment that class was dismissed. Presently, another essay was due: this time a specific one, relating Romeo and Juliet to modernity. Benıs essay was brilliantly expounded, his thesis original, his supporting evidence well documented and carefully pieced together. Another A-grade paper; another tentatively red-written note:
Ben, there is not much to complain about with this essay. It is very well-written and strongly supported. Another A.
Like before, Richardıs hand paused after circling the grade; he automatically groped for Felicityıs soft fur, but she wasnıt curled up beside him this time. When Richard resumed writing, it was with a peculiar speed and sloppiness: the letters carelessly looped, the tıs recklessly slashed, the iıs capped with something between a dot and a dash.
Again, Ben, Iıd like to remind you that there are always people around myself included if you ever need to talk.
On the following Monday, Richard had no time to study Ben; as soon as he handed back the graded essays, the boy was gone. As far as Richard could tell, Ben didnıt give the essay so much as a glance. On Tuesday, Ben was the last to leave class, but only barely--he didnıt linger as Mr. Grey had hoped he would. He did, however, appear to study the peculiar look Mr. Greyıs face--the furrowed eyebrows and slightly wrinkled nose that seemed addressed to him--he scanned the teacherıs face, took this in quickly, and then left. Next class, Ben took his place in the back as he had been accustomed to doing lately, but this time he mirrored Cecilia and the others almost perfectly. He pulled his sweatshirt hood over his face with a firm motion; chin to chest, eyes
downcast--or closed--Richard couldnıt quite tell which.
And then, Thursday, the before-lunch section of Richardıs Senior English, Ben wasnıt there. Richard nervously ran his fingers through his hair. His hands almost fumbled for Felicity--it would be nice, he thought, to have that carelessly independent feline warmth right now--but he caught himself, and realized that he was at school and not at home. Richardıs nervous hands--fingers moving quickly--picked up the phone receiver and dialed one: a call to the office. He again spoke with the secretary: Yes, Mr. Grey, Ben was on the Absent list. What was his excuse? Let me look Ah, there it is, he came down with the flu. His mother called it in, said he might be out for a while. Not to worry, Mr. Grey, itıs an excused absence. Why are you so concerned about this? His mother called it in. The flu.
Richard put the receiver down, hanging up with a soft click. His mother? Richard thought. I wonder how she manages God, that one essay isnıt enough to go on, really. A father wanting something, moving his son out of the way to get it--if taken objectively, the evidence just doesnıt appear to be enough. Okay, Richard thought, Regardless, I have to begin class. But Richardıs hands would not remain still.
And so on that Thursday, the seat next to Cecilia was empty. On Friday, someone else slid into the pencil-graffitied cheap-wood chair, and spent the majority of class time carving a girlıs name into the desktop, pausing only briefly when Richard threw a severe glance his way, then beginning again as soon as Richard returned his focus to lecturing.
It was Friday night when Richard heard a knock on the door of his cozy little townhouse, on his quiet street with the neatly-trimmed lawns. Carrying Felicity tightly in his arms, he rose from his sagging couch and walked slowly to the door. He never had gotten around to having a peephole installed, and so his breath caught slightly in his throat when he opened the door and found Ben standing on his porch. The boyıs lip appeared slightly swollen, faintly purpled; sweat enameled his forehead, and his eyelids closed painfully, the dark lashes meshing into a firm, deliberate line. "Ben?" The eyelids fluttered weakly open; Ben groaned noncommittally. Felicity, meanwhile, made a strange, strangled noise and leapt from Richardıs arms, leaving an angry red scratch down his right forearm. Although he winced slightly, Richardıs eyes never left Benıs face.
"Iıll be fine," Ben said, his voice raspy.
Barely hesitating, Richard reached out his hand and cupped Benıs cheek; his fingertips smoothed away the dewy beads of sweat. He couldnıt think of anything to say, but suddenly, spontaneously, he lurched forward and surrounded Ben with a warm, firm hug.
"Iıll be fine," Ben croaked again, but he hugged Richard weakly. They embraced for a few moments, then broke away. Richard looked slightly discomfited, as though temporarily misplaced, and he quickly ushered Ben into the living room. "Here, sit on the couch, Iıll get you some--hot cocoa--yes, hot cocoa, nice, hot, nice, cocoa--that will do. Is that good?" Without waiting for a response, he swept into the kitchen, reemerging several minutes later with a cup of steaming cocoa and a blanket. He quickly settled Ben onto the couch, pressing the cocoa into his hand. Finally, he found a blanket and handed it to Ben, as he shivered slightly in the cold of the unheated room. "Sorry for the cold. Iım trying to save money, not using the heater--a blanket should help," he murmured. Richard barely glanced at Ben until he took a seat beside him on the far corner of the worn couch; then, he slowly turned and looked at the boy. Ben was clutching his hot cocoa, his bony shoulders hunched around the heat, curved inward, tense.
Richard closed his eyes; his head drooped just slightly, and the muscles in his cheeks tightened, then slowly relaxed. When he took a breath and opened his eyes again, he set his shoulders, jaw fixed slightly forward, his eyebrows just barely furrowed. He carefully placed his hand on Benıs knee and gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze; Ben clapped his own hand down on Richardıs, strong, forcefully, though he looked like he was about to cry. Sitting next to Ben on the couch, Richardıs free hand moved to an object he typically despised: the remote control. His TV was ancient, barely functioning, and Richard had thought many times about disposing of it altogether (he never watched it, it functioned merely as a collector of dust)--but, for once, he was glad he had kept the old thing around. He punched at a button on the remote control: the screen leapt to life, flashing initially bright with a slight hum, and then dimming to a normal picture. Slowly, methodically, Richard began flipping through the channels, and Benıs eyes followed each change in picture. The two men sat, side by side, gazing in contemplation at the TV screen, flipping, watching, thinking. Saying nothing.
At some point--it was rather difficult to tell how the time passed in that small, silent room, with only the TV softly murmuring--Richard glanced over at Ben. Unbidden, lines Richard had read months ago lept to mind: How, precisely, did it go? Wrinkles channeled down his forehead as he thought, and his eyelid spasmed noticeably when the words came back to him in totality:
Sweep his cheeks, tuck him in, smooth the face, feign a smile. For a little while, make it okay: a blanket, a hand, some cartoons.