• robinstratton23

33. In Love With Spring: My Novel Online

Updated: Feb 17


TIM CAME BY on Christmas day, celebrated a little bit with the Aprils, then took Mandy out. They drove to his apartment because Stan was visiting his parents for the day, and as soon as they got inside, he handed her a little box.


Heart pounding, she opened it up, and there was the ring; larger than she expected, a crown nestled between velvet cushions. She let out a gasp.


“Is that yes? You already said yes over the summer, you can’t take it back.”


“It’s yes! Yes! But I thought you said you wanted to wait until you had more money?”


“Who knows when that’ll be? I’m broke, I’m probably always going to be broke.” He took the ring out of the box and eased it onto her finger. “I don’t want to wait.”


He kissed her, then led her into his room. She followed, but her thoughts were a million miles away. Mom and Allie would be so excited! Lisbeth would be happy, but there’d be that sadness, too. And Jules…Jules wouldn’t like it. She’ll say I’m too young to get married, Mandy thought, returning Tim’s kisses and caresses and hoping he didn’t notice she wasn’t paying attention. Oh well, she’ll just have to be okay with it.


Jules forced a smile, hugged her oldest sister, and said congratulations. But it was as if the sun had gone out of her eyes, and for the rest of Christmas break she was quiet. Driving her back to school for the spring semester, Simon chatted away, doing his best to avoid the topic, then, when he got tired of her polite smile, he launched in. “We haven’t had a chance to talk about Mandy and Tim.”


She shrugged.


“I was proud of you. You didn’t freak out.”


“I wanted to,” she admitted. “Mandy is only 21! No one gets married at 21 anymore. She needs to play the field. Tim is her first and only boyfriend. How can it possibly last? It’s not natural, to only be with one guy. Won’t she always wonder? I know I would.”


“I think it’s great that she found the one so fast.”


“She’s going to be so different now.”


“No she isn’t. She’ll be the same.”


“She’ll be completely different, you’ll see.”


“She’ll be happy.”


“I know.”


“You should see Tim—he called me last night. He’s on cloud nine.”


“I know, I know,” Jules snapped. “I’m just tickled pink for everyone.”


“Why are you acting like this?”


“I’m just…” Jealous. “I don’t know.”


“This is about that guy you’re seeing. Michael.”


“This has nothing to do with him.”


“Why do you stay with him if he doesn’t make you happy?”


“Who says he doesn’t make me happy?”


“Does he?”


She couldn’t say Yes and she didn’t want to say No. “Just drop it.”


“I hate this for you, Jules. I don’t understand why—”


“Just drop it. Goddammit, Simon. Mind your own business, why don’t you.”


She saw the surprise on his face; the hurt, then the anger as he gripped the wheel, eyes forward.


“Fine,” he said. “Sorry for caring about you.”


Jules scowled. She wanted to be resentful and sullen―How many times have I told him to shut up about Michael?―but shame made her stomach burn. Simon had every right to be mad. All he’s ever done is make me laugh and cheer me up when I’m down. I could ask him to go beat up Michael and he would; right now, he would drive to Michael’s dorm room and beat the crap out of him. She looked at him, hoping he’d look back and read in her eyes what was in her heart, but he was staring at the road ahead. She put her hand on his arm, and when he glanced over, she said, “I’m so sorry, Simon. Please please forgive me.” When he didn’t reply, she pulled her hand away and took a deep breath. “I just realized why I’m being such a bitch.”


“Yeah? Why.”


“Because it depresses me to see other people happy.”


“It does?”


“Yeah. That’s how much I suck as a human.”


Finally he looked at her, sympathetic now. “I don’t think that’s it, Jules. I think you can be happy for people. I think it’s…” he hesitated.


She waited, then said, “Go on.”


“I think you’re bummed out about Michael, and when you see people in love, it makes you realize that he’ll never…I mean, you…I just hate the way he treats you. And makes you feel about yourself.”


She sat back and stared glumly out the window. “I know.” Same conversation over and over; with him, with her sisters, with herself.


For the spring semester, Allie had two classes with Mr. Guillen—Ceramics II and Art Appreciation. He had told her she was too advanced to do the regular class work, and suggested she begin work on her own project. So she spent her time in class working on a full-size bust of a woman while the other students, less serious, occupied themselves with vases and small figures. Art Appreciation was one of those courses kids take to get “an easy A,” which Mr. Guillen knew, and with regards to which he had two options: surprise them by making them memorize styles and dates, or sponsor lots of trips to museums and grade kids based on how often they showed up. He always opted for the museum trips.


One afternoon, Mr. Wilkins, who taught Music Appreciation and had the same options, expressed his disapproval at an informal meeting in the teachers’ lounge. “Your kids aren’t learning anything by going to a museum. They just want to get out of school.”


“I know.”


“But they’re not learning anything.”


“You think you’re getting through to your kids by making them memorize all those dates and genres? I don’t know about you, but when I was in school and had to memorize something, I forgot it as soon as the test was over.”


Mr. Owen, the head of the math department, scowled. “Guillen, how many As did you give out last semester?”


“I don’t know.”


“I hardly ever give out As. An A implies perfection, and I’ve known very few perfect kids.”


“I’ve known very few perfect teachers,” Mr. Guillen’s smile was mild; he was a shy man, uneasy under everyone’s scrutiny. “Besides, we’re not here to judge if the kids are perfect or not. We’re supposed to make learning fun. If they learn something, great. If they don’t, we either didn’t do a good job of getting them interested, or they just really don’t care. Punishing them with a bad grade isn’t the answer.”


“Do you ever fail anyone?” asked Miss Symonds.


“Yes.”


“On what basis?”


“If they don’t show up, or don’t participate at all.” He shifted his position, his glance shooting up to the clock—only a few more minutes before class. “I know kids are there to take a break from lessons and tests. But that’s what they do in gym, too. And in gym class you don’t pass the kids who are good and fail the ones who aren’t. If they show up, they pass. I wish art could just be pass or fail, too. I hate assigning grades to creativity.” To his relief, the bell rang. He stood, dropped his empty coffee cup in the wastebasket of the teachers’ lounge, and hurried out, knowing they were going to talk about him as soon as he was gone.


“It’s so yukky, the way they treat you,” Allie said after he told her about the conversation. The Art Club officially met once a week under his supervision, but she was the only one who ever showed up with any regularity. Frequently it was just the two of them.


“I’m pretty used to it. Happened at my last school too. I tried to get them to abolish grades altogether, but the school board wouldn’t even listen. What are you going to work on today?”


“Her hair.” Allie rolled a ball of clay, shaped it into an oval, and scored the surface and wet it with slurry before laying it on the bust, which she’d also scored and slurried. Slowly and carefully, she began to create the look of hair—not just with thin lines to look like separate strands, but bangs, curls galore, and a band of flowers. “All the teachers here stink except you.”


“Nah, they’re okay. Wow, nice pre-Raphaelite vibe you got going.”


“Thanks.”


He got himself some clay too, and within a few minutes he’d made a creature with long ears and a curly tail. With a tool, he detailed the scales and claws.


Allie stopped working to watch. It was always the same scenario: he’d create some amazing, like something in a movie, he’d make it talk to her, then he’d crumple it back into a ball.


This time it was a young man presumably from the same era as her piece. He had a sensitive face, full lips, and was dressed in a tunic and sandals. Mr. Guillen held him up. “Hello! Hello, Allie!”


As always, she giggled.


“Hey, Allie, can I call you Allie?”


“Yes.”


“Hey, Allie Cat. Can I call you Allie Cat?”


“You can call me whatever you want.”


“Hey, Allie Cat, how about your art teacher, huh? Isn’t he the coolest?”


“He’s a weirdo.”


“Whadya mean weirdo? Doncha mean he’s the coolest?”


“Yeah, that’s what I mean.” Her gaze traveled from the figure to Mr. Guillen’s face. “He’s the coolest.”


Mr. Guillen seemed startled by the suddenly-intimate tone of her voice and occupied himself with detailing folds in the figure’s tunic.


“Don’t you dare crush that,” Allie said. “Why don’t you glaze him and bake him?”


Mr. Guillen shrugged; kept working and didn’t meet her eyes.


“Just this once finish something. Glaze him. He’s beautiful.”


“He’s not good enough.” Mr. Guillen held him up again. “Goodbye, Allie Cat! It was nice knowing you!”


“No!” She stood and grabbed his arm and tried to rescue the figure; at the same time, Mr. Guillen laughed and held it out of reach. As they wrestled for possession, her breasts were just a couple of inches away from his face. She felt weak. If only he would bury his face in her sweater; she would wrap her arms around him and…suddenly the figure slipped from his grasp and suffered a tragic smash landing on the floor.


Mr. Guillen pulled away, pushed his seat back, and stood. Looking down at the ill-fated Pre-Raphaelite young man, he said, “Ha, and they say nothing exciting ever happens in the Art Club.”


Allie was shaking all over, and deep down felt a hot, urgent longing. “I should get going,” she managed to say.


“Okay.”


She could feel his eyes on her as she gathered up her books and ran out; heard him call, “Bye, Allie.” She’d forgotten to cover her bust with wet paper towels. Hopefully he’d do it. That way it wouldn’t dry out.


Jules’ friends had taken possession of the biggest table in the library, and it was covered with books. She hoisted her bag off her shoulder onto the floor and took a seat next to Nathaniel.


“Please tell me you’ve changed your mind,” Charles greeted her.


“No.”


“About what?” asked Nathaniel.


“Charles doesn’t want me to do my final paper on Hesse. He hates Hesse,” Jules said.


“Hate Hesse,” Charles confirmed.


“Oh yeah, and like James Joyce is the greatest.” Jules pulled out her notebook. “I intend to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Hermann Hesse was one of the greatest writer of all time.”


“Please!” Charles covered his ears. “I can’t listen.”


“Put a lid on it, you two.” Dawn didn’t even bother to look up from her book.


“And you.” Charles turned to her. “How can anyone write a paper about mathematics?”


That got her attention. “Are you kidding? You guys don’t have any idea at all, do you!” She laughed and shook her head. “The field is more fascinating than ever. With more and more fun concepts…”


“Like what?”


“Like more than infinity and closer than touching.


“That’s fun?”


“If you’re not a moron and can stretch your mind beyond the obvious, yeah.” She went back to her book.


Charles laughed; didn’t object to being called a moron by her. “Jules,” he said, “tell me…apart from subjecting the world to the most saccharin, idiotic prose in the whole history of literature, what did Hesse actually do?”


“Oh I think you would have liked him when he was young. He complained a lot then tried to kill himself. Your kind of guy.”


A student at the next table over, sent them a glare. Jules lowered her voice. “Nathaniel, how’s your paper coming?”


“The psychology of personality is absolutely brilliant. This is why…”


“Everyone should be required to major in psychology,” Jules, Charles, and Dawn said with him.


“Excuse me,” said a student at another nearby table, “but you could guys keep it down?”


“Sorry.” Jules lowered her voice again. “What’s so brilliant about it?”


“Just the history of it all. The different methods of understanding and predicting peoples’ behavior. Carl Jung coined the terms introvert and extrovert to describe how people act…an introvert uses a sort of inner guide, and an extravert depends on the world around him to…”


“Cool,” Jules interrupted, “Carl Jung was friends with Hesse.”


“I’m not surprised. A lot of writers admired Jung.”


“Why would Jung hang out with a whiney baby like Hesse?” Charles asked.


“He was only a whiney baby when he was young,” Jules answered. “As he got older, he found peace.”


“Wisdom,” Nathaniel said. “Jung, too. When he was young, he was such a genius that he was arrogant and full of himself. But once he transcended his ego, he was compassionate. He wasn’t contemptuous of everyone and everything the way we are.” Nathaniel looked at his three friends. “Passing judgement on people, man, that’s bullshit.”


Jules, watching his face, realized suddenly that there had been a big change in him since the semester began. Looking back, she couldn’t think of any instances of him joining in on their criticism of specific people and society in general. Like that time Charles had pointed out a girl in the cafeteria who was wearing tons of makeup…Nathaniel said that she was just the result of 18 years of a life experience about which they knew nothing. That had been his exact phrase, about which we know nothing. When he went back to his reading, she found herself admiring his strong chin, his clear skin, the soft hair on his arms. Wonder why he isn’t dating anyone?


Mandy surprised everyone with her decision to take night courses in business accounting.


“Won’t that be really boring?” Allie asked.


“Yes,” said Mandy. “But my bosses are paying, and they said when I’m done, I can take over all the finances of the business, and I’ll get a raise.”


“I think that’s a fabulous idea,” Mom enthused.


“Of course I’m only going to do it for a little while. As soon as Tim and I get married my plan is to start having kids.”


“I’ll be an auntie!” Allie said.


And Jules will be furious, Mandy thought. But oh well. Silly to worry about it now.


For the first time in her life, Allie was dreading the end of school. How was she going to last three months without seeing Mr. Guillen? More and more often she lingered at his desk after the bell rang, and on a few occasions, he’d had to write a note to Mr. Clayburn, Allie’s social studies teacher, explaining why she’d been late. She and Mr. Guillen had fun composing the notes: Allie helped clean up after an explosion in the kiln (no one was hurt) or Allie has been helping some of the other kids with their projects and didn’t have enough time to work on her own or Allie stayed after class organizing the jars of glaze. Mr. Clayburn was furious every time, even though Allie usually wasn’t more than ten minutes late.


When she finished her bust, Mr. Guillen suggested she enter it into the school’s art contest, and the kids selected by Mr. Guillen for the jury awarded her First Prize. Then she began working on a dinosaur; an intense creation that required her to stay after school a couple of afternoons a week, in addition to the afternoon that the Art Club met. Mr. Guillen always had something he needed to do, and so it was that they wound up sitting together in the art room until 5:00 every day.


“How come your wife doesn’t mind you staying after school every day?” Allie asked casually one afternoon. Mr. Guillen would never suspect that she’d been working up the courage to ask for two weeks.


“Oh, I’m not married.”


Her heart fluttered with relief, but she wasn’t out of the woods yet. “Surely you must have a girlfriend.” When he didn’t answer right away, she pretended to be concentrating on her dinosaur. Mr. Guillen was making a dinosaur, too, to keep hers company, he said, but his had huge round eyes and an animated grin; the opposite of hers, which was based on pictures in the school library’s encyclopedia and 100% accurate in every detail.


“I guess so,” he said after a minute.


“You guess so?”


He shrugged. Allie thought it was a good sign—like maybe it wasn’t a serious relationship. So in the same calm voice she asked, “What’s her name?”


“Sandy.”


“What’s she like?”


“She’s about five five. Brown hair. Brown eyes…” his voice trailed off.


“She sounds really…exotic,” Allie joked.


“Did I mention her average build?” he asked, then amended with belated loyalty, "She’s a nice girl.”

“What does she do?”


“She’s a…secretary.”


Allie said, “Well the world needs secretaries, for sure. All that administrative stuff no one else wants to do.” Then, “I guess I just pictured you with someone more…artistic.”


"Yeah," he muttered. Reaching for more clay, he knocked over a cup of water, and when he grabbed some paper towels to clean up the spill, his arm bumped into his dinosaur, and it fell flat on its face. “Ow, that hurt, Allie!” he made it say, picking it up and showing her that one side was smashed.


“Oh, you poor thing!”


He gently took her dinosaur and made it say to his, “Hey, does your face hurt? It’s killing me!”


Allie laughed.


“Hey, Allie Cat, did you know that joke has been around since the Jurassic period?”


She laughed some more.


He set about trying to repair the damage, and she went back to work on her dinosaur, comparing its jawline to the picture. “So,” she said after a couple of minutes, “you don’t sound too excited about Sandy.”


“Uh, well…we’ve been together a long time. I guess the excitement has kind of…faded.”


“Oh.” Allie decided to add more clay to the jaw to make it more robust. “Do you still love her?”


“Uh…I mean…I haven’t really thought about…”


She added clay to her dinosaur’s brow. “That seems sort of sad.” When he didn’t answer, she pushed forward. “Maybe it’s time to find someone new.” She looked over and saw that his hands were shaking. I went too far. “I’m not sure what color to make him. I guess like grayish bluish. But that seems so cliché.”


“Um…what?”


“Grayish bluish, maybe some green…like in the picture.” She pointed at it.


“Right, yeah, I think we have something like that.” He stood so suddenly that his chair tipped over. When he tried to right it, the leg hooked on one of the legs of Allie’s chair and he couldn’t get it free. She stood too, and they separated the chairs. Then he hurried over to the closet.


It seemed like he was gone for a long time, so she said, “You okay?”


He came back with a jar of glaze. “I mixed a couple of colors to make it grayish bluish greenish.”


She opened the lid and looked inside. “Perfect,” she declared. “I knew I could count on you, Mr. Guillen.” He looked so awkward that she felt sorry for him. “What color are you making yours?”


“Blue.”


“A blue dinosaur?”


“With a red bowtie.”


She stopped working in order to watch his nimble, skillful fingers form a neat little bow around his dinosaur’s neck. With a tool he drew circles on the bow, which he told her would be yellow polka dots.


Allie looked at her sternly-accurate dinosaur. “I wonder if they could be friends, or if mine would think yours was weird.”


“Mine will be afraid of yours.”


“Mine would never hurt yours!” For a moment she considered softening the expression; make it smile. But right away she decided not to.


“Maybe,” he said, at last meeting her eyes, “maybe once they get to know each other they’ll really like each other. Even though they’re…really different.”


It was her turn to be uncomfortable, then her gaze traveled above his head to the clock on the wall. “Oh no, it’s after five already! I have to get going.”


“Oh. Okay.”


She got up and went to the sink to wet some paper towels and he went to put the glaze back. They met in the closet. He cleared off a spot on a shelf for her dinosaur, way up high. “Let me,” he said, taking it from her.


“Careful.”


“Got it.’ When he turned back to face her, she was standing closer than he expected, and her chin grazed his chest. “Oops, hi,” he said.


“Hi,” she said.


An eternity passed. They were so close, so dizzyingly close…he coughed to clear his throat. “Hey, um, so if you want, I could drive you home.”


185 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
© 2019 by Robin Stratton