#when my great great grandparents were born the first republic had just failed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jetrafied · 5 years

Note

#77 for the fluff asks? For Jetra?

Janealways thought she had a handle on love. It had been the focus of herlife for as long as she could remember, when her mother andgrandmother stuck her between them on the couch to watch telenovelas,when Jane herself could barely hold her own head up. The centraltheme of telenovelas was love, that meant-to-be aspect of it all;that one person who was meant for them. And it was all Jane wanted inher life. She was going to get married, have two or three kids, andlive a long, long life with that person.

Obviously,things change and life is not a telenovela (despite the fact her lifeoften felt like one). Michael was that person, that meant-to-beperson. Her romance with him seemed like everything she imagined aromance to be.

Except,Adam seemed to be that person before Michael. He was the love herlife and he seemed meant to be. Until he left and Jane didn’t see himuntil a decade later. And then during Michael, Jane fell in love withRafael when she accidentally got pregnant with his baby. Then Rafaelfelt meant-to-be, because of the baby and at the time Rafael seemedperfect. Jane knows better now.

Then shemarried Michael, he died, and Jane was forced to reevaluate when itmeant to have a true love. After some time it felt like she couldmove on and Rafael seemed like the best option. Now, wording it likethat seems like Jane was settling on Rafael. She wasn’t. She did carefor him and it made sense for them to be together, mainly because ofMateo, who so desperately wanted his parents to be together.

Oh, andthen Michael turned out to be actually alive, and Rafael had keptthis a secret for longer than he should have. Jane decided it wastime to officially move on.

She alsodecided to not focus on love anymore. At least for now. She had abook to write.

For a fewmonths it was going well, Jane didn’t really miss being in arelationship and her book was coming along nicely. It started withAlba and Mateo coming to America, Xiomara’s birth, Jane’s birth, andeverything that followed. Every crazy little detail. Jane had tochange very little. She had a handle on the things involving herfamily, but she wanted to get some more info for her secondarycharacters. Her favorite being a certain blonde whose life alonecould probably fill a book or two.

She gavethat blonde a call.

“Petra,hey, are you doing anything?”

Jane heardrustling of paper before Petra said, “no. Why?”

“I’mwriting and I want to talk about some things. I wanted to know if youwanted to come over.”

Petrapaused, then Jane heard another voice on Petra’s end, then she saidin a very controlled manner, “yes, I would like to come over.”

Petra wasso funny about the way she talked to Jane sometimes. When they werealone, Petra was very affectionate, but in front of people, Petra wasextremely awkward. It was sort of cute.

Janesmiled into the phone. “Great. Is six okay?”

Petraconfirmed it was fine. Jane couldn’t stop smiling for a few minutes.She made herself stop and get Mateo ready to go over to Rafael’s.Mateo had take a little while to accept his parents not beingtogether, in fact, he blamed Jane at first, thinking it was becauseof her. Luckily Rafael set him straight and let Mateo be angry withhim for a while. The six-year-old had mostly gotten over it.

“Are yousure you don’t want to come too, Mommy?” Mateo asked in hissweetest voice.

Jane gaveher son a gentle smile and crouched down to his level. “Mateo,honey, we talked about this.”

Mateosighed and nodded. “Okay.”

Janekissed him on the forehead. “I love you and your father loves you,okay?”

“Okay.”

Rafaelcame a few minutes later and rather than stare sullenly at him—whichhe had been doing for the past month—Mateo flew into his father’sarms. Rafael beamed. He gave Mateo a quick hug before patting him onthe back.

“Whydon’t you get in the car, Mateo. The twins are already in there.”

When Mateowas gone, Rafael gave Jane a look. Not a mean look, just a look.

“…What?”

“Petra’scoming over?”

“Yeah,how’d you know?” Jane asked.

“I wasin her office when you called.”

That’s whyPetra was being weird on the phone. “Yeah, I want to talk to herbefore I start putting her stuff in the book. Why are you looking atme like that?”

Rafaelshrugged. “It’s just, it’s the first time I’ve seen her reallysmile since she and JR broke up.”

Jane’slips started to curl up, but she forced them back down. “Oh?”

“She’sbeen really down, so it’s nice to see her so happy.”

Jane wasfailing miserably at not smiling and she didn’t know why it wasmaking her so happy. “That’s good to hear.”

“Anyway,I’m taking the kids miniature golfing. Have fun with Petra!” Hecalled out as he walked out the door.

Petra wasa difficult person to get to smile and it always felt like a specialhonor to get her to smile. Laughing was the next step, it was likeexpert level of friendship. But as for the smiling, Jane didn’t knowwhat she did to make Petra smile. All she did was ask her to comeover.

Eitherway, Petra showed up shortly after, a notebook in hand. Jane pointedat it and looked at her questioningly.

“Iwanted to be sure you didn’t leave anything out,” Petra explained.“So I made a list of the stuff that’s happened since I’ve knownyou.”

Jane put ahand to her chest. “A woman after my own heart. Making a list.”

Petra gaveher a funny look before crossing the room and sitting down on thecouch. “I was pretty excited when you told me about this book,Jane. Not just because I would be in it. Your family has a richhistory and I think it’ll be a good thing to write about.”

“It’salready starting to look long, because there’s so much to writeabout. I’m going way back, when my abuela was young.”

Jane satbeside Petra. Petra crossed her arms and leaned into the couch.“Well, if you need to cut my parts, that’s fine.”

“Please,Petra, you’re almost as important as my family. I mean, you are myfamily.”

Petralooked away from Jane for moment, then cleared her throat and lookedback. “You want to get started?”

Janepulled out her laptop and put it on top of her legs. “Okay, so I’mgoing to start with a brief history of you. Just so the readers get asense of who you are.”

“Youmean we’re not going to start just when you knew me?”

“Well,that’s what it will mostly be. But there might be some of yourhistory in there– oh, I see.”

Janeremembered that Petra was not born Petra Andel. She was bornNatalia… Something. Petra never told Jane her original last name,and Jane never asked. Petra had gone as far as to steal the identityof a dead girl, the original Petra Andel, so Jane figured Petradidn’t want that to get out.

“Okay, Iwon’t bring up your real name. Just that you were born in the CzechRepublic and raised by a single mother, never met your father, andcame to Florida in your early-20’s. Married Lachlan, then marriedRafael…”

When Janelooked over at Petra, she was sneering.

“What?”Jane asked.

“You’rereally going to dredge up all of that, aren’t you?”

“What?Who you married?”

Petragrunted. “I don’t like to be reminded of the stupid mistakes Imade.”

“Petra,I have some news for you,” Jane said, clapping a hand onto Petra’sknee. “If I’m going to write about you, the stupid mistakes youmade are going to be brought up.”

BeforePetra could start to protest—because she definitely was goingto—Jane added, “you know, some of those mistakes ended up beingreally good. I wouldn’t have Mateo if you hadn’t had that rash ideato inseminate yourself. Then you wouldn’t have the girls if youdidn’t try it again.”

Petrahalf-snorted, half-laughed, meaning Jane was right. Jane smiled ather. Then she realized her hand was still on Petra’s knee. Shepaused, for just a second, before pulling away.

“Anyway…let’s get started. So, we met when I accidentally got pregnant withRafael’s baby and at the time, I thought you and Raf were still inlove with each other, so I was going to give the baby to you.”

Petrasquinted. “I forgot about that… Remember when I showed you thenursery, and you cried?”

“Ididn’t cry.”

“Youcried, because you loved it, and I remember feeling…” Petra wentquiet. “Happy, because I wanted your approval.”

“Youknow, that’s funny…” Jane said, laughing lightly. “When I firstmet you, I felt like I wanted your approval. I needed it. You weregoing to be the mother of my baby.”

“Whenyou say it like that it sounds like…” Petra cleared her throat,then looked down at the laptop screen. “Anyway, so, we had a lot ofups and downs.”

“That’san understatement,” Jane said. “It was a lot of weird littlecircumstances that brought us closer.”

“Really,really weird. A lot of them self-imposed. By me.”

“Iwouldn’t change any of it. Well, most of it. There’s some things Iwish didn’t happen.”

Aftertalking for a couple minutes, Jane felt like she had something so shestarted writing. Petra watched quietly, looking over her shoulder.The only sound was the tapping of the keys, the ticking of the clockon the wall, and Petra breathing into Jane’s ear.

“Isthere any romance in this?” Petra asked after about fifteenminutes.

“Well,it was going to be Rafael, but, you know.”

Petraclicked her tongue. “Sorry.”

“No,it’s fine. Romance isn’t really the focus. I mean, it is, because Italk about my grandparents’ romance, then my parents’.”

“Andyour’s?”

Janestared at the computer screen and chuckled sardonically. “I guessthat part isn’t written yet.”

“Isn’tyour whole thing romance?”

Janelooked back at Petra. “It isn’t all romance.”

“Aren’tyou a self-professed romance author?”

She was,Petra was right, but she didn’t need Petra to nitpick right now. Ormaybe she did. “Regardless, I can focus on other things.”

“What’sthe endgame of this book?”

“Excuseme?” Jane asked this in a much sharper tone than she meant to,causing Petra to lean away from Jane and blink at her.

“Thatseemed like a reseasonable question. How does this book end?”

Janestrummed her fingers along the keyboard. It was a reasonablequestion, but she didn’t know and it annoyed her. It wasn’t the firsttime she didn’t know how to end a book, but there was something aboutthis that was bothering her. Her book about Michael was similar, butit was something she used to cope with a tragic loss. Well, what wasa loss at the time. But this was a generational story, about love andfamily. Romance was part of it, but not the only part.

“I don’tknow,” Jane answered honestly.

“Youcould’ve said that before.”

“Sorry.It’s just, I usually like the plan ahead but because this is so closeto my own life, I guess I was just waiting and seeing what happened.Plus, I haven’t been prioritizing romance that much lately, andthat’s been great, but…” Jane sighed. “I don’t know. I guess Ipushed it to the back of my mind.”

“Maybejust keep writing and let the writing happen on its own. You’re agood writer, I’m sure it’ll come to you eventually.”

Petralooked back at the screen and Jane found herself studying Petra’sprofile for a few seconds before looking back at the computer aswell. So, she kept writing. Petra offered suggestions here and there,but ultimately remained quiet. Sometimes Jane forgot Petra wassitting next to her as she found a flow.

A lot ofstuff that she and Petra went through together was being brought up,some good, some bad, and Jane realized they really had been gonethrough it together. It was amazing they were still friends, but theywere even closer than they had always been.

“We knoweach other really well,” Jane said after some time when she got toa certain book in her writing. “But I’m sorry I thought Anezka wasyou when she was paralyzed. I thought I knew you better than that.”

Petradidn’t say anything and when Jane turned to look at her, found thatPetra was looking at her very instensely.

“…What?”

“Youknew?”

“Knewwhat?”

Petrasighed. “Jane, only Rafael knows this, because I told him, but thatwas me. I was paralyzed.”

Theomission hung in the air. She knew that Anezka was bad, but shedidn’t realize she was that bad. Anezka, or Petra, rather, had beenparalyzed for several months. That was actually Petra, trapped inthat bed while Anezka pretended to be her.

“Oh,Petra.”

Petracontinued to stare at her, her eyes wide. “You knew. Not evenRafael knew. You figured it out.”

Jane wasstarting to feel uncomfortable from Petra’s hard gaze so she lookedback down at the computer. “I guess I do know you,” she saidawkwardly.

“Jane.”

Janeignored Petra and kept writing. Or tried to, but she knew Petra wasstill staring at her. She felt her eyes on her, boring into her.

“Jane,”Petra repeated, her voice raising in pitch.

“Do youbelieve in fate, Petra?” Jane asked, finally looking at Petra, butshe wished she hadn’t. Petra’s face was unusually soft. Then, shelooked taken aback by the question.

“Romance-wise?”

“Sure.”

Petrasighed. “I used to. I actually used to be a very romantic person.But after years of bad relationships, well, it’s hard to. And withJR, I was starting to believe in it again, but I fucked that up.”Petra smiled, but there was no joy in it. In fact, Jane could seetears start to spring up in the corners of her eyes.

“Petra…”

Janestarted to lean towards Petra, to offer some comfort, but Petraleaned away and pointed at Jane’s computer screen. “Can I see whatyou’ve written so far?”

Jane justnodded and turned the screen towards Petra. Rather than take it fromJane, Petra leaned in, very close, towards Jane, peering at thescreen. Petra stared at the computer very intently and Jane watchedher face, watched as Petra’s eyes moved back and forth, watched as aslight smile spread across her mouth. Jane also noted Petra waswearing perfume; Petra always did but Jane never really took notice,until right now. It was subtle, more of a slight powdery smell. Themore Jane came aware of how close Petra was, the warmer her facefelt.

“It’sreally good, Jane,” Petra finally said. “I think you’ve reallycaptured me. And us.”

“It’s avery complicated relationship.”

“That’san undertatement,” Petra said, smiling even more than before. Thenshe smiled dropped suddenly. “I’m sorry for all the stupid shitI’ve put you through, Jane. The baby stuff, Anezka, my mother, all ofit.”

“Petra,”Jane said slowly. “Yes, it was stupid shit, but I don’t know whereyou and I would be without that stupid shit. It brought us together,like–”

“Fate.”

Janeswallowed. Petra looked back down at the computer screen, lookinglike she regretted saying that. “Yes, maybe it is,” Jane said.

The pullto move even closer to Petra was suddenly stronger, like somethingwas so obvious to Jane now, despite not seeing it before. She knewPetra could see it too, but she had to say it, even if it messedeverything up. Their relationship already was strange, not like anyother relationships she’s had before—romantic or platonic. She hadto say it.

“I thinkwe’re meant for each other, Petra.”

It hung,heavily, but Jane did not look away from Petra. If Petra just got upand left, Jane would understand, really. But she didn’t. She satthere. Then, she took the computer from Jane’s lap and gently placedit on the floor. She turned fully towards Jane and looked at her,hard, her large, blue eyes, wide. Petra moved towards Jane and Janethought she was going to kiss her, but instead, Petra hugged her.Whenever Petra hugged Jane when she really meant it, she puteverything into a hug. And Jane always melted into them. Their bodiesjust fit together.

“I loveyou, Jane,” Petra whispered. “In many ways.”

“I loveyou too, Petra. In many ways.”

There wasno kiss. Instead, Petra pressed her forehead to Jane’s, like when shegave birth to the twins. It was as intimate, or more so, thananything Jane could think of it. Perhaps they would kiss later, butright now, they didn’t need to. Everything was being said in thesesimple actions. It was the first time Jane felt like she didn’t needto kiss the other person to prove her love for them.

Theystayed like that for several minutes. Then Jane started chuckling.

“What?”Petra asked.

“I thinkI might know how to end my book.”

#this ended up being more emotional than i expected but all my jetra feels started to come out #Anonymous

1 note · View note

mylife-foryours · 4 years

Text

gratuitous screencaps & questions for an’dante

1. What is their gender? ... woman-ish?

2. What is their sexuality? Ace-ish, bi-ish. Complicated by a combination of trauma & who she is as a person.

3. Do they have any siblings? How many? Are they older or younger? Which sibling are they the closest with? No siblings; when she was 3-4 she was... fostered? by her grandparents, and there were a few cousins who lived in the same apartment complex, but she was a very solitary child.

4. What’s their relationship with their parents like? What about other relatives? Her memories of her parents are vague and patchy - her father’s callused hands, her mother’s deep voice singing a Zabraki lullaby. On the other hand, she remembers her grandparents very well. She understands them well enough to know why they left her on the streets of Sobrik, and on good days she can even sort of sympathize - starvation is a hideous way to die. So she isn’t going to, like, hunt them down and murder them, but she has no interest in ever seeing them again, either.

6. What would they give their life for? Orro.

7. Are they in a romantic relationship? With who? How did they meet? She’s in something with Orro. When they first met, Orro had been cornered by a group of offworld thugs, and An’Dante went after them like a feral alley cat. She won more through the element of surprise and nascent Force abilities than anything else, but it was still enough to begin a fast friendship with Orro.

8. What do they believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them? Either she’ll stop existing entirely, or she’ll become a Force ghost. As appealing as it might be to continue to influence the galaxy even after she’s dead, the fact that ghosts can be bound & their entire self made into a battery for someone to tap makes that prospect singularly terrifying. Even when she was a slave, it was only ever her body that could be broken and fucked and drained of blood. Death wasn’t an ideal escape, but it was always there. No such luxury if her ghost is bound. Nonexistence isn’t ideal, but it’s preferable to that.

9. What is their favorite color? Favorite animal? Her favorite color is sunset red, and her favorite animal is a tooka cat, but the one that I associate with her is a snake, both for the obvious reasons and because of the death/rebirth symbolism.

10. What are some of their talents/skills? Rhetoric, blackmail, politics in general. On a more benign note, unearthing/handling delicate artifacts and translating ancient texts in a way that’s both faithful and aesthetically pleasant.

11. If they could make a mark on history, what would they like it to be? Empress of the Sith Empire, Conqueror of the Republic, the Great Liberator of Korriban. (Practically, she understands that she’d be better off as a combination shadow hand & eminence grise, but she’s not above the appeal of shiny titles).

12. How old are they? When is their birthday? She’s nineteen during the Sith Inquisitor prologue, but not exactly sure when her birthday is.

13. What do they do for fun? Watch drama-heavy serial shows (ideally w/ Fene or, later on, Talik’ime) and snark at them.

14. What is their favorite food? How often do they get to eat it? She’ll eat pretty much anything and enjoy it, but she really loves seafood and rare meat.

15. What was something their parents taught them? Not to get too ANGST-HEAVY, but by omission, probably “you’re an unwanted burden, and will be left behind as soon as it’s physically possible”.

16. Are they religious? Sort of - she’s Sith, and takes the code seriously, but her own interpretation of it is pretty heretical.

17. Where were they born? Small farming village on the outskirts of Sobrik.

18. What languages can they speak? Where did they learn these languages? She’s a native speaker of Basic & Zabraki, picked up Huttese and snippets of Mando’a in her early-mid adolescence, and learned Old Sith during her apprenticeship to Lord Volcari. Later on she tries to pick up Chenuch as part of her bid to insinuate her power base into Imperial Intelligence, and expands her knowledge of Mando’a with Fene’s help.

19. What is their occupation? Dark Council member.

20. Do they have any titles? How did they earn them? She blackmailed Darth Vox into promoting her to Dark Lord of the Sith before murdering her and abandoning what was left of her corpse in a decaying orbit around Korriban’s sun. Approximately two years later, she escaped Jedi custody with a fair number of stolen relics and detailed knowledge of Tython’s defenses, earning the name Darth Moriah. She became the leader of the Assassin’s Pyramid after defeating Darth Rictus in a Kaggath, and operated as Empress Acina’s unofficial Hand between the destruction of Ziost and the end of KOTET.

Personality:

21. What is their favorite thing about their personality? Her wit.

22. What is their least favorite thing about their personality? Her sensitivity.

23. Do they get lonely easily? Yes, but she’s relatively good at dealing with it.

24. Do you know their MBTI type? INTJ

25. What is their biggest flaw? God, so many. But probably the worst, ethically and in terms of her relationships, is that she’s cruel.

26. Are they aware of their flaws? Sort of. She knows that she’s cruel, but she thinks that her greatest flaw is that she’s weak-willed and dithers over Doing What Needs To Be Done.

27. What is their biggest strength? Her adaptability.

28. Are they aware of their strengths? Yes - some of her arrogance is bravado, but not all of it.

29. How would they describe their own personality? That would depend entirely on who was asking.

30. When frightened, will they resort to “fight” or “flight”? http://pete-walker.com/codependencyFawnResponse.htm

31. Does this character ever put somebody else’s needs before their own? Who do they do this for? How often do they do this? She’d do just about anything for Orro, including framing & executing her own apprentice for treason, but she’d put a lot on the line for Fene, too. She tries to be sparing with displays like that, though - it’s an expenditure of resources, emotional and otherwise. Cryptarch’s qualm and all that.

32. What is their self esteem like? Not great.

33. What is their biggest fear? How would they react to having to face it? Being enslaved again - no surprises there. She’d go nuclear if faced with that - no concern for collateral damage or her own survival, just fighting her way out with claws and lightning and teeth, or, failing that, putting her own lightsaber to her heart.

34. How easily do they trust others with their secrets? With their life? An’Dante’s secrets stay under lock and fucking key.

35. What is the easiest way to annoy them? In terms of annoyance (rather than blind rage), probably telling her that she’s overreacting to something.

36. What is their sense of humor like? Give an example of a joke they would find humorous. Dark & ironic, with a particular fondness for wordplay and last-minute twists. Pretty much any of these would have her howling.

37. How easy is it for them to say “I love you”? Do they say it without meaning it? Very difficult. She’s said it to.... maybe two people in her life, probably?

38. What do others admire most about their personality? Either her intelligence or her tenacity.

39. What does their happily ever after look like? After winning Orro over to her cause, crushing the Republic hypocrites and their Jedi lackeys, uniting a reformed empire under her rule (with someone else as a figurehead, naturally), freeing the slaves and hanging the masters by their own intestines, I imagine that she’d like to spend her time researching poetry fragments and teaching freed slave children to read.

40. Who do they trust most? Is that trust mutual? She trusts Orro & Orro doesn’t trust her, but Orro is quite trustworthy (& predictable) while she’s decidedly neither.

Physical Profile:

41. What does their laugh sound like? Do they snort when they laugh? How often do they laugh? Quiet and spiteful; if she laughs, it tends to be at people, not with them.

42. What is their favorite thing about their physical appearance? Thanks to her Zabrak mother, she has very sharp, prominent canine teeth, which make her sneer look much more intimidating.

43. What is their least favorite thing about their physical appearance? Probably the brands on her face. But for the same reasons that she doesn’t have any tattoos, she’s not going to get any kind of surgery to remove/cover them up. They’re a reminder.

44. Do they have any scars? If so, what are the stories behind those scars? Per her in-game appearance, she has brands/burn scars on the left side of her face. She also has heavy whip scars on her upper back, a fractal lightning scar that wraps around her torso (result of the one (1) time she mouthed off to Overseer Harkun), and some minor chemical burns from her experiments with poisons and forbidden artifacts.

45. How would they describe their own appearance? She probably wouldn’t, honestly.

46. How easily can they express emotions? How easily can they hide emotions? Hiding her feelings is pretty much second nature. She can express Sith-standard emotions quite well, and quite genuinely - she’s got a lot of anger and fury bottled up, even if it isn’t really directed at heretics - but sadness, fear, and the rest are more difficult.

47. What’s their pain tolerance like? High.

48. Do they have any tattoos? What are the stories behind those tattoos? No tattoos, and no plans to get any - she’s played with the idea of getting Sith tattoos to deflect from criticisms of, ahem, heterodoxy, but that would require allowing someone very very close to her face with very very sharp objects, and that’s a hard nope.

49. Do they have any piercings? Nope.

50. How would you describe their style of clothing? How would they describe their style of clothing? Semi-ceremonial light armor with flowy bits & a pronounced inclination towards the dramatic vs. “Robes befitting my station”.

51. What is their height? Weight? 5′3, 210 pounds.

52. What is their body type? Are they muscular, chubby, skinny, etc? Fat, with some core muscle strength.

53. What is their hair color? Eye color? Skin tone? She has warm brown skin and black hair. Her eyes are naturally brown, but intense dark side use shifted them to a molten gold color by the end of Act I. Faded back to brown while she was on Tython (Light Side-suffused environment + force-nullifying cuffs), then went orange/gold again after she escaped. At this point she’s had enough corruption/redemption whiplash that they’re kind of eerie pale grey with red limbal rings.

54. What is their current hairstyle? What have been some of their past hairstyles? Which was their favorite hairstyle? For the first sixteen years of her life, she kept her hair short, both for practicality - she couldn’t wash often, and didn’t want it getting caught in anything - but also so that no one could grab it. Upon being taken as Lord Volcari’s apprentice, she began growing it out. Mostly she left it down, but Fene would sometimes put it up in braids, which was her favorite. After being held captive on Tython, she chopped her hair off to about chin-length, and kept it there until she made Darth. It started coming in white after Ziost, but that was largely a moot point, since by then she had signed on as Acina’s left hand & was wearing a mask and hood. After her final break with the empire, she cut off the few inches that were still dark brown/black, so her endgame haircut is a blunt, chin-length bob.

55. What is their alcohol tolerance like? What kind of drunk are they? How bad are their hangovers? It’s not so much

56. What do they smell like? Why do they smell like this? (Is it the things they’re around or a perfume they wear?) If she smells like anything, it’s mostly old books and tomb-dust. Doesn’t actually smell like blood as often as you would think - she usually kills people via some sort of proxy, and even if she's in a straight-up duel, lightsaber wounds tend to cauterize quickly.

57. How do they feel about sex? Are they a virgin? Doesn’t like sex, not a virgin, the specifics are predictably related.

58. What is their most noticeable physical attribute? Probably her nose; it’s not very noticeable on her in-game model, but I always draw her with a big beaky nose.

59. What does their resting face look like? Do they have RBF? Carefully blank.

60. Describe the way they sleep. Deeply and overlong, now that she doesn’t have to wake at dawn or earlier. It’s one of the few luxuries she can partake of without any guilt.

Environment:

61. Which season is their favorite season? Obligatory “seasons work differently on other planets” stipulation aside, probably autumn.

62. Have they ever been betrayed? How did it affect their ability to trust others? She was baited into an “escape attempt” by one of the overseer’s quislings when she was about thirteen, and never made that mistake again.

63. What is always guaranteed to make them smile? Ironic reversals of fortune.

64. Do they get cold easily? Do they get overheated easily? Gets overheated more easily than she gets cold.

65. What’s their immune system like? Do they get sick often? How do they react to getting sick? Since she’s half-Zabrak, her immune system is hella weak. She hates the vulnerability that comes with being sick, and tends to shut herself up in her compound with enough reading material for several weeks and enough painkillers to wipe out a small army.

66. Where do they live? Do they like it there? She has a compound on Korriban with one of the larger collections of Old Sith epic poetry in Imperial space.

67. Is their bedroom messy? What about their bathroom? Kitchen? Living room? Probably her quarters as a whole have a comfortable level of clutter - there’s some automated cleaning, but she refuses to use cleaning droids, and doesn’t have much time to clean on her own.

68. How did their environment growing up affect their personality? Significantly, but not indelibly.

69. How did the people in their environment growing up affect their personality? The fact that her grandparents wanted nothing to do with her and regarded her as a burden, and

70. How do they feel about animals? Do they have any pets? She likes them well enough, but feels uncomfortable with the idea of owning a living creature - she has some friends among the desert cats around her compound, though.

71. How are they with children? Do they have any? Do they want any? She’s okay with children, if a bit overprotective, but she’s never had any, and even if she physically could (like most half-Zabraks, she’s infertile) pregnancy is a terrifying idea for her. She’d even feel guilty about adopting a kid, since being associated with her would be Absurdly Dangerous - almost none of her rivals would hesitate to go after a child.

72. Would they rather have stability or comfort? Comfort, largely because she doesn’t really believe that stability exists.

73. Do they prefer the indoors or outdoors? Indoors.

74. What weather is their favorite? Do they like storms? Her favorite weather is dry and slightly chilly, with a bit of a breeze. Enjoys thunderstorms as long as they’re not on Dromund Kaas.

75. If given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen? She’d practice her Old Sith calligraphy.

76. How organized are they? She’s a wee bit paranoid about committing things to paper, so her things are as organized as she can keep them in her head. When she’s doing well, it works fine. When she’s not...

77. What is their most prized possession? Either her saberstaff or the holocron that houses her ghost friend. Probably the saberstaff, since thinking about what’s essentially someone’s phylactery as her possession would probably make her queasy.

78. Who do they consider to be their best friend? Fene.

79. What is their economic situation? Probably pretty good - I imagine that Dark Council members get a hefty salary.

80. Are they a morning person or a night owl? Night owl.

Miscellaneous:

81. Are they bothered by the sight of blood? Sort of, but she’s had lots of time to get used to it.

82. What is their handwriting like? Neat & cursive-adjacent, but she writes with a very heavy hand, since she was almost twenty when she learned how.

83. Can they swim? How well? Do they like to swim? She can Sort Of stay afloat, and enjoys swimming so long as she can keep doing that. Deeper water makes her nervous, though, mostly because she’s spent so much time on Dromund Kaas: deep water is where the fish made entirely of teeth and pincers live.

84. Which deadly sin do they represent best? Fucking hell. Gonna say it’s a three-way tie between Pride, Envy, and Wrath.

85. Do they believe in ghosts? She literally keeps one in her pocket, so yeah.

86. How do they celebrate holidays? How do they celebrate birthdays? Hmmm... as a member of the Dark Council, there are probably certain state holidays that she’s expected to publicly celebrate, but on her own time I imagine that she keeps things low-key.

87. What is something they regret? Stabbing Orro in the back, physically and metaphorically. It’s worth nothing that this is at least partially because she didn’t actually get anything out of it - Jorgan recaptured her in fairly short order. (Part of her hadn’t really... adjusted to the fact that there were other people in Orro’s life by that point)

88. Do they have an accent? Xanthe Elbrick’s performance has grown on me a lot in my billion-odd playthroughs of a female Sith Inquisitor, but in my heart of hearts, An’Dante has a Slavic accent.

89. What is their D&D alignment? Neutral Evil.

90. Are they right or left handed? Left, but she’s trained herself to be ambidextrous.

91. If they were a tweet, what tweet would they be?

92. Describe them as a John Mulaney gif.

#char: an'dante #making Very Productive Use of my quarantine time

0 notes

groovyeggdeputyscissors-blog · 6 years

Text

I’ve been through a few Presidents in my day. This piece is about my own personal top-of-mind-awareness, the first thing that comes to mind, when I think of each. It is not intended to be historically correct, and ignores any scandalous events, or otherwise, that may have surfaced after each’s Presidency concluded. Additionally, I will most likely omit many achievements. This is only about what comes into my mind first, not a lesson in history.

Dwight Eisenhower, President 1953-1961: My age range during these years was 4-10. My first recollection of Dwight Eisenhower was at the age of 5, living in Libertyville IL My mother was as much a hard-line a Democrat as my father was a die-hard Republican. Eisenhower was running for re-election against Adlai Stevenson of Maine. My father would walk around singing, to the tune of Whistle While You Work from Snow White: “Whistle while you work, Stevenson’s a jerk” which would, obviously, get my mother riled. The Cold War was escalating, everyone was afraid of nuclear war, and air raid drills were common in schools in most parts of the country. Schools in Illinois at the time didn’t bother with air raid drills; we had tornado drills, which were basically the same— siren sounds, head for basement, line up against the wall.

Before we moved to Illinois, and lived in Massachusetts, WBZ TV in Boston aired a local kids show, Big Brother with Bob Emery. As a member of the show’s “Small Fry Club”, I wouldn’t miss an episode. Each day, at some point in the show, Bob would stop the show, sit in front of a portrait of Eisenhower, Hail to the Chief would play, and we kids in TV land would all raise our glasses of milk and drink a toast to the President.

That’s pretty much all I remember about President Eisenhower, except that, looking back, there was a tremendous respect for the office in those days; President Eisenhower was somewhat of a hero to us kids.

John Kennedy, President 1961-1963: Kennedy’s campaign for office began during what I refer to as The Younger Years. His actual short Presidency occurred during The Middle Years. The main differences between those two periods are ones of consciousness and learning. My recollections of his run for office begin at age 10; first impression: I never realized Presidents could be young and have hair. I remember Richard Nixon sweating profusely during his debate with Kennedy. I remember being in Maine at my Grandparents’ (father’s side) summer home and hearing my Grandfather, who was, in retrospect, the equivalent of a Christian Right person today—just “born” not “born again”—saying that the country was in real trouble if a Catholic were elected to office. I also recall my father’s response that he never again wanted to hear my Grandfather talk like that when we kids were around.

It was during Kennedy’s Presidency that I realized what the Cold War was— it was hard not to—the Cuban Missile Crisis, Nikita Khruschev pounding his shoe at the U.N., my father building an actual fallout shelter of concrete bricks, to specs, in our basement, and storing food and water in Army Surplus, air tight containers. It all added up to destruction of that innocence and security only children have.

I remember being in awe of Jacqueline Kennedy because she spoke a gazillion languages. I was actually watching TV when Marylin Monroe sang Happy Birthday to JFK, and remember thinking, at the time, that something was really odd. I also recall that Caroline Kennedy went to Concord Academy in Concord, Mass., the next town to Acton, where I lived. Concord Academy was right across from the Concord Library where we kids went to do research for school papers. I remember Cape Cod, Kennedy boats, and touch football.

I was 14, in school study hall, when the teacher/monitors all began crying. Shortly after, the Principal addressed the school on the loud speaker system: John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. It was one of those moments you never, ever forget— a moment when you absolutely know that the world, as you have known it, will never again be the same.

Lyndon Johnson, President 1963-1969: Seeing LBJ sworn in aboard Air Force One was a moment that stands out in my mind because nothing like this had ever before happened. But, as that was happening, I had also entered into my early teenage formative years. The folk movement, Bob Dylan, music in general made “thinkers” of much of my generation. Gone was the acceptance of “my country right or wrong” thinking that had prevailed up until this point. It had been replaced by general pessimism, and total distrust of our government in general. Involvement, activism, protest became dominant attitudes and actions, fueled by a never ending Viet Nam war we knew was immoral, to say the least. We saw a Vietnamese person executed, shot in the head, on live TV. We experienced a military draft system that would most certainly catch up with us as soon as we graduated from high school, with then sole purpose of placing us in that war. We saw the injustices and awful consequences of racism in this country. And, we were going to do something about it.

When I think of LBJ, I think of the First Lady, “Lady Bird”, because the name was so different. I remember him holding a dog, a beagle I think, by it’s ears. I remember that he became the first “blah, blah, blah” President, meaning that every time he was on TV, all I heard was “blah, blah, blah”. There were two exceptions: First, when he announced that he was sending ground troops into Cambodia, and, second, when he announced he would not run for re-election. I watched both in the TV room in my dorm at college. The first announcement drew shouts of anger, the second loud cheers.

It was on Johnson’s watch that Viet Nam continued to escalate, that MLK was assassinated, that Robert Kennedy was assassinated, and that Mayor Daly of Chicago unleashed the hounds of Hell onto demonstrators outside of the Democratic National Convention. All of the programs Johnson initiated with his Great Society legislation went right by us. Our focus was on the ongoing horrors of war, both outside of, and inside our country.

Richard Nixon, 1969-1974: I spent a good part of the summer of 1968 at a friend’s house in the South Bronx, NY. Word on the street was, if Richard Nixon got elected, there was going to be an all out revolution in this country. Obviously, that never happened. My immediate recall of Richard Nixon was his nickname “Tricky Dick”, which is pretty much how many felt. His presence on TV was not a pretty sight; every word he spoke seemed insincere, scripted, almost laughable. Yes, he was the first President to visit the then People’s Republic of China, and yes, Nixon was responsible for signing legislation that founded the EPA in 1970, and had the voting age in the U.S. lowered from 21 to 18, and yes, he did end the Viet Nam War. But, images of the Vietnamese people left behind, and the way they were left behind, still haunt me. Watergate, of course is my most profound memory, as is Nixon’s final departure from DC when he was forced to resigned from office.

Gerald Ford, 1974-1977: There are only four things I remember about Gerald Ford: First, he stabilized the country with his calm presence after the Nixon debacle; second, he pardoned Nixon; third, a woman tried to shoot him; and fourth, Chevy Chase on Saturday Night Live continually imitated and made fun of Ford, stumbling and bumbling in almost every SNL episode.

Jimmy Carter, 1977-1981: Possibly the most genuinely caring of all the Presidents in my lifetime, Jimmy Carter did not come across well on TV. Often overshadowed by his Brother Billy, whose seemingly redneck shenanigans often dominated the news, who actually launched Billy Beer as a result, Carter had his hands full with an economy that went into double digit inflation and, of course, the Iran hostage crisis and a failed rescue attempt. Inflation in this country was so out of control in 1979-1980, that, in the advertising business, we often couldn’t advertise prices in an ad for the following week because they would have risen so much. I remember Carter virtually shutting off credit in this country to help slow the rate of inflation— I actually played golf with the president of a Gardner, MA bank to procure a mortgage for my first home in 1980— the mortgage rate was 16% APR, and people thought I was lucky. On the positive side, I do remember the Camp David Peace Accords, in my opinion, the best achievement of the Carter years.

Ronald Reagan: 1981-1989: By the time Ronald Reagan became President, I already had almost a quarter century of hearing “blah, blah, blah” every time a President spoke, and had reached a point of skepticism where I automatically figured anything said by a U.S. President was, at best, less than being close to the truth. So, here we were with an actor turned governor turned President of the U.S. I wasn’t at all surprised. His fatherly presence was endearing to most in this country. I had a rapidly growing business and young family at the time, things were relatively calm, so the Reagan years more or less slipped by uneventfully. I do remember that Reagan was “The Teflon President” because no matter what happened under his watch, it seemed to deflect away from him and onto someone else. I recall Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev working out the INF Treaty, which really was the beginning of the end to The Cold War. I remember often wondering if Ronald or Nancy Reagan were calling the shots. And, of course, I remember Saturday Night Live.

030114-O-0000D-001 President George W. Bush. Photo by Eric Draper, White House.

George H.W. Bush: 1989-1993: By the time Bush Sr. was elected President, my skepticism toward the office, and government in this country, had reached a point where it came as no surprise to me that an ex- CIA head was now our President. Yes, he signed the Americans with Disabilities Act and The Clean Air Act. But, he also initiated the first Iraq war. I don’t remember much else except for Dana Carvey on SNL. He did great impersonations of Bush.

Bill Clinton: 1993-2001: I remember Bill Clinton running against Bush Sr. because here was a guy running as a “cool” candidate, wearing shades, playing sax on TV, using every Hollywood means possible to attract young voters. He appeared to be a symbol of change after 12 years of relatively old, conservative dudes in the office. But, my memories of Clinton are not fond, beginning with Whitewater, and continuing through the Monica Lewinsky show. Yes, some good things happened under his watch: 6 million new jobs were created in his first two years in office, he cut taxes on 15 million low-income families and made tax cuts available to 90% of small businesses while raising taxes on 1.2% of the wealthy. Yes he signed the Family & Medical Leave Act, and the Student Loan Refinance Act. But he also signed NAFTA, and initiated a 3 strikes rule that has imprisoned many, particularly African-Americans in this country. And, when people slated to testify against him were found mysteriously dead in a park, when he played semantics, looked straight at the camera and said “I did not have sex with that women”, those are the memories I retain most, and the types of recollections that have helped to bring my respect lower and lower as President after President has served.

George W. Bush: 2001-2009: When I think of W, I automatically picture 911. As when JFK was shot, I remember exactly where I was: In a client��s office for an early meeting when someone from the office came in and said a plane had just hit the World Trade Center. I went straight home from the meeting to put on the TV, just as the second building was coming down. This was another time I knew things would never again be the same.

When I think of George Bush, I think of The Patriot Act, and all the rights we lost as a result. I think of Dick Cheney in his secret office, and still wonder if it was his job to give instructions to W from a shadow government. I picture the second war with Iraq, based on “faulty intelligence”, a war that lasted from 2003 until 2011, if you believe that it actually ever ended. I also picture a war with Afghanistan which began in 2001 and still continues to this day in 2018. I remember Bush signing the biggest tax cut in American history, benefitting particularly the wealthy. I remember the beginning of the biggest economic crash since 1929. I picture, and prominently hear, “blah, blah, blah”.

Barak Obama, 2009-2017: At the sake of unleashing a firestorm, to me, Barak Obama was the biggest disappointment of any of the Presidents in my time. I expected little, and got less, from the others. I always argued, when he was running, that no matter who was President, nothing was ever going to change, but deep down I was hoping. Yes, he ended the 2008 Recession by extending Unemployment, initiating the American Recovery & Reinvestment Act, and pumping 241.9 billion of our dollars into the economy. Yes, he passed the Affordable Care Act, resulting in 95% of the population having some form of health insurance. Yes, the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform Act regulated big banks and created Wall Street reform, and yes, Obama signed the International Climate Change Agreement.

But, right off the bat, when many of Bush’s Cabinet Members were reappointed into Obama’s Cabinet, I got that bad feeling all over again. Billions of tax payers’ dollars were pumped into economy, yet the people who stole the billions, resulting in the economic crash, kept their spoils and were never held accountable. The Affordable Care Act was, in my opinion, nothing close to Universal Health Care, which many major countries in the world enjoy. The Black Lives Matter movement had to evolve, under the watch of our first Black President, which, to me, is ludicrous. Maybe I’m being overly hard with my recollections of his Presidency, but I expected better.

Donald Trump: 2017-present: So now we went from a movie actor turned governor turned President, to a Reality TV Star and real estate mogul who millions of right wing Christians believe God sent to be our President. Seriously…there are no words.

Twelve Presidents later, what’s different?

Perhaps it was childhood innocence and ignorance that had me so excited to run home for lunch and “toast” the President each day. I think John Kennedy, right or wrong, maintained a level of respect from supporters, and detractors alike, that has not existed since. My personal respect for the office has declined continually, President after President, to a level where I have none at all. Pessimistic? Yes. Optimistic? Not at all. Perhaps, after Trump leaves office, someone so great, so inspiring, so motivating, and so driven to change this country for the betterment of all of it’s people. will appear on the scene, and the office will again deserve some respect. But, 12 Presidents later, I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for that day. And, I have to wonder, if my respect has declined to such a low point over the years, how does the rest of the world now view the office, and our nation?

12 Presidents: My top-of-mind recall I've been through a few Presidents in my day. This piece is about my own personal top-of-mind-awareness, the first thing that comes to mind, when I think of each.

1 note · View note

seminarycoopbookstores-blog · 7 years

Text

In Short: Boris Fishman

Boris Fishman was born in Belarus and has lived in the United States since the age of nine. He is the author of the novel A Replacement Life, which was chosen as a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. His writing has appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, The London Review of Books, The New Republic, and other publications. He lives in New York City. Don't Let My Baby Do Rodeo is his second novel. Catch Boris Fishman, in conversation with S.L. Wisenberg, Saturday, March 25 at KAM Isaiah Israel. RSVP and details here.

Maya had been early to pick up Max the day he didn’t come home with the school bus. Usually she was still powering up Sylvan Gate Drive when the old yellow bus sputtered to its crown, the doors exhaled, and Max tumbled out, always before the Kroon girl because Max always took the front seat. Even in the family Corolla, it was Alex at the wheel, Max in the passenger seat, and Maya in the back. Maya had gathered that the popular children sat back of the bus. She had asked Max once why he wasn’t among them. “There’s too much noise in the back,” he had said, and she had felt a hidden satisfaction at his indifference.

That day, after a week of disabling warmth premature even for New Jersey in June, a note of unhumid reprieve had snuck into the air—Maya had caught it on her drive home from the hospital—and so she had walked out of the town house early. On the rare occasions Alex was home early enough to collect Max, he drove the thousand yards to the head of the drive—Alex enjoyed the very American possibility of this convenience. But Maya walked. She was on her feet all day at the hospital, but she shuttled between three rooms and it was all indoors.

In Kiev, Maya’s mother had always awaited her by the school doors, painted and repainted until they looked like lumpy old women. The walk home was time alone for mother and daughter; by the time they reached their apartment, Maya’s father would already be at the kitchen table slouched over the sports section, the only part of the newspaper where things didn’t have to be perfect. Maya’s mother would begin their walk by asking all the questions a mother was required to ask of a daughter’s school day—even as an eight-year-old, Max’s age, Maya understood this as a formality—but then, after a discreet pause, Galina Shulman would bring her daughter up to date on the indiscreet doings of “the great circus” of their thousand-apartment apartment building.

Maya was exhilarated by these walks for she felt her mother spoke as if Maya was not present, or if she were, then as an equal, a friend, not a daughter to whom convention described responsibilities. So—a silent hello to a woman now five thousand miles away—Maya picked up Max from the school bus. It wasn’t particularly necessary—the danger was not in the distance Max would have to cover down to their town house, but in his time out in the world. But it was Maya’s only time alone with her son. She used it to try to understand why she couldn’t always speak with Max in the same easy, unspooling way her mother had spoken with her. Maya did not have her mother’s imagination; that was part of it, certainly. Nor did she have her mother’s curiosity about her neighbors, though Maya knew that this was a failure of her looking, not their living. But none of that seemed the answer. Maya asked her son about school, questions he answered politely and briefly—she never failed to marvel at the unkinked Russian speech of her not-Russian son—and then both fell silent. All she could think was to take his hand, and he let her hold it. She felt she was failing him in some way. Failing him, and couldn’t say how; she felt thick and graceless.

They had been lucky, the adoption supervisor had kept reminding them, as if he worked on commission. American parents often had to go abroad to find children: Malaysia, Korea, Romania. Bribes, endless waiting, no medical records. Whereas the Rubins got an outright American. Who got an American any longer, and a brand-new baby instead of a child old enough to have been terrorized by somebody else? Maya had the ungrateful thought that she did not want an American: She felt that she would have more to say to a Romanian child. In the sleepless hold of another interminable night, she had shaken awake Alex and said so. He closed his fingertips around the knob of her shoulder, as if she were a loose lightbulb: “He’s a newborn. Was New Jersey familiar to you when you moved here? This house? But now it’s all home.” He turned onto his side, cupped one of her breasts from behind, and said: “Sleep, Maya—please.”

She had picked out the weary magnanimousness in his voice—he had to indulge not only her willingness to adopt, but her anxieties over it. Only who wanted a child more than he did? However, a biological solution being impossible, Alex’s desire had just one condition—that he not be made to confess it. And so she carried on as the secret advocate for them both. His contribution was to disparage the woe conjured up by her railroad mind at two in the morning. “Railroad mind”—that was Alex’s term for the hive of Maya’s brain. Railroads made him think of motion, steam, frantic activity. What he really meant was that she was like some Anna Karenina—superfluously melodramatic. And Maya understood what he really meant only because she had a railroad mind.

Alex had been ten years younger than Maya’s eighteen when his family had come to America; the Rubins had come for good, whereas Maya had come on an exchange program in 1988, the first year such things were possible. After college, Maya was supposed to return to the USSR—a plan altered by her love affair with Alex and the end of the USSR. Alex had taken to America—he spoke with confidence about Wall Street, the structure of Congress, technology. Maya conceded his authority. Only once had she exclaimed that in twenty years he had almost never left New Jersey, so what did he know? Alex had looked at her as if at a child who doesn’t understand what it means to say things one will later regret, and retreated upstairs. He did not speak to her for three days, their sullen meals spent communicating through Max and his grandparents, and Maya never said that again.

Was this acceptable to discuss with an eight-year-old? Maya laughed at herself and rehearsed her to-do list: Max needed a ride to Oliver’s on Saturday, and they had to find time before the end of the month to update two of Max’s vaccines—she would have to pick him up from school and rush back to the hospital before that office closed at four. She sniffed at the festively mild afternoon. The briefly unfevered air grew fevered inside her all the same due to the exertion required by the hill. The sweetness in the air would not last the night.

The Kroon girl was first, swinging her arms. This was new. This was something she and Max could talk about. Today, he had decided to sit in the back, just to see how things looked from back there. Perhaps he had made some new friends; he had one friend in the world, Oliver. Maya smiled at the Kroon girl, who ignored her, and looked up expectantly at the driver, who never chatted with Maya, which made her feel snubbed though she tried to persuade herself it was because he was grave about his responsibilities. He nodded and yanked the door lever.

“Wait!” Maya shouted. She laid a soft fist into the glass. The driver looked up reproachfully and the door folded back in.

“Please don’t hit my bus,” he said.

“But where is my son?” Maya said. She heard, as always, her slight accent, like a hair under the collar. She spoke with resentment—all those times the bus driver had not acknowledged her.

“The young man was not on the bus,” the driver said.

“It’s Max,” she said.

“Not on the bus,” the driver repeated.

“But he went to school,” she opened her hands. She took in the driver’s gray T-shirt, swollen by the half globe of a gut, the blue sweatpants and brown sandals.

“Call the school?” he said. “But I’ve got to move now.” He checked the mirror for traffic.

Maya’s chest emptied out and she leaped onto the first stair of the bus. The driver looked on with astonishment.

“Children!” she yelled at the bus. The small heads poking out of the green rows gave her attention, even the ones in the back. “My son, Max. He takes this bus every day.”

They stared at her silently.

“Ma’am,” the driver said.

She swiveled to face him. “You might put on something more decent to set an example for children.”

His head retreated slightly, and a look of sleepy alarm came over his face.

She turned back to the rows. “Does anyone on the bus know who my son is?” They gazed at her stubbornly. They were not going to give anything up and they felt pity for her.

“You know Max,” the driver called out from behind her. She felt gratitude—he knew her son’s name. Then she remembered that she had just used it. “This is his mom.”

A hand shot up from a row midway down the aisle.

“You don’t have to raise your hand,” the driver said.

“Max took another bus,” the voice came. It was a girl’s voice. Maya surged down the aisle.

“What other bus?” she demanded. The girl—unattractive, a pug nose, Maya disliked her instantly, as if she were responsible for Max’s disappearance—shrugged.

“Was it a school bus?” the driver said. “Yellow.”

“No,” the girl said.

“Town bus? With purple stripes.”

The girl nodded.

“I don’t suppose you saw the number,” the driver said.

“It stops by the flagpole.”

“That’s the 748,” he said. Maya turned toward the driver. “That one goes north,” he said. “Toward the state line.”

“What state!” she exclaimed.

“New York State,” he said. His face folded, concern rising in it like color. Until a moment before, Maya had wanted to see it, and now she did not. “I’ll radio the school.”

Maya raked her temples. She heard the rumbling of the vehicle and the silence of the children. The back of the school bus was sticking out into Brandenburg Turnpike, cars backing up as they funneled into a single line to avoid it. The driver lifted a wired receiver, which crackled like a radio between stations, and murmured into it. Some of his belly rested on the lower part of the steering wheel.

“I can’t get them,” he said, exhaling contritely. “They’re busy with buses. But I’ll get ’em. He’ll turn up.”

Things had improved between them, between her and the driver, and Maya tried to take this to mean that good things were possible and her son would return. She stared out of the open doors down at the drive, its familiar plunge suddenly malevolent and abundant with risk. Without turning back to the driver, she rushed the steps down to the ground and ran toward home, the pavement going off in her knees. Behind her she heard sounds belonging to other people in another world: the bus doors sliding shut, the brake coming off, the bus shuddering off to the next residential development, where children would be disgorged into the hands of their mothers, an unremarkable ritual made remarkable only by its failure to take place.

#harper collins #boris fishman #events

0 notes