a is for august

Seated across from her parents with her head bowed and her hands folded neatly in her lap, August struggled for patience. Oh, they had been through this many times before. Always with the same result.

If there was anything she wanted or needed, they insisted on supplying it.

She should have cut off all communication with them at eighteen. Perhaps things would be better now. She would have learned what it meant to be responsible, would have felt more secure with each decision she made. Maybe she would have even learned what it meant to be happy, without relying on others’ definitions.

But she had hated the idea of alienating them and had sacrificed so much because of it. She had felt so lost for so much of her life. Had found herself, finally, while spending that year abroad. Couldn’t remember where exactly. It might have been in Dublin, or Berlin or Athens. The where didn’t matter.

Now, threatened by the kind of life she had before, she was painfully aware that she could lose herself again.

“Why didn’t you come to us? If you needed money for something, we would have been happy to give it to you. It’s completely unnecessary to work an eight hour day and then wait tables at night.”

She lifted her gaze to glance at her mother. Her always silent mother. Everything about the woman was quiet. Her eyes, a pale blue, stared straight at August, never wavering. Never showing concern or anger, simply staring. Her mouth was neither curved as if to smile or frown, or set as if in anger or impatience. Her hands, unadorned, save for a platinum wedding band, lay folded in her lap. The clothes she wore, a simple blouse with a lace collar and a long, flowing skirt, were of muted blues and yellows.

Then she met her father’s cold stare, his eyes dark and unyielding. His lips were tight, his voice harsh. The hands gripping the arms of the chair spoke of barely controlled anger, as if, at any moment, he would spring. Though he wore a navy, long-sleeved Polo shirt and Levi’s, the casual attire did nothing to lessen his intimidating features.

The man seemed out of place in this room. Her mother had decorated it like she would have arranged an outfit, choosing soothing colors and styles, placing everything just so. The soft colors, once again pale blues and golds and the fluid lines of the furniture didn’t fit the man at all. She wondered, just for an instant, how he would have decorated it. But then, she didn’t need to wonder. He would hire a decorator, a woman, because he would have no time for it and decorating was a woman’s job. The room would be hard, like the man, in burgundy and navy with sparse accessories.

She swallowed. “I can handle this, Dad. I don’t need the money. It would just be nice to have is all. And I can’t keep coming to you.” I don’t want to! Don’t you get it, yet?

“I would much rather you come to us than wait tables.”

She stood then and crossed her arms, because she was tired of appearing the submissive sort when her temper was close to boiling over. “What’s so wrong with waiting tables? It’s honest, hard work and I take home a decent amount of money each night. Plus, it’s Mr. McAllister’s place, Dad, not some dump. I like working there--”

“I have had about enough of this. We have been lucky enough to be able to provide you with a college education, new cars and a trip around the world. I don’t know many twenty-five year-olds who have been given as many opportunities as we have been able to give you. And you have chosen to toss that in our faces. Waiting tables is a far cry from your capabilities and I will not have it!”

“You don’t get it, do you? The fact that I choose to wait tables is not meant to blemish this family’s reputation.” He hadn’t said it, not in so many words, but she knew he thought it and was appalled. “I choose to wait tables because I enjoy it. And for once, I would like to earn something. To pay for it with what’s mine. I don’t want it to be a gift from you that you’ll accuse me of being thankless for later.” Moving around the sofa, she picked up her keys and purse and started for the door.

“August! We are not finished. Come back here until I dismiss you.”

She kept going. Her hand on the door, she yanked it open, then stood frozen at the quiet whisper of her mother’s voice.

“August, please. Don’t leave like this.”

With her eyes closed and her head bent, she stood there a moment longer, one foot on the travertine tile, the other on the sidewalk, struggling with conflicting emotions. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered and then stepped out onto the porch, closing the door quietly behind her.

The following Monday, August wandered the halls just before first bell, smiled at the students she recognized from her classes, studied the ones she didn’t. Girls hurried past, clothed in denim and cotton and their boyfriends’ letter jackets, which were, more often than not, overwhelming on tiny, feminine bodies. The guys lingered at their lockers, talking sports and parties and watching the crowd like hawks, their gazes never settling too long on one particular person.

Valentine’s Day was coming up.

Last year, it hadn’t really bothered her. She wasn’t at home, for one. Been too busy exploring Ireland. Oh, the sights of couples holding hands and touching had unnerved her a bit, for she missed that. But every time she thought of it, she remembered the pain. The blows to her pride and heart. She knew, at least for the time being, she was better off. Those moments were few and far between, really, as her mind scrambled to absorb each detail of the world around her.

But this year was going to be a bit tougher. She was too close, too familiar with her surroundings to busy herself with them.

She saw the art students had done up the halls with red and white paper hearts, streamers and posters for the upcoming dance. She thought they had gotten a bit carried away.

And when she came across those couples loitering in the halls, in front of the cafeteria or the library and saw how close they were, how reluctant they were to head for class, she would frown, duck her head and hurry past.

It was too much, after all. Way too much to take this early in the morning, especially on a Monday.

She sighed, headed for the teachers’ lounge for her morning coffee. Found fifty cents in her wallet, got a Dr. Pepper. Gulped down half of it before she made it to her classroom.

Took her seat at her desk, propped her elbows on top of it, rested her forehead against steepled fingertips and waited for the bell. Her mind wandered, back to the days of her youth, where she had hurried through these same halls, anxious to see Matthew between classes. This time of year, she had bundled up in his jacket, worn his ring. Gone to every high school football game and gone hoarse each time from the yelling. And the parties and dances. The nights spent cruising the strip with the radio blaring.

It hadn’t been so very long ago. Yet she felt so old. Ancient, even. When did that happen? When did I start feeling like this old, worn-out thing?

“Ms. Kennedy? Teach?”

“Yes?” She frowned, dropped her hands, noticed her students patiently waiting in their desks. Her brow furrowed. Patiently?

“The bell rang five minutes ago, Teach.”

“Oh. You’re absolutely right. Sorry bout that, guys.” She blinked, smiled, focused on the twenty-seven freshmen in her classroom. “I bet you want your tests back.” Took a stack of papers out of her briefcase and stood, began passing them out.

“Only if they got A’s on’m.”

August found his paper. “Yours might, Ethan.”

“Yes!”

“Then again, it might not.” She held the paper back, angled her head, waited a beat, just long enough for the arrogance on his features to fade a little, then handed the paper to him. Her lips curved as his eyes lit on the “A” she had scrawled at the top of the page.

“I’ll be damned. I finally got one!”

She paused in the midst of passing out the rest of the papers to study him. “You’ll be what?”

“Sorry, Teach.” Ethan flashed a grin, set his paper on the desk and shrugged. “I’ll be. Period.”

“Better.”

(c) twenty-ten. jennifer k. griffin, otherwise known as c.c. this publication is the exclusive property of c.c. and is protected under the united states copyright act of nineteen seventy-six and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. the contents of this post, and any other c.c.-crafted picky post for that matter, may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without c.c.'s consent. all rights reserved. in other words, steal this, and i will follow you to the depths of hell and the edge of forever and kick your puny, thieving ass. thanks. :]

read about the rest of the gang: isa, reese and seth.

this was a matlock project. learn about that here.