Chapter 3
Present Day
Alice
C hairs creak and books slam closed as everyone around me packs up their belongings and clears their desks. I can’t bring myself to look away from the paper in my hand and the unnecessarily large letter C staring back at me. The grade I know for a fact I don’t deserve. My face heats, and a knot forms in my stomach. I force myself to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. When I open them again, I want to scream at the professor who is gathering his own materials.
When I signed up for Creative Writing at North Bay Community College, I thought it would be my favorite class, but lately I dread coming here each week. There are only about a dozen people taking the course, so it’s impossible to hide. I also didn’t realize how subjective the grading was going to be. I’m already in the process of building my career as a brand-new author. I have published some work online and I’m building an audience, albeit a small one, who seem to like my stories. I might not have tons of sales, but my books are selling, and they have decent reviews.
I’m here to improve my work and level-up in my career, but that’s next to impossible when you’re a romance writer and your aging male professor refuses to acknowledge the genre as an acceptable form of literature. I’d like to tell him to take it up with Jane Austen, but I know arguing won’t do anything to change the grade on my paper. There are no notes, only the big red letter circled on the top of the first page.
When everyone else has cleared the room, I gather my things. There’s a lump in my throat as I approach Professor Ratnick.
“Excuse me, sir. I’d like to ask you about my grade on this assignment.”
“Ah, Mrs. Caulfield. There isn’t much to discuss, I’m afraid. Mediocre work will receive mediocre grades.”
I pull my lips tight and make myself count to five in my head before I speak again.
He doesn’t bother to look at me while he gathers the papers from his lectern and shoves them haphazardly into his briefcase. Then he grabs his cardigan from the back of his chair.
“May I ask what about my work you consider mediocre, and what improvements you might recommend?” My hands are shaking, but I manage to keep my voice steady.
He reaches under his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he realizes I’m not leaving without an answer, he offers, “You might start with attempting the third person. Frankly, first person point of view is juvenile and unprofessional. Changing to the past tense might help. Not to mention the ending being unrealistic. You might also consider changing the gender of your protagonist. The whole thing reads like an old woman’s diary.”
Exactly.
“Yes, that was my intention with this piece. I wanted to explore the often-overlooked older female perspective. That’s why I wrote it from the grandmother’s point of view.”
He ignores my point and continues with his own. “The sex scene was also gratuitous and underwhelming. No one wants to read graphic content about a character at that age.”
“I see. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He wants me to change my point of view, rewrite the whole thing, and make it sound like it was written by a man? Yeah, that’s not happening. There is also nothing gratuitous about that love scene. It moves the entire plot of my character-driven love story, unlike the scene in the short story he praised last week from Aiden, in which a male character banged a random flight attendant in the airplane bathroom for no relevant reason as he was on his way to Paris to stop a terrorist attack. There were also at least ten spelling and grammar mistakes in his three-page story. Apparently, that one was deserving of an A. I only know this because Ratnick made a huge show of using Aiden’s piece as a shining example of what he expected from his students.
After this conversation, I don’t care if he fails me the next time. I will be writing every other assignment in the first person, present tense with female main characters purely out of spite.
“Thank you for your time,” I say, not feeling a single ounce of gratitude.
By the time I turn around, I’m already second-guessing myself.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe my voice isn’t ringing true because writers have to draw from their own experiences, and being loved the way my character is in this story isn’t something I know. Not to mention, I’m not even close to being a grandmother.
Screw this.
I shove my way through the classroom door, out of the building, and toward the grassy area where Danielle is waiting for me so we can carpool home in her book van.
I crumple my essay and slam it down into the nearest trash can.
She looks up from her book. “Rough class, I take it?”
I groan. “I can’t believe I’m paying good money to sit through this patriarchal bullshit.” I march toward her van, and she falls into step beside me.
“Uh-oh. What happened?”
I give Danielle the run-down of my latest encounter with Professor There’s-No-Such-Thing-As-A-Good-Female-Perspective.
“He did not.” She stops short, her dark ponytail swinging as she shakes her head. “That’s terrible. Are you going to report him?”
“For what? Not liking my story? It’s not against any rules for him to not like my work. If I complain, it will only look like I’m whining because I can’t handle criticism.”
“This is so frustrating. That jerk.”
“Yeah, well. What else is new? This is the kind of stupid thing women in the arts have been fighting against since the beginning of time.”
“We could always sic Honey on him.”
The thought makes me smile. “Ha. She could definitely take him down a peg or three. But I don’t need your grandma fighting my battles for me, no matter how much fun it would be to watch Ratface crumble under the force that is Honey Daniels.”
“We’ll keep her on stand-by.”
Knowing Danielle and Honey are in my corner does make me feel a little better.
I’m quiet on the ride home, preoccupied with thoughts about the next assignment for Ratnick. I already have a piece in mind that I think might work well, but I need to make quite a few tweaks so it fits the criteria, and I’m sure it will still only earn me another C. At this point, I’m not even sure why I’m still trying to make this writing dream work. Maybe I should just give up and try to find a full-time gig here in town. Edna would probably let me take over Danielle’s old shifts at The Blue Crab.
As I’m stewing, I get a text from the zoo. It’s a close-up picture of a small, furry rodent peeking its head out of a hole in the ground while it seems to look knowingly at the camera. My weekly prairie dog update never fails to make me smile, no matter how down I feel. The adorable animal pics always seem to come when I need them the most.
“At least you have book club tonight?” Danielle offers as we pull up to my house. “No grades required for that.”
“Good point. Thanks for the ride.” I hop out of the van and wave goodbye.
It’s meeting night for Spread Those Pages, but Danielle still can’t be convinced to join us. Not that I blame her. I can see how it would be weird to join an erotic book club founded by your grandma.
“Hey, Dad, I’m back,” I call out as I open the door. I immediately stub my toe on what I think is a carburetor. I swear under my breath and move into the kitchen to microwave the food I meal prepped, then I deliver it to him in his recliner in the living room.
He doesn’t acknowledge me or take his eyes off the TV when I set it on the tray next to him. There are days like this when my dad doesn’t say a word and days he spends enraged and yelling at the world and everyone in it simply for existing. Somehow, the quiet days are the worst ones.
“Did you take your shower yet?” I ask. The faded pink stains on his white tank top make me think it’s the same one he spilled tomato sauce on yesterday. He grunts and motions for me to step to the side so I’m not blocking his view.
Sighing, I spread a blanket over his lap and I pat his shoulder while I take in the rest of the room. I should really run the vacuum when I get home tonight, but I don’t know how to move all Dad’s junk out of the way if he’s not in the right frame of mind to help.
He’s always collected used car parts, but in the years since we lost my mom, the collection has gotten out of hand and slowly taken over the house. The big hunks of metal weigh too much for me to move on my own. I tell myself I’ll take care of it later, then try to push down the nagging realization that Dad always says the same thing about this mess, and it hasn’t been true yet.
“I need to head out again,” I pause, waiting for him to answer. He doesn’t. “But this time I won’t be as long.”
He shoos me again, grumbling a wrong answer at the game show he’s watching.
I grab my dog-eared copy of the book and the dish of strawberries and chocolate hummus I put in the fridge this morning. I pull the door closed as I leave. In the yard, I cross my fingers, saying a small prayer that Bertie will start before I turn the key in the ignition. I love the old girl, but she’s been giving me more than a few fits lately. Thankfully, she cooperates, and I manage to make it over to Fringe only a few minutes after six o’clock. Book club never starts on time anyway. Honey’s Honda pulls up next to me in the parking lot because she’s also fashionably late.
“What did you bring?”
“Strawberries from Mom’s garden and chocolate hummus.”
“Oh, don’t mind if I do.” Honey lifts the foil on my plate to swipe a berry, then she dries her hand on the front of her hot pink tunic, not seeming to care at all when strawberry juice drips on the fabric. “I haven’t been over to the garden yet this season, I didn’t realize you were doing strawberries.”
My mom loved to garden. When she passed away, Honey helped us start a community garden at the library in her honor. I try to get over there as often as I can.
“Brownies,” she says, flashing her own container as we walk into the yoga studio/beauty parlor where we’ve been holding our bi-monthly meetings since we got kicked out of the library. Apparently, someone complained that the content of our literature wasn’t appropriate for a taxpayer-supported space.
We cross through the empty hair studio and up the steps to the open yoga and dance space where the other ladies are already gathered.
“Hi, everyone,” I call out.
We’re greeted with a few waves, but for the most part, our arrival is lost in the commotion of the room as people pull folding chairs from the closet and voices echo off the wooden floors in all directions.
I set my plate of strawberries on the buffet table in the corner.
“Oh, good. The last of the stragglers have arrived,” Shelia Gibson says.
“Great, I’m starving.” Edna Plum makes a beeline for the food, and a few ladies join her while the rest of us continue setting up chairs in a big circle.
Mrs. Hayward, the retired high school science teacher, raises an eyebrow at Edna. “Didn’t you spend all day at the restaurant? You didn’t eat? You own the dang place.”
“Oh my gosh, who brought these sweet and sour meatballs? I love you,” my friend Regina gushes.
Honey nods her agreement. “Personally, I’m here for the cheese.”
“Can you believe this one? I fell in love so hard.” Regina grabs my elbow. She is already bouncing out of her skin, ready to talk about the book.
I laugh. “I feel like you say that every time.”
Regina’s a little older than I am, but she’s one of the few people here who is also under the age of forty. She loves this book club just as much as I do. Plus, as a single mom, she doesn’t get out with other adults much.
“Guilty. I can’t help it. I love them all. I’m sure I’ll love yours, too, if you ever let me read it.” She bumps me with her hip.
I hesitate before saying, “I might actually take you up on that this time.”
“Oooh, yes. Do.” Her eyes widen with her smile.
“I should warn you, my professor is definitely not a fan of my writing.”
“Pfft . What does he know? Send it my way. Pretty please?”
“I’ll think about it. No promises.”
“That’s what you always say. One of these days I’m going to wear you down and pry those pages away from you”
I grab a small paper plate and pile it high with pretzels, fruit, pickles, crackers, and anything else that doesn’t come from a cow. Then I wrap a stack of cookies that are labeled as dairy-free in a napkin.
“Bless your heart, I don’t know how you manage to eat all of that and keep your tiny little figure.” I don’t need to turn around to recognize Shelia Gibson’s voice. It’s lived in my head rent-free since the morning she found me in her house. She’s a master at the southern art of making something sound like a compliment when it’s really an insult. Or maybe it’s my imagination and she’s only trying to make polite conversation, but the way she paused slightly before the word “tiny” makes my insides tighten. I’m convinced everyone nearby understands her implication that real women have the curves I never will.
I lift a hand to rub the Tinker Bell tattoo on the back of my neck. People have used words like frail or lithe to talk about me for as long as I can remember. I know I have no control over what other women say or the fact that I stopped growing when I hit the fifth grade, but accepting my body doesn’t always come as easily for me when I’m cornered by yet another judgmental comment.
People have always called me Tinker Bell both behind my back and to my face. When you’re small, people think they can say whatever they want to you and it’s supposed to bounce right off. It used to bother me a lot more, until I realized Tinker Bell is kind of a badass. Eventually, I learned to embrace the nickname. I’m sure Shelia has plenty of feelings about my tattoo as well. I know she hates the sleeves covering Jake’s arms. Shelia’s really good at taking things that have nothing to do with her and getting offended by them.
“What I wouldn’t give,” she says, plucking a handful of grapes from the fruit tray with her perfectly manicured nails. The cool way her eyes scan over me leaves little doubt about her true feelings.
At least I know she won’t be staying long. She never does. Shelia Gibson wouldn’t be caught dead reading what she considers to be smut. Although I have my suspicions she reads the books in private, she only comes to the first half of each meeting, then she makes a big fuss about leaving before the discussion heats up. I assume she’s mostly here to get the latest gossip and steal a few recipes. Her husband, Ward, is even more uptight. Honey and I have a working theory that he’s the one who got Spread Those Pages removed from the library. I have no idea how the two of them produced Jake. Jacob Gibson might be a nerd, but he also has a reputation for getting around. I’ve heard plenty of stories from the girls we went to school with. Not that I care. He can sleep with whomever he wants.
“I suppose you’re delighted you and Jacob will be spending a lot of time together this spring.” Shelia raises her eyebrows while she nibbles a cracker. Then she brushes the crumbs from her hands onto a tissue she pulls from the pocket of her practical elastic-waist khakis.
“Not particularly, if I’m being honest. But there’s a lot to do now that Danielle is getting married, so we’ll work together and get it done.” I shrug. Shelia already knows how much work we have ahead of us since the wedding is literally in her back yard.
“I’m sure you will,” Shelia says, turning her back to me and taking another small cluster of grapes to add to her plate.
Danielle has always pictured getting married on that pier, and Shelia seems thrilled for the opportunity to host the social event of the year on her property. Although, I expect she’s more than a little chagrinned that it wasn’t Jake Danielle chose. She has already made it clear she isn’t happy about the fact that her son is being “snubbed” by the groom and will be forced to stand with the women instead.
Of course, to anyone capable of rational thought, it makes perfect sense for Jake to stand with his best friend at her wedding. Jake and I are Danielle’s co-maids of honor. Well, I’m the maid of honor. He’s whatever you’re supposed to call a dude in that position. I’ve started calling him the “male man of honor,” and it’s catching on because it made Honey laugh. Now she’s doing it, too. Jake has too much respect for his elderly neighbor to say anything, but I can see how much he hates it when we call him that. Which is exactly what makes it hilarious. Shelia finds it “unbelievable we would emasculate her son so publicly.” She’s said so multiple times.
I hate that my hand is shaking as I pop a berry into my mouth, but Shelia has always had an uncanny way of cutting straight to the center of my insecurities. Her eyes scan everyone constantly, as if she’s looking for your weaknesses so she can home in and point them out in front of everyone. It’s like everything she says to me has a double meaning. I’m not even sure she does it on purpose, but I’ve been watching her do the same thing to her son and the rest of our friends for our entire lives.
“I liked this book, but I thought it could use a little more spice.” We hear Honey’s throaty voice carry over all the other chatter in the room as she starts critiquing this month’s read. Although, it’s not actually a critique because she says the same thing about every single book. I’m not even sure she reads them thoroughly enough to talk about the plot. She probably just skims the pages until she finds a sex scene.
Since the discussion is starting, Shelia is done with us. “Well, ladies, that’s my cue to leave. Donna, the macaroni salad is excellent. Regina, please give my regards to little Emily.”
We wave our goodbyes. A few women exchange pointed looks with each other when she finally leaves. Everyone’s nice enough not to say anything out loud, but I have a feeling more than one person in this room is thinking the same thing I am. Good riddance .
“Well then,” Edna Plum says, “I guess it’s time to—”
“Spread! Those! Pages!” We all chant the name of our group to officially open the meeting. We go around the circle to share our thoughts, but my heart’s not in it because Shelia and Ratnick’s comments are still swirling in my head. I’m furious they have the power to get to me this much. I refuse to give them any more control.
By the time I get home, I’m worked up enough to gather my courage for the few minutes it takes to send off an email to Regina with my story attached.
Hey, Girl! This is what I’m working on. It’s a futuristic dystopian romance set in a matriarchal society. I really would appreciate your thoughts because you always have such insightful comments at book club. If you hate it, let’s pretend I never sent this. -A
I need to keep myself busy so I won’t overthink what I’ve just done. Sharing stories with strangers online is no problem. But there’s nothing that makes me more uncomfortable than exposing my work to people I know in real life.
I sigh and open a new file to do my actual job.
After crafting this week’s newsletter to my readers and making a gif for my social media, I close my laptop and head to my closet. I try on three dresses, jeans, and a faux leather skirt, but I still have no idea what to wear to Danielle’s bachelorette party. I shoot off a text to my group chat with Danielle and Regina.
Me: What’s everyone wearing to Danielle’s last hurrah as a single woman?
Regina: Thinking a sweater dress with boots and tights. Or a dressy top with leggings. P.S. Got your email. Can’t wait to read it!
Danielle : You sent your new story to Regina and not me?! No fair. Give up the goods, woman. I want a turn.
Danielle: And leggings and a cute sweater for me too, probably.
Me : Sweet. Sounds like that’s the uniform.
Danielle : Don’t think I didn’t notice the deflection. I WILL read that story. But yep. That’s the uniform. Except Jake. I doubt we could get our Male Man to agree. But he’s never backed down from a dare, so maybe we should try? Haha.
Me: That gives me an idea.
Regina : Uh-oh. I can only imagine what this involves. I’ve heard some scary things about your prank war. Remind me to never get on your bad side.
I text back a devil face emoji and laugh because, just like that, I know exactly what Jake’s going to be wearing to this party. I pull my laptop out again to place a quick order.