between the lines || allouette + august

between the lines || allouette + august Dec 18, 2023 22:26:02 GMT -5

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Post by xov thao 12b [Bella] on Dec 18, 2023 22:26:02 GMT -5

A U G U S T V A N C E
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In the din of the school lunchroom, my mouth stuffed full of peanut butter and jelly mush, I feel a tap on my shoulder. The guy next to me covertly slides a folded piece of paper across the tabletop. Swallowing, I unfold it and pull the corners tight. A sense of relief floods through me. Thank Ripred she didn’t turn me down.

All chances of divine intervention aside, I am about to fail literature class if I don’t do something about it. As I sit here eating this sandwich, my grade teeters precariously in the mid-D range. I am all out of excuses. First it was Tallulah getting the flu; I had promised I would stay home to take care of her while my aunt, our guardian, was at work. In that 5-day period, I might have missed some crucial notes on symbolism and foreshadowing. But even after catching up (or so I thought), I felt like the entire class knew something that I didn’t. How was it that after one reading, almost everyone grasped the meaning of a new poem while I sat there scratching my head? Was I an idiot, or was there some kind of secret code?

And then there was Allouette. This morning, the teacher had passed out a poem that talked in riddles about sunsets and fruit, something like that. It was total gibberish to me—and seemed mushy and sentimental, like my dad reminiscing while drunk during the holidays—but I listened, hoping it would get more interesting. But by the end I felt cheated into feeling even more boredom than I had already tolerated in Literature class. The teacher asked a simple enough question: What does it mean? I looked around at my peers in disbelief at the obvious question. It was about what it said it was about, wasn’t it? Orchards and sunsets and sentimental drunk people thoughts. What was there to discuss?

But Allouette had raised her hand and answered with an air of total confidence that it was about something totally different. Unrequited love and the ephemeral quality of life itself. Something like that; I don’t remember exactly. All I remember was that I started to flip my paper over, scanning it front to back, peering over my classmates’ shoulders to make sure we all had the same poem. But yeah, it was the same one. “Flawless interpretation,” said the teacher.

So it turns out I just suck at poetry. Maybe this was what another teacher had really meant with that underhanded compliment a few weeks back. “Stick to woodworking, August. You’re a natural.”

But this morning, as I sat there with my jaw hanging open, staring at Allouette, I formed an idea: if there was a secret code, surely she could give me a few hints on it. Right then, I ripped off a square of notebook paper and penned my question before I could talk myself out of it. In my best handwriting, I wrote: "Allouette—can you teach me how you did that? If so, I’ll be home all evening—just tell me what time. I’ll owe you a big favor. Please.” Persuasive or pleading? There was no denying it: I was desperate. By the end of the note I had written more than anticipated, and the words were crammed into the jagged corners of the paper. I folded it in quarters and passed it through a chain of hands to Allouette just before class was dismissed.

Now, in the lunch room, I double-check the time she’s written on the back of the note (I hadn’t left her any space really). Five o’clock. That leaves me just enough time to walk the girls home from school, cook something, and shower before she gets there. Suddenly I think I should have written some preferred times, and I wish she would have picked six. But I’m not exactly in a position to negotiate the schedule. Shit, I forgot to write my address. Will she know where I live? I vaguely remember her having passed by my neighborhood at some point, but I’m not sure.

The rest of the day passes in a flurry of activity--there are too many things to do and the tutoring session heavy on my mind. After I finally make it home with my sisters, scramble some leftovers in a frying pan, wolf them down, and scrub myself clean in the shower, I stand in the kitchen and wonder what to do next. It’s a humble little place: there’s a small gas stove, a counter with a bread box, a fridge that’s been in my family for a few too many generations. A square oak table and four chairs, all made by my dad, the former topped with a crochet doily made by my mother. The once-white doily has started to yellow with age and woodsmoke, one of the few things I’ve kept from my mother. I try not to follow that train of thought.

I glance at the ticking wooden clock on the kitchen wall. Fifteen minutes left.

Suddenly, I glance around, wondering if it will be too messy for Allouette, who always seems to be so well-kept. Really, we’re tidy people on the whole, but the place does look “lived in.” Through the doorway to the adjacent room that I use as a makeshift workshop, some planks of wood lie strewn over the floor in a pile of sawdust, tools scattered around them. Last night, I had been up too late working on a small bookshelf commissioned by one of the neighbors. Halfway through, I had felt myself falling asleep, so I left everything in a pile and went to bed. Handling a circular saw while sleep-deprived was a mistake I had learned to avoid after the last winter, when I lost a half-inch of my pinky at 3 am and had to cauterize it on the gas stove before my aunt saw. Never again.

I start to tidy up the pieces, thinking about my ugly, stubby finger, then about my never-ending to-do list, when I hear a polite knock at the door. I leave the rest of the debris in place, hoping she won’t even notice. For some reason, I run a hand through my messy brown curls, as if this will make my perpetual bedhead any better. Then finally, I turn the knob.

“Hey. Thanks for coming. I really owe you one.” I gesture towards the kitchen. “Come in. Make yourself at home.” Wow, I sound like a robot. My hand scratches the back of my neck automatically, a nervous tick I’ve never managed to quit. Why do I feel nervous? “Uh… can I get you a beer?”