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After her week alone with Claire, Astrid reluctantly returned to school, to finish out ninth grade at Fairfax High. There, she was blissfully invisible. She came home from school each day to find Claire waiting for her with a sandwich and a glass of iced tea, a smile, questions.
At first it seemed weird and unnecessary. She'd had never come home to someone waiting for her before, someone looking forward to the sound of my key in the door, not even when she was a child. The only thing that came even remotely close was Sabine, asking about her latest painting. It felt like Claire was going
to accuse her of something, but that wasn’t it. She wanted to know about her composition on Edgar Allan Poe and her illustrations on the chambers of the heart and the circulation of the blood. She was sympathetic when Astrid got a D on an algebra test.
She asked about the other kids, but she didn’t have much to tell, not about these classmates. At the best of times, Astrid was never very sociable, and she felt more inclined to talk about her friends back at Fandom High over anyone at Fairfax. The kids there seemed so dull and uninteresting. School was a job, she did it and left. She had no intention of joining the Spanish club or Students Against Drunk Driving, no desire to hop right back into Student Council if her case worker didn't insist on it.
Besides, she had Claire now, waiting for her. That was all she needed.
“Did you have a nice day at school?” she’d ask, drawing up a chair at the little red-and-white kitchen table.
She had some mistaken notion that Fairfax was like high school where she grew up in Connecticut, despite the clear presence of metal detectors at every entrance. Astrid didn’t tell her about the free-for-alls on the school yard, muggings on the bus. A girl burned a cigarette hole into the back of another girl’s shirt at nutrition, right in front of Astrid, looking at Astrid, as if daring Astrid to stop her. She saw a boy being threatened with a knife in the hallway outside Spanish class. Girls talked about their abortions in gym class. Claire didn’t need to know about that. Astrid wanted the world to be beautiful for her. She wanted things to work out, because even if Fairfax made her ache for Fandom, nothing made her ache like this little bungalow. She always had a great day, no matter what.
That Saturday, Ron mowed the lawn, cutting the heads off the primroses, and then settled into reading some scripts. They had lox and bagels for breakfast, and Claire went to her ballet class. Astrid sat with her paints next to Ron at the table. She was getting used to him. He didn’t try to be any friendlier than she wanted him to be.
“How does Claire seem to you?” he asked all of a sudden. He looked at Astrid over the tops of his glasses like an old man.
“Fine,” Astrid said.
But she had some idea what he was talking about. Claire paced at night; Astrid heard her bare feet on the floorboards. She talked as if silence would crush her if she didn’t prop it up with a steady stream of sound. She cried easily. She took Astrid to the observatory and started crying in the star show. The April constellations.
“You have my pager number, you know. You can always reach me.”
Astrid kept painting the way the poinsettia looked against the white wall of the house. Like a shotgun blast, thinking about the postcards she'd sent out to Fandom earlier in the week. Would they be arriving any time soon? How long would it be to get a response, if anyone sent one? Maybe they'd never make it. Maybe it would be 26 years before they did...
Either way, she'd only sent the three.
( Postcard to Sabine. )
( Postcard to Norman. )
( Postcard to Mae. )
[[ first part from Chapter 16 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Postcards are obviously all me! Recipients, feel free to mod having recieved them whenever, if you like! Post open for phone calls, letters, messages by carrier pidgeon and/or morse code! ]]
At first it seemed weird and unnecessary. She'd had never come home to someone waiting for her before, someone looking forward to the sound of my key in the door, not even when she was a child. The only thing that came even remotely close was Sabine, asking about her latest painting. It felt like Claire was going
to accuse her of something, but that wasn’t it. She wanted to know about her composition on Edgar Allan Poe and her illustrations on the chambers of the heart and the circulation of the blood. She was sympathetic when Astrid got a D on an algebra test.
She asked about the other kids, but she didn’t have much to tell, not about these classmates. At the best of times, Astrid was never very sociable, and she felt more inclined to talk about her friends back at Fandom High over anyone at Fairfax. The kids there seemed so dull and uninteresting. School was a job, she did it and left. She had no intention of joining the Spanish club or Students Against Drunk Driving, no desire to hop right back into Student Council if her case worker didn't insist on it.
Besides, she had Claire now, waiting for her. That was all she needed.
“Did you have a nice day at school?” she’d ask, drawing up a chair at the little red-and-white kitchen table.
She had some mistaken notion that Fairfax was like high school where she grew up in Connecticut, despite the clear presence of metal detectors at every entrance. Astrid didn’t tell her about the free-for-alls on the school yard, muggings on the bus. A girl burned a cigarette hole into the back of another girl’s shirt at nutrition, right in front of Astrid, looking at Astrid, as if daring Astrid to stop her. She saw a boy being threatened with a knife in the hallway outside Spanish class. Girls talked about their abortions in gym class. Claire didn’t need to know about that. Astrid wanted the world to be beautiful for her. She wanted things to work out, because even if Fairfax made her ache for Fandom, nothing made her ache like this little bungalow. She always had a great day, no matter what.
That Saturday, Ron mowed the lawn, cutting the heads off the primroses, and then settled into reading some scripts. They had lox and bagels for breakfast, and Claire went to her ballet class. Astrid sat with her paints next to Ron at the table. She was getting used to him. He didn’t try to be any friendlier than she wanted him to be.
“How does Claire seem to you?” he asked all of a sudden. He looked at Astrid over the tops of his glasses like an old man.
“Fine,” Astrid said.
But she had some idea what he was talking about. Claire paced at night; Astrid heard her bare feet on the floorboards. She talked as if silence would crush her if she didn’t prop it up with a steady stream of sound. She cried easily. She took Astrid to the observatory and started crying in the star show. The April constellations.
“You have my pager number, you know. You can always reach me.”
Astrid kept painting the way the poinsettia looked against the white wall of the house. Like a shotgun blast, thinking about the postcards she'd sent out to Fandom earlier in the week. Would they be arriving any time soon? How long would it be to get a response, if anyone sent one? Maybe they'd never make it. Maybe it would be 26 years before they did...
Either way, she'd only sent the three.
( Postcard to Sabine. )
( Postcard to Norman. )
( Postcard to Mae. )
[[ first part from Chapter 16 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Postcards are obviously all me! Recipients, feel free to mod having recieved them whenever, if you like! Post open for phone calls, letters, messages by carrier pidgeon and/or morse code! ]]
