Within Close Range - The Pressure of Writing

She'd move up and down the rows of desks, filled with tiny, crouched figures, hovering over lined paper and clutching #2 pencils. Filling the aisle with her middle-age width and Avon perfume, I'd feel the warmth of her body and breath as she leaned over me and sighed.

We'd been here before.

I just wasn't getting this pencil-holding thing.

I thought I was doing it right. The letters on my paper looked pretty much like everyone else's.

Pretty much.

But every time she stopped at my desk, she'd gently, but very firmly cup her hand over mine and squeeze, until she forced my tiny, anxious fingers to curl around the long, yellow pencil with the well-worn pink eraser.

"A firm grasp," she'd say, trying to sound patient about my substandard pencil holding ability, "is the key to proper penmanship, my dear."

Not wanting to disappoint her - again - I'd clench that pencil as if my very breathing depended on it, until my fingers cramped from it, and the lead of the pencil pressed so hard against the paper that the letters bulged through the opposite side.

When she asked us to turn our papers over and sit quietly until everyone finished, I'd close my eyes and feel each raised letter with my fingertips.

Never wondering whether any one else had to press that hard.

Work that hard.

To form the letters and words which would help me write the sentences already anxious to burst forth.

I'll be 53 in a few days.

And I still clutch my pencil 'til it hurts.

Squeezing out the letters, words, sentences still anxious to burst forth.

Within Close Range - An Evening with Officer Guildemeister

I've been sitting here for hours.

Staring at the damn floor.

Finding haunted, frightened faces in the contours of the dark slate floor.

Not knowing whether to be relieved that the person who most recently came through the door wasn't Dad.

Officer Gildemeister keeps checking on me through the sliding glass window that separates the lobby from the rest of the station.

Like I'm a possible flight risk.

Asshole.

I know he's just doing his job, but was this really necessary?

Dragging me in for a lousy can of beer?

I don't even like beer.

It was just handed to me.

I'm not sure I even took a sip of it before all hell broke loose.

How is it that everyone saw the cop car enter the St. Mary's parking lot but me -

and the guy who got busted with his bong?

But even he's been released.

Where the hell are my parents?

... It's on constant rewind in my brain.

Bright headlights.

Beers flying.

Friends scattering.

Indistinct voices, shouting for me to run.

And what do I do?

I stand - frozen and confused - and hide the full, icy cold beer behind my back.

They'd never find it there.

Idiot.

Why did I ever agree to leave the dance?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I should have just stayed and listened to The Barlowe Pierce Band. It's the only reason I went to that stupid dance in the first place.

Let's be honest here, CHUCK was the only reason I went.

And for what? I'm just a shadow in a crowd of two that hangs out in Mark's basement when the band practices; tagging along with Betsy, Mark's backyard neighbor, who (like the best friend she is) makes me believe I have a chance, even though I know it's bullshit.

Maybe if I wasn't so quiet.

So easily ruffled.

So unbelievably uncomfortable with boys.

So... not... me.

"Still no word from your parents. Is there someone else I can call?"

Crap crackers! Who in god's name can he call?

Stop staring, for god's sake, I'm thinking.... The Villates!

"The Villates."

"You are aware they have to be adults?"

"Dr. and Mrs."

Asshole.

He thought I was talking about Rick or Bob.

I'm not surprised the Lake Forest Police Department and Officer Guildemeister knows them.

I know what he thinks about my sister's boyfriend and his brother -  with their long, dark hair, ripped jeans, big, cocky smiles and bigger, cockier laughs; with their fast cars and motorcycles - Rick's cherry red Moto Guzzi, which I can hear coming down Shoreacres Road to pick Chris up from a mile away

I can see it in his soulless, pitiless, squinty, little eyes.

Dirty, hippy punks.

But if he wants to get rid of me,  the Villates are his only choice.

Please, Mrs. Villate, please be home.

___________


That's got to be her pulling into the parking lot.

Unmistakable - that tiny, fast-moving frame, topped in a tousle of blonde.

Can't think of any smile as great as Mrs. Villate's right now.

So big.

So generous.

So forgiving.

It won't be there long, though, here comes Officer Iceberg-up-my-ass.

"Well, are you going to tell her why you're here, young lady?"

"She doesn't have to tell me anything she doesn't want to."

Don't smile, Anne. Just look at the ground and suppress urge to hug Mrs. Villate 'til later. Holy crap, I love this little, German woman. This tiny, lovely mother of my sister's really cool boyfriend.

"I'll be contacting your parents tomorrow, young lady."

I'm sure you will, Officer Dickhead.

Let's go, oh smallest, greatest - and by far the very sweetest of all our family friends.

You're about to get a tearful-fuckin-earful.


_____________


"He's never gonna call. He was just trying to scare you."

I know Chris has more experience in this matter than I do, but really? Officer Evil isn't going to follow through on his biggest bust of the evening?

"He's not going to call - and even if he does - which he won't - Mom and Dad will be gone all morning, so I'll just pretend to be Mom... But he's not going to call. I promise."

"Really? He seemed pretty serious."

"He was just trying to scare you."

"Okay, if you say so."

I really want to believe you, Chris. Especially because you appear remarkably calm about all of this. You must know what you're talking about, After all, who hitchhiked all the way to Florida with her boyfriend when she was 14? You did, my paved-a-wide-path, eldest sibling.

_____________

Half the day gone.

The phone hasn't rung once.

Still no sign of Mom and Dad.

Gina and Mary are here and we're hanging in the guest house on this gloriously cop-free Saturday morning. Feeling pretty goo-who would be calling this phon-FUCK!

"Hello?"

"Anne Elizabeth."

FUCK!!

"Officer Guildemeister just called."

FUCK!!!

"Please come into the house and tell your cousins they should head home."

FUCKETY-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK!!!!!

"Officer Guildemeister just called. My dad wants to talk to me."

Say something, ladies, I'm about to head to my execution.

"Bummer."

Thanks, Gina, that's helpful - and wipe that smirk off your face. And Mary, you look more frightened than I do. Also... not helpful.

" I think I'm going to puke."

_____________

Probably should have brought my dirty dishes downstairs. That's not going to help matters and I could do without Dad pointing at me with that butter knife.

"...irresponsible AND your name on a police record..."

He's really pissed.

"...lack of trust..."

This really sucks.

"Your mother and I are very disappointed in you."

Sigh.

"...haven't decided your punishment..."

I don't even like beer.

"And clean this filthy room!"

Damn my crappy night vision.

Damn my crush.