Streetball

It’s not that playing Barbie wasn’t fun. She loved making up stories; her Barbie Theresa had run a bakery for several years before deciding to open her own hair salon. This life change did correspond with the arrival of Beauty Salon Barbie, it’s true, but had more to do with her marriage to Ken than anything. Tiffany Alvarez and her other friends never wanted to make up stories. They played Barbie according to an exacting and unspoken set of rules that all but Charlie seemed to understand.

When Charlie suggested that Theresa (who they continued to call “Barbie” despite her protestations) might divorce Ken to find happiness elsewhere, they all grew silent, looking at one another with grave eyes. “You can’t do that.” Tiffany said eventually. “Yeah, it’s wrong.” Kelly Long piped up. Kelly Long was always piping up. Charlie knew they were the ones who were wrong, but something about the expectant stares surrounding her told her not to question them.

Streetball was easier. In streetball, there were no unspoken rules, because there were no spoken rules either. It was a game of passion—a game of doing—and the person who could do it the best won. Simple. Of course there were some rules, but they were basically common sense. Punches were restricted to below the neck; a guy throws the ball at your face and you bleed, you can sit out, but that’s a fair move—he gets the ball; boys can knee each other between the legs, but Charlie can’t. That was the one rule Charlie never understood.

Still, she felt it was fair, given the time Jonathan Bitner kneed her between the legs and her vision went black. All the other boys fell upon him like puppies scrambling for a mother’s teat; punching and kicking and clawing at his hair while she dry-heaved. “You can’t do that to a girl!” And she was thankful that when she went home afterwards, they pretended not to notice the tears in her eyes, and didn’t make fun of her for wussing out.

Not that they never made fun of her for being “a sissy girl”. It was their favorite thing to call one another and her favorite thing to roll her eyes at, but the more streetball she played, the more she understood the taunt’s power. From one boy to another, it was a simple insult, easy as “fart brain” or “nut breath”, but from her it was a declaration of war. The scorned boy—still recovering from whatever earned him the label—would return to the game: harder, faster, more aggressive, spitting blood and kicking dust until another boy was hurt, another “sissy girl” was crowned.

The first time she was hurt so badly that tears sprang to her eyes, the boys chanted “Sissy girl! Sissy girl!” like a broken record, the sound warped with effort. From among them, Jonathan Bitner shouted, “Not tough enough to play with the boys?” and the others laughed. They called her a crybaby and cheerfully gave her the option to go home and play with her Barbies so they could play “real” Streetball, as if her elbow smashing into Sammie Slaussen’s nose didn’t break it—as if they didn’t wait outside her door at night to make even teams—as if she didn’t matter at all.

She learned to “suck it up” like her dad told her brothers when they came home tear-stained after a fight. When Tommy Gilcrest threw the ball at the budding mounds of flesh on her chest, she threw it back twice as hard. When Jonathan bruised her rear with a powerful smack, she punched him in the jaw and knocked out a tooth. The physical distraction was the best band-aid she ever had, but limited itself to bodily injuries.

Charlie hit age 9 like a brick wall. Her body was growing, but she didn’t think it was growing the right way. Suddenly, her arms were too long and her hips too wide. Her face broke out in oily pimples and she was sweating all the time. The boys took to making fun of her appearance instead of her ability to make a basket. They called her “big butt” and “grease pan”, and with each word, her insecurity grew. She would never be like them; puberty would only make her more different.

Most of the time their insults were fine, their juvenile tone reminding her how foolish and wrong they were. On occasion, however—usually when she one-upped them at the net—their words grew too big for them. It was these that stuck with her, a greasy film coating her heart. During these times, it was especially bad to show any sign of weakness. She cried when Jonathan called her a fat lesbo. She didn’t know what the second word meant, but the way he spit it out like it wasn’t something human made her cry harder. The next week, the boys almost didn’t let her play for fear of another “girl tantrum”.

She learned to “suck it up” in a new way. Quite literally, she sucked the inside of her cheek. When their taunts became too cruel and she felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes, she bit the inside of her cheek, sucking it raw and making it bleed. It hurt, of course, but still held less sting than the boys’ rebukes.

When she needed to nurse her wounds, she stayed home and read a book, or went to a girlfriend’s house where her problems were met with a chorus of “Boys are dumb”. She always laughed and agreed—of course they were! But the next morning she was on her way to the basketball courts, nails sharpened for another round of street ball.

 

The Bee

 

I wrote this more than a year ago in my creative writing class.  Obviously it’s not great, but I had a lot of fun writing from two very different perspectives.  My goal for this summer is to write more prose–we’ll see what happens!

Richard pulls into a spot across from Kensington Academy, the only private elementary school in the Onassa district, at 3:05 on the dot. With his Armani suit, strong jaw, and perfectly gelled salt and pepper hair, he could be mistaken for George Clooney. And just like George Clooney, he looks totally out of place in this setting. He’s lucky he made it on time; any longer and the soccer moms and their vans would have overtaken the entire street. The last time he had to pick Gwen up from school, he made the mistake of getting in the carpool lane. Two buffs and a paint job later, the scratch that bitchy woman in the red SVU left on his new BMW had all but vanished. 3:08. He taps the face of his Rolex as if making the watch aware of the time will somehow convince it to move faster. Gwen is only seven; what could possibly be taking her so long? It’s not like she has a two clients waiting on her at the courthouse.

“Gwen!” She’s already halfway out the classroom door when Mrs. Monroe calls her. She contemplates ignoring her, but quickly shuts that idea down when she hears Mrs. Monroe waving the painting she made in art back and forth above her head. The paper sounds stiff, like a giant kite. She pushes past the leaving kids to Mrs. Monroe’s desk at the front of the classroom, looking up at her expectantly. “You almost forgot your painting!” Gwen rocks up on her tiptoes to grab it, barely remembering to shout “Thank you!” as she sprints out of the classroom.

It’s 3:10 when Gwen finally stumbles out the front of the school, her rain boots causing her to take big, clunky steps on the dry sidewalk. She comes to a quick halt, squinting in the sun. Richard honks his horn once, twice, three times until she spots his car. She runs over, her braids flopping against her head. With her poncho, short overalls, and boots, she looks like she dressed in the dark. When she finally reaches the car, he gets out and opens the side door for her. She’s dinged it against another car one too many times. With a last look at the now almost empty schoolyard, he slides back into the driver seat. “Bit sunny for rain boots, isn’t it?”

“I know, but I like ‘em.” Gwen says, clicking her heels in the backseat. Richard huffs.

“No one will take you seriously if you don’t know how to dress for the weather.” Gwen stops clicking her heels.

“I’m dressed for every weather because I like to be prepared. You always tell me to be prepared.” She smiles and resumes the rhythmic clap of her heels, pleased with herself for coming up with such a grown-up answer. Richard falters. He’s not sure how to respond, so he just nods his head and twitches his finger against the wheel until the silence doesn’t feel so uncomfortable.

A few minutes later, and they’re turning down Hickory Street. It’s Gwen’s favorite street, especially in the fall. The leaves on the trees that border either side of it are a mess of reds, oranges, and yellows. If she shakes her head back and forth fast enough, she can convince herself that they’re flames, and it makes her feel powerful. She silently bets that her dad couldn’t light the trees on fire with his eyes. A slight breeze causes them to stir, and she sucks on her hair while she watches sunlight pour through the branches and leaves tumble to the ground.

“We had a spelling test today.”

“Hm?” Richard glances into the rearview mirror to see Gwen staring nervously at him, still sucking on her hair. She takes a giant breath.

“We had a spelling test. In class today. I got 100% and Mrs. Monroe gave me a sticker.” She stops, waiting to see if he’ll cut her off. When he doesn’t, she continues. “Yeah, she gave me a sticker. I like Mrs. Monroe, but I think she talks about her divorce too much for a teacher. And she wears too much perfume and it makes my nose itch and then I sneeze. I always sneeze. But she gave me a sticker ‘cause I was the best speller so I don’t mind that she makes me sneeze today.” Richard adjusts the mirror so he can’t see her as easily. Gwen’s stare is intense and it makes him feel like he’s 25 and incapable of changing a diaper, 26 and trying to hold it together—a baby, a career, Claire in the hospital—27 and unsure how to move forward without her.

“That’s nice. Stop sucking on your hair. That’s a filthy habit.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She removes the end of her braid from her mouth, smoothing it as best she can. It sticks together, uncooperative.

“Don’t be sorry. Just fix it and move on.” Nodding, she says,

“Right. Sorry.” She smacks her forehead dramatically. “Oops.”

“You know no one will take you seriously if you’re always sorry.”

“How do you do that?” She brushes her fingers through her hair, pretending to be very fascinated by it.

“Hm? What?” He cranes his neck, making eye contact briefly before turning to face the road again.

“Make someone take you seriously. How do you do that?” She stops playing with her hair and leans forward, expectant. He shifts in his seat, clearing his throat as he does when he addresses a rich client. Speak clear and even, and they’ll trust every word you say. He’s not sure what qualifies as “serious” for a seven-year-old, but business, respect, and most importantly, manipulating people, are his areas of expertise. Gwen sighs dramatically, still awaiting his reply.

“Well…Gwen.” He clears his throat once more. “The first step is to appear confident. Do you know what that means?” She nods enthusiastically in the rear-view. “Good. The key to appearing confident is body language. You have to stand tall with your head held high, no looking at the ground when you walk.” Gwen adjusts herself to sit up straighter, the subtlety of the movement ruined as she lifts her chin so high she’s forced to peer over her nose. Richard makes a mental note to tell everyone at work about it. “And once your body language says you’re confident, people will assume you know what you’re talking about.” His daughter’s brow scrunches in confusion.

“That’s it? That’s all I have to do?” Richard nods.

“That, and speak up. People respect someone they can hear.” She takes a moment to contemplate this. It makes sense. Straightening her spine again, she clears her throat.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?” Her words remind him:

“Oh, and don’t ask so many questions. Make statements. It shows more authority.”

“Okay. Dad I would like to invite you to my spelling bee this Thursday.” He chuckles at her sudden formality.

“This Thursday?” Excited by his responsiveness, her grown-up façade disappears quicker than she put it on.

“Yeah! At four in the auditorium! It’s me and a bunch of other kids in third and fourth grade! There’s only a few of us from second grade but I’m in it ‘cause I did good on my spelling test today; you know, the one I told you about?” By the time she’s done, they’re pulling up to their house. Richard cellphone lets out a single beep and he stops in front without turning off the ignition to check it. Gwen falters. “…Dad?” Still typing on his phone, he replies without glancing up.

“I’ll try my best to make it. I have to go into work right now, but you tell Rosa to make you dinner, okay?” She nods, defeated. As she watches his car roll down the drive, she’s surprised when he stops. The window rolls down. “Thursday at 4?” He shouts, and her heart does little flip-flops.

“THURSDAY AT 4!”

It’s 3:55 on Thursday. Gwen peeks around the stage right curtain to stare into the audience. She can only make out a handful of shapes in the darkness beyond the stage lights. Some of them are bigger than others, probably dads. She hopes one of them is her dad. Sighing, she closes the curtain and returns to the group of second-graders getting ready to compete backstage. Mrs. Monroe is already giving a speech about being proud and trying your hardest, but Gwen can’t concentrate because what if her dad isn’t in the audience? Or even worse, what if he is and she messes up? She’s pulled back into the moment when her classmates begin clapping. The groups of second, third, and fourth graders are dispersing and moving onto the stage to find their seats. Gwen trails behind them, knowing her last name means she’ll be in one of the last rows of carefully arranged blue chairs. She walks down the second-to-last aisle until she sees one with the nametag “Riesner, Gwen” on the seat.

The label sticks to her fingers as she peels the crinkly paper off the back and sticks it to the right side of the pink oxford shirt her grandpa bought her on her seventh birthday. Her father said Ralph Lauren was a “quality brand”. She’s still not sure what that means, but he was smiling when he said it and Rosa told her it was nice. Gwen wanted to look nice for the spelling bee. She sits down in her seat and fiddles with a string coming loose from her tweedy—no, tweed—skirt. Rosa always has to remind her that it’s tweed. The sound of someone clearing his throat signals her to look up. Principal Petrakis is at the microphone. He taps his finger against the mic three times. When the students finally quiet down, he leans towards the microphone, his wet and ragged breaths echoing throughout the room before he begins to speak.

“Good afternoon, students, parents, and faculty. Welcome to Kensington Academy’s 33^rd Annual Spelling Bee. I am Principal Petrakis, and I’m excited to announce that we’ve got a talented bunch of second through fourth graders here with us today. I was lucky enough to walk in on a practice round the other day, and let me tell you, the competition was fierce. Kensington Academy holds a long tradition of excellence in this area, and who knows? We might just have a future Scripps National Spelling Bee winner among us. Thank you for coming today, and without further ado, here is second-grade teacher Mrs. Monroe to start us off with the rules.” Gwen squirms in her seat, craning her neck to try and see past the tall fourth graders in front of her and into the audience. It’s no use. They’re too tall. But it’s fine; her dad’s probably in there somewhere.

The first four rounds of the bee go by quick. Gwen gets tripped up in the third round by the second ‘i’ in “conciliatory”, but she remembers it just in time and saves herself from elimination. Every time she makes the journey from her chair to the mic, she scans the crowd as best she can, hoping she’ll finally see a familiar face. No luck yet, but she isn’t letting herself dwell on it beyond that. Her father can do what he wants. She has a spelling bee to win.

Cyndi Lauper is a goddess.

She once said “If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me time after time.”  And that pretty accurately sums up my relationship with this blog.

It’s one of those things I always forget, and sometimes when I do remember that it exists, I pretend it doesn’t anyway.  “You’re busy”, I tell myself.  “You have too much schoolwork–DO YOUR SCHOOLWORK”, “Your screenplay is what you need to be writing–WRITE YOUR DAMN SCREENPLAY”, and on and on until I’ve thought about writing so much that I’m sick of it before I’ve begun.

This would be fine if I didn’t, ya know, want to be a writer.  Like for my job.  My career.  The thing my future emotional and monetary well-being depends upon.  I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, which is probably pretty obvious given my constant grimace and bulk purchase of adult diapers.

But that’s how adulthood makes me feel right now: like a baby about to shit itself.  I know I’m not alone here–Walgreen’s dwindling stock of Depends is proof enough–but it’s easy to forget my fellow liberal arts majors are in the same boat when I’m paralyzed by thoughts of personal failure, ‘chu know?  A cool thing that made me chill out for a second was this article by my buddy Deirdre.  She’s got it figured out, bless her heart, and in her article, she emphasizes focusing on what you love and just DOING it.

That’s the great thing about my career choice: all you have to do to be a writer is WRITE.  So after an insightful look into the Alanis Morissette-filled void that is my mind, I guess this is my long-winded way of saying this blog is back.  I’m going to try and post once a week at the very least, and it’ll probably be more broad content than the short stories and creative writing assignments you see on here now.

In addition to organizing my closet and getting my mental health on track (which is happening, yay!), my spring cleaning this year will involve posting some of my old writing–stories I meant to edit and never did, half-baked satirical articles, maybe even some late-night feminist rants that have not yet seen the light of day.  Hopefully, putting these things into the world will make it a little easier to update consistently and #MakeThisBlogGreatAgain.  I know a face lift wouldn’t hurt it, either, so re-formatting is on the spring cleaning list!

If you like what I’ve written in the past, or you find some shred of this post relatable, I encourage you to come back.  It’s easy to be “caught up in circles”, and “confusion is nothing new”, but as the great Cyndi Lauper once said, “If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me [posting new material on Facebook] time after time”.

Love and word vomit,

Courtney

Character Exercises: Meet Beth

I wrote this short character profile a while back for my creative writing class.  This blog is lacking in content and if I don’t post it now, this shit will sit in my files and clog my computer’s memory forever, so I’m releasing it into the webosphere as a gift to you.  Enjoy!

Elisabeth Crowley is 24. Anyone who’s close with her calls her Beth. She has been singing since she was three, opera training since she was 11. She was born in a suburb of rainy Seattle, a place that seemed grey and dull even on a sunny day. Her family was as close to poor as can be without actually being poor. Her father Charles—he goes by Chuck—worked in a factory; they were close until he started drinking more when she was 6. Her mother Pam was a secretary at the local Planned Parenthood. When her mother was at home, she was usually sleeping—Beth never saw her much. Neither of her parents really encouraged her passion for singing, but she and her little brother Charlie would put on plays and dance around the house. He used to be a great dancer, but now models and does coke in LA. Last time she saw him, he looked sick but happy. She tries to call him at least once a month to check up on him. Beth fueled her own passion for singing. Her family couldn’t afford lessons, and no one in her house except Charlie was much for music, anyway, so she wasn’t exposed to opera until she was 10 and they watched part of Carmen in her music class. She went to the library the next day and borrowed the VHS, watching the opera as many times as she could before it was due.

Beth is 24 and has thick dark brown hair that hangs halfway down her back in big, loose curls. It’s the kind of hair that is good for putting up and styling, something the hair and makeup designers who work on her always appreciate. Her favorite way to wear it is in a loose bun or pushed back with a headband, but most of the time she wears it down and parted on the right so she looks put-together and marketable to casting directors. She has what her dad always called an “Orion’s belt” of moles on her upper left forehead, right near her hairline. Some days she likes them, and others she’s thankful her hair covers them. She also has a freckle on her bottom lip, right in the middle. It’s not very visible unless you’re very close and she’s not wearing lipstick, which she almost always is in public. Her face is symmetrically pretty, like a woman in a Renaissance fresco. She has a thin, pointed nose and high cheekbones, somewhat offset by her ears, which are a little large and tend to stick out when they’re not hidden beneath a curtain of her hair. Her cheeks are usually pink, which always causes someone to assume she’s cold, hot, or embarrassed depending on the season. Beth’s eyes are wide and amber brown. Her eyelashes are short and she used to have a unibrow before the makeup designer at the community theatre taught her how to shape her eyebrows in 7^th grade. She has a slight overbite and large teeth that she’s always been self-conscious about. When she’s around new people, she covers her mouth when she laughs. Her body is an hourglass shape. She has big hips but could otherwise be described as skinny. She walks as if her spine were a rod. In public, her posture is perfection. When she’s alone or very tired, her childhood tendency to slouch into herself reveals itself. She has small feet for her height—size 6 on her 5’4’’ frame—with high arches from years of dancing. There’s a mole on each of her hipbones; if you connected them, it would make a line straight across her lower stomach. A horse stepped on her right foot when she was five; her big toe on that foot has been messed up since. She almost always maintains a pleasant demeanor when walking down the street and dealing with people, though her face is expressive and if she’s caught off guard, it will betray her instantly. When she talks to people, she stands close enough that they are forced to pay attention to her, but not so close that she makes them uncomfortable. Often, she’ll touch the person—resting a hand on their arm, or clasping their hand until the conversation ends.

Beth’s wardrobe could best be described as preppy chic. She always has a pair of earrings in; usually pearls (fake; she’s not made of money, jeez), or if she’s going to an audition, she wears bigger earrings—hoops or Gypsy-like chandelier earrings depending on the part. She likes printed dresses and blouses, flowing and clean-cut skirts, and structured jackets. One of her favorite outfits is a taupe floral dress with big red flowers synched by a skinny red belt, paired with cork wedges and a denim jacket. She loves to shop at Salvation Army and in vintage stores. When in doubt, she goes to TJ Maxx to find designer clothes on clearance. She can’t afford the clothing her peers wear, but she can pretend. The one truly expensive accessory she owns is a silver bracelet one of her first boyfriends in New York gave her. He was rich, generous, and in love with her, but even these perks couldn’t change her lack of romantic attraction to him. At this point, it’s so a part of her person that she forgets it came from someone else.

Beth just moved out of an apartment she was renting in Astoria in New York to move to Vienna for 18 months for an opera workshop that could result in the offer of a spot in the Vienna State Opera company. They’re doing Don Carlo this season and nothing would make her happier than to be a part of it. Because of the move, she had to leave a lot of her possessions behind. Not that she’s ever been one for big possessions, anyway. Trying to have an opera career forces her to do a lot of traveling, and she’s constantly in cities where having a car or even a boat would be pointless. The biggest thing that she brings with her when she moves is a travel trunk from the 1940’s. It was her grandmother’s and has stickers detailing all the places she’d been. Occasionally, when she has a chance to buy them, Beth adds new stickers to mark her travels.

Though she still can’t keep too many things, she has more small possessions. Her fairly extensive wardrobe travels everywhere with her, packed in duffel bags and suitcases. She has a lot of jewelry, as well, some of it costume, some precious gifts from family members and ex-boyfriends. She brings a framed photo of her and Charlie dressed as Power Rangers for Halloween at ages 8 and 5 with her every time she moves. She was the yellow one, and he the red. They’re laughing like idiots in it—nothing makes her smile more. She also values her journals for the way they remind her how she’s changed since she left Seattle at 19.

Opera is her passion and has been since she started lessons at age 11, late for someone wanting to do it professionally, but not so late that her dream would be impossible. She’s had other interests over the years: a brief period in 9^th grade when she thought that being popular and on the cheerleading team was more important than music, a horse phase from 8-10, learning guitar when she dated that guy in a band, and most recently, knitting to relax, though she hasn’t felt compelled to work on the scarf she was making for over a month, so that too may become obsolete soon. Rarely does Beth attend movies—she’s too antsy to sit in a theatre that long—but she’ll watch documentaries on the History channel for hours and can somehow manage to sit through a four hour-long opera with ease. She doesn’t read too many books, either, but she likes to reread her favorite, The Catcher in the Rye, once every year.

One Time My Teacher Asked Me to Write a Letter to “An Entity Unlikely to Respond”…

…so naturally I wrote about poop.  Enjoy.

Dear Lady in the Bathroom at Wendy’s,

You probably don’t remember my mom, sisters, and I, but we remember you. The story of the brief moments we shared together is one my family tells as often and vividly as your exclamations that day you decided to poop in the Wendy’s bathroom. Please don’t think we’re making fun of you—on the contrary, I respect you. It takes a lot of courage to do anything with an audience, especially that. I can barely urinate in a public restroom for fear of judgment. The way you burst into the room certainly made a statement, your declaration “I gots to go!” erasing all doubt of your intentions from our mind. You were in your element.

And then the sounds began. Noises like I’ve never heard before, only punctuated by your prayers to “Sweet Baby Jesus”. I don’t know if the Lord’s power extends to the hellholes that are Wendy’s bathrooms, but for your sake, I hope that Sweet Baby Jesus sent you some aid, and/or several rolls of toilet paper. Of course we’ve all been there, but most of us haven’t been there in a public restroom, and your fortitude and eager embrace of the situation inspires me to this day.

The expression on my mother’s face as you dropped your sick bowel beat is one I’ll never forget. Up to that point in my life, I had witnessed nothing but strength and fortitude from my mother in times of despair, but you, dearest toilet lady, changed all that. What I saw on my mother’s face was pure, unabashed terror that halted my sisters’ stifled giggles in their tracks. With racehorse speed, she pumped paper towels from the dispenser and pressed them into our tiny hands. “Dry your hands and run before the smell hits!” She hissed, loud enough that you probably would have heard if your butt hadn’t been rehearsing its very own STOMP routine.

While it was probably for the best that my mom whisked us out of there the second our hands were washed, I thank you for sharing that intimate moment with my sisters and I. The resulting story is one that has cheered up many people I know, and bonded me to others as we discuss the embarrassing bodily functions that bind all poople—er, people—together.

You’re the shit,

Courtney

Greetings, chickadees, chickadudes, and other cute birds!

My name’s Courtney, and SHOCKING NEWS: this is a blog!  Even better, it’s my blog, and therefore, is probably dirtier, sexier, and richer than all other blogs (emphasis on probably).  Abbreviated Lady Gaga references aside, I bet you’ve got some questions.  If they have anything to do with physics, I can’t help you.  If they’re about this blog, I’ve got you covered.

1. Why am I here?

My friends were doing it.

2. If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?

Idk. How tall is the bridge? Are they jumping intentionally? Am I jumping to save them? Can you please provide a little more context for this question?

3. Why am I really starting this blog?

Short answer: I’m an aspiring writer and in this world a bitch needs to market herself.  Longer answer: I wanted a place where people could read my work, give me feedback, and maybe even motivate me to write more often.  Most of what you’ll see here will be comedic (in the form of short stories, one-act plays, and spec scripts) though there will be some sad little things scattered throughout because

and I put my feelings-pants on two emotions at a time, just like everyone else.

Until next time, ta(ter tots) ta(ter tots) for now!