This story is to replace "Starter". Comments/criticisms are greatly appreciated.
Cinderella
By Jamil Ragland, © 2008.
She could still feel the warmth of his lips the warmth of his lips the warmth of his lips against hers.
Abigail walked tall, an island in an ocean of raucous laughter and flirtatious shoving. She weaved through the pulsing mass of bodies that jammed the exit of the cafeteria. A huge kid in a red and black varsity jacket bumped into her, nearly knocking her over. She was too content to mind.
The bell in the hallway sounded, shrieking its warning to the dawdlers. Only six minutes until the day began. It would be a long day: seven classes, study hall and basketball practice. She left home in the crisp darkness of the November morning, and arrived to it as well, spending every daylight hour within the walls of John Quincy Adams Institute of Technology.
It was an odd name for an odd school. There weren’t many schools named for the sixth president. That was by design, the administrators said. They wanted to build a magnet school that recognized the unappreciated success in students, so they chose an unappreciated president to drive the goal home. Abigail thought they’d failed spectacularly, unless their true goal was to choose a student body as clumsy and unmotivating as the name. Then again, she’d met him here.
Her dream-like waltz ended when she was bumped again. She was back in the real world, fighting her way through the too-small corridors to reach her too-small classroom. If she didn’t hurry, all the desks would be taken and she’d be forced to sit on the floor near the front of the classroom. Which wouldn’t actually be a bad thing, she thought.
In the technology school, the only R that mattered was ‘rithmetic. The other two were relegated to the dusty, dark, still-under-construction back wing of the building. Why they had opened the school without it actually being finished was beyond Abigail, but she liked it anyway. Back there, away from the incessant hum of computer fans and the maddening scritch-scratch of pencils from the math classrooms, Abigail could indulge herself in the man and the class. She considered herself lucky to have English first period. Spending an hour with Mr. Mancini was a great way to start the day.
The class had begun a unit on fairy tales recently. Abigail had balked then, but soon she was amazed at how much more those stories had to say. Even Mr. Mancini blushed when he explained some of the interpretations of Little Red Riding Hood, his olive skin momentarily taking on a reddish glow. The rest of the class giggled, but the blood rushed through Abigail as well as she listened to Mr. Mancini: into her pale cheeks, through her pounding temples, between her long, thin legs.
Her father had enjoyed reading stories to her too, years ago. Their favorite story was Snow White. She would sit on his lap, enthralled by the pictures of grand castles, the dashing prince and the wicked old hag. She’d grown to hate that story in the years since, as she’d found herself living it out. She still lay in bed some nights, only half asleep, awaiting a kiss on the cheek from her father. It never came.
The second warning bell blared. Three minutes until class. She began shoving through the halls hastily, rushing to make it to her locker. Gym was right after English, and she’d have to bring her change of clothes with her. She walked as fast as the cramped corridors would allow, hoping to secure a seat in the front row.
The classroom still smelled of sawdust, and there were rolls of pink insulation tossed carelessly into the back corner, despite the administration’s promises to clean up the English wing. The philistines, Abigail thought as she dusted off her desk. She smiled a little. That was a word she’d learned from Mr. Mancini. She’d always liked reading, but it was him that made her start to appreciate literature, not just the two-bit Harry Potter drivel her classmates gobbled up. He’d shown her the same stories her father had, just in a better way. Her tastes had matured, she thought, in more than one way.
Mr. Mancini was standing at the board, writing. His tanned forearms peaked out from his short sleeve shirt. Abigail was tall for a freshman girl, and could look right into his verdant eyes. His mustache tickled a little, but she didn’t mind. It distinguished him from the other fresh-faced teachers. She imagined he came some Mediterranean island where sun baked, barrel-chested men with thick mustaches worked, shirtless, chopping wood and pursuing other manly acts.
She sat as the third and final bell rang. Mr. Mancini stepped back from the board, revealing what he’d been writing. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves”. Abigail groaned loudly. She’d hoped to escape the unit without reliving her parents’ divorce, but the lesson plan said otherwise.
There’d always been the small arguments about laundry and paychecks, and the other daily calamities of family life. It was after her seventh birthday that she began to hear new things. A woman’s name, Beth or Barbara or something, and the venomous tone that began to infest her mother’s words. You treat Abigail better than you treat me, she said. Maybe because I like her more than you. After that argument, Abigail heard Beth or Barbara’s name less, and also saw her father less. The fairy tales became rarer. The last time she heard the name Snow White, she was sitting on her father’s lap on a wooden bench outside the courtroom. You’ll always be my little princess, he’d said, brushing her dark brown hair away from her forehead. But the words she remembered the most came from the judge. Full custody.
She would have much preferred to discuss Cinderella, which had long since replaced Snow White as her favorite story, but even that was changing. The warm sensations came back to her. If only you were older, Mr. Mancini had said after their lips parted. Just like Cinderella, she thought, time was her enemy. But as she pleaded silently for him to change the subject, she found a measure of comfort as his mellow, slightly accented voice retold the tale of Snow White. With a few more inches and a lot less facial hair, Abigail realized that it could be her father up there, standing in front of the class.
She knew that she would never find love among the riffraff of the freshman class. All they talked about was the newest videogame or which girls’ breasts had grown the most over the summer. They were all too short for her, or too geeky, or too jockey. None of them read books. They wouldn’t know how to treat her like a princess. Mr. Mancini nurtured her love of literature whenever she skipped study hall to spend time with him after school. Even after their abrupt kiss a few days ago, he hadn’t shunned or avoided her, and he’d come back. She knew it was his job, he had to teach every day, but still. He came back.
“Let’s take a look at some of the imagery. What do you think the apple represents?” Mr. Mancini asked.
“Red is the color of passion, so the apple represents love,” Abigail declared, her heart like thunder in her chest.
“And its’ dangers,” he added, looking her in the eyes.
The bell rang, too soon for Abigail. She gathered her books and her clothes, looking for Mr. Mancini. He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by students clamoring for deadline extensions and test retakes. She sighed, deciding to skip study hall again and drop by. She stumbled through the hall in her dream-like state, until she noticed the lightness of her gym clothes. Cursing silently, she realized she’d left her sneakers underneath her desk. The gym teacher was the basketball coach, so she’d just make it up at practice with a few extra suicides. She kept towards the gym, but stopped, turning back to face the English wing. Had Mr. Mancini seen them? She stood there long past the late bell had rung, hoping that he would appear, carrying her shoes in hand.
