The Princesses of Iowa (7 page)

She didn’t turn around. “Class is about to start.”

I fell back in my chair, heat flooding my cheeks as if I’d been slapped. A moment later, Mr. Silva cleared his throat and said, “June 25, 1950. Anyone? Did anyone do the reading?” I spent the rest of the period fighting to stay awake, and Lacey kept her back to me the whole time.

At lunch, Lacey was her usual bubbly self, chattering with the junior girls about homecoming plans and fundraisers and dates to the dance. I kept trying to catch her eye to ask her what was going on, why she’d been late this morning, what was the drama Jake had hinted at last night, but Lacey didn’t allow a single break in the conversation until halfway through the period, when she abruptly grabbed her cane, said something about student council, and limped away. Jake was trading insults with Randy and Chris, and Nikki was nowhere to be found, so I spent the rest of the period sitting quietly in the middle of the chaos, utterly alone in the crowd.

When I walked into creative writing later that day, the principal was standing at the dais. “Good afternoon, Paige,” he said. “Don’t you look pretty today.”

“Thanks, Dr. Coulter.”

As more people trickled in, I noticed that he greeted Jake’s friends by name, but didn’t seem to know the names of the other students. “Hello there, Sandy,” he said blithely to Shanti as she walked in. Hurrying past him, she made a face in Ethan’s direction. When the bell rang, Dr. Coulter rubbed his hands together. “Students, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that Mrs. Mueller is . . . ill.”

“Does she have a brain tumor?” someone called.

Dr. Coulter ignored the comment. “She will likely be out for the rest of the semester.”

Low voices rumbled through the room at this, giddy and wondering. The whole semester? Not only would we not have to hear Mrs. Mueller’s screechy voice until Christmas, but also we’d get a sub, thereby guaranteeing that we’d be doing no work for the rest of the term. Yes and yes.

Dr. Coulter cleared his throat. “The good news is that we have already found a substitute teacher to take her place. Students, I’d like to introduce you to your new teacher, Mr. Tremont. We’re very lucky to have him here, as he is a part of the Writers’ Workshop at the university. He will be filling in for Mrs. Mueller for the rest of the semester, until she gets back on her feet.”

The room filled with whispers as this information was digested. The Iowa Writers’ Workshop was one of the most prestigious writing programs in the whole country. Why would someone from that program want to sub at Willow Grove? People looked around, searching for the new teacher. Was he standing out in the hallway, awaiting his cue? I didn’t think I could stand that degree of cheesiness.

But no, he was sitting in a student desk in the back corner of the room. He smiled and stood up. There were gasps and giggles from some of the girls. The new teacher was unquestionably handsome. Movie star handsome. Dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt, he was a whole different species compared to our other teachers. In the back of the room, Jake’s friends muttered to themselves, and some of the lamer girls frantically scribbled notes back and forth.

Mr. Tremont looked around the room, still smiling agreeably. “Thanks for the introduction, Dr. Coulter.”

The principal made his way to the door. “Okay, then. Well, good luck, and listen to your teacher, children.”

I saw Shanti grin and roll her eyes at the Freshman. He grinned back.

Mr. Tremont clapped his hands together, just once. “Okay, folks, open up your notebooks and let’s get started.” He spoke with an easy confidence that was almost unheard-of in new teachers. I glanced across the room toward the Freshman, remembering the way he’d mocked Mrs. Mueller. Were we finally going to have a good teacher? He caught my look and raised his eyebrows, giving a little half nod, as if to say, I know!

Without waiting for us to comply, Mr. Tremont continued. “We’re just going to warm up with a ten-minute freewrite. Don’t edit yourself, don’t worry about how it sounds; nobody is going to read this but you.” He fiddled with a black stopwatch. “Have you guys done this before?”

A girl in the back practically jumped out of her seat, stretching her hand to the ceiling. “No, Mr. Tremont! But it sounds like fun!”

Oh, my God.
I tucked my chin into my shoulder to keep from laughing.

Mr. Tremont smiled, but said seriously, “If you’re here because you think that writing will always be fun, you’re in for a disappointment. Writing — real writing — is among the most difficult work you will ever face in your life. The irony is that the harder you work at it, the harder it gets.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Randy burst out.

“If you’re not scared while you’re writing, you’re not working hard enough,” Mr. Tremont said. “You’ll be afraid, but you have to keep going.”

I felt a shiver race up my neck. It struck me that for the first time in our lives, a teacher was giving us neither the convenient version nor the watered-down textbook version of the truth.

“Sounds pretty gay, if you ask me,” Tyler muttered. His friends rewarded him with laughter, but Mr. Tremont wasn’t amused.

“Out.” He pointed to the door.

“What?” Tyler asked.

“I didn’t even do anything, man.” He looked to his friends for confirmation, and they nodded.

“Yeah, he didn’t do anything!”

Mr. Tremont said calmly, “If you’re not going to take this class seriously, you may leave now. In fact, the only people who should stay are those who are prepared to work harder in this class than they do in any other.” He waited.

Tyler looked like he was going to argue more, but then he shrugged. “Whatever, dude.” He gathered his things and walked out the door.

More whispers from the back of the room. Mr. Tremont said, “Ten-minute timed writing. Start with
I remember,
and go from there. Keep your pen moving the whole time. If you get stuck, write
I remember
again, and follow your thoughts. Don’t worry about staying on topic; just write whatever comes to you.” He paused. “Any questions?”

A girl in the front row raised her hand. “What should we write about?”

“Just write whatever comes into your head,” Mr. Tremont said. “Don’t censor yourself. You can write whatever you want to. Just keep going. The point of freewriting is to write fast enough to get past the little voice in your head that says, ‘Don’t write that, it’s stupid!’ or ‘That makes no sense!’ You’re trying to outrun your editor, because that’s how you get to the good stuff, the moments of truth. If you get stuck, and
I remember
doesn’t work, try
I see, I wish, I don’t remember
. . . Whatever comes into your head, write it.”

“Even swear words?” someone asked.

He grinned. “It’s your writing, you guys. Follow it wherever it takes you. All you need to do is tell your truth. Get it? Everyone with me here?”

A few people nodded.

“Ready . . .” Mr. Tremont said. “Write.”

I put my pen to the page, hesitantly.
I remember . . .

“Don’t think too hard,” Mr. Tremont said. “Just write.”

The stopwatch beeped loudly, and I jumped. “Okay, stop,” Mr. Tremont said. He was sitting with a yellow legal pad at the front of the room. I looked down at my notebook in amazement. I’d covered more than two pages.

Jenna raised her hand. “Mr. Tremont?”

“Yes?”

“Were you writing, too?” she asked.

“I was,” Mr. Tremont said. “It’s only fair, right?”

Across the room, Shanti and the Freshman exchanged looks.

Mr. Tremont stood and moved around to sit on the table. “I know I said no one would read this but you, but there’s something freeing about reading a raw draft. . . . Anyone feel like sharing?”

“Dude, I will,” Randy said.

“Great,” Mr. Tremont said, looking around the room. “Before you start, I’d like to remind the class that it takes a lot of guts to read your own work, so I’d ask you to be respectful of anyone who offers to read. In order for this class to work, you have to be vulnerable and open in your writing. And in order for that to happen, we need to establish a sense of trust and safety.”

Behind me, Brian Sorenson snorted. “Dude, Tyler was right. This class is totally gay,” he muttered, keeping his voice low enough that Mr. Tremont couldn’t hear him.

Randy stood and cleared his throat dramatically. His friends cackled. “‘I remember this morning, when I waked and baked. I remember how fine Paige looked in that little skirt on the first day of school. She looks hot today, too. It would be awesome if her and Lacey made out, even though Lacey’s like a cripple now. I remember —’”

“That’s enough.”

Randy stopped, looking pleased with himself. Brian and Chris were still laughing loudly.

“All three of you may go to the guidance counselor to get your schedules changed,” Mr. Tremont said evenly.

“What?” Brian asked angrily.

“Yeah man, we didn’t even do nothing!” Chris said.

“If you’d like to discuss this further, you may see me after class,” Mr. Tremont said. His tone was neutral, his expression calm. “For now, though, I’d like you to leave.”

The boys stood and grabbed their stuff, grumbling and muttering their way out the door.

Mr. Tremont surveyed the room. “I said before that the point of freewriting is to get past the voice inside your head that tells you your ideas aren’t good enough, your words aren’t good enough, you’re no writer, and so forth. But getting past your internal editor is kind of pointless if you’re just going to treat your own work — or the work of your classmates — as a joke.”

The class was quiet, and people seemed to be listening to Mr. Tremont. I saw a couple people jotting notes in notebooks, but most people kept their eyes on the teacher, nodding seriously.

“So basically, our class motto will be the same as Google’s was, back in the day: Don’t Be Evil. If there’s anyone else who can’t work within that basic guideline, I’ll write you a pass to the guidance office. Anyone?” He surveyed the room, smiling. “Good. Let’s get to work.”

Our class would follow a similar structure every day, Mr. Tremont explained. The first ten minutes would be a warm-up write, and then we would either discuss a published work, write, or do a peer-review workshop for the rest of the period. Mr. Tremont asked for volunteers for the first round of workshopping, and both Shanti and the Freshman raised their hands. “One more?” he asked. “Volunteer . . . or victim?” The rest of us remained silent, looking everywhere but at him. “My high school Spanish teacher always used to say that,” Mr. Tremont said.
“Voluntario . . . o víctima?”
A few people laughed nervously and he shrugged. “Okay, victim. Let’s see. . . .” He scrolled down the attendance list. “How about Paige Sheridan?”

A bunch of people turned to stare at me. Shanti gave me a thumbs-up, which I hoped no one else noticed. “Oh,” I said, “um . . .”

Mr. Tremont looked right at me and smiled. God, he was beautiful. “You can do it.” A pathetic protest got caught in my throat, but he didn’t seem to hear. “Paige . . . Sheridan,” he said, writing. “Okay, Shanti Kale, Ethan James, and Paige Sheridan are up for workshop next Friday, September twenty-fourth. I’ll need your pieces by that Wednesday so that I can make copies for everyone.”

I snapped to attention. The twenty-fourth was the day of the big homecoming week kickoff bonfire, where the members of homecoming court would be announced. The JV teams would spend all afternoon gathering wood pallets donated by local businesses and Bee Boosters and piling them in the parking lot behind the practice fields. Normally it would be held after the varsity football game, but this year the team had a bye that week, so the bonfire was scheduled to start slightly earlier than usual. It would be weird to just show up and immediately go to the fire without sitting through a game first, and some people worried that the break from tradition meant bad luck for the team. Usually the football coach would light the fire after the game, but I wondered if this would be different, too, without the game. Once the bonfire was lit, everyone would gather around the giant fire — parents, teachers, coaches, a few bored volunteer firefighters, and students — and the varsity football coach would stand on a flatbed truck and announce the names of the football players, and then Dr. Coulter would cough into the microphone and announce the names of the court. Lacey and I had a tradition of squeezing hands as Dr. Coulter named the court, as if we could capture the magic of that moment and hold it between us. Regardless of who we were dating or who we’d come with, we’d always find each other and stand together near the truck, hands solemnly clasped. For years we’d been waiting for our turn to hear our names called, to climb the hay-bale step onto the truck bed and stand above everyone else in the flickering, dancing light of the fire. And now, after all these years, suddenly it was only a week away? I had a brief, panicky feeling that time was moving much too quickly, that at this rate graduation would be here before I knew it, and then I’d be in college and then be married and old before I even had a chance to take a breath. These were supposed to be the best years of my life, and they were slipping away in a haze of awkwardness and silence.