Ch. 1: The Awful Truth (page 3)
by Emmet
"Mr. Dimitri?� she began. �Can I just ask you something?"
I nodded, surprised to see her there that early. But pleased that my comments to her the day before appeared to have made her think.
She took a breath and burst out quickly, "Just because someone's life doesn't seem interesting to you personally --"
I checked the spelling of a word in my Webster�s. "You don't think you're interesting?" I asked, turning the conversation away from the one she�d obviously prepared.
"No!" She raised her voice, and I looked up from my papers. "I'm saying you obviously don't think I'm being honest enough --"
�Wait! Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.� I said, interrupting that line of thought. Apparently my nice speech affected her, though not in the right direction. "Honest enough? What's 'enough'?"
"I just can't believe --" she started, then stopped.
"What? What can't you believe?" I asked.
�I can�t believe that I�m the only person in class who isn�t being �honest.�� Ah, why am I picking on her. Because she said �nice�; of course I made similar comments to others, in writing. But she didn�t know that. Grace was the one who happened to be held up as an example to the class. Catalyzed by the yawn.
I put the papers I�d finished grading in my desk drawer. I picked up her journal and opened it. "Who calls you 'Gracie'?" I asked, though I knew the answer.
�My mother, sometimes� why?�
�Tell me something. Why are you letting her come to class? Why are you letting her write your journal?�
Now she was genuinely confused. �Who? My mother?�
�No,� I said. �Gracie. Augie Meyers plays keyboards on the latest Dylan album, and he is amazing, but I am August."
She didn�t get my point. I was being too esoteric. It�s a problem I have, left over from my days as a prodigy. Maybe I had overestimated her? She fell back on, �Well, I just don�t think it�s fair.� Fair is another one of those inane words. What is fair? Is it fair that I once could write beautiful poems and no longer can? Is it fair that my younger sister never could write poetry in the first place? But I wasn�t going to go on another semantic tirade.
I just said, "Fair? Who you love, who you hate, who changes your life, none of it's fair. Why don't you write about that?� I tried to clarify, to help her see, remembering a small personal comment she had written in her journal: What about that situation makes me so nervous? Why can�t I�? �What would happen if you said what you're most afraid of to the person you're most afraid to say it to? And then write about it. Don�t clean it up, don't make it presentable, don't be Gracie. Be in a state of grace. Because that's what Grace means. Grace is about what's sacred, and that's the truth.� I handed her her journal and she took it, reluctantly. She looked at me without saying anything else, though her eyes, brown, registered an understanding, and also� an apprehension.
I was at school early again the next day � we had our weekly staff meeting, and I grabbed a few minutes in the classroom to organize some books. I didn�t hear Grace come in, and was startled when I heard her voice behind me. �Mr. Dimitri. I tried it. What you said. You know, about saying what you�re most afraid to say to the person you�re most afraid to say it to.� I turned. Her eyes were lit up this time, and she spoke with excitement. She looked� inspiring. She spoke of being able to write about �the most embarrassing person.� Good. That�s how I wanted her to think, to stretch herself, to exercise unused literary muscles.
I saw the clock and realized I�d be late. �I must away, fair Grace,� I said, bowing with a flourish, in my best faux Will. But at the door I turned, and she looked at me expectantly, then realized I was waiting for her to leave the room � I locked my classroom what I wasn�t there. I thought of the reclusive poets, scared but brilliant, the ones that inspired me when I was 17. �You know who I think about a lot?� I said. �Proust. Proust and Emily Dickenson. I mean, they were so scared they never even left their rooms. You don�t have to become the bravest person who ever lived.� I turned off the lights and we stepped into the hallway. �Just the bravest writer.�
She left me, smiling this time, clutching the journal against her chest. I smiled too, and headed down the hall for the staff meeting. She would surprise me, this Grace.