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“So if it’s not really you or your sister, I guess we can criticize her after all,” Ryan says as the rest of the class titters. “I wouldn’t want to say something negative about a member of your family.”
“A writer has to be able to look at everything in their life with a critical eye,” L’il says. “Including their own family. They do say the artist must kill the father in order to succeed.”
“But Capote h
asn’t killed anyone. Yet,” I say. The class snickers.
“This discussion is totally stupid,” Rainbow interjects. It’s the second time she’s deigned to speak in class, and her tone is world-weary, defiant and superior, designed to put us in our place. Which seems to be somewhere far below hers. “Anyway, the sister is dead. So what difference does it make what we say about her? I thought the story was great. I identified with the sister’s pain. It seemed very real to me.”
“Thank you,” Capote says, as if he and Rainbow are two aristocrats stranded in a crowd of peasants.
Now I’m sure Rainbow is sleeping with him. I wonder if she knows about the model.
Capote takes his seat, and once again I find myself staring at him with open curiosity. Studied in profile, his nose has character—a distinctive bump of the type passed from one generation to another—“the Duncan nose”—likely the bane of every female family member. Combined with closely spaced eyes, the nose would give the face a rodentlike demeanor, but Capote’s eyes are wide-set. And now that I’m really looking at him, a dark inky blue.
“Will L’il read her poem, please?” Viktor murmurs.
L’il’s poem is about a flower and its effect on three generations of women. When she’s finished, there’s silence.
“That was wonderful.” Viktor shuffles to the front of the room.
“Anyone can do it,” L’il says with cheerful modesty. She might be the only genuine person in this class, probably because she really does have talent.
Viktor Greene stoops over and picks up his knapsack. I can’t imagine what’s in it besides papers, but the weight tilts him perilously to one side, like a boat listing in the waves. “We reconvene on Wednesday. In the meantime, for those of you who haven’t handed in your first story, you need to do so by Monday.” He scans the room. “And I need to see Carrie Bradshaw in my office.”
Huh? I look to L’il, wondering if she might know the reason for this unexpected meeting, but she only shrugs.
Maybe Viktor Greene is going to tell me I don’t belong in this class.
Or maybe he’s going to tell me I’m the most talented, brilliant student he’s ever had.
Or maybe . . . I give up. Who knows what he wants. I smoke a cigarette and make my way to his office.
The door is closed. I knock.
It opens a crack, and the first thing I’m confronted by is Viktor’s enormous mustache, followed by his soft sloping face, as if skin and muscle have abandoned any attempt to attach to the skull. He silently swings open the door and I enter a small room filled with a mess of papers and books and magazines. He removes a pile from the chair in front of his desk and looks around helplessly.
“Over there,” I say, pointing to a relatively small mound of books perched on the sill.
“Right,” he says, plopping the papers on top, where they balance precariously.
I sit down in the chair as he clumsily drops into his seat.
“Well.” He touches his mustache.
It’s still there, I want to scream, but don’t.
“How do you feel about this class?” he asks.
“Good. Really good.” I’m pretty sure I suck, but there’s no reason to give him ammunition.
“How long have you wanted to become a writer?”
“Since I was a kid, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I know.” Why do conversations with teachers always go around in circles?
