Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha
Wednesday, August 26, 2218, 7:30am
Franklin High School, San Ramon, California
From Samantha Marie Wells’ Memoirs
One hundred and one girls and thirty boys of the senior class (plus twenty eight more from the post grads) had assembled on the front steps of Franklin High School. Principle Erica Farmer, her bobbed wheat blonde hair tussled by the nippy morning breeze, strode out on her long, long legs which carried her statuesque body regally to the stone podium embedded in the outdoor landing.
Bear with me. I’m honing my descriptive prose…
She scanned over the crowd of seniors with her wide-set ice blue eyes.
“Post grads,” she called authoritatively. “This is your student advisor, Professor Yarning. Room 101, get inside…”
The rush of the twenty eight boys in their brand new suits were awaiting placement in whatever school they’d been accepted to… it might be a semester, or even a year before they could go. They filed past the stately Mr. Yarning in his tweed suit and silver moustache, greeting him as they passed. They would be very nice to this man, he could make or break them while they earned college credit while still here at high school.
“Senior boys,” Miss Farmer called as soon as the post grads were inside. “Home room is 105 with Miss Washington. In you go!” There were groans. Miss Washington was a take-nothing from anyone woman from Louisiana. Her Creole heritage gave her an aire of down home authority boys responded to. Eric had loved her.
“Ladies,” Miss Farmer finally deigned to speak to us. “This year’s senior teachers are: Miss Masters… Miss Emerson… and… Me! Till we can break in a new teacher some of you will be my personal slaves who I shall torture at my pleasure,” she joked. It was funny, and we did laugh… nervously. “Assignments as follows…”
“Please Miss Emerson, Please Miss Emerson, Please Miss Emerson…” Sloan Harding was chanting in whispers, eyes squinted shut and fingers crossed on both hands.
“Why Miss Emerson?” I asked her.
“Because Miss Masters and Miss Farmer are lesbians!”
I rolled my eyes.
I was in the first group with Gracie, Sloan, Rebecca Golding and Andrea Yates. The latter had been pestering Jenna to hook her up with Eric.
“You girls are in room 208 with Miss Masters. In you go!”
Sloan was cursing all the way up the steps.
“Hello, Miss Masters,” we all said as sweetly as possible, even Sloan, which made me want to hurl, as we passed Miss Masters on the front landing. It was, officially, our first classroom day. We each deposited our purses and PDAs into the tiny lockers and headed down to the gymnasium lock room to get changed for morning warm ups. It was nice to be first in line at the shower for once, save that Sloan shared the head with me.
“God,” she said as we slipped on our wet bathing suits. “Now she’s going to be looking at me all year!”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get culled.”
Becca, behind Sloan, laughed hysterically at that.
“Don’t even say that!” Sloan protested. “Abby Messing got it last year for diddling a teacher!”
“Hurry up, Girls!” Miss Bauer snapped her swat. “I haven’t got all day!”
At 8:30 sharp we filed back into home-room where Miss Masters was writing on the blackboard. The stack of graded projects was on her desk. Once we were all seated, she turned around.
The teacher wore a blue silk scarf over her beige silk blouse with a granite tweed skirt. She was tall, and shaped much like Rebecca, save for her chest. Becca had one, Miss Masters did not.
“No, Grace,” said Miss Masters to my sister. “You, up front, here!” She pointed to an empty seat at the front of the room.
“But…”
“Now!” Miss Masters snapped. Grace complied with her head down. The desks were set up six wide and six deep. At the back of the room was the class toilet in its own water closet just beside the tiny lockers with the room’s only clock above them. There was no clock at the front.
Aside from the blackboard that was the width of the room there were a set of shelves with Miss Masters’ private library below it. To our left, the wall was nothing but windows that ran floor to ceiling. To our right was Miss Master’s hall of fame. That wall had pictures of every one of her students that became professional writers.
“Kylie,” Miss Masters said. “Trade places with Rebecca.”
“But, ma’am…”
“Now! You and Sloan can dish AFTER school!”
I’d chosen a window seat in the second row and Kylie Kim had been behind me, with Sloan the next over. Becca had been next to Grace up front.
“Okay,” said Miss Masters as we were settled, at least for now, to her satisfaction. “I have to say that everyone here should be very proud.” She began distributing the graded projects. “Kylie, great biography of Tolstoy. Grace. Did someone help you on this?”
“Yes, ma’am. My sisters did.”
“Did they write it for you?”
“No ma’am. But they did help me find the research.”
Miss Masters held up the essay Grace had indeed written and my heart leapt into my throat. All I could think of was how happy Mom had been when Gracie had arrived home Monday afternoon, safe and sound. The hugs and the tears were still a fresh memory, and if Gracie didn’t make it home tonight, it would break Mom’s heart.
“I want all of you to read this as part of a class project,” said Miss Masters. “Icons, heroes, media and pop culture from Admiral Lord Nelson to modern Hollywood. Grace has successfully and concisely displayed the facts with no flowery minutia to get in the way. A+, Grace. Brilliant.” She moved around the room. “Literature and Journalism reside on opposite ends of the prose spectrum. Nice work, Becca. Loved the part about the baking soda.”
She handed two more out before collecting the other half of the stack at her desk.
“Literature is what, Kate?”
“Interpreting the human condition or the condition of the subject.”
“Journalism is what, Becca?”
“Observing and recording that which is.”
“Poetry is what, Andrea?”
“It’s anything the poet wants it to be,” said Andrea. “It’s an attempt to convey emotion and experience through words.”
“Very good,” said Miss Masters. She went to the blackboard again and wrote:
“The Author interprets literature, the Reader interprets Journalism.”
“Pure Journalism and Pure Literature follow these rules. Nothing being pure, we have varying levels of each depending on how we approach what we write.” She kept one last project in her hand having handed the rest out. “Pure journalism is most often found… where? Sloan?”
“Interviews?”
“Exactly. Interviews are the most pure form of journalism simply because the reporter, the journalist, must report that which is said and has no control, what so ever, of it. It is the art of Journalism to make the interview compelling with good questions! This particular interview is extraordinary. Not only is it with a current and very controversial personality, it also reveals information not widely known. I know I learned from it… and I can honestly say some of that which is in here shocked me! In fact, here’s little Q and A:
“Interviewer: Many accuse you of being an advocate for lesbians.
“Answer: Not true! I am, however, an advocate for bisexual women. This is why I have been so against the criminality of the so-called ‘lesbian gene.’ It simply does not exist.
“Interviewer: So, are you bisexual?
“Answer: All women are, therefore I am. It should not be a crime! Even in the bible there is no mention of lesbians or bisexual women. The prohibition is on male sexuality…
“Interviewer: but can’t it be interpreted to mean both men and women?
“Answer: No! If it is so, then that line in Leviticus is the only line that is ambiguous in a full book that is very, very specific! Though shalt not this and that…
“Interviewer: you seem very adamant in your views…
“Answer: I am!
“Interviewer: So, are you engaging in any further action on the issue of lesbian or bisexual women?
“Answer: As I said: I am not an advocate for lesbians. I am an advocate for women. I have seen ample scientific evidence of the true nature of women being bisexual; therefore I am simply advocating the natural state of womanhood.
“Interviewer: How will you be dealing with this legislatively?
“Answer: It’s too early to reveal that.
“Interviewer: Very well. When you introduce this in a house resolution, do you anticipate a fight?
“Answer: Of course. But that does not mean my colleagues won’t simply see its logic. Either way, fight or not, I intend to take it to the people…”
Miss Masters paused for effect. I was high as a kite at this point.
“So,” Miss Masters let the paper down. “In this you have a reporter that seems almost unsure. She has, however, caused Carmen Sanchez to trust her enough to reveal these things. The Amador Herald is publishing it tomorrow, Sam. Well done!”
Miss Masters returned to the front of the classroom, retrieved thirty two sets of stapled pages, and distributed them as she described the assignment.
“This is a very old interview,” said the teacher. “Twenty questions that will seem fairly tame. Turn this into literature. Describe the setting, the two people and the interaction. Tell me how they sit as they converse. Add no dialogue. Keep that exactly as it is. But you may punctuate the dialogue how you please. Divide into groups of four. Yes Rebecca?”
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“The Congresswoman said all women are bisexual? Is it true about the scientific evidence?”
“That part is indeed true,” said Miss Masters. “You have till noon to complete it. Team up!”
“See!” Sloan said as she scooted her desk over. “I told you she was a lesbian!”
Lunch time was the same as it had been since Monday save that Sloan and Michaela had imposed themselves with their talk of Miss Masters and all things lesbian. Andrea, I saw, was chatting up Eric on the quad with four other girls. I did not see any of my other siblings, outside of Danielle and Eric, but that wasn’t odd.
April was making eyes at mark as he b.s.ed with Danielle, Becca and the Hardings about, what else, lesbian teachers, lesbian students and all things lesbian. I focused on my PDA, or tried to. Tonight was my laundry night and I needed to read Myra London by Friday. Thank god I took shorthand. The book report was due that day.
“Sam,” Danielle said. “Let’s take Becca home and do her hair.”
“What?” I looked up, not believing she’d do that to me. “It’s my laundry night, Danni!”
“Good!” she nodded so violently her blonde hair flopped all over. “We’ll do it by the laundry room sink. It’s perfect!”
“But!”
“Please, Sam?” Becca pleaded.
Of course I relented. I’m not a total bitch… wish I was…