The Princesses of Iowa by M. Molly Backes Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. Molly Backes
tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Whatever.”
“How’d you score that?” he asked. “Wait, let me guess: you were on a Fulbright, analyzing cross-cultural movements of taxi-driving poets. Am I right?” There was a challenge in his voice.
“Actually, I didn’t have a choice. I was exiled.”
“Exiled? Wow, so you must be, what, an enemy of the state? Defending the people’s right to assemble?” One of Jake’s friends walked by and pretended to trip, kicking the Freshman in the process. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No, don’t tell me. It was an Evita thing. Forced to live in Paris away from your adoring crowds.
Don’t Cry for Me, Willow Grove.
Am I right?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said.
Exile, n., expulsion from one’s home by authoritative decree.
My mother was the authoritative decree: judge, juror, and hangwoman. A week after school ended last spring — a week after the accident — my mother rolled me out of bed in the middle of the night and told me to get dressed. She’d packed her own LeSportsac luggage with my clothes and shoes, and she stood waiting in the doorway with passport and tickets in hand while I fumbled around in the dark for a sweatshirt and flip-flops. She hadn’t said a single word to me since the night of the accident, and we drove in silence through the cool June darkness, five hours to Chicago, where she enlisted the help of an airport security man to walk me to my gate and make sure I got on my plane. I was barely awake, but I heard her describe me as a “troubled youth,” and a “high flight risk.” The guard nodded seriously, accepted the handful of bills my mother shoved at him, and trailed me through O’Hare like a sheepdog until my plane took off a few hours later.
I remember staring out the airplane window as the land disappeared beneath us and we flew into the sunrise. The clouds wisped past the windows, the early light reflected off the plane’s wings, and my throat got tight with tears I wouldn’t let myself cry. I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye. To anyone.
Suddenly, there were only five minutes before the bell, and the room was filled with the sound of shuffling papers and the heavy scratching of desks moving across the tiled floor. “Well —” Ethan said, but was interrupted by Mrs. Mueller yelling over the din. “We’ll have to do our creative presentations tomorrow!”
“Later,” I said, and hurried back to my own desk.
Randy and the guys wandered up to the front of the room, laughing and boasting. “What about that chick from Cedar Falls, dude? You could have banged her, if you weren’t such a pussy.”
“Students! I almost forgot! Students!” Mrs. Mueller called. “Boys and girls!”
The class quieted down a notch, staring at the clock, muscles tensed to leave the room the second the bell rang.
“Your assignment for this week is to go to a literary reading!” She grabbed a pile of flyers from her desk and started handing them out. “All the second-year students at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop are giving readings this weekend, all over town! You have to find one to attend! That is your homework!”
Tyler raised his hand. “What if we can’t make it?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Mueller said, sounding pleased with herself. “Well! Then you can choose a Shakespearian sonnet and write a three-page paper explaining its meaning and importance in the literary canon!”
The noise level rose again as the class started murmuring about how busy they were, it wasn’t fair, this was supposed to be a blow-off class.
Randy crossed his arms. “Fuck that, dude, I’m not writing a paper.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything,” I told Tyler. “She probably just made that assignment up right now.”
“You should ask Paige’s partner if he has a date yet,” Randy said, punching Tyler in the hip.
Chris looked back at the Freshman and laughed. “Hell yeah. Did you have fun with Barbra, Paige?”
“Whatever,”
“How’d you score that?” he asked. “Wait, let me guess: you were on a Fulbright, analyzing cross-cultural movements of taxi-driving poets. Am I right?” There was a challenge in his voice.
“Actually, I didn’t have a choice. I was exiled.”
“Exiled? Wow, so you must be, what, an enemy of the state? Defending the people’s right to assemble?” One of Jake’s friends walked by and pretended to trip, kicking the Freshman in the process. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No, don’t tell me. It was an Evita thing. Forced to live in Paris away from your adoring crowds.
Don’t Cry for Me, Willow Grove.
Am I right?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said.
Exile, n., expulsion from one’s home by authoritative decree.
My mother was the authoritative decree: judge, juror, and hangwoman. A week after school ended last spring — a week after the accident — my mother rolled me out of bed in the middle of the night and told me to get dressed. She’d packed her own LeSportsac luggage with my clothes and shoes, and she stood waiting in the doorway with passport and tickets in hand while I fumbled around in the dark for a sweatshirt and flip-flops. She hadn’t said a single word to me since the night of the accident, and we drove in silence through the cool June darkness, five hours to Chicago, where she enlisted the help of an airport security man to walk me to my gate and make sure I got on my plane. I was barely awake, but I heard her describe me as a “troubled youth,” and a “high flight risk.” The guard nodded seriously, accepted the handful of bills my mother shoved at him, and trailed me through O’Hare like a sheepdog until my plane took off a few hours later.
I remember staring out the airplane window as the land disappeared beneath us and we flew into the sunrise. The clouds wisped past the windows, the early light reflected off the plane’s wings, and my throat got tight with tears I wouldn’t let myself cry. I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye. To anyone.
Suddenly, there were only five minutes before the bell, and the room was filled with the sound of shuffling papers and the heavy scratching of desks moving across the tiled floor. “Well —” Ethan said, but was interrupted by Mrs. Mueller yelling over the din. “We’ll have to do our creative presentations tomorrow!”
“Later,” I said, and hurried back to my own desk.
Randy and the guys wandered up to the front of the room, laughing and boasting. “What about that chick from Cedar Falls, dude? You could have banged her, if you weren’t such a pussy.”
“Students! I almost forgot! Students!” Mrs. Mueller called. “Boys and girls!”
The class quieted down a notch, staring at the clock, muscles tensed to leave the room the second the bell rang.
“Your assignment for this week is to go to a literary reading!” She grabbed a pile of flyers from her desk and started handing them out. “All the second-year students at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop are giving readings this weekend, all over town! You have to find one to attend! That is your homework!”
Tyler raised his hand. “What if we can’t make it?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Mueller said, sounding pleased with herself. “Well! Then you can choose a Shakespearian sonnet and write a three-page paper explaining its meaning and importance in the literary canon!”
The noise level rose again as the class started murmuring about how busy they were, it wasn’t fair, this was supposed to be a blow-off class.
Randy crossed his arms. “Fuck that, dude, I’m not writing a paper.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything,” I told Tyler. “She probably just made that assignment up right now.”
“You should ask Paige’s partner if he has a date yet,” Randy said, punching Tyler in the hip.
Chris looked back at the Freshman and laughed. “Hell yeah. Did you have fun with Barbra, Paige?”
“Whatever,”