Dismissal

Kristina Morgan – Second Place

Frances lives off campus with a roommate, Gail. They’re both freshman. They hooked up a couple of weeks before classes started at a fraternity party. The fraternity house was an abandoned cathedral with spires and all.

They both loved smoking weed and found the same corner in the main room of the fraternity house to light up. Sitting Indian style on the red carpeted floor they watched the party as they got high. The party was out of control. People were falling over drunk. One guy was walking around with a bucket vomiting into it while trying to have conversations with several young women. He’d say “hello,” and vomit. “How are you?” and vomit, and string together a couple of sentences before vomiting again.

There were two nearly naked guys dancing on top of a glass table with two naked girls. No one seemed bothered by this. “So what’s your name?” Frances asked.

She took a large hit off her joint, and her name came out as a squeak. “Gail.” Frances blew out smoke. “Frances. I’m a freshman.”

“Me too,” Gail said

They were screaming just to hear each other. The music echoed around the room. People were dancing to Van Halen’s Jump.

“I need a roommate,” Gail shouted.

“And I need a room,” Frances shouted back.

“Cool.”

“How far are you from campus?” Frances asked. “A ten minute fucking walk,” Gail said. “Perfect. When can I come check it out?” Frances asked.

That was the beginning of Frances and Gail. In their dope daze they were somehow able to exchange phone numbers. Gail pulled a pen from her purse, and they scribbled on rolling paper.

Gail would be the first person to see Frances’s decline into darkness. Frances shared with Gail that first night that she didn’t feel like she fit anywhere. In her stoned haze, she told Gail that her parents had thrown her into school at the last second with the hope that the structure of studies would place her on the right path. Her parents were concerned about her dope smoking and the many guys that streamed in and out of Frances’s life. They felt like they needed to amputate her behavior and attach a new way of being in the world, making that her focus.

It was a two bedroom, two bath apartment. Frances loved the concrete floors. They were a purple glazed color. Frances’s room was empty with a mirrored closet door and a window looking out into a courtyard of green bushes and red brick.

The main floor contained a long, floral couch, a brown leather chair with an ottoman, light oak coffee table and a large screen television.

“Wow. Check it out,” Frances said. “That’s a fucking awesome TV.”

“Right. 58 inches,” Gail replied.

Over the following months, Frances learned that Gail disliked talking. Frances didn’t mind this. She enjoyed quiet after a day of noise. The campus rocked sound. It seemed a different band played on every corner. Students were loud in their effort to have conversation heard over the music. Frances wouldn’t miss this.

Frances’ older sister, Abby, had recently graduated with a BA in English and Education from Stephens’ College in Columbia, Missouri. She’d moved home to Phoenix after graduation, taking a job as an English teacher at Mountain View High School. She taught three classes of sophomores, a class of juniors, and a class of seniors.

She went to school dressed in a navy blue skirt with a navy blue jacket, looking less like the wallflower than she ever had. She was radiant. She wore a moon shaped pendant. It hung free in the dip of her throat. Occasionally, she would touch it when her steady voice seemed to get stuck on her tongue, which didn’t happen often. The students could attest to this. The students pulled every sound she had out of her as she

stretched in front of them, giving them Shakespeare and Whitman, breaking down words and meanings into sugar cubes that dissolved on their tongues.

She replenished herself in the baths she took at night. She’d try to relax as the fish swam in their bowl, the bananas rotted on the counter, and the alley cats had sex outside her back door. It was the end of another sixteen hour day, but she didn’t regret the length of her work. She wanted to teach teenagers more than she wanted a lover or a fancy burgundy bedroom with light wood floors.

Having students helped nurture Abby’s need to feel like she was making a difference although they stole time that she would otherwise give to Frances. Abby worried about Frances as if she was a toddler trying to climb out of her crib and enter a world she was unprepared for. Ironically, Abby was the one who taught Frances how to climb out.

Gail realized that Frances had not opened a book for weeks. Gail figured that Frances must have dropped her morning classes as Frances never made it out of bed before one in the afternoon.

I’m not her gatekeeper, Gail thought. Or her mother.

Gail wondered if she should call Abby and let her know she was concerned. Gail knew from listening to Frances that she thought her sister was a better mother to her than her actual mother.

Gail pushed up her white framed glasses with her middle finger. They were always sliding down her nose. It was quiet in the apartment except for Fancy Pants clawing on the twine of her beloved pole. The cat made her way to Gail.

“No food for another hour,” Gail said. “Six o’clock. You know the drill. How’d we end up with a cat when we’re both dog lovers? Huh, Fancy Pants? Can you answer that question?”

Frances wasn’t too concerned with the morals her parents attempted to instill. She found that many of them led to boredom. She didn’t want a conventional life. And she wanted to be rich. She saw college as the first step to a conventional life, to be followed by work in the boring mainstream, then marriage, then children, and living in the same house and driving the same boring car. Frances lived to fly. She knew a job, a husband, and a child would prevent her from doing that. Vortex

Frances entered the dimly lit coffee house named Stray Dog. It was named that because the owner found a stray dog in the dumpster while the café was being renovated. Chi Chi had prosthetics on each leg. Whoever put her in the dumpster had tied her legs so tight with twine that the blood flow to her limbs had stopped, thus the need for amputation and the prosthetics. Frances took a seat away from the door and opened a composition book. She had just started keeping a journal. She had heard it was a great way to have a conversation with the self.

Dear Journal,

Frances here. I’m sitting at a coffee house writing this with a jacket on even though it’s a typical Arizona day of 111 degrees. They always blast the air conditioner here. I tried at one point to quit coffee, which I did for four months. Then I came back to it. It helps me focus plus I really love the taste and smell of it. So I spend $80 a month on it. Oh well.

As you know, this is my second journal entry ever. The reason I write at a coffee house is because if my roommate knew I was keeping a journal she would tease me about being a new age sissy. She thinks introspection is an airy-fairy thing. This belief keeps her talking about boys, clothes, and the weather. No shit. She’s a walking mannequin. I must say I envy her money, though. Her parents are not only paying for her college and housing but are giving her $2000 a month for spending money. I get no allowance and have to pay for my own housing because I’m living off campus. My parents really wanted me in the dorm or a sorority house. They think to really experience college a person needs to live in one of those two places. If I had chosen to live in one of those two places, they would have paid for my housing. There is a little gnat flying around in here. It’s bugging the hell out of me.

I love marijuana. When I first smoked it, I knew it was the thing missing from my life. It takes away my anxiety and puts me at peace. All is right in the world. My sister tried it and said all it did for her was make her paranoid. She sat in a corner, rocking back and forth. I told her she just smoked it wrong.

I have made the decision not to return to class. I hung in there for half a semester. That’s long enough to know I don’t want anything to do with it. I hate being a starving

student.

My cell is ringing. Do I answer it? Put my writing on pause? Hold on…

It’s her dad. Frances knows right away something is wrong because he doesn’t call her Frannie.

“Frances. Do you remember Gary Hopper?” he asks.

“I do. He’s the one who gave me a baby doll on my tenth birthday. I remember because I really wanted that Chrissy Doll. Still don’t know how he knew to get it,” Frances says.

“Me. I told him. He was like an uncle to you,” Dad says.

Frances doesn’t say anything. She takes a sip of her coffee and notices she’s dragging her pen across her paper in a weird doodle.

“He saw you,” Dad says. “You hear me?” Dad raises his voice. “He saw you, Frances.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks although she knew what he was talking about. She sat up straight in her chair ready for the fight. He is more than pissed.

You’re doing peep shows,” he states.

“And what business is this of yours?” she asks which pisses him off even more.

“I’m your father. It is my business.”

“I’m eighteen.” “I don’t give a damn. You’re a college student, by god,” he emphasizes student. “By god I’m soon not to be. I might as well tell you now. I’m dropping out.” “Dropping out so you can pimp yourself?” “I dance. Seductively. And what is Uncle Gary doing at peep shows?” “Who gives a fuck about that,” Dad says. “He’s married with a wife and kids,” Frances says.

“Just stop, Frances,” Dad’s voice is still loud and piercing. “There’s nothing else to say, Dad.”

“There’s –“

“I’m hanging up, Dad. Letting you know that. Please, don’t call me back,” Frances hangs up.

Within seconds, her phone rings again. She silences it and places it on silent so the ring tone can’t be heard again. She doesn’t know when she will talk to her father again and she doesn’t care.

Dear Journal,

I don’t mind dancing naked in front of a window that only reflects me in the small, barren room that acts as my workstation. There’s a lot of money to be made. The customer pays $200 to watch me for fifteen minutes. I make $150 for every fifteen minutes I dance. I am going to buy that baby blue Corvette. It symbolizes freedom and wealth. Both of which I’m hungry for.

My father rages and my mother’s a drunk. They aren’t exactly good role models. Mom still dresses like a teen. Mini skirts and see through blouses. I dress the same. And I can see me in Mom. Black hair to the waist, 5’10” inches tall, slender with a big bust, green eyes, high cheek bones, and a little nose. I’m glad I don’t have her ears. Her ears stick too far out. She’s told me she hears better because of it. I don’t believe her.

The last time my dad got mad at me is when he found me in bed with Steve. Naked. It was obvious we’d had sex. My parents weren’t supposed to return from their vacation until the next day. It wasn’t my fault they came back early. I thought my dad was going to murder Steve right then and there. Instead, he just shouted “out” and left the room. I didn’t know someone could dress as fast as Steve dressed.

So, I am in deep shit. I’m glad they’re in Ohio.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Frances said. She took a seat at the kitchen table. “I didn’t invite you to come over.”

“I got a call from both Gail and Dad. Gail tells me you’re not going to class, and Dad tells me you’re doing peep shows,” Abby said.

“Fuck them both for getting into my business.”

Abby pulled up a seat at the kitchen table across from Frances. “So what is it? What are you doing?”

“None of your business. I don’t want your love or concern, Abby, so fuck off. I’m telling you to leave.”

Abby paused, then stood, “I’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t bother.”

Abby didn’t start her car right away. She sat still except for one hand unrthymically tapping on the steering wheel. Abby didn’t think she asked much of Frances. All she wanted was for Frances to be sober, at least, until this. Now she wanted Frances to be sober and lead a clean life. There was no virtue to be had by flaunting sex, by dancing in peep shows. Abby wondered if she hadn’t been so consumed by teaching, could she have seen Frances veering off.

Frances just got done telling her to fuck off. How could she drop her sister like a baby bird pushed out of the nest, vulnerable to someone stepping on it?

Is Frances insane, Abby thought. “My baby sister is a stripper,” Abby said this out loud and put the car into reverse. She pulled out of the driveway and made a silent vow to stay away even though all her instincts were telling her that Frances was is serious trouble.

A week after hanging up on her father, Frances remained grateful that he hadn’t flown to Phoenix and shown up at her door. But then how would he, Frances had never shared her address with him. Maybe Abby was withholding it from him. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care, Frances thought.

Frances shook gloom from her mind and walked into the showroom of the Chevy dealership. Her Vette was there. She’d managed to save $20,000 as a down payment and would claim she made $4000 every two weeks in tips bartending at a ritzy hotel. One of Gail’s friends sold cars for a living and told her that they really had no sure way to know if you were lying about your income or not.

Dressed in Gucci, wearing some flashy heels with a Prada purse, and oozing confidence, Frances made her way to one of the sales associates before he made his way

to her.

She stretched out her hand in greeting, “Frances.” “Bob,” the salesman said.

“Well Bob, I’m here to buy that car,” she pointed at the baby blue Corvette.

Bob beamed, “I would love to help you with that.”

It was midnight when Frances got to her way to her car in the deserted parking lot. Everyone seemed to have finished dancing early tonight. The street lamp was buzzing, threatening to go out.

“Hey chickee chickee,” a man’s voice came from behind her.

“What the—“ he swung at her, breaking her nose and dropping her to the ground.

“A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be out her in the dark in this big bad world. You never know who you might meet,” the man said. He picked up her car keys from the concrete where they fell. He opened the door of the Corvette and threw her into the driver’s seat. “I need just a little bit of room, chickee chickee.”

Abby’s phone rang at three in the morning. She fumbled for it on the nightstand. The screen flashed Gail. She answered it. “Gail. I’m done. Please don’t call me about Frances anymore.”

“She’s been raped, Abby.”

The rape had scarred Frances. Her mind has snapped shut. Her heart felt soiled. During the five hours she’d been in the emergency room she’d had time to think. They’d done a rape kit and had her take a pill to ensure she wouldn’t get pregnant. The nurse offered to send in a social worker to talk with Frances. Frances declined.

Frances wondered if her father would have shown concern had he not been so angry. She knows Abby is concerned. The peep show building wasn’t in a very good area of town. And she knew that all the clientele weren’t as decent as Uncle Gary. Uncle Gary would never harm anyone, or would he? If he was perverted enough to pay a woman to dance naked, what else might he do?

Dad, she thought, Dad. He had always kept her safe.

Gail had brought her a pair of blue jeans and an oversized charcoal sweatshirt. She was glad for the loose clothing. She grimaced as she pulled up her jeans but wouldn’t have traded the discomfort for a skirt. She pulled open the curtain separating her from the rest of the emergency beds.

“Let’s go.” Frances walked past Gail. Gail followed behind her roommate toward the glass doors noticing Frances wasn’t as graceful as usual. She usually had a carefree gait with a little swagger of the hips. Now, her steps were deliberate, her hips, still. Her head was up, though, and her shoulders squared. Gail knew she’d be okay.

Frances would phone her father and say, “I need you in my life.” And he would be there. It was that simple.