A bit of November for the new year

A bit of November for the new year

I was just rereading, and this made me smile. Completely out of context, but here you go:


A few hours later, Rachel and I sit in detention stifling our giggles as the supervisor, Mrs. Corpulent-and-Unaware, does rhythmic dance motions to the beat of whatever is playing in her ear buds. Her stumpy ponytail swings back and forth as she moves her head from side to side, tapping her feet and swaying. She’s still in her seat, but just barely, and I’m just waiting for her to burst over the desk that’s holding her back and explode in a frantic show of 70s disco and 80s aerobicize.

But before she can do that, the classroom door opens, and there’s Charlie. He looks at me and Rachel and winks before turning to Mrs. Corpulent.

“Excuse me,” he says, clearing his throat. When Mrs. Corpulent doesn’t respond – she’s too engrossed in her Cyndi Lauper alter-ego – he speaks a little louder. “Mrs. Carter? Mrs. Carter!”

Mrs. Corpulent flinches and pulls the ear buds from her ears, looking startled. “Oh! Charlie, of course! What can I do for you?”

“That’s my sister you’ve got over there, and see, we’re having a bit of a family emergency, so if you don’t mind-“

“Oh, of course! You’ll need to take her right now, I presume?”

“That’d be great, Mrs. Carter. And Carly too, if you don’t mind. She’s a close family friend.” Charlie gestures toward me.

“Of course, of course! Not a problem, dear.” Mrs. Corpulent smiles, and Rachel and I both stand and gather our things. We walk to the front of the room, extremely careful about containing our giggles now. “Oh! Just let me sign those slips really quick, and you all can be on your way!” She signs them, drawing purple scribbles through the dotted lines, and then waves us forward. “Have a good day!”

Charlie puts a hand on Rachel’s shoulder and a hand on mine, and he propels us toward the doorway. We do not even let the door click shut behind us before we’re consumed by laughter.

“Oh-my-god!” Rachel gasps for air. “Did you see her? DID YOU SEE HER?” She stumbles a few feet forward before doubling over snorting. The textbook she had in her arms clatters to the ground, landing open, and the papers that were jammed inside the front cover are swept up by a sudden gust of wind.

“Oh, shoot!” Rachel cries. Charlie and I rush off in the direction of the papers, which include Rachel’s history homework for the night as well as a cheesy love letter from her last boyfriend and at least five games of MASH we just played while watching Mrs. Corpulent groove to the beat.

Charlie is a foot away from one of the papers, and he leans forward, grazing it with his fingertips. But then he trips on the edge of a concrete planter, launching himself into the air. He does not fall, gracefully catching himself before he touches back down on the ground, but his notebook drops from his arms. It gets caught in midair by the wind and several sheets of paper are swept loose, tumbling over themselves as they fly up above our heads. Rachel’s laughing harder now; she’s actually sitting on the ground, legs splayed out wildly as she grips the developing stitch in her side.

“Holy crap!” Charlie exclaims as he collapses on the ground, resigning himself to his defeat. I do the same, dropping my bag and sitting down on the ground ten feet away from him.

“Oh my god, you guys!” Rachel’s face is red and she’s shaking all over. I know she can’t get the image of her brother flying over the planter and into the air out of her head because I can’t either. My mind has become an instant replay, rewinding and fast-forwarding, zooming in on the surprised expression on Charlie’s face as he realized he was airborne, if only for a moment.

“Rachel!” Charlie stands up and bends down to retrieve his notebook. “Get up!” Rachel’s still laughing, but I pull myself off the ground and start to pick up the pieces of paper that have landed around us.

Five minutes later, Charlie and I have gathered all the sheets up into a pile. We walk over to Rachel, who has been leaning back on her hands for the past few minutes, lazily watching us labor away.

“Your majesty,” I say in my best British accent, bowing. Charlie, beside me, bends as well. “Is this to your liking? What would you have us do now, your highness?” Rachel reaches forward and grabs my hand. She bends her head to kiss it, doing her best Queen Elizabeth impression, but before she can Charlie grabs her other hand and we combine our efforts to pull her up off of the ground. Before she realizes what is happening, Charlie and I have piled our textbooks into her arms and given her all the loose sheets of paper we just collected as well.

“Your queen disapproves,” Rachel says contritely, in an accent that sounds more than a confused Australian cowboy than it does a regal British queen. Then she turns abruptly, still laden with all of our stuff, and walks toward the parking lot. Charlie turns to me, brushing his hair out of his face, and rolls his eyes before the two of us set off slowly behind Rachel.