flashquake — Roger Paris's Editor's Pick

BEFORE SCHOOL
by Lorie Shaw

Almost every paragraph in this piece begins "Mary Jane..." Normally, I would find repetition a flaw in the writing but here I felt that it helped to build the tension by through an insistent cadence.

Mary Jane's stepfather is rough all over, like sandpaper. The skin of his palms is prickly, calloused, and his nails are black with grease from the machinery of the ball returns. Mary Jane's stepfather runs the bowling alley, and she and her mother live with him in the four-room apartment upstairs.

Mary Jane's mother says her stepfather wants to see her in his office behind the shoe counter before school. It is early. Mary Jane never sleeps much due to the nightly rolling thunder from below. Her eyes are crunchy, itchy. Mary Jane is twelve and doesn't eat breakfast.

Mary Jane enters the office tentatively. Her stepfather is not there yet. An unopened pack of Marlboro reds, a yellow Bic lighter, and a dirty blue ashtray are laid out on the corner of his metal desk. Mary Jane's stepfather does not smoke. Mary Jane perches on the edge of a folding chair she drags away from the display, and waits. Her stomach makes a noise.

Mary Jane's stepfather clears his throat in the doorway. She startles, turns her head, wonders how long he has been there. Her eyes light on the can of Mountain Dew clutched in his hand. She would like to have it. He sets it in front of her; she pops the top, drinks deeply.

Mary Jane's stepfather lowers himself behind his desk and rocks back in his squeaky chair, fingers entwined behind his head. "Tito was taking out the trash last night and he said he saw a girl that looked a lot like you behind the dumpsters smoking with that Farrell kid. Said when he hollered, you took off running."

Mary Jane swallows more Mountain Dew, studies the can, rolling it between her palms. "I don't smoke."

"Tito works here and he sees you every day. I think his eyesight is pretty good. You calling him a liar?"

Mary Jane shrugs. "I don't smoke."

Mary Jane's stepfather rocks forward hard in the groaning chair, hairy forearms flat on the desk. "Oh, come on, now. You can tell me. It was you, wasn't it?"

Mary Jane rubs her crusty eyes with her knuckles. Her voice is small. "I don't smoke."

Mary Jane's stepfather sighs with meaning, reaches out, and defiles the desk display by unwinding the cellophane around the pack of Marlboros. He smacks the pack on the palm of his hand, tears the foil, drops the trash on his desk. He slides two cigarettes from the pack, drags the yellow lighter toward him with a greasy middle finger. Mary Jane's stomach lurches; carbonation makes her burp softly.

Mary Jane's stepfather lights one of the cigarettes, inhales. Mary Jane shifts uneasily in her chair, the corner of her mouth curling up involuntarily at the black half-moons of his fingernails so close to his mouth. "Now," he says, blowing smoke, holding out the other cigarette, "It's your turn."

Mary Jane would like to take a shower. "I don't smoke."

Mary Jane's stepfather puts the virgin cigarette in his mouth, touches it to the smoldering tip of his, puffs until it burns on its own. He hands it to her. "Here. Show me what you can do."

Mary Jane closes her eyes. "I don't smoke."

Mary Jane's stepfather slams his palm on the desktop making papers, cigarettes, ashtray jump. Mary Jane's eyes pop open, fill with tears. "Take it!" he snarls, thrusting the cigarette in her face.

Mary Jane's hand trembles, holds the lit cigarette between finger and thumb. She whimpers, "I don't…"

"Smoke!" Mary Jane's stepfather's palm makes the ashtray jump again.

Mary Jane's Mountain Dew rises in her throat; she swallows it along with her tears. She puts the filter to her lips, puffs prettily, fills her mouth with white curling vapor, lets it go, and coughs like an amateur.

"Oh, come on, now," chides Mary Jane's stepfather. "You can do better than that. Inhale!"

"I…"

Mary Jane's stepfather springs from his chair, looms behind her before she can blink. "Like this." He leans over her shoulder, wolfs the smoke from his cigarette, blasts it from his nostrils, crushes it dead in the ashtray.

Mary Jane's eyes sting. Her stepfather's fingers clamp her wrist, bring the cigarette to her mouth—"Down the throat, girlie! I know you can do it!" he hisses in her ear.

Mary Jane drags, swallows, holds, releases with hot, silent tears slicing her cheeks.

Mary Jane's stepfather slips back into his squeaking chair, rocking, head cocked, smiling. "Again," he urges softly.

Mary Jane looks vacantly, unblinkingly into his eyes, inhales deeply, smoke slithering from her nose and the sides of her mouth.

Mary Jane's stepfather sighs, stretches with a groan, rolls his neck. He grins lazily. "You look so great." He nods toward the Marlboro reds. "Those are for you."

Mary Jane grinds out the cigarette, stands, turns, bolts. "I — don't — smoke!"

Mary Jane showers, scrubs her skin red, brushes her teeth until the gums bleed.

On her way to school, she peeks into her stepfather's office. He is not there. She slips in, palms the cigarette pack, puts it into her pocket. Outside, she leans against the back wall of the bowling alley near the dumpsters. She has time before school.

Mary Jane smokes.

Copyright 2003 by Lorie Shaw

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