Amy Laurens's Blog, page 111
July 25, 2012
Updates
I know I haven't posted either League (LAOS) or Sockboy in a few weeks. Rest assured, I'm working on it - I know the events of the next League chapter, and I have the next few Sockboy episodes written. However, I've just returned to work, and life is a little more insane than usual. Any spare time and brain power is being devoted to the novel. Hopefully I'll have an update on one or the other for you next week :)
Also, because I am CLEARLY AND CERTIFIABLY INSANE, I'm doing a course on Fantasy and Science Fiction through Coursera that started this week. You can do the assessment tasks and wotnot and get a pretty certificate at the end, but hello, work, baby, writing, LIFE, so I'm mostly just there to watch the lecture vids as I can and see what ideas I can glean. Especially since the course reading is a novel a week o.O But anyway, if I find any interesting insights, I'll post here :)
Also, because I am CLEARLY AND CERTIFIABLY INSANE, I'm doing a course on Fantasy and Science Fiction through Coursera that started this week. You can do the assessment tasks and wotnot and get a pretty certificate at the end, but hello, work, baby, writing, LIFE, so I'm mostly just there to watch the lecture vids as I can and see what ideas I can glean. Especially since the course reading is a novel a week o.O But anyway, if I find any interesting insights, I'll post here :)
July 20, 2012
To Tip The Scales of Justice and Mercy
The Small Person is in bed, again, at last, and I'm reading, again, but not books, because books can't hold my attention right now when I'm restless, and tired, and vaguely guilty for the fact that my house looks like it's lived-in and there are toys in the corner and folding on the lounge and unfinished paperwork on the table and dishes in the kitchen, though all the non-dishwasher dishes are clean and really I just need to unstack and stack. There's a basket of wet laundry waiting to be hung out on the line like flags, colourful flags that symbolise everything we are and have been, because we wear our clothes every day and they make us, and we make them, the caterpillar suit that belongs to Small Person that is my favourite, the shirt I should have thrown out months ago but that I love, the sheets that my husband and I bought together, lie in together, change together.
All of this is calling to me, but I'm sitting here reading, and my soul is full. I'm reading about courage, and hope, and change; I'm reading about things that outrage me, things that try to excuse themselves saying they 'didn't mean' to be offensive, and so therefore aren't - to which I silently, furiously, blood-boilingly disagree, because when you are the powerful one, you don't get to define what offends those in less powerful positions. And I'm reading about love, and life, and wanting to uproot everything you are and have and just get out, change, do something different because what you're living is so empty, so small, so nothing.
I, too, was raised under the unconscious message that bigger is better, that more is more, and I'm not talking about the world, about acts of greed and selfishness and plastered billboards and enchanting lights and beautiful people with beautiful drinks and cars that change your life and computers that sing and dance and long slim legs and long thick hair and sparkling eyes and full breasts in bikinis and clear skin and stuff and things and more-more-more. I'm not talking about that.
I'm talking about other things, unselfish things, things that help and heal and minister. Things that change the world, that can only BE big because what can small do against a world of greed, a world of pain and hurt and envy and pride, large gaps getting larger and privilege and wealth and so much poverty that I never, ever see. I'm sheltered, spoiled, I don't even KNOW anyone who qualifies as poor, and we're not rich and we have bills but we also have a car, and a motorbike, and a house and new furniture, a dishwasher for Mothers' Day and fishing rods for Christmas, thousands of dollars of books and a flat-screen TV, and how dare we think that we need stuff in a world where people die so easily at the end of a gun wielded in a bar brawl, in front of their wife, with two small children at home?
And I'm doing nothing, or so it seems, because we're told that the only things that count are BIG, that if you're not serving overseas it doesn't matter, that soup kitchens and street alleys are the only places you can make a difference, that unless you're fighting to stay alive with everything you have your perspective isn't valid, doesn't count.
And I'm thinking all this because of what I'm reading, because the woman whose blog I'm reading has felt all this and I do too, and it's guilt, and it's more guilt, and I am so. sick. of guilt. Guilt is poison, a spider bite in the vegetable garden, a snake curled in the blankets of your bed, a fire-ant sting at a lavish summer picnic, ready to flood your senses without provocation, devouring, destroying, souring the taste of the cherries because cherries are expensive, and out of season, and you shouldn't be eating them because the cost to ship them here from America ought to be prohibitive, and people in the world are dying from lack of sustenance and you're eating things that cost a year's worth of food for these people, and you're enjoying it, and you must be perverse.
Sometimes, even big things aren't enough.
But I'm reading, reading, feeling and still reading, and a sentence makes me pause. In all of this, the quiet reminder that even if we don't feel like they do, the small things count, because we're not in this world to fix it, it's broken, it's crumbled, and one day maybe we will rebuild but for now there are just as many working against as there are working for and really, ultimately, there's nothing we can do. One day it will all be gone and we'll start over with everyone, everyone, who wants to see that, regardless of race colour creed size shape gender age. We will all be there, and then it will be fixed.
But now, here, we're not fixing things, no one can do that, we just can't, we're fighting against powers and principalities not of this world, and here, on Earth, it's a losing battle, though ultimately it's won. But I'm reading, and I know: that doesn't mean that what we do doesn't count. It's like the starfish, which has been retold so often it's cliche, but it matters, it still matters even if you've heard the story a thousand times, just like what we do. We do it so often, all that small stuff, that it becomes cliche, and we're inured to it, and we forget that it still matters, that even though we've never seen a smile of ours make a difference, that doesn't mean it doesn't. That giving a few dollars here and there still helps, even if it's boring, even if it's tiny, even if it's 'done'.
And I'm reading, and I find the thing I didn't realise I was looking for, the sentence that gives me hope. We're not here to fix things, we can't, it's too much. Instead, all we need to do it tip the scales. We're striving for justice, for mercy, at least I am, it's what I burn to do with everything that I am, every time I read something that makes my blood boil it's because I hate, I hate injustice and I hate unfairness and I hate that there are people in this world that think that privilege is okay, that power over others is God-given, that discrimination is alright. I long for justice; I ache for mercy. And in the end, that is what we are to do, all we are to do, everything we are to do: to tip the scales in their favour.
And I read this, and I remember: it only takes a grain of rice to tip the scales in the end. We don't need 'big', or loud, or bright or shiny or dazzley; we just need. Everything tips the balance, one way or the other.
All of this is calling to me, but I'm sitting here reading, and my soul is full. I'm reading about courage, and hope, and change; I'm reading about things that outrage me, things that try to excuse themselves saying they 'didn't mean' to be offensive, and so therefore aren't - to which I silently, furiously, blood-boilingly disagree, because when you are the powerful one, you don't get to define what offends those in less powerful positions. And I'm reading about love, and life, and wanting to uproot everything you are and have and just get out, change, do something different because what you're living is so empty, so small, so nothing.
I, too, was raised under the unconscious message that bigger is better, that more is more, and I'm not talking about the world, about acts of greed and selfishness and plastered billboards and enchanting lights and beautiful people with beautiful drinks and cars that change your life and computers that sing and dance and long slim legs and long thick hair and sparkling eyes and full breasts in bikinis and clear skin and stuff and things and more-more-more. I'm not talking about that.
I'm talking about other things, unselfish things, things that help and heal and minister. Things that change the world, that can only BE big because what can small do against a world of greed, a world of pain and hurt and envy and pride, large gaps getting larger and privilege and wealth and so much poverty that I never, ever see. I'm sheltered, spoiled, I don't even KNOW anyone who qualifies as poor, and we're not rich and we have bills but we also have a car, and a motorbike, and a house and new furniture, a dishwasher for Mothers' Day and fishing rods for Christmas, thousands of dollars of books and a flat-screen TV, and how dare we think that we need stuff in a world where people die so easily at the end of a gun wielded in a bar brawl, in front of their wife, with two small children at home?
And I'm doing nothing, or so it seems, because we're told that the only things that count are BIG, that if you're not serving overseas it doesn't matter, that soup kitchens and street alleys are the only places you can make a difference, that unless you're fighting to stay alive with everything you have your perspective isn't valid, doesn't count.
And I'm thinking all this because of what I'm reading, because the woman whose blog I'm reading has felt all this and I do too, and it's guilt, and it's more guilt, and I am so. sick. of guilt. Guilt is poison, a spider bite in the vegetable garden, a snake curled in the blankets of your bed, a fire-ant sting at a lavish summer picnic, ready to flood your senses without provocation, devouring, destroying, souring the taste of the cherries because cherries are expensive, and out of season, and you shouldn't be eating them because the cost to ship them here from America ought to be prohibitive, and people in the world are dying from lack of sustenance and you're eating things that cost a year's worth of food for these people, and you're enjoying it, and you must be perverse.
Sometimes, even big things aren't enough.
But I'm reading, reading, feeling and still reading, and a sentence makes me pause. In all of this, the quiet reminder that even if we don't feel like they do, the small things count, because we're not in this world to fix it, it's broken, it's crumbled, and one day maybe we will rebuild but for now there are just as many working against as there are working for and really, ultimately, there's nothing we can do. One day it will all be gone and we'll start over with everyone, everyone, who wants to see that, regardless of race colour creed size shape gender age. We will all be there, and then it will be fixed.
But now, here, we're not fixing things, no one can do that, we just can't, we're fighting against powers and principalities not of this world, and here, on Earth, it's a losing battle, though ultimately it's won. But I'm reading, and I know: that doesn't mean that what we do doesn't count. It's like the starfish, which has been retold so often it's cliche, but it matters, it still matters even if you've heard the story a thousand times, just like what we do. We do it so often, all that small stuff, that it becomes cliche, and we're inured to it, and we forget that it still matters, that even though we've never seen a smile of ours make a difference, that doesn't mean it doesn't. That giving a few dollars here and there still helps, even if it's boring, even if it's tiny, even if it's 'done'.
And I'm reading, and I find the thing I didn't realise I was looking for, the sentence that gives me hope. We're not here to fix things, we can't, it's too much. Instead, all we need to do it tip the scales. We're striving for justice, for mercy, at least I am, it's what I burn to do with everything that I am, every time I read something that makes my blood boil it's because I hate, I hate injustice and I hate unfairness and I hate that there are people in this world that think that privilege is okay, that power over others is God-given, that discrimination is alright. I long for justice; I ache for mercy. And in the end, that is what we are to do, all we are to do, everything we are to do: to tip the scales in their favour.
And I read this, and I remember: it only takes a grain of rice to tip the scales in the end. We don't need 'big', or loud, or bright or shiny or dazzley; we just need. Everything tips the balance, one way or the other.
July 19, 2012
It's Always Too Late (Though That May Be Just Right)
Why it is that just as we get the hang of one season in our life, the next one comes along? I suppose because we have learned what we needed to from the season. But sometimes, boy, it would be nice to learn a lesson from something and then sit back and enjoy.
I'm going back to work on Monday. Not full time - a 0.8 loading (1.0 is full time), which means 4 classes instead of 5 and two days a week where I only have to be a work for a couple of hours. But it is still terrifying. I'm looking forward to it so much - I adore my job, being in the classroom, teaching and learning and letting the kids laugh at me - but really, I want to keep looking forward to it for just another week. And maybe another after that...
Because of course, things have JUST gotten comfortable at home. Small Person is 23 weeks old and has settled into a routine (ish), but more to the point, I've learned how to cope when he doesn't. Right now, I'm standing up using my dresser as a table with the SP strapped in the front pack because he's only had 2 half-hour naps so far today. It's 4pm. He's tired. But he's still, now that the initial tears have passed, gurgling and chirping and smiling behind his dummy (pacifier). And so I am. Time was, I'd be frazzled to death because husband will be home in an hour and half and I've not done much today - but you know what? It's my last day at home with the kid for ten weeks (huzzah that I can say that, huzzah for teaching, huzzah for school holidays). And I've enjoyed being with him extra, even if it means he's grizzly. Because I don't just love him when he's happy, and ultimately, though it's my job to take care of him in every way I can, I can't actually make him be happy.
So today, I'm just enjoying loving him, knowing that he won't be **ALL MINE** again for another three months - and lamenting that, once again, I've learned the lesson just in time for the season to be over.
Also, Motherheard #2: Don't lick the floor, dear.
I'm going back to work on Monday. Not full time - a 0.8 loading (1.0 is full time), which means 4 classes instead of 5 and two days a week where I only have to be a work for a couple of hours. But it is still terrifying. I'm looking forward to it so much - I adore my job, being in the classroom, teaching and learning and letting the kids laugh at me - but really, I want to keep looking forward to it for just another week. And maybe another after that...
Because of course, things have JUST gotten comfortable at home. Small Person is 23 weeks old and has settled into a routine (ish), but more to the point, I've learned how to cope when he doesn't. Right now, I'm standing up using my dresser as a table with the SP strapped in the front pack because he's only had 2 half-hour naps so far today. It's 4pm. He's tired. But he's still, now that the initial tears have passed, gurgling and chirping and smiling behind his dummy (pacifier). And so I am. Time was, I'd be frazzled to death because husband will be home in an hour and half and I've not done much today - but you know what? It's my last day at home with the kid for ten weeks (huzzah that I can say that, huzzah for teaching, huzzah for school holidays). And I've enjoyed being with him extra, even if it means he's grizzly. Because I don't just love him when he's happy, and ultimately, though it's my job to take care of him in every way I can, I can't actually make him be happy.
So today, I'm just enjoying loving him, knowing that he won't be **ALL MINE** again for another three months - and lamenting that, once again, I've learned the lesson just in time for the season to be over.
Also, Motherheard #2: Don't lick the floor, dear.
July 18, 2012
Productivity Is Now A Swear Word: A Re-evaluation
I've been doing a lot of non-fic reading the last week or so, and have come across some interesting things. These, plus a combination of various life factors, have prompted some thinking about this horrible all-pervasive guilt that is like a storm cloud over my life. I have this natural tendency to believe that OHMYGOSH EVERYTHING IS MY FAULT, and not in a melodramatic, woe is me sort of way, but a genuine crap, why was I not smarter/better/more observant/whatever in order to avoid this happening? And that applied to everything, including completely illogical things that have nothing to do with me whatsoever.
I also have this ridiculous belief that I must be productive every second of every day, which perversely ends up meaning that I am LESS productive, because I procrastinate more, because there is SO MUCH PRESSURE to be productive. Yes yes, I haz Issues, I know. But this means that if I'm not careful, my to-do list can blossom out of control. This is the main thing that has made writing a chore, because once things are on that to-do list, they fall prey to the Productivity Guilt - if I am not doing it, I am feeling guilty for not doing it, which makes me hate doing it, which makes me do it less, which makes me more guilty for not doing it, which makes me hate it more, which... Well, you can see where this is going.
BUT! All the readings, and a conversation with the Boyo, and a few other things mean I am now officially Changing My Attitude (and abusing capitals): Productivity is now a swear word. I will have TIME OFF, confound it all, and let the brain breathe. Oddly enough, sticking to this a few nights last week (i.e. shutting the laptop down at 8pm, regardless of how much I hadn't acheived, instead of futzing away on it, achieving maybe three sentences between then and bedtime) meant I slept longer and better than when I didn't. When you give your brain a break, you sleep better and function more effectively?! WHO KNEW?!?!
But anyway, I'm trying to get to a point here. All of this made me think about chores, and all those things that I HAVE to do. I had a conversation with the Boyo the other day in which he essentially said that he knew I wasn't a cleaner when I married him, that he never expected me to change, and that he doesn't actually expect a spotless house and dinner on the table every night (HELLO, HE IS MINE, YOU CANNOT HAZ).
Here was the very thing I’d been longing for, surely: the permission to NOT DO MY CHORES. He didn’t care if I did them or not (well, loosely speaking), and as I was the only other adult in the house… Why do them?!
Only, of course, I still had to do them. But there was that word again: ‘had’. I didn’t ‘have’ to do them. And so the epiphanic realisation: I wanted to do them.
LE GASP. I wanted to do the chores?? What kind of insane reality was this? And yet, there it was: friends were coming for dinner, or family for the weekend, or something, and I wanted a clean house to show for it. I wanted a clean house.
Behold, my intrinsic motivation.
So now, when I catch myself moaning about doing the dishes, or vacuuming, or hanging the washing, or whatever, I force myself to rephrase. Instead of, ‘Blah, I have to do the dishes’, it’s, ‘Hmm, I’d really like to have clean dishes to eat from tonight.’ It sounds so stupidly insignificant, but the shift in thinking that it represents is HUGE.
And with that, I can kiss goodbye to just a little bit of that guilt – because if I’m doing the dishes, it’s because I want to, and if I’m not, it’s because I don’t want to – not because I’m shirking things I HAVE to do.
The things I has been readings:
Good Job and Other Things You Shouldn't Say (Unless You Want To Ruin Your Child's Life)
The Case Against Grades
Five Reasons To Stop Saying 'Good Job!'
Bad Writing Habits
Rachel Held Evans: A Year of Interviews
Imagine: How Creativity Works
--You are not allowed to comment on the fact that this post was obviously composed in two pieces, and that one is decidedly more refined and coherent than the other. I edited for six hours today. Leave my brain alone. *poke*--
I also have this ridiculous belief that I must be productive every second of every day, which perversely ends up meaning that I am LESS productive, because I procrastinate more, because there is SO MUCH PRESSURE to be productive. Yes yes, I haz Issues, I know. But this means that if I'm not careful, my to-do list can blossom out of control. This is the main thing that has made writing a chore, because once things are on that to-do list, they fall prey to the Productivity Guilt - if I am not doing it, I am feeling guilty for not doing it, which makes me hate doing it, which makes me do it less, which makes me more guilty for not doing it, which makes me hate it more, which... Well, you can see where this is going.
BUT! All the readings, and a conversation with the Boyo, and a few other things mean I am now officially Changing My Attitude (and abusing capitals): Productivity is now a swear word. I will have TIME OFF, confound it all, and let the brain breathe. Oddly enough, sticking to this a few nights last week (i.e. shutting the laptop down at 8pm, regardless of how much I hadn't acheived, instead of futzing away on it, achieving maybe three sentences between then and bedtime) meant I slept longer and better than when I didn't. When you give your brain a break, you sleep better and function more effectively?! WHO KNEW?!?!
But anyway, I'm trying to get to a point here. All of this made me think about chores, and all those things that I HAVE to do. I had a conversation with the Boyo the other day in which he essentially said that he knew I wasn't a cleaner when I married him, that he never expected me to change, and that he doesn't actually expect a spotless house and dinner on the table every night (HELLO, HE IS MINE, YOU CANNOT HAZ).
Here was the very thing I’d been longing for, surely: the permission to NOT DO MY CHORES. He didn’t care if I did them or not (well, loosely speaking), and as I was the only other adult in the house… Why do them?!
Only, of course, I still had to do them. But there was that word again: ‘had’. I didn’t ‘have’ to do them. And so the epiphanic realisation: I wanted to do them.
LE GASP. I wanted to do the chores?? What kind of insane reality was this? And yet, there it was: friends were coming for dinner, or family for the weekend, or something, and I wanted a clean house to show for it. I wanted a clean house.
Behold, my intrinsic motivation.
So now, when I catch myself moaning about doing the dishes, or vacuuming, or hanging the washing, or whatever, I force myself to rephrase. Instead of, ‘Blah, I have to do the dishes’, it’s, ‘Hmm, I’d really like to have clean dishes to eat from tonight.’ It sounds so stupidly insignificant, but the shift in thinking that it represents is HUGE.
And with that, I can kiss goodbye to just a little bit of that guilt – because if I’m doing the dishes, it’s because I want to, and if I’m not, it’s because I don’t want to – not because I’m shirking things I HAVE to do.
The things I has been readings:
Good Job and Other Things You Shouldn't Say (Unless You Want To Ruin Your Child's Life)
The Case Against Grades
Five Reasons To Stop Saying 'Good Job!'
Bad Writing Habits
Rachel Held Evans: A Year of Interviews
Imagine: How Creativity Works
--You are not allowed to comment on the fact that this post was obviously composed in two pieces, and that one is decidedly more refined and coherent than the other. I edited for six hours today. Leave my brain alone. *poke*--
I'm Official!
Woohoo! I have an EIN! And I am here to testify that if you follow the instructions linked to in the previous post, the most trouble you'll have is understanding the operator's accent! *confetti*
Also, unrelated good news - the dog book, she is finished! I finally finished the MASSIVE AND EPIC re-edit (i.e. I rewrote 75% of the entire book from scratch >.
Also, unrelated good news - the dog book, she is finished! I finally finished the MASSIVE AND EPIC re-edit (i.e. I rewrote 75% of the entire book from scratch >.
July 14, 2012
Tax Info For Non-US Self-Publishers
Woohoo! We DON'T need ITINs anymore/after all! There is apparently a much simpler, easier way: EINs. For details, see this blog post.
YAY!
YAY!
July 9, 2012
Randomly, Spirituality
Not something I've ever discussed here on the blog before, but I'm going through a massive blog-reevaluation and have been for the last year. Part of the reason behind my excessively-sporadic posting is that when I started this blog, it was about writing, and the further into it I got, the more I felt like everything that needed to be said had already been said, by people much better qualified to say it than I.
But. Given the purpose of the blog is, when you get down to it, to help promo the writing, it kind of makes sense that I need to being talking about things other than writing. Then the next struggle: what do readers want to hear?
Cue perfectionism paralysis, something that has killed off the vast majority of all of my other hobbies. My name is Inky, and I sew, quilt, cook, bake, decorate cakes, draw, play piano and write music, I breed Labradors and show them and train them, I, I, I...
The problem is, whenever ANY (read: ALL) of these hobbies get to the point where they might possibly start Being Something, the perfectionism takes over. If I'm going to do something, I have to do it right: this is Rule Number One in the brain of Amy, and it's not an especially helpful rule (I'm working on amending it ;)). So all of a sudden each hobby becomes a business, and business oriented, and before I know it, I'm not doing anything for fun anymore, and I'm killing myself trying to run too many things that might one day be viable businesses if I was only devoting time to one of them, rather than half-arsing them all.
Talk about the ultimate contradiction: my drive to do everything properly is what results in me doing NONE of it properly o.0 La.
ANYWAY. This is all a very long and roundabout way of saying that I am going to trial forgetting all about audience on the blog, and just write whatever I feel like at the time, without regard to the structure or meaningfulness or ability to extract a moral from-ness or ANYTHING LIKE THAT.
Hopefully, it will be fun, and I will actually blog more often. Even more hopefully, some of you will enjoy it and stick around :)
All of which culminates in this: I haven't talked about spirituality here on the blog before, partially from a fear of being controversial, partially from the whole nothing-to-say-that-hasn't-been-said, and partially in a (perhaps misguided??) attempt to keep the blog 'professional'. I still intend to attempt some degree of professionality; however, comments on spirituality, religion, and dare I say it, God, may be forthcoming. (Literally 'may'; I've no concrete plans about anything).
All of which raises the interesting question: Just why the heck DO I feel like I have to apologise for being Christian?? (This is not an antagonistic sentiment; it's something I genuinely feel when conversing with non-Christians, and not because of anything they say or do, but just... because. Hey, if I knew why, I wouldn't be asking the question :P)
July 8, 2012
Need an Editor?
I've been unofficially freelance editing since 2008, and I've finally decided to make it official (with thanks due to the Twinny One, Liana Brooks ;)). To that end, Line by Line by Amy is open and having a 20% off sale for all manuscripts booked for August and September - and if you're a self-publishing author and think you can't afford the rates, send me an email and make me an offer :) I hope I'll be able to help some of you out! :)
Line by Line by Amy - "Amy has a fine eye for detail, but also focuses on the bigger picture. Her skills will make any writer shine!" ~Michelle Davidson Argyle
http://linebylinebyamy.blogspot.com
Line by Line by Amy - "Amy has a fine eye for detail, but also focuses on the bigger picture. Her skills will make any writer shine!" ~Michelle Davidson Argyle
http://linebylinebyamy.blogspot.com
July 5, 2012
LAOS: Chapter 3B
Welcome to my experiment in public drafting, otherwise known as a serial novel! Find out more about the L.A.O.S. here, including ways to join in the fun, or start from the beginning. Please remember, this is copyrighted material; you may quote a couple of sentences in a review, but otherwise all rights are reserved.
Chapter 3 Part B
I mooched into the room five minutes late with my school blazer itching unbearably at my neck. I ran a finger around my collar, feeling like I was going to choke at any second, and scanned the room for Megan. She was the only thing that would make this stupid day bearable. She was nearly the only thing that made joining the League of Extraordinary Losers worthwhile, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t fracking coolto be able to walk through a door without opening it or, you know, rummage in someone’s schoolbag without unzipping it.
Not that, you know, I could do that around anyone but the Losers, because if anyone else saw me do it I’d a) land a detention (big woop) and b) probably be examined to within an inch of my life. Such was the joy of being a teenager with superpowers, even if they were ‘absolutely ordinary’ ones. I sniffed. Ordinary my bum. The other misfits could try to pretend they were ordinary if they liked, but I for one wasn’t the least bit afraid of being an individual.
A group of kids sans uniforms and ergo from one of the public schools crowded past me, sniggering as they went. I shrugged self-consciously inside my blazer. Stupid uniform. Stupid public school kids. Stupid Maths competition.
“There you are.” Megan grabbed me by the elbow before I even realised she’d appeared and dragged me forward through the crowd. “Greg thought you’d chickened out.”
“Of the E. James Downward Mathematics competition? Now why would I do a thing like that,” I said, grinding my teeth as Megan towed me past the public school contingent who’d sniggered at me before.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Megan said with the air of explaining something simple to a very stupid person. “Maybe because you’ve missed every practice we’ve had this week?”
I pulled my arm away and shook my sleeve back in place. “Yeah? And?” It was Maths, for crying out loud. I could do this crap with my arms tied behind my back, and wasting every lunchtime with the Dorkazoids in some musty classroom had lost its gloss once they became more concerned with practice Maths questions than the freaky cool things you could do with some basic scientific knowledge. Create wind currents, for example. School uniform skirts looked heavy, sure, but a well-placed draft could lift them like a tissue.
Not that I would do that. And definitely not to Megan. That one time, it was the draft from the window, I swear it. Because, like, I’d tell her if I discovered something else awesome that we could do. Truly.
But anyway, she dragged me over and plonked me down at our table up the front right as the presiding teacher tapped his microphone and launched into a long-winded and unnecessary explanation of what today was about, why we were competing, and who gave a fig in the first place. Which clearly wasn’t me. Greg muttered something under his breath at me, no doubt his usual charming hello, and I settled down to the serious business of ignoring him.
After far too long, just as I was about to die of boredom, Head Teacher who fancied himself Great Orator finally shut up, and the first round of questions was handed out. I let the League of Losers stress over it for a while – though Matt wasn’t doing a half bad job – before I snatched the question sheet out from under Greg’s elbow and began dictating.
Greg tried to protest, Megan launched into a tirade against both of us, Pip put her head down on the desk, and Matt, the only sensible person at the table other than myself, wrote down what I was saying.
“…and then it all equals seven,” I finished, putting the page back down on the table and nodding at Matt. “Right?”
He nodded back, capped his pen, and placed it on the finished answer sheet. “Right.”
“See?” I said, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms. “You lot just need to learn to chill.”
Megan angled her chair away from me and pointedly struck up a conversation with Pip. What was that all about? I’d done what she wanted, hadn’t I? Here I was, stuck at this stupid Maths day when I’d rather be doing just about anything else, and I’d given them all the right answers and everything, and now she was mad at me?
I shook my head. “Women,” I muttered under my breath.
Greg, sadly, heard me. “You’re a moron, Chris,” he said as he shoved his chair back. He grabbed the answer sheet and stalked to the judges’ table.
I rolled my eyes.
Three rounds later and I was just about comatose from the sheer excitement of it all. Problem after problem after problem, and they weren’t even that challenging. I mean, sure, a couple of times one or two of the others got the answer before I did, but I was distracted. It’s not like I was trying.
At long last we broke for lunch, and I hurried out of the room as fast as I could. Megan had barely looked at me all morning, and there was no way I was going to sit around with the Losers for forty-five minutes while everyone looked on and sniggered.
I was nearly to the exit when someone grabbed my arm, spinning me around.
“Where are you going?” Megan demanded.
“Out,” I said.
“You know we’re not supposed to leave the premises.” She put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. Good thing she wasn’t a real superhero; a laser stare on her would be dangerous.
“I’m not,” I said, smoothing down my blazer and heading back towards the exit. “I’m getting lunch.”
“There’s lunch at the canteen,” Megan said, not following.
“I want real food.” I reached the door. Stupid Megan and her stupid morals. Stupid Maths day. Stupid lunch. If I wanted to go eat some real food, why should anyone care? It’s not like I was nipping out for a spot of vandalism before returning to win the Maths trophy, was it now? I set my jaw and phased through the door, knowing it would make Megan furious – maybe furious enough to come after me.
But I strode away from the building, shrugging out of my blazer and stuffing my tie into my pocket, and no one followed.
Amy Laurens (c) 2012
Previous << Return to table of contents >> Next
