home poisons everything. I already talked to Mrs. Vasquez, and she said it would be okay.”
I'm sure she did . Val shook away that thought, appalled by her own bitchiness. “That sounds really … interesting. I'm sure you'll get an A,” she tacked on hastily.
“ I hope so. It's going to be hard, since I don't really like this play.” Emily frowned down at her copy of Titus Andronicus . “What are you doing your paper on, Val?”
“ I don't know. I haven't really thought about it.”
And then she jumped as Ms. Banner, steadily creeping up on them this whole time, shushed.
Val grudgingly redirected her efforts into the playbook, wishing Emily hadn't said what her idea was. Now, all Val could think about was revenge — which, in turn, made her wonder if her stalker's sudden interest might be a kind of revenge on its own. But from whom? And for what? Or was she over-analyzing this?
No. There was a connection there between her own situation and the play. She pondered it on the track field, tuning out Rachel's and Lindsay's excited chatter about the French club's upcoming trip to Paris. Titus Andronicus was about revenge as Emily had said, but something else, too. Mrs. Vasquez had mentioned it in class, though as more of a footnote, really.
“ You're so quiet today,” said Lindsay. “Thinking of a certain someone?”
“ Don't encourage her,” Rachel said.
“ I'm just trying to take an interest.”
“ If by 'trying to take an interest,' you mean 'nosing for information.'”
“ Val, tell her that I'm only looking out for you,” Lindsay protested.
“ No, tell her that she's a nosier than Pinocchio with a head cold.”
“ Val, tell her — ”
“ I'm thinking about my essay,” Val informed them both. “That's what I'm thinking about.”
Lindsay and Rachel both exchanged a look. “Still want to take an interest?” Rachel asked.
“ No, I think I'm good,” Lindsay said. “I already know more than I'd like to about essays.”
Blissfully, the two of them went back to their conversation, which made Val remember the lecture topic which had fled her mind.
The castration of women.
Mrs. Vasquez had said that Lavinia's rape and mutilation symbolized complete and utter impotence as Lavinia was prevented from speaking for herself in the most frighteningly literal sense. She had ceased to be a person, and had instead become an object. Voiceless. Helpless.
The first time they had read that passage in class, Val became so nauseated that she begged for the bathroom pass. Instead of going to the bathrooms, however, she stood in the breezeway between her building and the next, trying to will such gruesome imagery from her head as the wind chilled the sweat on her skin. It would have been better if it were fantasy, if people were incapable of being so sick and cruel and violent, but it wasn't fantasy and it did happen — and that made vicious psychopaths far more chilling than any monster.
Val remembered this, in particular, when she opened her locker and a cascade of rose petals poured out, the fetid stink of their sweetness nearly suffocating in its potency. Red petals, salted with the star-shaped blossoms of white jasmine. “Oh god,” she breathed, staring at the flowers in horror. Her locker had been just that — locked.
Quickly, she began grabbing them by the fistful and throwing them in the trashcan, noticing as she did that the petals were fresh and hadn't even begun to wilt. An observation that made goosebumps erupt up and down her arms. She stared into the darkness, terrified that she would see nothing and even more terrified that she wouldn't.
And then she heard a metallic sound, which made her start, jerkily, back towards her locker. It was just the squeak of the door's hinges as it swung open a little further from her frenzied gestures. But that wasn't what commanded her attention. Her eyes were riveted on the inside of the door — or, more specifically, what was carved there.
Gouged into
I'm sure she did . Val shook away that thought, appalled by her own bitchiness. “That sounds really … interesting. I'm sure you'll get an A,” she tacked on hastily.
“ I hope so. It's going to be hard, since I don't really like this play.” Emily frowned down at her copy of Titus Andronicus . “What are you doing your paper on, Val?”
“ I don't know. I haven't really thought about it.”
And then she jumped as Ms. Banner, steadily creeping up on them this whole time, shushed.
Val grudgingly redirected her efforts into the playbook, wishing Emily hadn't said what her idea was. Now, all Val could think about was revenge — which, in turn, made her wonder if her stalker's sudden interest might be a kind of revenge on its own. But from whom? And for what? Or was she over-analyzing this?
No. There was a connection there between her own situation and the play. She pondered it on the track field, tuning out Rachel's and Lindsay's excited chatter about the French club's upcoming trip to Paris. Titus Andronicus was about revenge as Emily had said, but something else, too. Mrs. Vasquez had mentioned it in class, though as more of a footnote, really.
“ You're so quiet today,” said Lindsay. “Thinking of a certain someone?”
“ Don't encourage her,” Rachel said.
“ I'm just trying to take an interest.”
“ If by 'trying to take an interest,' you mean 'nosing for information.'”
“ Val, tell her that I'm only looking out for you,” Lindsay protested.
“ No, tell her that she's a nosier than Pinocchio with a head cold.”
“ Val, tell her — ”
“ I'm thinking about my essay,” Val informed them both. “That's what I'm thinking about.”
Lindsay and Rachel both exchanged a look. “Still want to take an interest?” Rachel asked.
“ No, I think I'm good,” Lindsay said. “I already know more than I'd like to about essays.”
Blissfully, the two of them went back to their conversation, which made Val remember the lecture topic which had fled her mind.
The castration of women.
Mrs. Vasquez had said that Lavinia's rape and mutilation symbolized complete and utter impotence as Lavinia was prevented from speaking for herself in the most frighteningly literal sense. She had ceased to be a person, and had instead become an object. Voiceless. Helpless.
The first time they had read that passage in class, Val became so nauseated that she begged for the bathroom pass. Instead of going to the bathrooms, however, she stood in the breezeway between her building and the next, trying to will such gruesome imagery from her head as the wind chilled the sweat on her skin. It would have been better if it were fantasy, if people were incapable of being so sick and cruel and violent, but it wasn't fantasy and it did happen — and that made vicious psychopaths far more chilling than any monster.
Val remembered this, in particular, when she opened her locker and a cascade of rose petals poured out, the fetid stink of their sweetness nearly suffocating in its potency. Red petals, salted with the star-shaped blossoms of white jasmine. “Oh god,” she breathed, staring at the flowers in horror. Her locker had been just that — locked.
Quickly, she began grabbing them by the fistful and throwing them in the trashcan, noticing as she did that the petals were fresh and hadn't even begun to wilt. An observation that made goosebumps erupt up and down her arms. She stared into the darkness, terrified that she would see nothing and even more terrified that she wouldn't.
And then she heard a metallic sound, which made her start, jerkily, back towards her locker. It was just the squeak of the door's hinges as it swung open a little further from her frenzied gestures. But that wasn't what commanded her attention. Her eyes were riveted on the inside of the door — or, more specifically, what was carved there.
Gouged into
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