I Never Liked Them, a General fanfic

I never liked them. I never liked them with their short, tight, horrible skirts swaying back and forth as they walked from room to room. They'd bend over just to give the boys a shot at their asses. "Stop that!" and a giggle that didn't mean stop it but "again, please, again"--- "Stop that!"

I saw one of them once bending over to pick up a pencil and people stopping and staring in front of her and behind her to watch her do it and she knew she had company so she picked it up slowly, delicately, carnally. The boys were watching her. Their eyes were big and their mouths hung open and their hands twitched toward her. So I walked on. And I never did like them. No, I never did.

I went to my class and I sat in my seat and one of them came over to me and asked me to move. They always get what they want so I moved without complaint because it is better to move and not complain than to have everyone yell at you again. I strained my ear to listen to what they were saying but I couldn't hear them and who wants to know what they're saying anyway, because they don't have anything valuable to say. Maybe talking about a movie or a magazine article and who wants to hear that? Who? Who?

Then our teacher passed out the music and I looked at it and held it tenderly and opened it gently and inside were lines and dots and circles and words and it meant something beautiful. And I strained my ear to hear what the lines and dots and circles and words were saying and it was beautiful and then our teacher opened his mouth from the front of the classroom and what was beautiful silenced. "We are going to sight-read this piece," he said.

And then I could hear what they were saying because it was loud. "I don't like this already."

But it's beautiful! But it's beautiful!

"I don't like this already."

You and your fat, ugly asses and your short, ugly skirts, and your high, plastered hair---why don't you shut up and listen to something beautiful. This is beautiful.

The piano started and it twitched my ear a little bit, then it was better, and the basses were singing and it hurt---my ears were twitching and the basses were singing and the piano was plinging brass, tinny notes that were wrong.

"Do you hate this?" she asked me.

"Yes," I lied to her. I knew she would never understand this is beautiful---this is beautiful--- and it is better to agree with them than to argue for no one would listen if I told them this is beautiful unless they heard it for themselves. I closed my eyes and listened with my ears and I pretended there was no brass, tinny piano and no horrible, shallow-voiced basses and my ears stopped twitching and I could hear it, I could feel it, and I opened my eyes and the lines and dots and circles and words came alive.

Then he tapped me from behind. "This is beautiful," he said.

I turned around and there he was in his black leather jacket and his red T-shirt and his glasses and his deep green eyes that swallowed me. And I hated them more because I had seen those eyes gaze after their asses and I had seen his hands twitch and his mouth drop open. I had seen him love them and he would never love me; but he loved this and he said, "This is beautiful."

"Yes it is," I said.

"Be quiet!" from the front of the room.

He leaned back in his chair and I listened to his breathing, deep and peaceful, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling. They were whispering too but the front of the room ignored them because they always get what they want and I listened to him breathe and listened to them whisper. Inhaling, exhaling.

"This is beautiful," I heard him say.

And the pages of lines and dots and circles and words meant more than just beauty now, but they meant inhaling, exhaling, breath, passion, hatred, life. Inhaling, exhaling---"this is beautiful"---and they were still whispering and it was still beautiful and he was still breathing behind me. And the piano was plinging out brass, tinny notes and the basses were shallow and gutless, and I could imagine it still.

Sometimes when I lie in bed I can hear the wind beyond my window pushing the clouds away. I imagine I am in the clouds, floating on the back of the wind watching birds and airplanes travel by with their own destinations and journeys and dreams and I am just floating and watching and listening. Sometimes it rains and I get to see it from above instead of below cleansing the earth of her impurities. I hear shouts of delight from farmers in the field with their hands outstretched---and I hear groans of disappointment from lovers in the city when their picnic is ruined with their hands covering their heads, running for shelter under a canopy or a tree.
And then I see him and his deep green eyes and they swallow me and we are floating together on the back of the wind and he says, "This is beautiful."
"Yes it is."
He follows me and we are no longer floating on the back of the wind but I look like them with their short, tight, terrible skirts and he's staring at my ass like he stares at their asses when I bend over to pick up a pencil. And he's breathing fast and short, in, out, in, out---"You're so beautiful" he says and the music plays and my ears don't twitch---"This is beautiful, you are beautiful" in, out, in, out, fast and short, in and out.
And I never liked them. No, I never did.

I was in my chair and they came into the room---three or four of them with their short, tight, horrible skirts. I moved before they asked me today because I knew they were going to. I moved down but I wasn't angry. He was behind me and I could hear him breathing. The tenors were singing. I could hear him singing and breathing and his voice reached beyond my ears and through my mind and I could feel it. His voice was warm and rich and welcoming. I wanted to touch it with my fingertips so I closed my eyes and I could see its golden, fervent waves. My body quivered as I reached out and wrapped myself in warmth that spread all over.

The tenors stopped singing and I turned around and touched his knee gently. "Your voice is beautiful," I said.

He smiled. "Thank you," he said.

The piano played the introduction and our teacher from the front of the room raised his baton and indicated the altos. My ears twitched but I drowned it out when I looked at the lines and dots and circles and words that meant something beautiful. They were next to me, with their horrible skirts riding up their thighs and they were reading a magazine article instead of singing. But I sang. I started singing and the music flowed all around me. I could feel it. I was louder than everyone else but they were wrong, the piano was wrong, our teacher from the front of the room was wrong, and I could feel it getting louder and louder---

"Jennifer!"

I stopped.

"Please follow the rest of us!"

"But I think it should be louder here."

"Everyone knows that's what you think. No one could hear anything else."

"But I think---"

"I don't care what you think! Please follow us!"

They were snickering. I could hear them snickering behind their magazine article. My ears started twitching again and I tried to drown it out by looking at the music but I couldn't see past the water in my eyes. It's supposed to be loud here, I can feel it. You and your fat ugly asses, stop snickering at me because it's supposed to be loud here. Put away your stupid magazine and look at the music and sing and maybe you can feel it through your body like I can. It's supposed to be loud here.

Then he patted me on the shoulder from behind and said, "I agree with you."

"It's supposed to be loud here!" I said.

"I agree."

"It is not supposed to be loud here!" the front of the room roared.

"But---"
"It is not supposed to be loud here!"

"Shut up," they said. "Shut up. No one cares what you think. It's not supposed to be loud here. No one cares. Shut up."

I never liked them.

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