Stephanie

“Cover me if there’s a fire.”

It’s on days such as these that I feel most similar to Mr. Caulfield. Minutes roll on. A second feels like a day, yet each hour seems to pass in less than two minutes.

“…Because I want you to burn first.”

I can’t see Stephanie from where I currently sit, but I know she’s three rows ahead of me writing her little ass off. Maybe she’s writing about the ducks in Central Park.

Maybe not.

All I know is that she is completely emotionless is her certain way of being. She is phoney. She can sit and write and write and write and revise and write, write, write her little ass off.

Whoop-dee-do.

She’ll write a thousand, million, trillion stories. She’ll write about her previous opportunities and misfortunes. She’ll write about noble causes and useless endeavours. She’ll write of tragedy, love and injustice. Most of all, she’ll write about nothing.

Everything the girl will ever write will have the same morals:

Work hard.

Look cute.

Conquer worlds.

“She screamed at me: ‘I want to be desired!’”

Sure, she can use as many dictionaries as she damn-well-pleases. She may be lifted and praised and made up as some unattainable ideal, but she is only human. She is phoney. She is fake.

“I said: ‘Easy, girl! I know it hurts.’”

Stephanie is nothing.

She is nothing compared to myself.

Who am I to be saying all this about someone else? To a teacher, no less.

“Now, there’s nothing wrong with you. I’m just tired.”

In many ways, I wish I could be her. She will do well in everything she tries, for all the “right” reasons. What will my lack of effort amount to? What will my criticisms amass to?

Nothing.

“And I’m in a mood for a brand new curse.”

Keeping this in mind, it seems completely illogical to pick out Stephanie’s faults. Even her name shows evidence of conquest. So I suppose she isn’t the one I hate.

“Cover me if there’s a fire,”

That would be myself.

“…Because I want you to burn first.”