I still havnt edited this so please be picky and critical etc etc
1. Jeanie
I could always tell when Kip got a letter from Melissa Taylor. There were the obvious signs: the tell tale handwriting, the fact that it was addressed to Kip, who never got post, the postmark itself; always from a new and obscure location, each one a different peep through a window at an exotic lifestyle.
Then there were the less distinct changes. A subtle lift in the gloomy expression on his face, like when the sun edges over the horizon, and one minute its colourless landscape, the next, you know something’s changed that’s made it beautiful, though you cant quite tell what it is.
There was the tender way in which he opened the envelope, not tearing a scrap of paper, never throwing a piece away, though I swear I never saw him bother to pen a reply. His breakfast was forgotten as I brought in the post each morning.
Though the thought had tempted me many times, I had never once read a letter from Melissa. It would’ve been quite easy to slip it into my pocket in the hallway, perhaps read it in one of the less exciting college lectures I endured, and moral reasons didn’t stop me either, reading other peoples post was something I had never had a problem with. When you share your house with someone, you’re sharing everything. Like some people shared cars, I shared letters. But I never read one of Melissa’s. However much it intrigued me, I couldn’t throw away the chance to see that expression on his face, every time it was like the hint of the smile I was sure was there; I couldn’t take it away from myself, let alone Kip.
Sometimes I wondered what she talked about in her letters. All I had learned from Kip was never to ask about her, the one time I had, he’d not spoken to me for a week. For all I knew, she was blackmailing him.
I was momentarily scared by this new idea, but then, I stopped. You’re not his mother, Jeanie, not his mother. Kip’s an adult now; he can look after himself, right?
I flipped my breakfast onto my plate, covered in faces only recognisable from the Beano. I squirted ketchup over Minnie’s beret.
This morning I had served eggs. I never pretended to be the best cook, and they were slightly grey, congealing on his plate as well as mine. The splash of colour the ketchup provided did nothing to enhance the beauty of my cooking. I looked down at the sorry mess of food once more, as if a farewell was in order, then stood and scraped it into the metal bin. The lid slammed with a resounding clang.
I looked at Kip. He was sitting, unfamiliarly in his straight backed chair, with his hands either side of his Disney-themed plate, resting on the gingham plastic table cover.
“I’m not going to make you eat it.” I sighed, not offended in the least by the colourless expression on his face, “You can have cereal.”
Kip nodded in acknowledgment and, in turn, scraped his soggy plate dry, then dropped it with a clatter in the sink, probably chipping Mickey Mouse’s ear off in the process. And people wondered why all my kitchenware came from discount stores and sales.
Sometimes, I thought, Kip was more like my son than my roommate. He wasn’t much more than five years younger than me at eighteen, and though I was still at university and he was the one with the job, I felt like his mother. He reached for the supermarket brand Choco Hoops, a spin off from Coco Pops. Kip hated supermarket brands, but they were the cheapest you got and he knew why I bought them. He put up with being poor better than I did.
When I’ve got my Master’s, I’ll buy a proper house. When I’ve finished Uni, we’ll get real plates and a dishwasher. He’d heard it all a thousand times, how I was paying him back as soon as I was done with studying junk, but we both knew I’d never get a job if the economy remained in this state. By the time I got out, seven months from now, there would be no jobs for people of my experience; only for the best. And I had nothing on my CV, no A* grades or extra curricula’s. Kip was the one with the impressive background. Five A levels, all carried through from AS grade, and with top marks; redeeming personal qualities and excellent references. So why was he working at a garage?
“I want to be a mechanic.”
Did I say that out loud?
We didn’t comment again, leaving me back to my meandering thoughts.
Of course, he wanted to be a mechanic. Why? I never knew. I suppose he was a boy, he must have had some male instinct, cars, beer, girls and the sort. Except that I had never seen him bring a girl home. And Kip never drank beer.
I glanced up at the white clock on the wall, the wavy red second hand ticking towards 8.10. Right on cue, the letterbox flapped as the mailman shoved the extensive bills, catalogues, samples, and letters through it.
We always had post, every day, no matter what.
Ritualistically, I got up and checked the WELCOME mat, splattered with envelopes, sorting through the junk and the things worth keeping. By the time I reached the kitchen once more, I had only three letters left in my hand: an electric bill, a postcard from a friend in Ireland, and the weekly letter from Melissa.
I put the electric bill in the salad spinner and scanned the postcard. Kip was already opening the letter.
“I’ll be off.” I said, “Got to catch the bus.” I threw my bag over my shoulder, reminiscing for a moment of my old days in school, when instead of my flatmate; it would be my mother sitting across the table from me. I hadn’t spoken to her in years.
I paused, looking at his face, waiting for the familiar flicker of light to break the horizon.
It did.
I smiled, feeling like a proud mother, and left the room reluctantly. However unsociable and unfortunate he was, Kip was preferable to my college “friends”.
* * *
College: the nightmarish experience to which those of us, who wish to achieve in life, are subjected to. The “school” I attended was fortress-like in its appearance; it was enclosed within a wall a good 8 feet taller than me, complete with spikes and wrought iron gate. The main building was made of cold grey brick, and scattered in the extensive grounds were several extensions to the site, each detailing a different era’s architecture.
The performing arts block was the newest; being an old institution, my college had tended to focus on the more “academic” subject areas. I passed through it on my way to the lecture room. It was a vital disarray of shape, colour and material, fronted completely in glass, and with each floor colour coded according to subject.
I walked up the entry steps and through the revolving front door. The arts block was devoid of any entrance hall, you started immediately in the viewing area outside the dance studio. I could see students who I knew, though could not call my particular friends, through the glass partition. I passed through quickly, not wanting to draw the attention of Tabatha Doctor. Ms Doctor, the instructor, was renowned for her harsh mood swings, alternating constantly between the strictest of disciplines and, when it came to it, an almost scary friendliness.
I climbed the winding staircase past floors coloured in Barbie Pink, Teal, Lemon Yellow and a sickly pastel green.
Then I reached the top floor and opened the door through to the lecture auditorium. The lecture room wasn’t glass fronted; it was artificially lit, with rows upon rows of tiered wooden benches, rising gradually from the stage, where fellow students already sat, to the back of the room, where the door was.
I descended a few rows to my usual spot, almost the back corner of the room, comfortably against a hot water pipe and far enough away from the strip lighting that I could barely be seen. It was like being in an old, less comfortable theatre.
The seats filled quickly.
My classmates chattered, flirting and gossiping amongst themselves. I couldn’t figure out how they had missed the maturing that I had undergone, meaning that they were not much different from the rowdy stereotypes who I had graduated from sixth form with not two years ago. Or maybe it was me who was different. Who knew?
I could even see the typical, recognisable cliques, though softened around the edges, the hierarchy between them run strong. It was as if all the students, though from different schools, had each known the very first day where they fit in to the complicated social system of those who ruled, and those who obeyed. I classed myself as above their power games; either that or I was kidding myself that I wasn’t the lowest of the low.
A year older than most of them, I had skipped out on the classic college days when everything is parties and fun. I concentrated on my studies. I was the step between the students and the teachers. Them and Us? Not quite.
The professor ambled into the room from the stage door. Dr Abraham “Higgsey” Higgs was a genteel man, and this gave him a more quiet disposition, he found it hard to bring a class’s attention to his lectures; he often found his students’ minds wandering. `
It pained me to watch him walk, like the old man he was, with a limp in his step and a curved back, as though constantly doubled over in pain. His skin was weathered and creased, pale to the very tips of his fingers, and his hair stood around his tiny face like a puffy halo as he took his place behind the lectern.
‘Attention’, I saw him mouth into the tinny microphone. Once, twice, ‘Children, listen’. Then he retired to his trademark fingernails down the blackboard trick.
The room was silenced as the bone grinding shriek of board against skin rang through it, except for the profanities whispered amongst the less civilised students, about their revered and tired professor who stood calmly, anticipating their ill words, waiting to deliver what he had come to say.
Really, you had to admire him sometimes.
“Class,” began Professor Higgs, finding the on switch on his microphone, “Today we discuss the different perspectives on globalisation and its place in the modern world.” His voice was barely audible through the tinny microphone.
He picked up his chalk and began to illustrate what he was talking about on the ancient blackboard.
Well screw me for taking Social Sciences, I thought. I’d covered this at GCSE level. I settled back into the warmth of the rare hot water pipe as Higgs began his speech, slowly drifting into my day dreams.
A sharp rap at the door dragged me from my reverie. A blonde receptionist entered, her heels clicking on the hollow floor.
“Professor Higgs?” She called, in a loud clear voice, drawing the attention of the whole room. Except, that is, for Higgsey himself. He continued with his speech.
“…and in the views of a Mr Alexander Reynolds, chairman of the director’s board of…”
“Professor Higgs!” the receptionist repeated, descending the steps, “I have a message from Mr O’Leary.” When she spoke, you could hear each individual syllable.
Higgs stopped talking, and squinted through his glasses at the blonde lady.
She was now so close I could see the plastic white name tag she wore. It read; Karen Stellar, Misinco Staffing Inc. All of the staff at the College was supplied by Misinco Staffing.
“Karen?” he recognised her at last, “I mean,” he coughed, “Ms Stellar, what is it?”
“I have a very important message for one of your students.”
“Well, well then Karen, don’t leave us hanging, deliver the message and be on your way, I’m in the middle of a rather important lecture, don’t you know?”
“Yes Professor Higgs, it’s for Jean Edwards?”
I looked at her expectantly. I never got messages. Never. Especially not from Mr O’Leary, the Collage Head. And Very Important? What could be that important, for me?
“Ms Edwards?” Higgs peered at the front few rows through his spectacles.
“I’m here!” I choked out, rising to my feet, slightly worried now. With my next few words, I spoke directly to Karen Stellar, “Did Mr O’Leary say what it was about?”
“Yes, actually, Ms Edwards. Come on now, you’re going to need your bag.”
I looked around the auditorium. Professor Higgs was back on with his speech, and the other students were all looking at the stage.
I was never called to the office… and then my thoughts immediately jumped to Kip Biel.
Kip Biel, c/o Jean Edwards, 24 Peacock Close, Bloomfield
Darling Kip,
I’m sorry. So sorry for what I did and it still haunts me. I will never forgive myself. I swear if I’d had the chance, I would’ve changed what I did. Taken the left turn instead of the right.
Funny how things seem to change, when all you want is to keep the same. I don’t want you to feel pain over anything I did or said, darling, darling Kip, please. I don’t want you to waste a second thinking one bad thing. I hope you will be more successful than I in accepting the change in your life.
I still love you. I never so much as looked at another person, and never will my whole life. I’m not sure if I meant the same to you, you, never one to put a label on our relationship, but you should know how I feel. I suppose its not you I miss, its us. Together, forever. That’s how it should have been.
R.S.V.P Kip, I miss you.
Lissy, same as always
