Okay, Decided to Post This Too

Her mother had never hugged her. She was always ironing. Nichole remembered talking about seventeenth century life in her sixth grade history class, and her butch teacher talking about the inequality of working women. Ms. Nudnik was her name (deservedly). She was particular about monikers too - making sure the “ms.” was always pronounced “miz,” never miss or missus. Maybe she just liked the buzz at the end, or maybe she liked being reminded that she perhaps inspired anonymity. She always wore balloon Bermuda shorts with a tight cinched belt and collared blouses. That made Nichole uneasy too. Maybe her dislike of Aloha!s and Bermuda shorts stemmed from an unknown dislike for everything tropical. Anyway, there were only two mildly exciting times in Ms. Nudnik’s classroom when Nichole's class suffered her. During the first, she announced that “Gays, like me, have every right to teach tomorrow’s leaders” and she struck a pose at once disgruntled and dignified and Nichole imagined her hooting, a blinking owl wearing a jockstrap and cologne. The other time happened when Ms. Nudnik was talking about the passé jobs of the sixteen hundreds, women as seamstresses, laundresses, prostitutes - living by either mending/cleaning/making clothes or taking them off. This was the only day Nichole ever talked in class. Ms. Nudnik had said, “Luckily, though, women in society today have many more options when choosing to work. And most of those seventeenth century jobs are fairly obsolete in today’s economy.” “My mom irons.” “Pardon me?” “My mom irons for a living. Sometimes she’ll wash clothes too.” “Like a seventeenth century laundress?” “No…” “So class, thanks to modern technology, women no longer have to go through the bone-thinning work of the sixteen hundreds. They have finally at least earned recognition, if not respect, and --” “What do you mean? My mom is an ironer and I don’t think it’s because there are more or less options. And aren’t there still prostitutes around? Shouldn’t you know, of all people?” That earned Nichole a trip to the principle’s office and then, after in-school-suspension for the rest of the day, what she assumed was her turn at being the chiropractic guinea pig when she got home. Maybe Nichole just had a weak back, but she wasn’t about to recommend what she assumed to be the new chiropractic tool-of-a-stick to anyone. Not even Ms. Nudnik - she had problems enough without going to a chiropractor. Funny, her mom never cried when it was her turn under her stepfather’s hands.

Nichole stepped inside. She stilled her beating heart and cold heart locket with her right hand. It fisted around the golden lump and belayed her neck when it pulled the locket’s golden chain - just enough pressure to make a little gully in the back of her neck: two parallel round, taut wedges of spinal skin. She felt those with her left hand and stood in the doorway for a long time. Her feet stood fast and her fingers fondled and the house was still. The shadows deepened across that fleshy neck gully and lights in the house began to turn on. But no one interrupted the static front room.