AUTHOR'S NOTES

This is a re-write of one of my first efforts. Back then I thought it marvelous to knit improbabilities into spectrums of predilection. But of course it hardly worked, except maybe for readers with checklists. In my re-write, the stretch is a tad more bounded and takes just half the words.

And my oh my! That earlier version reads as if I combed through 300 supposedly-erotic stories for sticky-wet adjectives to string together. I apologize to any of you who tried to read it. Let's hope I've learned something.

WRITERS' FORUM

Public school teaching, some might say, is in itself an unreasonable expectation. That's self-defeatism, of course. We can indeed teach. At Truman High School, many of us do it quite well, thank you.

I'm Nora Vanderpool, Language Arts faculty, and my first year at THS, I'm pleased to report, is working out for me. How things go once you're in the door (as opposed to looking in from the hallway) determines success. I didn't bolt after my first day when the kids couldn't even hear me tap my desk. Tap quieter, advised the teachers who've been around. I've found it works.

THS principal Parker Johnston is a solid educator -- hardworking, a bit square about budgets, flexible enough to match our abilities to the pedagogical needs, at ease with students. Sometimes he'll eat in the cafeteria, not in the faculty lounge, even.

I decorate my classroom with travel posters, quotations (half by women) and baby pictures of such famous Americans as astronaut John Glen and Senator Margaret Chase Smith. I've a say in what the library acquires. The District-approved list doesn't include Ferlinghetti, but he's still a significant poet.

I'll grant that some teaching expectations, while not unreasonable, are a bother. I didn't get my education degree to earn my rotation as hall monitor, for example. Bit I do it.

Spring Semester expectation. Mr. Johnston wants THS to be more than classrooms. Every faculty member gets to lead an extracurricular activity -- lucky us! PE teachers are automatic coaches; it's all they know how to do, anyway. "Take ten laps, Sports Club." The Music Club kids take private lessons and the advisor schedules a recital. For us English teachers, however, our extracurricular is usually something like the Distribution Arts Club. We get to sell popcorn at football games.

The dregs of possibilities lie before me. Pep Club? I couldn't care less about sports yells. I may teach English, but I'm no sucker.

Let's make it something worth doing.

Such as writing.

My Writers' Club idea blindsides Mr. Johnston. Writing won't be anything kids would want to do, he deems, because they already take English. Mr. Johnston, you see, has his Masters in Ed Admin. Writing uses language; it isn't English, I explain.

The challenge, of course, is recruitment. You can't have a club with just an advisor. But enrollment doesn't prove to be formidable. There are kids who aren't particularly athletic, who don't have some prodigious performance skill, who don't want a "distribution" job skill, and who, once they see it might even be fun, are perfectly willing to use a pencil. (Pens for final proofed submissions only, my practice.)

An announcement in my classes, a sign on the hall board, and Writers' Club is born.

What I should have anticipated, had I thought of myself, is how school divides by gender. Girls do this; boys do that. When I was 13, I wanted to play the trombone. I signed up for the clarinet, though, because, "What girl would play the trombone?" My switch was wise, but my reason was wrong. A trombone weighs a ton and gets spitty.

So our first Writers' Club meeting sees one female advisor and eight female recruits. The boys are probably in Rocket Club learning countdowns. They'll graph fuel/distance ratios or something. The Space Race is their ticket. Science needs new microscopes? Presto! District provides. An unabridged dictionary for me? Maybe after June 30 if there are unspent funds in Line Item 32p.

The all-girl aspect of Writers' Club isn't bad. Established and novice alike, we learn through community. We all know parts, but not the same parts, just like Band. Everyone knows that girls are better than boys at community. Boys spend too much time pushing each other.

A Writers' Club sits in a circle, not parked in rows. This is a club, right? My introductory words are along these lines. We'll be working together. We'll have differing opinions and be better for the discourse. Discovering who we are is what we're about.

Let's take a few minutes to mention writings we've enjoyed. If we don't read, we'll not do well at writing. I start off with a few comments about Jane Austen. As none of the girls recognize the name, I make a mental note to look at "The Three Sisters" down the road. Not all reading's easy, but then what good thing ever is?

We work our way around the circle.

Jane, somewhat petit for grade 12, loves Agatha Christie. Why? Because the characters are such characters, even if you don't understand all the English stuff. The girl's right, I reflect. I don't get into the difference between English and British.

Nan likes Dr. Zhivago. Other heads nod, probably more indicative of movie watching than reading, but it's a link. Nan's also a 12th-grader, but her self-assurance makes her seem older.

Sylvia turns out to be a fan of Jean Stiler, an author new to me, but apparently big in mystery paperbacks. Sylvia likes how the main characters deal with life. Sylvia, our third senior, is on the big-boned side. She has the thickest braids I've ever seen.

Rosemary's favorite is the autobiography of Helen Keller. I'm impressed, as Helen Keller didn't write down for children. Rosemary's tall, quiet and thoughtful. Already having her in 11th-grade English, I'm pleased she's chosen my club.

Susan, a blonde junior, loves Madeleine L'Engle. We all know "A Wrinkle in Time", but Susan can rattle off another five. Susan's blouse is the type that falls outward at the neckline. She throws her arm a little higher than necessary to push back her hair.

Sandra's finishing a library book about Amelia Earhart and hopes to do something likewise adventurous. Amelia might actually still be alive, she thinks. Sandra's a sophomore. Her braces make her grin really grin.

Heather, the other sophomore, says that Wilma Rudolph was the 20th of 22 children and won three Olympic golds. Heather's a cute cookie with short hair and big eyes. Her banter suggests a quick mind. "Wilma had to race to get a place at the breakfast table."

Debbie, grade 11, turns beet-red admitting that she loves every kind of romance. The others giggle and then, as one, spontaneously applaud. Debbie thinks they're poking fun, but when she realizes that they know exactly what she's talking about, jumps up and dances around like a pixie. It must be her pixie haircut and pubescence, since I've seen no accounts of pixie dancing. We're in an uproar!

This might be an okay club.

We wrap it up with a few organizational details. We'll need refreshments. A signup sheet solves that.

We'll think till next week about what we might actually do. Book reviews? Take turns reading excerpts we write? Whatever we decide, I'll do, too. As it should be.

I do have one idea. "Writers' Club" doesn't say much. But "Forum" means we're writers, serious about it. From what we've said, we like things by and about girls, right? So that's where we could focus. It's not that we don't appreciate the other side, of course, but we can't cover it all.

We all laugh, decision unanimous, and not because I'm the teacher.

"Next week everybody come with an idea."

None of the girls have given thought to how we might run Forum, but as Heather's brought cupcakes, we can munch while we think. Nobody wants a reading list. More to their liking is writing little things and see how they come out. I like the do-it-myself approach, too, though I'd not vote against the reading.

I say that I might chime in now and then about a point of style or vocabulary. "But I'll live with creative grammar if you've got content. Just no 'it's' for 'its'. Deal?"

"Deal," in chorus, even if half of them don't know the difference. I'll give them my little sheet of 28 common writing mistakes, the error embedded in the rule. Here's one: "A list should be parallel in structure, balanced in length, sequential in logic and informing regarding its content." Would they get it, I wonder?

"And rewriting's how prose gets better," I remind them. We'll go slowly, I tell myself.

"Now there's one thing that we should promise each other, ladies." I should call them ladies, not girls. "It's this. A writer writes from her heart," pressing my hand to mine. "We're working with drafts, if you get my point. So here's the deal. What's said in Forum stays in Forum. It's professionalism. We're writers."

Some say that I get passionate about this stuff. I look around.

Nan looks around too. "Hey girls, this is serious. Are we in on this? Stuff stays in Forum. I am."

"Me too."

"Absolutely," and around the circle.

"And she'll be cool, too, about us," rules Nan, looking straight my way.

Of course.

Enough preamble. "Okay. Can I suggest two things for today, since we ought to do more than eat Heather's cupcakes? I love these sprinkles. First, down to the library and everybody choose something. Don't worry about how long it is."

We do that much.

"Now mix them up so you don't get yours. Your job is to read just one page in the middle, just one. Next week tell us how it caught you. If you want to read the whole book, fine, but just tell us how that middle page came across. Word choice, construction, whatever happens on that page. We're talking about words, not story. Make sense?"

It apparently does.

At our next Forum (M&M's for nourishment), we give our middle-page analyses. A few girls found sentences that have oomph because the writer doesn't employ a catchall verb or generic adjective.

Our first writing (not "homework") is three or four lines about waking up.

Most girls catch the spirit. We're groggy, toes still in the dream world, weaving disjointed thoughts in semi-consciousness, perhaps irritated at a sibling banging around. Debbie even works in a little humor: The TV-show buzzer signals that she's won the grand prize! Then her eyes opens and it's her stupid alarm clock.

Within a couple of weeks we're making criticisms that come across in good spirit. Avoid using that verb twice, for example. Look for evocative verbs.

"'When the sun rose next morning.' Other verb possibilities, girls?"

"It went up," offers Heather.

"What about 'ascend'?" I guide.

"Jesus ascended because it was a big thing, but the sun just rises."

I like a girl who defends herself.

By week three or four, we're looking forward to each other's contributions. Me, probably most of all.

It's April when the girls ask if we can write little imaginary stories about growing up, "You know, girl stuff."

"Of course."

"Like making out," clarifies Nan.

"Well, sure," I allow. It's good to share with friends. I myself don't write about things that personal because maybe I don't have much to write.

Expression's what Writer's Forum's about, I encourage. Anything's fair game for fiction.

My girls love the subject of sex. It's perfectly normal for teenagers to think about it, of course, and from my perspective, a staple of literature.

Sylvia has a paperback about "first loves"; that's what she calls it anyway. It's something I'd not have chosen for the library, but it's not badly written.

Someone has "Sexual Behavior in the Human Female" which I find a little far-fetched, but the girls don't. Not really literature, of course, but a good example of scientific writing.

Sandra, Heather and Debbie "date around". I guess that they don't care if I guess what that really means, but how could I not when they mention rhythm method vs. condoms. At least they're being careful.

Maybe they see me blush.

"You're one of us, remember?" Jane reminds.

"Nobody has to talk," Rosemary answers for me. "Anyway, making love's a pretty broad topic."

Here's some of their work written in May.

The topic is "First Encounters".

Nan

Her tale hints of a dark story from the boy's perspective, a writing challenge for a girl.

They were home alone. He wondered why she'd barged in and evicted him from the tub. Come here, she ordered. He reached for the towel and didn't understand why she kept it. He was the wet one.

She put her right hand on his shoulder, pressing him against the wall. He didn't know why she was drying him. She dabbed, letting the back of her hand bounce him. She gave him a little push, then another, right where she shouldn't. She was older and he couldn't stop her.

She cradled him in her hand, just like he did in the tub. As in the soapsuds, he watched himself grow. He liked the way she touched him, he decided. He was like guys her age, she said, pushing and pulling all the time.

She made him follow her to her room. She let him wrap the towel around himself in the hall. Get on your back, she said.

He wasn't sure why she undressed too. He hadn't known about her hair.

It might be awhile till they got good, his sister said, but he'd learn. Why was she getting above him?

Nan is red. I'm spellbound. The rest of Writers' Forum seems less impressed.

Jane

Here's what she does with a 200-word limit:

It's hard, running spot for the talent show, but April kept the Steve McKay's magic act properly framed. April could tell that his box had a fake bottom. Robin's light-booth job was easier, just keeping an eye on the fixed equipment.

As April swung to follow Steve strolling stage-right, she felt Robin touch her back. She didn't have time to ask why. Then the bottom of her sweater. She kept Steve centered. Then up her backbone. Don't, she thought. Fingers worked her snap until it parted. Please don't.

Robin's hand climbed her shoulder to push the bra strap sideways. April stayed with Steve's stage left. Robin pushed the strap down to the elbow and tugged April's arm.

April had to release the spotlight handle and do the aiming with her other hand while her freed wrist was drawn up her sleeve until the loose strap could be worked around. That completed, April switched arms.

Again strap over shoulder, pushed to the elbow, hand pulled back until the strap passed. Freed again to broad-spot Steve's final bow.

Robin gave April's bra back a few days later.

"Super story," I judge, trying to be non-judgmental. "Him doing something to her she does every day, taking off her bra."

A few girls exchange glances and then agree it's a good story.

Forum breaks up when Heather stone-faces, "Gee, we thought Drama got a new vibrating light, but couldn't understand why it stayed where Steve McKay had been a minute and a half after he left."

Sylvia

Sylvia has her friend Scott.

Here are excerpts from Sylvia's "Mandy's Diary".

At the Dairy Queen, we each knew the other didn't really want to be running around in a group. You can't really talk. It was funny how we liked the same records, but there was more to it. I began to like his records even before he played them.

I wanted to wait. I'm glad he didn't ask, because then I'd have to decide. Finally he just pecked me, right there on the sidewalk.

I'd choose outfits that came loose in the middle. Sometimes while I was choosing, I'd pretend that my hand was his.

He'd never had sex, not like me when I was little. We talked about being in love, sharing everything. We just never said we were talking about going to bed.

He made his room wonderful. Flowers from the garden. A Four Freshmen long-play. I told him he better mess things up before his parents got home so they wouldn't be suspicious.

I didn't show him how so he'd find the way naturally.

How am I to know how autobiographical this is? From their comments on the story, however, the others presume I know that Sylvia and Scott sleep together. He must be a nice boy, I decide, because she's a nice girl.

Debbie

Debbie likes to push the rules. "Miss Vanderpool? Can I use the 'F' word?"

"It's in the dictionary, but it's usually not the best choice."

"So no?"

"Let's just say that characters who say it wouldn't be very educated. If you want them that way, use their voice."

The 5/6 template: give all but one of who, what, why, where, when and how. The reader supplies the missing. Debbie's 5/6 outline:

What: Making love.

Where: In her uncle's office.

When: After school. She's supposed to study till Mom picks her up.

Why: They started off joking about make-up homework when she said "make-up" like "make-out". He found where she was ticklish. He said she was very mature."

How: Wonderfully.

Who: Reader's choice.

The girls say the character should go with someone her own age. Debbie says that's in the next chapter, then to no one in particular, "You're probably right."

Susan

Write the same thing in each person. Susan's piece is about a girl in the registration line.

Third Person. When Jennie turned to let another student pass, her front brushed Kim. She started to step back, but didn't. Neither did Kim.

Second Person. You were just waiting behind Kim to turn in your registration. It was just an accident, the bump. But neither of you moved away.

First Person. I hardly realized that Kim was right there, so when the kid pushed past, I ran into Kim's elbow. I knew I felt soft, really soft.

Susan blushes, but her voice doesn't falter.

I take over. "All three persons. Which works?"

Sandra ventures, "I like 'I' and 'you' best. 'She' seems kind of distant."

Rosemary concurs, "It's always better to put the reader in the story, like Miss Vanderpool says."

"So finish the story," challenges Nan.

"Jennie and Kim signed up for all the same classes," ad-libs the budding author.

My heavens! It's one thing to craft a line. But on the fly!

Sandra

Sandra tends toward pieces about casual intimacy.

"It's a camp story I'm gonna call 'Woodchuck Cabin's Sneak-Out'. Opening line: Whispers, snaps, zippers. Muted cries of exhortation, exertion and ecstasy mingle by the lake. Sally looked at the stars." She pauses, then flashes her braces. "See how I got three 'ex' words there. The Thesaurus."

"How about exaggeration?" from the back.

"How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a..." from another side.

"Sandra, you're just in 10th."

The way they rag her, she knows they love every word.

"Strong start," I rule. "Just kill the 'stars' bit."

"Girl Scout camp, she forgot to say," some wag adds.

Sandra laughs orthodontic silver.

Heather

Heather's a giggler who still talks about "playing" with her friends. This paragraph, however, isn't for giggles.

She still hardly knew him. They'd been chatting about their schools, how unreasonable teachers are. Suddenly she was on the floor, him pinning her beneath, jerking at her sweater."

Heather flushes and sits down. Story over.

"You can't stop there!" from the others.

"Sure she can," I decide.

Afterwards, Heather scribbles on her draft until the others leave.

"Heather."

"Yeah?"

"Your paragraph..."

"He's okay."

A guy who forced her? What should I do? Maybe I'm just a teacher, but...

"I can..." I try.

"Just a bad way to lose it, though," she makes it matter of fact. "It's better to have told about it, right?"

"We're your friends here."

"That's why I come. Thanks."

Writing's scary sometimes. I'm scared sometimes, too.

Rosemary

Rosemary's piece is an example of short phrases fired for rapid action.

Little Helpings.

How you'll leave the milk crate below your window.

How you'll clear your collections from the sill.

How you'll pretend to be asleep when I climb in.

How you'll have fluffed an extra pillow.

How you'll pull the blanket over our heads.

How you'll tell me to hush.

How I won't.

How you'll help me crawl out the window.

Rosemary's perhaps 5-feet-7, wears her brunette hair in a flip. When they're taller than you, they seem your age. I picture the liaison, Rosemary stealing to her boyfriend's room. She never says it's she, of course, but how could she otherwise write that?

On the way out, I catch her eye. "That was pure poetry, Rosemary."

She smiles.

Maybe we think more about poets.

I know what perfume she likes (April Dawn).

Once at my desk, she'd put her hand on the back of my neck while I explained an assignment.

One day she'd stayed after school to help me paint. District does one color. If you want contrasting trim, they provide the brush. To not get paint on her cardigan, she'd changed into a tee-shirt by the bookshelf away from the door. She was wearing a butterfly bra with crisscrossed front.

There was the time when the class pressed in to hear my Victrola. Yes, I said Victrola, that old fashioned record player the little dog listens to. Rosemary was leaning over my shoulder.

There was the time my arm touched her when she was helping me staple reading lists. She didn't feel my arm and didn't move away.

On Valentine's Day she gave me a pink heart-shaped cookie, "love, Rosemary". Lots of kids give you little things, so it meant nothing. She sat beside me to show how she'd calligraphed the frosting. I thought of giving her a tiny bottle of April Dawn in return, but a teacher can't single out students.

Sometimes when I wake up I wonder what Rosemary will wear that day.

The girls want my story, maybe something fictional set when I was about their age. I think a long time and come up with "Girls State".

The two hid out in Sue Lynn's dorm room to avoid General Assembly. Most of the delegates to Girls State seemed stuck-up to Annette, maybe because they were from bigger high schools. Sue Lynn was friendly. When Sue Lynn suggested the two hide out that afternoon, Annette was game. Nobody would miss her.

Sue Lynn locked the door so the counselors wouldn't find them and stretched out on her bed to talk. Annette flopped beside her, finding Sue Lynn's arm a ready pillow. Annette was surprised when her new friend kissed her, but it felt like what a friend might do. When Sue Lynn advanced her tongue, Annette pulled back, but Sue Lynn pursued and Annette liked it. Sue Lynn grinned when Annette tried it back.

'You ever kissed a girl before?'

'Just my cousins, ' acknowledged Annette.

Annette started when Sue Lynn pushed up her jersey, but it was too late to say, no.

Only when Sue Lynn slipped down her hand did Annette become frightened. Already too scared to struggle, she shut her eyes.

Afterwards, they lay side-by-side until they heard other girls in the hall.

Annette promised to write, but never did.

Forum is quiet for a moment.

"It's okay for girls to kiss, Miss Vanderpool."

"Maybe," I concede.

Rosemary stays after school the next day to help me re-shelf books. When I go up the step-stool, Rosemary steadies me from behind. I can smell her April Dawn.

She takes my hand to help me descend. "Miss Vanderpool?"

"Yes?"

"Annette should have written."

With that, she goes to clear a lower bookshelf.

"You okay with all this?" asks Heather after a particularly-direct discussion of what some boys think a prom date means. "Maybe you see it different because you're older."

I hesitate. "I guess I'm older, but that doesn't mean I know that much. Maybe it's more common now, or something."

My look must have told them the rest.

Sandra's the first to speak up. "Well I'm pretty much a virgin too." She wants to stand with me even more than to be like her older friends. Bless her.

"The V word's okay?" asks Debbie to break the ice and we laugh together.

But I don't want them gushing this stuff. "Well, that's just how it's worked out."

Sylvia thinks a moment. "Doesn't matter, Miss Vanderpool. You can finish your story lots of ways."

Not having had sex isn't necessarily a liability. That these girls are experienced isn't about me, anyway. I was brought up when you save yourself till marriage. If you don't respect your body, you can't respect yourself.

In college, we knew whom. Some girls let their boyfriends dry hump, as they called it. Some girls would even touch his penis. It was understandable, even, why some girls went all the way. They were engaged.

Me, I knew where I stood. Goodnight kiss.

Robert, for example, would take me to plays. We liked the newer playwrights. When you dress up and enter the theater, you clutch your guy's arm for everybody to see. Afterwards we'd eat Italian and Robert would walk me to my dorm.

Robert was far too opinionated about things he knew little about (e.g., Rodgers and Hammerstein) and too much the authority on things in which I had no interest (e.g., bebop). I wasn't about to spend myself for less than the guy that I'd be with forever.

But it was nice going to the play.

It's Debbie who moves us into a more serious verb form -- future tense. She'd been at a party where there was booze. What started out as arm wrestling ended up as intercourse with someone she didn't even know. She wasn't even sure if other kids didn't watch.

"And they want me to come to a party this weekend," Debbie looks ashen, "to be the dancer," beginning to tear.

I've misjudged her, I realize, in thinking she takes sex as a lark.

Maybe Rosemary realizes she's been harsh, too, because she takes Debbie's hand. "Debbie, you tell them that I'd already invited you to my birthday party. It'll be just a tiny party because it's a bit before the actual date, but we'll have fun."

"Hon, we all end up doing wrong stuff sometimes," I add from my chair. "I know, I've..."

The class looks at me.

"Miss Vanderpool." It's Nan. "You remember about stuff staying in the Forum?"

Of course.

"Well it does."

I'm not sure what she's talking about.

"About you and your friend, you know," she clarifies.

My friend?

"It's okay. We promise." It's Nan again. She rises, then sits back down. "It's like some of us just know. You were telling us you're a virgin because you're our teacher."

I feel blank -- perfectly blank for the moment.

"We don't care," suggests Jane.

"If you love him," Sylvia qualifies.

"So," declares Nan, "sleeping with Mr. J stays here. Don't worry."

Sleeping? My boss? My God, no!

"It's cool," justifies Jane.

"You're both grownups," adds Debbie.

Everyone's silent.

"I've never even..."

Writers' Forum is silent, weighing my denial.

Finally, "I believe her," from Rosemary.

"So do I," from another side.

I sniffle. "Thanks, girls. I'm just..."

"Well I'm sorry for Mr. J," interrupts Heather. "Think about him, seeing you everyday, so pretty and everything. I'll bet he..."

And then, just as abruptly, laughter as Nan hits Heather with her Life Magazine. More laughter, even me this time.

I look around the circle. "You see," I see a way to end this, "I don't go to camp, I'd trip on the milk crate, I don't do stage lights, I'd mess it up standing in line, and I forget the rest."

We laugh and laugh, the better way to talk serious stuff.

Nan reminds us, "There's kyping Mr. J's bath towel."

Heather's drama voice, "We could purloin him. Oh girls, pray don't bid me so gently to deflower this damsel."

Lord!

She keeps going' "Oh, but you deny me choice! I must, you demand, love her as I have never loved before!"

Where does she pick up such Elizabethan? Certainly not from a THS text.

There's nothing like laughter.

"If we didn't have harmartias," I tell them, "We'd be the Selling Popcorn Club. Who knows what 'hamartia' means?"

"Hamartia: fatal flaw. H-A-M-A-R-T-I-A," sings pixie Debbie.

It really doesn't matter that the girls know about my non-start love life. Such things never stay hidden.

I knew of Parker Johnston's erstwhile career as a reporter before figuring it's easier to teach than to do (thank you, George Bernard Shaw). The rest of us took it where it needed to go -- it's easier to principal than to teach. He tried to tell us about the heavy burden of budgeting.

So Parker knew something of writing. More power to him.

I'd been revising curriculum guidelines. With six lesson plans due daily, progress is slow. Free verse? Memorization? Thornton Wilder? Should vocabulary be topical or root words?