This is a list of words which describe Jessica McDowell: short, dark, dorky, quiet, observant, self-contained. She sits at a table in the student dining hall. It’s late November, and while snow has not yet fallen, outside is chilly. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with Sam-I-Am and his brightly colored eggs and ham; a green satin flight jacket; old black jeans; knee-high trooper boots. Her underpants are striped robin’s egg blue and white, because that’s a thing in Japanese animation, and she secretly wishes she had cooler name, like Sakura or Umiko or Nenene; a name to go with the epicanthic fold of her eyelids. She hasn’t bothered to wear a bra today -- who’s going to know, anyway? With one hand, she’s eating meatloaf. She loves meatloaf, even the way the student dining hall at the University cooks it. She also loves books, and her other hand is holding one, her chocolate-brown eyes reading eagerly.
Three girls approach the table. There are eight seats, and Jessica’s only taking up one, down at the end. The girls set down trays, start taking off coats, draping them on chairs. Jessica glances at the trio. A blonde, a brunette, a redhead; the redhead is only separated from her by one chair, Jessica notices before pulling her attention back to her book. She’s only halfway listening to the girls.
“The Sugar Skull is the easy part,” the redhead is saying with a shrug. “I mean, it’s just makeup. The black robes should be easy enough to distress… just a bucket with some gravel and kick it around the parking lot. But where am I going to get a scythe?”
Three girls approach the table. There are eight seats, and Jessica’s only taking up one, down at the end. The girls set down trays, start taking off coats, draping them on chairs. Jessica glances at the trio. A blonde, a brunette, a redhead; the redhead is only separated from her by one chair, Jessica notices before pulling her attention back to her book. She’s only halfway listening to the girls.
“The Sugar Skull is the easy part,” the redhead is saying with a shrug. “I mean, it’s just makeup. The black robes should be easy enough to distress… just a bucket with some gravel and kick it around the parking lot. But where am I going to get a scythe?”
The blonde girl shrugs. “I’m sure we can find a plastic one at the mall.”
The redhead is chewing, frowning. The brunette holds up three fingers, drops one, then a second, and finally points at the redhead just as she finishes chewing. “No, I want a real one. Steel. If I’m going to be a reaper, it should be functional.”
Jessica looks up from her book. “Will you marry me?” she blurts. “I don’t have a steel scythe, but I do have a very sharp bronze sickle.”
The redhead turns her head and looks at Jessica. Jessica squirms, feeling the rays of judgement, the condescension. The redhead is cute, Jessica realizes. Beyond cute. Her skin is pale, with a pinkish undertone, and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Her eyes are hazel, not green, not brown, but both at once. She smiles. “Not tonight."
“Huh?” Jessica asks.
“Getting married is not on my agenda for tonight.” She sets down her fork and extends her hand. “Dallas.”
“Jessica.” Jessica notices that Dallas’ hand is very, very soft. Her skin is smooth.
“I may take you up on the sickle, though,” Dallas says. “If I can’t find a scythe.”
“Sure,” Jessica says. “Whatever you need.”
These are some words which describe Dallas Morgan: tall, passionate, brilliant, funny, va-va-voom. She has, as the boys like to tell each other, “all the right curves in all the right places,” and she’d started growing them before any of the other girls. People hardly ever notice, or at least, hardly ever mention, but she enjoys putting together outfits she calls everyday cosplay. She’s wearing a red crop-top under a blue cold-shoulder tee, paired with a lemon colored, knee-length skirt. It’s cold outside, so she’s also wearing a fuzzy white coat and black fleece leggings. She should be wearing a red hair bow, but red disappears in her hair, so she’s wearing a yellow one instead.
They’re walking away from the buffet line at the dining hall when Laurel points with her chin, and Ashlyn says, “Oh, look, it’s Smokey’s fiance!” She says it loudly enough that Jessica hears and looks up from her book.
Dallas smiles warmly at Jessica and heads that way, Laurel falling in behind her, Ashlyn bringing up the rear, still talking. “Should you both wear a dress?” she asks, rhetorically, “and does that mean we’ll need to decorate with two different colors of flowers? What about bouquets?”
Jessica is frowning, closing her book, standing. “I don’t have to sit here and be mocked,” she says, picking up her tray. “I can go anywhere on this campus and get that.”
“No, wait,” Ashlyn calls after her, “How do you feel about lingerie?”
“You’re an ass,” Laurel says, quietly.
Jessica looks up from her book. “Will you marry me?” she blurts. “I don’t have a steel scythe, but I do have a very sharp bronze sickle.”
The redhead turns her head and looks at Jessica. Jessica squirms, feeling the rays of judgement, the condescension. The redhead is cute, Jessica realizes. Beyond cute. Her skin is pale, with a pinkish undertone, and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Her eyes are hazel, not green, not brown, but both at once. She smiles. “Not tonight."
“Huh?” Jessica asks.
“Getting married is not on my agenda for tonight.” She sets down her fork and extends her hand. “Dallas.”
“Jessica.” Jessica notices that Dallas’ hand is very, very soft. Her skin is smooth.
“I may take you up on the sickle, though,” Dallas says. “If I can’t find a scythe.”
“Sure,” Jessica says. “Whatever you need.”
These are some words which describe Dallas Morgan: tall, passionate, brilliant, funny, va-va-voom. She has, as the boys like to tell each other, “all the right curves in all the right places,” and she’d started growing them before any of the other girls. People hardly ever notice, or at least, hardly ever mention, but she enjoys putting together outfits she calls everyday cosplay. She’s wearing a red crop-top under a blue cold-shoulder tee, paired with a lemon colored, knee-length skirt. It’s cold outside, so she’s also wearing a fuzzy white coat and black fleece leggings. She should be wearing a red hair bow, but red disappears in her hair, so she’s wearing a yellow one instead.
They’re walking away from the buffet line at the dining hall when Laurel points with her chin, and Ashlyn says, “Oh, look, it’s Smokey’s fiance!” She says it loudly enough that Jessica hears and looks up from her book.
Dallas smiles warmly at Jessica and heads that way, Laurel falling in behind her, Ashlyn bringing up the rear, still talking. “Should you both wear a dress?” she asks, rhetorically, “and does that mean we’ll need to decorate with two different colors of flowers? What about bouquets?”
Jessica is frowning, closing her book, standing. “I don’t have to sit here and be mocked,” she says, picking up her tray. “I can go anywhere on this campus and get that.”
“No, wait,” Ashlyn calls after her, “How do you feel about lingerie?”
“You’re an ass,” Laurel says, quietly.
“A whole ass,” Dallas agrees, then re-phrases, "an ass-whole."
There are only two dorms closer to the south campus dining hall than the one on north campus. Dallas eats, not talking to Ashlyn, then goes to the dorm she doesn’t live in. She walks the halls asking, “Jessica? Asian girl, green jacket?” and following the pointing fingers. When she finds the door decorated with construction-paper letters spelling out Jessica and Monica, she pauses, knocks.
Jessica answers the door, blinks. “Oh,” she says.
“I wanted to apologize,” Dallas explains. She holds her hands in front of her, pulling on her left thumb with her right hand, looking down and away. “Ashlyn’s not a homophobe; she’s just a jerk.”
“Oh,” Jessica says again.
There’s silence for a moment. Then Dallas sniffs. “Is something burning?”
“No,” Jessica says, glancing over her shoulder. “That’s my hot glue gun.”
Now it’s Dallas’ turn to say “Oh.” There’s silence again. “Well,” she says, “I should be….”
“Would you like to come in?” Jessica says, in the same moment.
They laugh together, and Jessica steps back, in, out of the way. Dallas follows. “Smokey?” Jessica asks.
“Yes?” Dallas says.
“No, I mean… why do they call you Smokey? How do you get to Smokey from Dallas?”
“You take the I-40 to Farm-to-Market Road 199,” Dallas says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Then she relents and holds out a strand of her coppery-red hair. “I’m a Forestry student. Red hair… forest fire… the smoke gets in your eyes?”
“Wow,” Jessica says. “That’s a long trip down a gravel road.”
“Yes,” Dallas agrees. “Yes; it is.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Dallas; it’s my name.”
“Okay. Hello; Dallas.”
And Dallas smiles.
There are only two dorms closer to the south campus dining hall than the one on north campus. Dallas eats, not talking to Ashlyn, then goes to the dorm she doesn’t live in. She walks the halls asking, “Jessica? Asian girl, green jacket?” and following the pointing fingers. When she finds the door decorated with construction-paper letters spelling out Jessica and Monica, she pauses, knocks.
Jessica answers the door, blinks. “Oh,” she says.
“I wanted to apologize,” Dallas explains. She holds her hands in front of her, pulling on her left thumb with her right hand, looking down and away. “Ashlyn’s not a homophobe; she’s just a jerk.”
“Oh,” Jessica says again.
There’s silence for a moment. Then Dallas sniffs. “Is something burning?”
“No,” Jessica says, glancing over her shoulder. “That’s my hot glue gun.”
Now it’s Dallas’ turn to say “Oh.” There’s silence again. “Well,” she says, “I should be….”
“Would you like to come in?” Jessica says, in the same moment.
They laugh together, and Jessica steps back, in, out of the way. Dallas follows. “Smokey?” Jessica asks.
“Yes?” Dallas says.
“No, I mean… why do they call you Smokey? How do you get to Smokey from Dallas?”
“You take the I-40 to Farm-to-Market Road 199,” Dallas says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Then she relents and holds out a strand of her coppery-red hair. “I’m a Forestry student. Red hair… forest fire… the smoke gets in your eyes?”
“Wow,” Jessica says. “That’s a long trip down a gravel road.”
“Yes,” Dallas agrees. “Yes; it is.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Dallas; it’s my name.”
“Okay. Hello; Dallas.”
And Dallas smiles.
1 comment:
Great Saturday scene, and of course, by the end, I want to know how their friendship develops from that point ... and what she was gluing with the glue gun! I like your words-that-describe part. That's a nice way of setting up a description.
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