Short Story Step 1
I stared into the screen. The screen that was shielding my life. The screen of pine wood. The cravings made by the hands of craftsmen. The wood is dark tan but bleached by the sun on the side it blazes on the screen. Making the moving eyes of the hawk gazes look only at bleached driftwood. I stare out of the tiny holes from the upright chair I am sitting in out into the dry street. I am safe from the razors of the sun. I see the waiter coming back and I put my batman mask like sunglasses on as a precaution and keep my brown matte gloves on.
“Here’s your coffee.” Said the waiter causally as he slipped it to me.
I nod a gracious thank you. My face was stiff as a board. I can’t wrinkle the canvas of my face, not for this meeting. I picked up the white ceramic mug. My gloves squeal as they stretch to move my matte covered joints. I feel the grit of chipped clay sticking to the little saucer dish that is beneath. I placed my greedy digits on the white paper napkin, where it had been laid. Shoving it into the pocket of my jacket, I’ll read the circular red marks on it later. I was waiting for Judith. Typical for her to be late, she knows how much I don’t want to be here. What if Robert calls the cops on me, again just for talking to her.
Judith~
I walk into the front of the café and see the woman sitting outside on the patio by the wood screen. Hidden in the shadows of the shade. Her face glowed something masked in clay. She wore her tinted custom visor sunglasses, regal gloves and looked like a romantic annoying mystery in the full trench coat. Of course she did. Hiding behind her white and black striped flopping hat. She’s trying to distance herself far from her sworn enemy the sun. probably doesn’t even want to be here. The cold clayed scowl beautifully pierced me. I ditch into the bathroom before she even recognizes me which is indoors of the café. She didn’t recognize me. How could she, I feel the soaking burning start coming from my eyes. As I walk into the revolving solid door to the bathroom. After I finish, I wash my hands and look into the mirror. Freckles lots of freckles stare back. I love the sun. I love the way it feels, it warms me up. The way it messes with my skin. It burns sometimes but otherwise it feels refreshing and freeing. I feel beautifully relaxed when I am in it, in my own skin. But I’ve got to get this over with, I wiped my citrus stinging eyes before I got to it with painting the cold clay clump over my face. Hiding the window to my soul.
“Hello Count Genevieve” I said toothily into her pissed off glare of shadows.
“What is it you want darling more money? I’ve already given you and him the monthly payment. Does Robert know you are here? I am waiting for a student prospect.” She snapped anxiously, ever shadowing her glow from the press.
“No, I need you to help me with school.” I said dryly.
“What?! Ask Robert or Lily or Bonne Maman.” Panic and shock echoed through her voice, and what I wanted most hope.
“It is for school; Dad will not do it, and he doesn’t need to know. Aunt Lily will not do it. Bonne Maman will not do it. So, I am asking you.” I said reluctantly, plus dad still thinks I’m a biomedical engineering major, not a pharmacosmetics fashion major. Like mother like daughter, wrong. I have been trained in engineering since grade school. I never picked it, it picked me. I never ask Genevieve for anything, the last time I did our family got ripped to shreds. High pressure parents, and one high in other levels too. Well at least one of them. I almost lost my face.
“It is a big deal for me and for my future career.” I gave her. She going to know.
“You’re an engineer dear, what on earth do you need my help with?” She said through her glowering glitter pale makeup. It never cracked or faded. It never melted off her face. It was made for her genes, for her skin. It was her drug. But I needed her clay cosmetics and click fashion brand. The high-tech and the top fashion and cosmetics brand that makes you look like a vampire and a skeleton. It is trendy and killing people. She is the leading world expert in making cosmetics. She is the head of the pharmacosmetics fashion science department at Bolton University and my only ticket to learn this profession in the top line up in four years.
“I am a pharmacosmetics fashion major. I am transferring to Bolton. I need a transcript that will get me in with at least 8 grades of experience in pharmacosmetics fashion or the sign off for the four-year intensive program with approval from the head of the department. That is, you.” I said bluntly as if to say I am the student.
“ah and did the advisors send you to me. Knowing our relation.” She said I see the crack.
“No not our relation. Solely professional.” I stammered this was it.
“Ok” the profession coolness was back. “I will review your transcript and recommendation letters as well as what classes you have taken, your personal statement and your trial palette with the board. As well as your thesis on cosmetic theory and beauty standards. You will know by a letter in the mail in at least a week.” She said standing up grimly.
“Best of luck Ms. Gilmartin” she said ferociously.
I watched my mother leave. I follow in her shadowed path, but only after I wipe off the scaling clay hiding my freckles and hidden gashing shredded side of my face. My imperfection that was supposed to make me into perfect shapeable clay smooth. Not a line out of place. Not a freckle, not a dot. No breathing pores. Just clay.
