The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry
Page 25“I think it’s ambiguous,” Mr. Balboni says. “Remember last week when we talked about ambiguity?”
Maggie Markakis, who is only in this elective because of a scheduling conflict involving math and debate, says she likes it, though she notes discrepancies in the financial elements of the stories.
Abner Shochet objects on multiple fronts: he doesn’t like stories in which characters lie (“I am so done with unreliable narrators”—the concept had been introduced to them two weeks ago), and worse, he thinks nothing happens. This doesn’t hurt Maya’s feelings because all of Abner’s stories end with the same twist: that everything had been a dream.
“Is there anything we liked about it?” Mr. Balboni asks.
“The grammar,” Sarah Pipp says.
John Furness says, “I liked how sad it was.” John has long brown eyelashes and a pop idol pompadour. He wrote a story about his grandmother’s hands that moved even hard-hearted Sarah Pipp to tears.
“Me too,” Mr. Balboni says. “As a reader, I responded to many of the things that you all objected to. I liked the somewhat formal style and the ambiguity. I disagree with the comment about the ‘unreliable narrators’—we may have to go over this concept again. I don’t believe the financial elements were handled badly either. All things considered, I think this, along with John’s story, ‘My Grandmother’s Hands,’ are the two best stories from class this semester, and they will be the Alicetown High School entries to the county story contest.”
Abner groans. “You didn’t say who wrote the other one.”
“Right, of course. It’s Maya. Round of applause for John and Maya.”
Maya tries not to look too pleased with herself.
“THAT’S AMAZING, RIGHT? Mr. Balboni picking us,” John says after class. He is following her to her locker, though Maya cannot say why.
“Yeah,” says Maya. “I liked your story.” She had liked his story, but she really wants to win. First prize is a $150 gift certificate to Amazon and a trophy.
“What would you buy if you won?” John asks.
“Not books. I have those from my dad.”
“I live above it, not in it, and it’s not that great.”
“I bet it is.”
He sweeps his brown hair out of his eyes. “My mom wants to know if you want to carpool to the ceremony.”
“But we just found out today,” Maya says.
“I know my mom. She always likes to carpool. Ask your dad.”
“The thing is, my dad will want to go, and he doesn’t drive. So probably, Dad’ll get my godmother or my godfather to drive us. And your mom will want to go, too. So I’m not sure if carpooling makes sense.” She feels like she’s been talking for about a half hour.
He smiles at her, which makes his pompadour bounce a little. “No problem. Maybe we could drive you somewhere else sometime?”
THE AWARD CEREMONY is held at a high school in Hyannis. Though it’s just a gymnasium (the scent of balls of both varieties is still palpable) and the ceremony hasn’t started yet, everyone speaks in hushed tones, like it’s church. Something important and literary is about to happen here.
Of the forty entries from the twenty high schools, only the top three stories will be read aloud. Maya has practiced reading her story for John Furness. He recommended that she breathe more and slow down. She has been practicing breathing and reading, which are not as easy to do as one might think. She had listened to him read, too. Her advice to him was to use his normal voice. He had been doing this fake-y, newscaster thing. “You know you love it,” he had said. Now he talks to her in the fake voice all the time. It’s so annoying.
Maya sees Mr. Balboni talking to a person who can only be a teacher from another school. She is wearing teacher clothes—a floral dress and a beige cardigan with snowflakes embroidered on it, and she is nodding adamantly at whatever Mr. Balboni is saying. Of course, Mr. Balboni is wearing his leather pants, and because he is out, a leather jacket—basically, a leather suit. Maya wants to take him to meet her father, because she wants A.J. to hear Mr. Balboni praise her. The balance is that she doesn’t want A.J. to be embarrassing. She had introduced A.J. to her English teacher, Mrs. Smythe, at the store last month, and A.J. had pressed a book into the teacher’s hands saying, “You’ll love this novel. It’s exquisitely erotic.” Maya had wanted to die.
A.J. is wearing a tie, and Maya jeans. She had put on a dress that Amelia had chosen for her but decided that the dress made it seem like she cared too much. Amelia, who is in Providence this week, is meeting them there, but she’ll probably run late. Maya knows she’ll be sad about the dress.
A baton is tapped on the podium. The teacher in the snowflake sweater welcomes them to the Island County High School Short-Story Contest. She praises the entries for having been a particularly diverse and moving group. She says she loves her job and wishes everyone could win, and then she announces the first finalist.
Of course, John Furness would be a finalist. Maya sits back in her chair and listens. The story is better than she remembers. She likes the description of the grandmother’s hands like tissue paper. She looks at A.J. to see how it is playing with him. He has a distant look in the eyes, which Maya recognizes as boredom.
Maya is starting to worry that she won’t be picked at all. She is glad she wore jeans. She turns around to look for the quickest way out. Amelia is standing by the door of the auditorium. She gives Maya a thumbs-up sign. “The dress. What happened to the dress?” Amelia mouths.
Maya shrugs, turns back to listen to “The Journey.” Virginia Kim wears a black velvet dress with a white Peter Pan collar. She reads in a very soft voice, barely more than a whisper at times. It’s as if she wants everyone to have to lean in to listen.
Unfortunately, “The Journey” is endless, five times as long as “My Grandmother’s Hands,” and after a while, Maya stops listening. Maya guesses it probably takes less time to fly to China.
If “A Trip to the Beach” isn’t top three, there will be T-shirts and cookies at the reception. But who wants to stay for the reception if you don’t at least place.
If she places, she won’t be mad that she didn’t win.
If John Furness wins, she will try not to hate him.
If Maya wins, maybe she will donate the gift certificate to charity. To, like, underprivileged kids or orphanages.
If she loses, it will be okay. She didn’t write the story to win a prize or even complete an assignment. If she’d wanted to complete the assignment, she could have written about Puddleglum. Creative writing is graded pass/fail.
The third story is announced, and Maya grabs A.J.’s hand.
A Perfect Day for Bananafish
1948 / J. D. Salinger
If something is good and universally acknowledged to be so, this is not reason enough to dislike it. (Side note: It has taken me all afternoon to write this sentence. My brain kept making hash of the phrase “universally acknowledged.”)
“A Trip to the Beach,” your entry for the county short-story contest, reminds me a bit of Salinger’s story. I mention this because I think you should have won first place. The first-place entry, which I believe was titled “My Grandmother’s Hands,” was much simpler both formally, narratively, and certainly emotionally than yours. Take heart, Maya. As a bookseller, I assure you that prizewinning can be somewhat important for sales but rarely matters much in terms of quality.
P.S. The thing I find most promising about your short story is that it shows empathy. Why do people do what they do? This is the hallmark of great writing.
P.P.S. If I have a criticism, perhaps it’s that you might have introduced the swimming element earlier.
P.P.P.S. Also, readers will know what an ATM card is.
A Trip to the Beach
By Maya Tamerlane Fikry
Teacher: Edward Balboni, Alicetown High School
Grade 9
Mary is running late. She has a private room, but she shares the bathroom with six other people, and it seems like someone is always using it. When she gets back from the bathroom, the babysitter is sitting on her bed. “Mary, I have been waiting for you for five minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary says. “I wanted to take a shower, but I couldn’t get in.”
“It is already eleven,” the babysitter says. “You’ve only paid me to be here until noon, and I have somewhere I need to be at 12:15 p.m. So you better not be late getting back.”
Mary thanks the babysitter. She kisses the baby on the head. “Be good,” she says.
Mary runs across the campus to the English department. She runs up the stairs. Her teacher is already leaving by the time she gets there. “Mary. I was just about to leave. I didn’t think you were going to show. Please come in.”
Mary goes into the office. The teacher takes out Mary’s homework and sets it on the desk. “Mary,” the teacher says. “You used to get straight A’s, and now you are failing all of your classes.”