Punk
by kim teeple
My mother used to say she'll be just like you and you‘ll deserve it. I was a Punk Rocker. A rebel. Emily worries about things like grades and sports. She's on the soccer team. I got stoned under the bleachers. Emily, is a good kid.
Not that Emily has ever tried to put one past me, but I think I would know if she was smoking pot or if she had a hangover. I'd know if she was having sex or lying about anything, at least this is what I tell myself, but sometimes, I'm not always so sure. She is not me I reassure myself when I look in the mirror, when I pull my hair over my tattoo.
The school's principal steps onto a wooden stage and stands behind a podium with a microphone. He has pink cheeks and small shoulders and he wears a brown sweater vest over a blue shirt like his mother dressed him. He says how there's been an epidemic; the kids are all saying the word fuck to each other. In the hallways, in the classrooms, at lunch. They're saying it the way you say cool, or awesome. They high-five and say Fuck. The parents gasp. Some of them try out the word for themselves. Fuck, they say it under their breath. It feels powerful and a little naughty.
The next day I get a call from school and have to meet with the principal. He smiles at me his teeth are small but perfect. Emily yelled the word fuck in the hallway and this, as was discussed yesterday in the gymnasium, is grounds for suspension. He presses his palms together in front of his chin like he's praying then points his pressed hands toward me when I tell him I don't believe it was Emily, how I've never heard her say any swear word at all, not even shit or damn. He looks at me sideways like I'm the child. I don't like him, and I don't want them to suspend Emily from school.
My mother worked during the day and I skipped school. This was when the teachers still had to call home or send a note and the teachers all looked tired. I practically got away with murder. Okay, I tell the principal, do what you have to do. I pull a rubber band from my purse and put my hair up in a high ponytail so when I leave,
He can see the word Fuck tattooed in black ink across the top of my shoulders.
Like this! FAVE!
Jerry, thank you!
"He looks at me sideways like I'm the child." You really nail this character and this entire piece with that line. Really like this, look forward to reading more of your work. *
Love, love, love this one, Kim! FAve!
Great work - Kim. Nice control, rhythm and pace here.
Great, great!! Love this. And yes, like Julie, really can't wait to read more from you.
Great opening. I like this piece. Good work.
HA. YES. Mothers, daughters. I picture this --
Enjoyed, Kim! Nicely realized.
You're off to a grand start, Kim. Use of language today is slightly astonishing. A newly elected House of Rep member even used "chicken crap" in a formal speech. I've had the opportunity to listen to casual conversations between young people for several years and have learned several new vulgar phrases. The over-used word "fuck" is almost meaningless.
An alert editor will pick this topical story up at first reading.
Hilarious! And nicely written as well. The teachers all look tired - nice detail there, and the scene with the principal is wonderful.
Under the bleachers? sounds awfully familiar...
Nicely done, Kim. You've snagged that generation gap being bridged by mother and daughter. Well done.
I like the way the last 16 words are separated from the dangling comma in the paragraph above them: Makes the strong ending in this way cool story even more satisfying. *
Love this! Amazing story and writing! BTW-My mother used to tell me the same thing...*
super Kim, so strong, this is a force - this story is a force. Yes to this in a big way. Fave.
Love the parents trying out the F word for themselves! Fav.
sharply drawn...with indelible ink?
The principal, wow..."looks at me sideways like I'm the child"
"Some of them try out the word for themselves." Never too late to learn. And the point Frank makes on the sentence separating...just like we're sitting there and watching Punk Rocker mom and her branded back walking right out the door *
Perfect conclusion. Maybe they're not so different after all.
"She is not me..." hits me as the phrase the whole rest of the story rests on. Is there really a generation gap? Are adults and children so different? Is it so terrible - or surprising - if they are not? Neat, noncliched thought.
Lots of good in this, including the description of the principal. You capture how the line is always drawn in the same place, generation after generation.
Epater les bourgeoisie!
how clever. loved this. creepy principal, wonderfully dense description and great ending, nicely foreshadowed. punk, hell yeah.
Great use of language and love the ending.