Page 15 - Demo

shouted the word “Pussy” at Mrs. Good with such vigor. The bridge of meaning was so clear in my head:
PUSILLANIMOUS = weak, coward ---> PUSSY = slang for pusillanimous and for cats! meow! ---> LION = a big cat, or a pussy ---> COWARDLY LION = a pusillanimous pussy and brilliant wordplay choice by L. Frank Baum.
But that’s not what I said. Instead I muttered, “I just mean, you know, cowardly lion, you’re a pussy, you know...” I petered off. I wasn’t able to explain the literary genius I felt I had just discovered through the ancient scholarship of language. Instead the class awkwardly went on, and I slumped into my sterile, fake wooden desk, feeling more ridiculous than usual.
“Inavigated the corridors of a community that
handed out marriage licens- es to young girls and assault rifles to youth pastors.”
When the bell rang, Mrs. Good had me hold on a min- ute. Before she even said anything, I preemptively blabbered “That’s not what I meant!” She nodded, said okay, and let me go to lunch. Maybe Mrs. Good was over it all and saw the light of retirement at the end of the tunnel. Maybe she saw that I was growing up a little quicker than many of my classmates and it
was resulting in a few weird, word vomit moments as I navigated the corridors of a community that handed out marriage licenses to young girls and assault rifles to youth pastors. Or maybe she thought the whole thing was hilarious and my embarrassment was good enough for her. Either way, I got the fuck out there, only scathed by own idiocy.
A week later, I was called to the counselor’s office. My loathsome French teacher, Ms. Tygeers, whom I was in an on-going feud with, reported me because I was asking how to translate too many morbid words like “death,” “blood,” “funeral,” “murder,” “Satan”....you know, the fun stuff. So she feigned concern but was really just looking to report me for anything since I had won a philosophical argument about my usage of the scotch tape while she was speaking, earlier in the week. Emma: 1. Ms. Tygeers: 0. She needed to even this week’s score.
The counselor was impatient. I could tell he didn’t re- ally give two shits about this conversation. But since this had not been my first time to speak with a school admin, he had to pretend to take it seriously. I pa- tiently explained that I wasn’t going to kill myself or try to summon Satan to attack Ms. Tygeers. I was just a creep who liked creepy stuff. The counselor sighed, ready for this conversation to be over so he could go back to playing Solitaire on his Gateway.
“Okay. And Mrs. Good said you were working on Latin roots right now and that could be the reason for you asking all of this...,” he paused, struggling to find the right word. He landed on “stuff.”
“Sure, yah, that makes sense, too,” I reassured him.
“So we agree. That’s why you have been asking these questions,” he confirmed.
“Aye, aye captain.” “Okay. Leave.”
I sauntered back to class slowly, rolling my eyes at the Ms. Tygeers’ insecurity and feeling a forever love
for the empathy of Mrs. Good and her dedication to growing and cultivating teenaged roots.
Laurent is a former (and sometimes) Democratic political operative. When not on a campaign, she is focused on writing timely pieces on culture, punk music, and spooky run-ins. Publication credits include New Noise Magazine, Overblown Zine, Harness Magazine, and many others. After writing hours, she can be found mouthing off, watching baseball, and reading Stephen King. Laurent is currently located on an antelope-laden field in Wyoming.
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