Landfall: creative writing pieces by ZMethos

Libby pushed at the lump of pot roast on her plate. Her mother was a fantastic architect, headed the city's Planning and Zoning Department, but gourmet cook she wasn't. The roast was dry and looked more grey than brown. The green beans were okay, but then they'd come from a can. Libby thought about all the canned goods in the pantry, how long they may have been in there--her parents weren't the type to check expiration dates; spoiled milk was a regular occurence at their house--and blanched, pushing her plate just slightly away in the hopes of not drawing any attention.

Futile, of course. Her mother was sitting right across the table, and had been watching her. "Something wrong, Lib?"

"Just not very hungry." Which was code for Later tonight, once you're back in your home office, I'll come down and make myself a sandwich.

"Thinking about Shakespeare?" This from her father, who hadn't even looked up from the paperwork that was folded next to his plate. He was looking over some kind of printout, something that illustrated all the minute parts of a computer chip; Libby's dad was a computer hardware engineer. Sometimes Libby felt sure she must've been one of those changlings from the fairy stories. How else could two people so devoted to math and science and physics end up with a daughter whose passions were history and literature?

"Shakespeare?" Libby asked, striving to sound innocent, but her voice squeaked and gave her away.

"Mr. Atkinson called," her mother explained. "He was wondering why we hadn't signed the permission slip yet."

"Imagine our surprise," her father added, "to hear there was a permission slip."

"Libby, why didn't you tell us?"

Libby closed her eyes briefly to keep from rolling them, which would have gotten her a lecture. "I forgot?" It sounded more like a question than a solid statement, and her mother's expression suggested a lack of confidence in this answer. Even her dad looked up and raised his eyebrows.

"Not like you to forget things, Lib," her dad said. Which was true. Libby was the family watchdog, the one who remembered everything, like birthdays and doctor's appointments and where her dad had left his keys. She wrote the important stuff on the family calendar that hung in the kitchen, but from what she could tell no one but her ever looked at it. For people with such orderly and controlled professions, Libby's parents were decidedly absentminded when it came to real life.

"Well, you know," said Libby, trying a different tact as she picked up her fork and moved the green beans into interesting new shapes, "the camp is kind of expensive, and I was thinking I'd just stay home this summer like always. . ."

"Mr. Atkinson said there's a scholarship program, and that he'd be happy to nominate you for it. Besides," her mother went on, "it's not your job to worry about money."

Libby threw a quick glance at her dad, who had gone back to his paperwork.

"Go get the permission slip," her mother said.

Libby slipped out of her chair, but her father's voice stopped her. "Is there some reason you don't want to go?" he asked.

There was, but the problem was that Libby wasn't sure what that reason could be. It was like a nagging but unnamed fear, or like the feeling a person got when they felt sure they'd forgotten something at the grocery store. (Libby always made a list, else her parents came home with everything but what they'd originally gone to buy, but that was beside the point.)

"Um. . ." was all she could say.

"Go get the slip," her mother repeated, and Libby scooted out of the eat-in kitchen and climbed the stairs to her room to get the permission slip and brochure from her backpack.

Libby's room was her haven. It was, she thought, probably a bit little-girlish for someone about to start high school, but who cared? No one ever came over, so no one ever saw her room. The white furniture, the lavender bedspread and curtains and walls. . . It was all so peaceful.

And Libby kept her room clean, too. It was a minor sort of rebellion against the messiness of the rest of the house, which her parents were always too busy to clean. In the summer, Libby usually took care of the house, but during the school year she was too busy too.

Her overloaded purple backpack was in its spot next to her desk, and Libby fished the slip and brochure from the bottom of it. The paper was crumpled, having been stuck under several textbooks over the past couple days, so Libby laid it on the desk and attempted to smooth it all out. SPEND YOUR SUMMER WITH SHAKESPEARE the permission slip announced. The brochure was for a place called Camp Bard.

Labels: Shakespeare Summer

I made landfall at 10:45 and

(0) greeted me