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The Extraordinary Dedication of April Wilton
by Cesca Janece Waterfield I am, for all intents and purposes, what is commonly known as a bitch. This epithet is most often loosed behind closed doors, spit from mouths that for all their teeth, cower behind confidentiality. It is very rarely anything more than a sibilant whisper between comrades enjoying the free reign on cruelty that only true friends enjoy. The rest of the world is spared the tidy carnage of a word that for some women is a condemnation eclipsing all others. But I don’t mind. I even admit it. Bitch. There are worse names I’d claim, and preen to wear. I am April Wilton, and I’m telling you it’s a thick-headed sycophant who comes near me and pretends I’m not all bad. I saw a little boy the other day, playing with his puppy. I’d skipped class to come to the park. I hadn’t finished my art project that was due because I’d spent the night before making a tee shirt that across the front screeched, “Evil Beaver.” I’d worn the shirt to school and still had to finish stitching the fishnet stockings I’d sewn on for sleeves. I’d been there only a few minutes when the cuddly youngster and his hound arrived. If ever anything frolicked, it was this pair. The repellent sight was close to making me hurl, if you know what I mean. I snatched my handbag and iPod and was headed to the next bench, when from behind the recycling shed, a guy emerged. Before I could take a swing, he stopped in front of me and bowed deeply. “Good afternoon.” “Who the hell are you.” “I’m in fourth period art with you.” I narrowed my eyes sharply and jutted out my jaw slightly while briskly lifting my chin. This is the bearing of a genuine bitch, in case you didn’t know. “Then why aren’t you there right now, genius?” Aha! I could have said at that moment. If I gave a damn. “I’m skipping, just like you.” He strode two steps to the right before turning: “Enfant terrible.” He pronounced it, “Ahn-fant tair-ee-bluh.” I was scared now. “Well, I’m sure art class is the only thing we have in common.” Every dramatic exit starts with a single step. Beginning mine, I muttered, “Dingus.” He reached into his trench coat and extracted a long-stemmed carnation. “A May flower,” he said, extending the bloom, which he now lay across his open palm. Although I was stunned, I would not be without a retort. “A May flower? Well, I’m April. The cruelest month.” I’m fairly certain dramatic exits also have second steps, and I tried mine. “Ah, so you enjoy T.S. Eliot,” he said. “I know you’re April. I’m Ezra. Like Pound. Named by my mother.” “How exciting for you.” My best indifference, right over his head. “And prom is coming up. My mother has agreed to drive, should I make the acquaintance of someone special.” “Good luck with that,” I chuckled. “I think you’re exceptional, April. And my uncle owns a restaurant in town and--” He was talking, I didn’t care. I was walking away, gone. Bitch at her best. As I pushed past him, he called, “If you change your mind, take my number. My mother is a professor at the college. She is the visiting scholar in English literature.” I stopped. Someone in this town to talk to about books. He stepped slowly closer. “You know - Catherine and Heathcliff. Lancelot and Guinevere. Even Romeo and Juliet.” “Okay, you’re well read. That’s far more than I can say for any of those cretins we march to lunch with, but I’m not Juliet. I’m April.” “Even April leads into May,” Ezra said, with a confident grin. “Showers turn into flowers.” I had no intention of turning. Into anything. I am. Bitch. Ezra had not apparently gotten this memo. He just stood there, holding out the rosy, rosy flower. I achieved a scowl. “That carnation. It’s pink.” “It’s pink, April. The color of friendship.” It wasn’t close to nightfall. I don’t even think it was cold. But after he said that, I felt a little chill down my back. I stuffed my hands in my coat pockets and squeezed them into fists, because I am April, the cruelest month, and good will, so they say, is contagious. | |