Avilasa

The daily song of the lively halls had changed this milky afternoon. Above the usual bass line of laughter, girlish shrieks, the squeak of leather soles against marble flooring and the rattle of keychains against aluminium flasks, rose an undercurrent of whispered, savoured, incredulous gossip. Each and every girl, through a pearly, straight smile, had but one thing on her mind, it’s inky impression spilling out in each word that escaped its polished consumer. Avilasa had skimmed the newspaper article too.

As the tide swept her around a broad corner, passing the grandeur statue of the first and founding principle of Mercy College for Girls (his mustache a fraction longer than his wilting jowls), Avilasa felt a traversing unease begin in the pit of her stomach. Shouldering past a trio of first years, the feeling had subdued the warm flesh of her torso and solidified into an embrace of protective armour by the time she passed through the open door. A patchwork of colour assaulted her wary eyes, a stark contrast to the navys, oaks and emeralds of the school’s primary interior. Quotes, classic and contemporary, called out to her from each and every wall of the classroom in a garble of abstract voices. Avilasa passed this all with a conservative gaze, finding her seat near the hexad paned window at the back of the class, and brushing tentative fingers over the oil heater below to draw out its succulent warmth. This was the best part of every English lesson, the reward for her trudge through the academic day. The rustle of paper, books, pens and cases filled the room; Avilasa gave herself to the collective motion.

The usual, protracted chatter that rose to fill the tall ceiling was absent this day. Instead, the same undertone that had hid beneath the familiar hallway chorus had now been extracted, purified, and as a result, amplified within the space. Ms Beaumont, emerging from her closet with her familiar air of youth, modernity and precision, surveyed the class with her absorbent blue eyes until the gossip came to a punctuated hush. Avilasa felt the warmth of the heater slither beneath the taut cuff of her school jersey, relaxing her wrist and forearm in a smooth motion. Ms Beaumont, smoothing back the flyaways of her rusty brown hair, approached the lectern with an air of anticipation. Avilasa knew, before she spoke, that she was about to announce something new; something the freshly qualified teacher would be vigorously excited about. Ms Beaumont did bring a welcome freshness to the stagnant, senile air of Mercy College, although it was not always a comfortable novelty as such.

“Today we’ll be beginning on our creative writing pieces” Ms Beaumont announced, “unlike previous years however, this year's final pieces will be personally crafted, no directional criteria shall be given”.

Avilasa’s left hand, which had been toying with the sharpened end of her ribbed pencil, stilled. As Ms Beaumont traversed the class, she could feel her unease rise upwards into her cheeks, hardening the set of her jaw beneath them. Whilst the class began to flick through the assignment paper, Ms Beaumont approached her with an intentional cock of her fox-like head. Avilasa kept her own lowered, until the teacher’s shadow fell over the items upon her desk, and she was forced to meet the eyes that she knew were eagerly anticipating hers. A conceited smirk awaited her.

“When I spoke to you yesterday, you shared such perceptive insight into our last novel” she expressed in an even, audible tone, “your voice in this piece could be brilliant. I’ll be expecting you to tap into that creative reservoir of yours”.

Without lingering to observe the effect of her words, Ms Beaumont placed the assignment upon her desk and advanced back towards the lectern. The expectation, although largely buffered by her invisible shield, had still imbued her with a tiny pit of dread in the smallest crevice of her stomach. The warmth of the oil heater gone cold, Avilasa took to staring down at the pale, deserted courtyard outside for the rest of the lesson, thinking if she stared hard enough at the reflection of the anaemic sky upon the still water of the fountain, she could simply become absorbed, mind, body and soul, into its celestial passage.

~

The bell had passed through her reality without impression. The grumble of chair legs against polished wood, bags unzipped, voices reborn, signalled to Avilasa that class had come to an end. Rising from her seat, she slid her note taking paper between the hard covers of her books thoughtlessly, and made way for the resurgent tide of the school hall. It was as she neared the promising haven of the open door that a voice rose up behind her, strangely abstract, embodying the same wailing quality as the surrounding quotes upon the walls.

“Avi!” it said, addressing her by the nickname she had never once chosen, but nonetheless received, “You might want to, you know…stuff some tissues down there or something. All that jersey is clinging to is a washboard!”.

“I hope” Avilasa replied, turning to face the impudent gazes of two unfortunately familiar classmates, “I hope that both of your father’s read what that journalist had to say and take you right out of school, off to somewhere with far better results, that lives up to some ancient legacy of academic excellence”.

Frowns creased their clean, bright faces. What Avilasa had neglected to state had clearly forgone them. Turning into the thick stream of students in the hall, Avilasa breathed in the stoney cold air that prevailed through all the hot, collective exhale, and left behind the hours thus gone of the day as she had left the assignment paper between the filmy metal of the oil heater and the wainscoting of the wall.

~

The hearth of the fire harboured a potent, spirited blood orange flame, that crackled and hissed upon the logs that fed it like mortal sacrifices to an all powerful, all transcendent, all demanding god. Avilasa was pleased with this description, channeling the words from her mind onto the page with the precise, learned handwriting of three years of fine education. This latter thought brought a subtle frown to Avilasa’s brow.

Angling her head to catch a glimpse of the girls gathered around the dormitory dining table from behind the shelter of the emerald couch leg, she saw that they were still opening packages, passing around presents, skimming their eyes halfheartedly over affectionately penned letters. This morning’s scandal was already forgotten. Relaxing her head back and closing her eyes, Avilasa tried earnestly to recall the exact print of the article upon the breakfast table. The school had been silly, really, to allow that morning’s edition into the dining hall. Regardless, the news would have reached the parents. Pressing her thumb into the sharp end of her ballpoint pen, Avilasa tried to think of what adults did in these kinds of situations.

Her father’s opinion, although he would most certainly have one, wouldn’t matter; he had no say in the full term scholarship that had been awarded to her. Her mother’s would of course remain unknown, bringing Avilasa to a dilemma she so frequently faced. Opening her eyes to stare into the drying warmth of the fire, she allowed herself to bring forth the nostalgic, incomplete presence of Sunday Ortiz. At once, she knew the answer of her opinion so strongly that not even all the doubt within her could persuade her otherwise. Let them all scowl and scorn about this performance rate or that, let that very number fall further upon the national ranking by a dozen or two! What really matters is that you’re happy there Avilasa, that your soul is happy there! Staring down at the embryonic poem that Avilasa had been in the process of penning, a passionate honesty burst forth within her so strongly that her heart hurt; she hated the sciences, and calculus, and most of the pretentious histories too, all she wanted to do was live a life full of words and beauty and rhythmic meaning, why did she deny herself such? Do what makes you feel alive, Avilasa, even if no one else approves ~ a life lived in passion is a thousand times more true than a life lived in discipline.

It was then, flicking her thumb beneath the starchy page of her notebook and turning it onto a blank sheet, that Avilasa knew what it was she was going to do.

~

Avilasa had endured three phone calls from her father since that late winter day in March, marking the passing weeks within vague cognizant portions, boxed in by the audible reminder of the world outside Mercy College. Nevertheless, in between these routine exchanges Avilasa had stoked and tended the stirring fire within herself, harbouring its internal existence quietly, cunningly. But just like the frost had melted from the shiny awnings of the school building, and the first flower buds had burst forth from the renewed stalks of the shrubbery in the courtyard below the English room, the warmth of Avilasa’s fire had begun to shine through her, melting away the rigid armour that had enclosed her for so very long. She was not afraid, anymore, to allow her spirit to be felt and her creation to be seen; even if no one else loved her for it, she knew deep down that her mother would.

“Brilliant news Ms Levine!” Ms Beaumont’s voice echoed up into the ceiling, the staunch leather of her boots cracking down on the wooden floorboards as she approached Avilasa’s desk; it was true, her short story had received generous praise from both Ms Beaumont, and the head of the English department, Mr Lennedy.

Avilasa gazed up at the face of her English teacher expectedly. No longer was it a threatening presence, but rather the heralder of novelty and new. Avilasa reflected now that the very thing that Ms Beaumont represented had not changed, but rather her own inclination towards it. No longer was this expedition of the self dangerous, but rather explorative and enriching. Ms Beaumont dropped a dainty letter down upon the empty surface of her desk.

“We’ve received word back from the Valmor Writer’s Contest today, you’ve made first place!”.

Instinctively, Avilasa reached out to paw the letter with awe, as though its very presence was the trophy for her success. Ms Beaumont did not break eye contact, grinning down at her with self satisfied pride.

“You will be missing this morning’s English lesson, you’re expected in the principal's quarters immediately”.

Dizzy with stun and excitement, Avilasa rose from her desk, throwing her bag straps over her shoulder and glancing briefly over the bodies of her classmates. As Ms Beaumont commented that her father had travelled to see her there, wide eyed faces turned to each other in skepticism and disbelief. Everybody knew her father never came for her, not so much as to visit. Sliding the envelope gently up into the tight confines of her jersey sleeve, Avilasa nodded appreciatively to Ms Beaumont and made her way out into the quiet hallway, making haste for the central stairway. The statue of the founder watched her pass with a novel glint in his unfeeling eyes.

~

Pushing open the dark oakwood door to the principal's office with a shaky hand, it fell open upon plush grey carpet without a sound. The gentle golden light of the late morning that flooded the quiet landing now trickled into the dimly lit, intimate space. Entering with her breath held, Avilasa came to face the expectant eyes of Mr Wainstein, Mr Lennedy, Mr Levine, and an unfamiliar set of unrevealing, puggish brown eyes. Mr Wainstein’s voice rang out with an unreal quality, welcoming her, instructing her to close the door behind her. Avilasa did so, reflecting upon the strange nostalgia that his voice incurred, remembering the last time she had come to meet him three years ago during the acceptance interview she had attended all on her own.

Despite its air of intimacy, the office was spacious. Mr Levine had moved his grand leather office chair to the front of his desk, where the rest of the adults were gathered upon ornate armchairs amongst the grey light. The curtains, shrouding the polished windows at the furthest point of the room, were half drawn, as though to maintain an air of mystery to the studious furnishings of the chamber. One seat within the circle remained empty, beckoning its triumphant master forward. Nervously, Avilasa approached and sat. Immediately, Mr Wainstein’s eyes met her with a dwarfing intensity.

“We are all so, so, proud of you”.

Avilasa could not bring forth an immediate answer, but this failure was excused as the principal turned to gesture towards the puggish eyed man beside him.

“This is Mr Tucker from The Northern Star, he will be interviewing you today about your success”.

Avilasa frowned into the stormy colour of the carpet, it was an odd name for a journalist.

“You will of course recognise Mr Lennedy, and need I introduce your father?”.

“No, of course not Mr Wainstein” Mr Levine’s voice rose up in answer, strange and off beat.

“Well, Ms Levine” Mr Lennedy spoke, “I, as we all do, thought your story was brilliant. A mother’s dream, imbued into her own daughter so allusively, yet so beautifully. It represents the spirit and legacy we impart onto our children, the way they carry our honour and our livelihood into the future. That is, truly, what Mercy College strives for, and you are an exemplar of this principle”.

“Indeed Mr Lennedy” Mr Wainstein replied, “Whilst Mercy College has triumphed the sciences upon national leaderboards for decades, we have now an emerging scholar of literature, a testament to the versatility of our academics here”.

Avilasa could hear the poignant scratch of pen against paper, emanating from the position of the journalist.

“Well” Mr Wainstein clapped his hands together with an air of pertinence, “I will hand you over to our acclaimed Mr Tucker now, Ms Levine”.

Avilasa glanced up at her surrounding company for the first time since her arrival. The praise had ended so swiftly and now the journalist was staring at her with expectant eyes, rising from his seat and gesturing her over to a private corner of the room. Avilasa stood to follow, and then, meeting the eyes of her father for the first time, announced that she would like to get some water. Mr Wainstein, in a tone clearly deflated yet falsely kind, permitted her. Within moments, she had moved from the dense air of the office to the light and quiet atmosphere of the landing outside. Her relief was short lived as hasty, anxious footsteps approached her from behind.

“Avilasa” the syllables sounded strange in the jarring voice of her father; Avilasa turned to face him with mild disorientation.

The papery skin of his face was creased and rearranged in a proud grin.

“You know, I never saw this becoming of you, but I am so glad. I am sure even that your mother would be. Perhaps, perhaps her enigmatic streak, and my straight influence, have culminated into something refined within you. I’d like to say that”.

The words, awkward and opinionated, cut through Avilasa like a razor to a lantern skin. The warm, nurturing fire that had been burning within her succumbed silently to the coldness of her father’s speech, and she began to tremble with withdrawal. Affording the man before her a numb nod of acknowledgement, she turned to hurry down the shiny, polished staircase. The distant murmuring classes filtered up through the floor in an undercurrent of life. It was all Avilasa could do, once she reached the lower landing, to make haste for the swamp green door that read staff bathroom along its plaque.

Inside, the air was cool, the monochrome tiling grounding, the isolating silence a haven to the turmoil outside. Sinking down against the sink counter, Avilasa wrapped her arms around her skirt laden legs, and closed her eyes to weather the surging emotion that overcame her. Disillusionment, anger, the sting of abused vulnerability; Avilasa blamed no one more for her exploitation than herself. She had taken the very light of her soul and given it to these vultures who wished to do nothing more make use of every mirth and morsel of its being. Holding the body that had both venerated and betrayed her, Avilasa was sure that now she would have nothing left of herself to tide this life with, and succumbed to racking despair.

The call of a bird, low and hopeful, outside the tiny slat of the open window above, called Avilasa back into the present. Frowning as warmth flowed down her cheeks, she could not isolate the species from which it emanated. Rising to her feet with the intent of peering out the ribbed glass, she was instead distracted by the peripheral of a figure, parallelling hers. Turning to stare into the glass of the mirror, she was startled to take in her own dismayed appearance. But there was something else that existed with the girl that faced her, a strength that had gone unseen. Pressing her palms into the coolness of the sink, Avilasa leaned forward and faced herself with the most sincere and vulnerable conviction. Wet eyes steadily held her own.

Why did it matter what they made of her words? Why did it matter if they used the letters of her name and the merit of her acclaim to serve their own greater ends? Avilasa had not written her story in search of acknowledgement, nor to wet the palettes of the vultures and the victims of the dreaded opinions of all. Avilasa had not even written her story for her mother. Her creation was, all in all, an impenetrable, imperfect, invaluable progeny of herself; all that mattered was the way in which she knew it, and she alone.