Pulp. Robin Talley
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peered down at her Mary Janes. Her creative writing teacher was an old-school lesbian, and Abby should’ve known she’d have strong opinions about sports attire.
Ms. Sloane was Indian-American, and in the wedding photo she kept on her desk, her dark curly hair was striking next to her wife’s sleek blond chignon. The effect made their matching cream-colored wedding dresses look that much more practical-lesbian-chic. It was obvious they’d planned every last detail to maximize the striking visuals while also making sure there would be no long trains to trip over or bobby pins poking their ears. The two of them probably shared a whole closet full of affordable yet top-quality and carefully coordinated running shoes.
“All right, well, come on in.” Ms. Sloane held the door open. At least she wasn’t dwelling on Abby’s feet. “I’m excited to see what you’ve got for me. The rest of the seniors have already started their projects, so we’ll have to play some catch-up. I was surprised you signed up for the last advising slot. Last year during our workshops you always tried to be ahead of the game.”
Abby tried to breathe evenly as she followed Ms. Sloane inside. This classroom was her favorite place in the whole school. It was narrow and cozy, with a long, oval-shaped table where everyone sat for their discussions. Abby used to relax the second she entered this room, but today it was having the opposite effect.
“Um, well.” She tried to think of what to say. Teachers never understood that homework couldn’t always be priority number one every second of every day. When you were deep in postbreakup withdrawal, were you seriously supposed to work ahead in every single class? “Nothing to fire up the creative muse like tight deadlines, right?”
“Wrong, in my experience. Nonetheless...” Ms. Sloane smiled and sat at the head of the long table, gesturing for Abby to sit beside her. She’d always been easy to talk to, and she was the main reason Abby had stuck with creative writing, even when the boys in last year’s workshop had made her roll her eyes into the back of her skull when she was forced to critique their pretentious wish-fulfillment hetero foreplay scenes. “So, let’s see your proposal.”
Ms. Sloane held out her hand. Abby stared at the outstretched brown palm.
Riiiiiight. She’d somehow forgotten she was supposed to turn in a written proposal.
Shit.
“Um, well...” Abby tried to act as if this was all going exactly as she’d planned. “I wanted to ask if I could have until Monday for the written portion. My computer had a meltdown last night when I was going to hit Print.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Ms. Sloane didn’t blink, but she glanced down at Abby’s backpack. A corner of her laptop poked up through the zipper. Shit, shit. “You know, I’ve been told I’m talented with computers. Why don’t you let me take a look. I’ll see if I can get the file to load, and then we can review it together here on your screen.”
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Abby tried to think rationally. What was the adult thing to do in this situation? Whatever it was, she should do that instead of freaking out.
But Ms. Sloane was wearing her you-won’t-fool-me expression. No matter what she said, Abby was going to disappoint her.
Abby gave up on being an adult and just focused on not crying. “I... I’m sorry, Ms. Sloane.”
“You’re sorry,” her teacher repeated. After a moment of pained silence, she sighed. “Abby, this isn’t like you. Last year, you turned in all your assignments early. You always came to class prepared, even eager, to join the discussions. Is anything wrong? Maybe something going on at home?”
“It’s nothing. I’m sorry. It’s senioritis, that’s all.”
“Senioritis comes in May, not September.” Ms. Sloane’s expression was so serious it was making Abby’s head hurt. “You can talk to me, Abby. If there’s a problem, I want to help.”
Ugh. Adults could seriously be the worst. If they weren’t ignoring the fact that you existed, they were falling all over themselves acting like they knew better than you.
As if Abby couldn’t be just plain heartbroken. Of course, in Ms. Sloane’s mind, there had to be “something going on at home.”
When, in reality, nothing was going on at home. That was kind of the definition of Abby’s home, in fact. She could barely remember the last time anyone in her family had voluntarily interacted with anyone else.
“No. There’s nothing.” Abby shook her head forcefully. “Can you please just take points off my grade, or whatever?”
“That’s not how senior projects work. It isn’t about earning points, it’s about creating something worthwhile. It’s about coming out of the year with a concrete result that’s meaningful to you on a personal level.”
“I know.” Abby wished desperately that she were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Words like worthwhile and meaningful always made her want to hurl.
“All right, well.” Ms. Sloane leaned back in her chair and frowned. “We’ll talk through your plan today and you can email me your formal proposal over the weekend.”
“Okay.” Abby began to frantically rework her Flighted Ones story in her head.
“I must say, I’m already looking forward to reading your new work,” Ms. Sloane went on. “I know you’ve been struggling to break away from the fanfiction you used to write and create something wholly yours. Not that there’s anything wrong with fanfiction, of course—I always tell my younger students that it can be a lot of fun, and a great way to develop your writing skills—but this new project is a real opportunity for you to force yourself out of your comfort zone so you can mature as a writer. You’ve been on the verge for quite some time, and I hope that with this project you’ll truly allow your creativity to take hold.”
Shit. Ms. Sloane had seen through her again.
Abby tried to think fast, but the only story on her mind just then was Women of the Twilight Realm.
“I—um, well. I’ve been thinking lately about lesbian pulp fiction,” Abby heard herself say. “You know, those books from back in the fifties.”
“Have you?” Ms. Sloane’s eyebrows shot up. As though Abby had genuinely surprised her for the first time today.
“Yes.” Abby tried to figure out where to go from here. She’d always been good at bullshitting. “I’ve been researching the genre, and I thought it might be interesting to try to reclaim it from a modern queer perspective. I mean, apart from the gorgeous clothes the fifties were basically awful, especially for marginalized communities, so I thought it would be worthwhile to examine the books from a contemporary point of view.”
“Well, the genre’s already been reclaimed, of course.” Ms. Sloane’s usual I’m-an-expert-in-everything tone had already returned. “Although surely you came across that in your research. Lesbian-owned publishers have been rereleasing the pulp classics specifically for queer audiences since the eighties.”
“Of course.” Abby hoped she didn’t look as thrown as she felt. If that was true, she had to switch tactics fast. “Well...what I want to do is write one of these books that’s genuinely, you know—good. I want to break away from the gay tragedy trope.”
Ms. Sloane nodded. “Some would argue that many of the books from that era are already good, if that kind of value judgment is possible with literature, but I understand your perspective. It’s an unusual proposal, but I think it has a lot of potential. My concern, though, is that this could wind up simply being another fanfiction exercise for you. It’s important that your senior project be written entirely in your voice. That it be unique, not simply following a formula or imitating an existing style.”
“Oh, I agree. Ah...” Abby tried to think of what else Ms. Sloane might want