This Does Not End with a Moral: a Novel Excerpt by Alicja Madloch ’15

The following novel-in-progress was begun by Alicja Madloch ’15 during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in November 2013. Bravo, Alicja!

               Prologue

Before I start, you must agree with my terms. The terms of use, as it were. I don’t want your pity, I don’t want this to turn into some cliché moral-including story, because the way it is, life has no permanent meaning or symbols or lessons in store for any of us. You can be empathetic, sure, because looking ahead of me I’m sure that there will be things that humiliate me beyond bonds, nights that I will cry blaming it on the cold.

Now that’s settled, I guess it’s applicable to introduce myself, especially since the plane is about to kick off and so is my Dramamine. My name is Maxene Mroz and I’m not the scary, pocket-knife-carrying bully pictured in my case file. It wasn’t my fault that people just can’t take a joke, that everybody flips out and falls down like frickin dominoes. Then again, maybe some people have flimsier spines; it takes less for them to crack. And that’s exactly where my story starts:

It was Thursday, the most miserable day of the most miserable month of September. The leaves were already falling off the trees, littering my path to school on the grey concrete. Honestly, there were more of them than rationally possible considering the ratio of leaves to trees in my neighborhood. I can distinctly remember them crunching beneath my boots, leaving slimy trails of dew on the brown leather. I walked the last few blocks with my friends Chelsea and Becky. They were excited about some new EP that came out early on iTunes. Myself, I was in a pretty messed up mood ‘cause my printer at home had stopped working and I needed to go to the lab early and wrestle with the paper-jamming machine.

It wasn’t until after first period that I realized the sinister attitude inside the mustard colored walls was heightened from its usual state of mild dread. I looked pretty presentable, but the hollow, fleeting looks I captured didn’t resemble the public’s usual reactions. Even Becky was slightly withdrawn and when I tried to grab her elbow, I think, she retreated.

Then, there were whispers.

“…people say it’s HER fault.”

“Yeah, when her parents were away…”

            “Liz, Oh my god, I had homeroom with her!”

 “…wanted to do it since that day.”

At first I ignored them. I was used to being talked about; in a school as small as mine there aren’t all that many model-built blonde types, I’m sub-par, and that seems to suffice for the birth of conversation. Honestly, I’m usually pretty good at ignoring envious chatter.  I just don’t give a crap about most people and aren’t we always taught not to care what others think or say? Anyway, for some reason, I sensed the change in atmosphere from light mean-spirited “I can’t believe she wore that” to something far more foreboding. My skin crawled and I pulled my black hoodie tighter around myself because without explanation I was becoming weary. These whispering tones and sharp eyes were seriously creeping me out. I entered second period without confrontation though because how can you confront shadows? No one was outright speaking to me, but it still felt like there was a shining yellow limelight on me as I stepped into IB History and took my usual seat, preparing to distract myself with a coma-inducing lecture about Russian Tsarism.  However, before our hundred-year-old teacher picked up the chalk in his shriveled old-man hand, we were all shaken out of our chaotic teenage state with the screeching feedback from the school intercom.

“Hello students and faculty. Today we are going to be running according to our assembly schedule. Please come to the school gym for an important announcement. You will resume class immediately after.”

The screech of chairs was only equivalent in volume to the voices already erupting in chatter around me.

“See I told you!”

“….didn’t think they’d announce it.”

“Are they gonna expel her or something?”

I couldn’t really comprehend the meaning of what they were saying, but as I made my way to the gym, pushing away underclassmen who didn’t know better than to stand in my way, I couldn’t shake this cancerous feeling that had established itself in my gut. I maneuvered my way with snide comments and backhanded insults, watching deflated faces, as familiar to me as the feeling of the nose ring in my left nostril.

           Let me just point out right now, that that is just my nature – I guess I’m what you call a bully. I hate labels though, because they never encompass the full scope of one’s character. Like, hell, maybe I do say things people don’t want to hear in order to get my way, but only because it works: if they just didn’t react I wouldn’t have any motivation to ask for Sylvia’s lunch money or have Lauren carry my work from class to class on days I’m particularly swamped. I told the same thing to the lawyers, but men in suits live on labels. They pronounce people “guilty” or “innocent,” which in actuality are just words that don’t leave any room for leeway. There is no such thing as something being purely beneficial or sadistic; we’re all just human.

You might have an idea as to where this is going, It’s classic, right? A girl goes in with a gut feeling and comes out with a brand new, shiny lawsuit. My flight attendant just told me to buckle my seatbelt though and the man next to me will not stop pushing his walrus arm to my side of the seat rest and it’s time to cut this memoire short. It feels good to be writing for this first time in forever though and maybe this way at least you can hear the real story, because no matter how loud I scream it’s like I’m the one that’s dead.

Chapter 1:

In Which I Testify and Am Promptly Sentenced to Exile

My head is killing me but they don’t serve anything here to minors, so I guess I’ll settle for ink therapy. There is a series of events, steps, procedures so precise I’m surprised I didn’t see it coming (from the many times my parents had hinted at this before), that led me to the scratchy blue fabric of this seat. I sadly had no idea, though, as I sat on the sticky red benches of my gym, that in less than a week I would be on a mostly empty flight back to my country of origin.

The gym was already packed as I shuffled in behind other juniors, taking our respective places on the top bleacher benches, right above the screeching freshmen, and “too cool for you” sophomores. Despite my nerves I couldn’t resist snatching a piece of gum from a freshman’s clammy hand. My green eyes bore into his brown ones only long enough to show him that I could, indeed, do that if I wanted to. As I sat down I took off my sweater and hugged it to my chest. I wished Chelsea and Becky had been in my history class so we could’ve sat together. They were huddled together on the other side of the bench, whispering words with the speed and ferocity of torpedoes and darting nervous looks around, as if to make sure that others could not hear. A few people sought their attention, prodding their backs, repeating their names until they sounded like some kind of chant.

“Becky, Becky, hey Becky.”

“Yo, Chels, Chelsea.”

This did nothing but elevate my nervous state, because although we were always invited to the most prominent parties, my friends and I were not usually that sought after. It could only be that the kids in my grade wanted primary source reports on me, or rather, an event that was supposedly catalyzed by me. My thoughts were cut short as our principal, Ms. Labelle, walked across the shiny yolk-colored floor with a mike chord snaking behind her.

“May I have your attention please? May I have your attention? Students… thank you. You must be slightly confused about why we are here today considering its not one of our usual scheduled assembly periods. Something has happened in our community and the faculty decided that you are old enough to join with us in mourning and remembering Flora Stradbier. There is no easy way to say this – Ms. Stradbier passed away early yesterday evening. The wake is going to take place at Central Park on Wednesday at 7:30.  I know it would mean a lot to Flora’s parents if any of you came. Ms. Dibler will also be available in her office for the rest of the week if anyone has trouble dealing with Flora’s passing. I doubt that I need to say this, but please be respectful to Flora’s memory and it would be the wish of the faculty that you do not talk amongst yourself. It is not your place to get involved with the private business of a family.”

Well that last part was such a goddam joke. The moment Ms. Labelle handed the microphone to the Dean of Students it was as if an invisible swarm of locusts had flown into the room. People were tilting in their seats, twisting back to make eye contact with their friends, and shouting a few ill-phrased opinions, passing notes made from the corners of old homework assignments. I sat still on the plastic seat, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Uh,” Mr. Rayder’s deep rumbling voice came through the microphone, “and Ms. Mroz, would you please come to the office directly after the assembly.” Under usual circumstances this would cause a collective “ooooh” type reaction, but even the immoral masses of a my lovely New York City prep school sensed, probably instinctively, that death dampens the relish one can take at another’s misfortune. As I walked down the bleachers it struck me that maybe the reason stemmed even deeper than that. I’ve inspired fear before, with tricks made to intimidate weaker-minded adolescent individuals, sure, but this smelled genuine – where people really scared I would kill them? Apparently so; later I would see exactly to what extent my infamy would effect the way people interacted with me, but right now let’s focus on my footsteps echoing in the administrative hallway, as if sentencing me to death.

They made it seem as if they weren’t waiting for me because they still made me knock my knuckles against the door – gently, politely, only using two fingers – their type of people like that sort of thing.