Staci Peters - Every Man For Anne

For the last couple of weeks they'd only seen the fellows in the coffee shop, or met them outside the library, as the girls were both busy finishing off their term papers. Sixty percent of their marks rode on the essays they were to hand in to Professor Martin, the Creative Writing teacher. Bill could almost feel his balls ache at the memory of Anne's handling of him in the drive-in; he could hardly wait for the end of term and the chance to put into practice a little of what they'd seen in Deeper and Deeper. He'd ‘told Greg what an utterly fantastic sucking session was the movie's climax, and, although Greg didn't say anything, he too was more than eager to stick his fat cock once again into the moist cavern of Silke's sensuous mouth. This was really going to be some end-of-the-term celebration, the boys thought in their separate ways.

One evening, just before Anne's parents had left for their cruise, the two girls had gotten together in Silke's small apartment to discuss their strategy for doing well in Creative Writing. They figured the fellows would either try to do an action piece (of which they had little experience) S imitate some kind of episode from Catcher in the Rye; as for the girls why, they'd probably do some character study drawn from their family or some phony romantic scene. They had to be different Ann and Silke decided, really different, and even shock Martin into noticing their papers. Anne finally decided to use the Bronco Drive-in as a cross-section of New Concord's inhabitants, one which revealed the moral reality hidden beneath the surface of the quiet college town. Oh, she'd change the names all right to protect the guilty, she promised Silke, but otherwise it'd, be no holds barred. After a while Silke decided to reject a possible confession about life in a German girls' boarding school and settled instead on an Incident that had happened on her flight over to America. "It's outrageous," Anne had laughed when Silke first told her about it, "but that's just why he'll sit up and take notice?

They had handed in their papers a week and a half before classes ended and got on with finishing their take-home finals. The two girls seemed to have reached an unspoken understanding not to discuss and worry over their essays but to wait till they got them back before broaching the subject again.

John Martin had tacked a notice to his office door: The term papers for Creative Writing 241 have been left with the department secretary. Anne walked down to the glass-fronted office. "Hi, June. Have you got the papers that Martin's just marked?"

"Sure. They're over there." June gestured toward the pile of essays on the table beside her desk.

Anne walked around the front counter and flicked through the heap.

"Here it is," she said, extracting the paper in its blue plastic covering. She turned to leave. She was dying to get away on her own and find out the mark, but she resisted the temptation to do it there and then in the office.

"Oh, by the way," the secretary said, "Silke dropped by to pick up hers about fifteen minutes ago. Said she'd got some shopping to do and would see you back home later."

"Thanks, June," Anne called out over her shoulder as she left the office with a quickening step.

Elizabeth Kendall, who taught American Poetry, bumped into Anne outside the Faculty of Arts building.

"Hello, Anne. Can I walk with you?" she asked, as they were evidently both going in the same direction.

"I was extremely pleased with your analysis of Anabel Lee," Elizabeth told her as they crossed the lush green field that the university centered around. ‘Most students mistakenly think Poe is a fairly easy subject, that the symbolism is all rather apparent… your tentative approach to his work was rather refreshing."

"Thank you," said Anne, her mind firmly on the essay which was burning a hole in her canvas carry-all.

"Yes. I shouldn't really tell you before you receive official notification of your grades, but I gave you a solid ‘A'. Eighty-six percent, I think it was."

"That's marvelous, thank you; I really did enjoy the course!"

"Are you going to enroll in my specialized reading course on Whitman next term?"

"I think I will," said Anne rather absent-mindedly.

A few moments later Professor Kendall said: "Well, here's where I must leave you: I'm going to catch the bus downtown."

"Oh," said Anne as her mind focused attention once more on her surroundings. "Thank you again. And have a good holiday."

"I'll certainly try to;… lots of preparation to get on with though."

Ann left Elizabeth Kendall at the bus stop, turned the corner into Russell Avenue; and fairly flew home. She jumped up the front steps two at a time, fumbled with the key in the lock, and hurried indoors. She threw the canvas bag down by the coffee table in the lounge and very deliberately went out to the kitchen and poured herself an ice-cold lemonade from the fridge. Only then did she sit down and reach for the paper, quite tingling with anticipation.

Anne couldn't believe it. She just couldn't believe it. There on the final page was the mark in bold red felt pen: "A disappointing effort. 34/60. Overall grade, 61%/C-minus."

"C-minus shit!" she exclaimed bitterly. Anne read his final comment: "I'm being generous in giving you a C-minus."

Anne blinked back the hot tears which stung her eyes. She flipped back through the pages: "… merely an adolescent fantasy… why this obsession with physical activity, there's more to people than that… crudely expressed… is this supposed to shock me?"

"Damn him," she said out loud. "Damn John Martin's eyes!"

Fuck that bastard, she thought, this awful mark absolutely blows my chance for a scholarship next year. She had so wanted to show her father that Larry wasn't the only one who could put himself through college. It wasn't just a game of seeing if she could best her brother, but her father did put a lot of store in people making do for themselves. Even Professor Kendall's good mark was wasted now. She threw her essay on the floor.

"Jeez, the bastard," she said again. "Fuck his bloody generosity. A lousy C-fucking-minus."

She lay back on the couch and the tears burned down her cheeks. Anne was furious. She sobbed for a moment then wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She didn't even hear Silke's knock on the interconnecting door. Anne was suddenly aware of her friend's presence when Silke said quietly: "So you got screwed too."

"I can't believe it," Anne said. "C-minus. How did you do?"

"I got a C too. Sixty-four percent overall."

"What a prick," replied Anne, choking back another bout of tears. "What was he expecting, another Hemingway?"

"I've no doubt some of the other kids handed in Hemingway imitations, probably got good marks for them too. As soon as I saw how he'd graded mine, I guessed yours would be pretty much the same."

"I'll never get that scholarship now," said Anne, as the tears trickled down again.

"I'm sorry," Silke consoled her. "I'll put on the kettle. Let's have a cup of tea for a change."

Anne just lay there staring at the ceiling, vaguely listening to her friend go through the motion of putting the kettle on the stove. Silke called out to her from the kitchen. "I guess I was overconfident I thought after the last term's results I just might have got through with straight A's."

She came back into the lounge carrying a tray with two glass tumblers on it. "That fucker's spoiled it now. What a blot on my record! Here, a shot of this'll make us feel better."

Anne reached up and accepted the jigger of brandy. Her nose wrinkled a little at the strong aroma.

"Come on, drink it down," Silke ordered as she placed her own glass and the bottle on the coffee table. "It'll do you good, Anne."

Anne wasn't very fond of brandy but she swigged ft-back in one long gulp. She put the glass down and coughed violently. Silke sat down beside her and started to pat her back and rub it with a circling motion. Anne calmed down a bit.