She flung her comforter off with the realization that at 15 her school day quotas had not been used up yet. Mom was probably up already enjoying a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Peg thought about her robe, the drizzle giving this Tuesday morning a colder appearance than it was. It was warm enough to go downstairs in just her Bob Marley t-shirt and penguin pajama bottoms. Ever since she saw Madagascar and March of the Penguins, or La marche de l'empereur, she wore penguins, gave penguins as gifts, and hung them on her walls. Right next to Bob Marley, only the greatest Rastaman ever. Mom was sure she smoked weed.
She stopped by her computer on her way out and picked up her French-to-Spanish dictionary. She had bought the book beause fantasized about going to Spain and pretending to be a French schoolgirl. She thumbed her way through the worn paperback wondering what “La marche de l'empereur” would be in Spanish. She didn’t want to seem provençal, she thought with an upward thrust of her nose. “La marcha de los pingüinos,” she mumbled. She tossed the book onto her desk.
Peg padded down the stairs. She stopped short, her eyes wide in fear. “Mom?” she croaked, her throat gone suddenly dry. She tried again, but nothing came out. As her eyes took in the living room in disbelieve. The walls where covered in white scraps of paper. Each identical, each with red scrawls on each, "Peg My," and next to the words a a child's daisy she hadn't seen in nine years. The red flower she drew. As she read her name over and over, she realized she had reached a quota. Though she felt her lips move and air pass through her lungs and throat, she knew her speech quota was used up.
He walked through the drizzle towards the front door of the white colonial. He checked the address and made sure it was the one the patrolman had given after the plates on the Eldorado had been run. The Fiona Apple song still floated in his head like smoke. Her dusky voice took him to dark-lit barrooms filled with blue cigarette haze, people nursing whiskey neat as they sat and thought of the darker world outside. He rang the doorbell.
She stopped by her computer on her way out and picked up her French-to-Spanish dictionary. She had bought the book beause fantasized about going to Spain and pretending to be a French schoolgirl. She thumbed her way through the worn paperback wondering what “La marche de l'empereur” would be in Spanish. She didn’t want to seem provençal, she thought with an upward thrust of her nose. “La marcha de los pingüinos,” she mumbled. She tossed the book onto her desk.
Peg padded down the stairs. She stopped short, her eyes wide in fear. “Mom?” she croaked, her throat gone suddenly dry. She tried again, but nothing came out. As her eyes took in the living room in disbelieve. The walls where covered in white scraps of paper. Each identical, each with red scrawls on each, "Peg My," and next to the words a a child's daisy she hadn't seen in nine years. The red flower she drew. As she read her name over and over, she realized she had reached a quota. Though she felt her lips move and air pass through her lungs and throat, she knew her speech quota was used up.
He walked through the drizzle towards the front door of the white colonial. He checked the address and made sure it was the one the patrolman had given after the plates on the Eldorado had been run. The Fiona Apple song still floated in his head like smoke. Her dusky voice took him to dark-lit barrooms filled with blue cigarette haze, people nursing whiskey neat as they sat and thought of the darker world outside. He rang the doorbell.
