Sunday Tea

Just in case you think I suck as a writer, I'm gonna post one of my flash fictions from Creative Writing. I intend to use this blog to publish myself. Who knows, maybe someone will actually read them. HA HA! Just kidding.

This one is called "Sunday Tea."

I don’t like the strange woman. She’s too big, too stiff, and she has this look on her face, this big grin, like a Barbie doll, with lipstick smeared all over her lips. I don’t know why she smiles so much, but I smile back, even though she kind of scares me. You’re supposed to be polite to guests, that’s what Mum always says. But I don’t think Mum likes her, either. She seems pretty nervous. Still, she puts on a pot and makes tea for all of us. The lady sits herself on the sofa and looks around as she waits for the tea.

I want to leave but Mum tells me to stay. She hands the lady a cup and they both sip the tea, talking about St. Mary’s. Mum and Dad have been talking about that place a lot lately—it’s this school they’ve been looking at. We visited once to look at the grounds—it was very pretty, but I got bored eventually. They want me to go there. Real competitive, they say. You’ll learn all sorts of things. Live with a whole horde of girls your own age. Won’t that be fun? I told them I already knew girls my age, and they said New girls. They’re very interested in St. Mary’s.

(I’m not. I don’t want to go. It scares me.)

Mum asks about payment. The lady talks about assisted tuition and scholarships, and I play with the carpet fringe. Boring, really. Mum laughs, kind of strange—like she’s nervous about something. I slump against her armchair, hoping the conversation will end soon. The lady talks about dormitories, meal plans. We take very good care of our girls, she says. I close my eyes and think of dragons.

So it’s settled? Mum asks, and the lady gets up. She nods and stretches, holding out her hand. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walcott. You’ll get the acceptance papers in the mail. She bends down to look at me, smiling so wide. I’ll see you next year, okay, Jessica?

No, it’s not okay, I want to say, but I smile back. Mum smiles, too, and the lady smiles, and I smile—we all smile at each other, like we’re the happiest people in the world. And finally the door closes behind the lady.

I don’t want to go to St. Mary’s. But I’m going next year. And I know I will smile when I say goodbye to Mum and Dad, to the neighborhood, to London itself. Smiling like the happiest girl in the world.