Thread: English 2352 {DearestDarling & Dane Stalling}

Luke listened, dumbfounded to Rosalie's dismissal of everything he had just said. She hadn't listened to him at all. It was almost like she was intentionally ignoring or distorting every point he made. What she lacked in logical follow through, she made up for, partially, in rhetorical skill. No matter how wrongheaded her conclusions were, she delivered them convincingly. And it fucking pissed him off. Where did she get off? And by the time he had a response formulated in his mind, she was swinging her butt at him, heading for the door. His iPad buzzed and he flipped it over. Don't forget. Also, I need a bottle of capers and baking yeast. Fuck, he said, and turned the tablet off. He sat in the front seat of his Volvo and stared at the protesting grocery workers in front of the Fresh Pack. Damn union went on strike every other year for some benefit or other, and he would have just skipped through the line, but Isobel would have raked him over the coals for it. Her daddy was a union man. Those people have as much a right to a fair income as you do, he mimicked her voice as he pulled out of the parking lot. There was a Kwik Mart attached to a gas station just on the other side of the river. What was with that girl in his class, anyway? Helen would have taken her on his recommendation even without space. Rosalie was sharp, no doubt, but she grossly overestimated her clout. Who told her she was the special fucking snowflake? He could just drop her from the class. He didn't need the aggravation. The little bitch would probably appeal it. He sat in the Kwik Mart parking lot and pulled out his phone. He opened Facebook, just to check his notifications, and thumbed through a few birthdays. Then he typed Rosalie Clarke into the search bar. The first image on his screen was her, daring the camera to make a comment. This was crossing a line, he was sure, but he couldn't formulate whose line, or what the harm was if he just wanted to get a clue how to manage his classroom, and that meant managing Rosalie. He spun through quickly- she liked old rock bands, Cream, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Yes, Zeppelin and a few he'd never heard of. She had endorsed several local restaurants, although not any chains, a couple of bars with colorful names, Undergroudium and Trouble at Home. This last made him grin. It was rough being her teacher. It would be hell to be her father. The Kwik Mart had toilet paper, but not yeast or whatever the other thing was. Olives? They didn't have anything like that. They did, however, have a stunning array of condoms. He tucked a 2x9 18 roll pack of toilet paper under his arm and stumped to the car. He drove to the Green Earth Market, and they had yeast in bulk. He put a scoop of it in a brown paper bag and put the yeast sticker on the bag. They didn't have olives, though. He asked and the cashier had goggled at him. Do you have any idea how much salt is in olives? she had said, as though that would help him find them in her store. The Brown Barrel liquor store had olives. A dusty bottle in the corner of a shelf, so he picked it up along with a six pack of beer, something Belgian. He went home. Isobel wasn't just disappointed. It's like you don't even listen to me when I'm talking to you, she said, the bottle of olives in one hand and the bag of yeast in the other. I asked for capers. What am I supposed to do with olives? And this is yeast for brewing beer. I'm making bread. What am I supposed to do-grind it down with a mortar and pestle? The toilet paper was the last straw. The two on the 2x9 was so big, he missed the 1 next to ply so he was 0 for 3 and he'd been to four stores. The protest had pretty much died down in front of the Fresh Pack. He shrugged his shoulders and pushed through the front doors. Capers, 2-ply, baking yeast easy as pie. He sat in the car with the engine running and the whole day hit him at once. He pounded the wheel and swore at his whole world. He gunned the engine and squealed out of the parking lot. he turned left at the frontage road instead of right, and roared down the mile and a half of empty asphalt. When he slowed down, he was coasting through a neighborhood with black door bars and bail bond storefronts. He parked, picked a place called Trouble at Home and pushed his way into the heat and noise of a music set in full swing.