Free Friendswood by Rene Steinke

Stinehart said after a test one day, “If you don’t learn it, it’s all going to die. It’s dying anyway of course, but if you don’t learn it”—she snapped her fingers—“it’s gone.” Dani was also in the class. They’d readabout the Overland Mail stagecoach trail, friendly Chickasaw Indians, the fire-breathing secessionists, the branding symbols of the big cattle ranchers, Jim Bowie, the Grass Fight outside San Antonio. Whenever she could, Stinehart brought the discussion back to the Battle of the Alamo. She stood up straighter, a wire of rancor in her voice when she mentioned the “Texians” holding out for thirteen days, waiting for reinforcements that would never come. Stinehart was a member of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, and lowered her voice to say that she herself had helped with the preservation and upkeep of the site, keeping the flora historically accurate and monitoring the wear and tear of tourism. Willa got fascinated by one of the handful of survivors of the Alamo, Susanna Dickinson, whom the Mexican general Santa Anna had allowed to escape with her infant daughter, Angelina. He gave them a blanket and two pesos and sent them to Gonzales to warn the others of what would happen if they continued to revolt.
    Willa had written a poem about Susanna on that journey, calling up the landscape to help her—the flat, needling horizon, scrubby grass grown brown in the heat, bluebonnets covering a field like a flock of sparrows, and the vast, secretive space of sky with only God behind it.
    Bumpton, with his lumpy pimples, came in the room, and a little later Res, who constantly chewed on the inside of her cheek or clicked her tongue piercing against her front teeth. Willa had really only come to see Ms. Marlowe, their advisor, who arrived last, her deep voice encased in a loose silk tunic. “Alright, everyone, let’s get going.” As Res read aloud her story about a black-haired stranger who slept during the day, vampired by night, Willa started to yawn. She wondered if the visions she’d started to see might make her a better writer—and then whether painters or sculptors saw imaginary things that seemed momentarily material. Bumpton said Willa’s poem was weird and that made it good. Ms. Marlowe talked to them about keeping a record, about writing every day. She read aloud two lines from Willa’s poem and said, “Well, that just makes you want to stop chewing your gum and swallow hard.”
    After the meeting ended, they all shut their notebooks and wandered out of the classroom. Willa, walking down the hall, saw the knot of guys hovering near the doors, drinking cans of Coke, some of them in gym clothes because they were going to football practice, or leaving practice, or waiting for more practice. Her crush, Cully, was standing there among them in his regular clothes, shoulders slumped, arms folded. She walked past them, felt their eyes on her. She pulled in her stomach, felt the tight press of her jeans at the tops of her thighs.
    â€œHey, Lambert,” Cully called out to her.
    The hairs on her head prickled, and she stopped. He shot out from the group of guys, grinning, and they seemed to watch him as he moved toward her.
    â€œWhat’s up?” he said.
    She liked something about his mouth. “Just coming from Lit Mag. It was lame.”
    â€œYou’re a writer or a photographer?” He was only pretending to be impressed, but she liked that he was pretending.
    â€œWriter, I guess.”
    A few of the guys were still watching them. Did it mean she was a joke to them, or did it mean Cully had been talking about her?
    â€œWhat do you write? Mystery stories?”
    â€œNo.” She smiled. She wouldn’t say “poems” because he’d make fun of her. “Just stuff I’m thinking about.”
    â€œMe, I hate writing. Those English papers, shit. You should help me