Warren Adler 2007 Short Story Contest Winners

See complete contest information including other winning stories.

Mother Seton Academy was obsessed with tradition.  A place where the girls starched the sleeves of their white blouses until they fanned out like angel wings and where the principal had two emotions: pride and anger.  Sister Anne routinely displayed the latter rocking on her toes with an accusatory finger pointed into the errant girl's face.  Just when it seemed like she'd tip over, she would belt out her signature line, “I am appalled by your behavior."  The pride was saved for weekly assemblies where they reminded us how privileged we were to attend a century old institution that embodied academic excellence.  

The school’s mission was to transform us into academy girls.  I understood that to mean that if we believed without question, we too could be like our predecessors who briefly worked at dainty jobs until they could snare an executive or comparable six figure man whose status would be proportionate to the excess of gold trim on our engraved stationary.  Then at last we would come of age as Mrs. Somebody, nee after our name in the bulletin.  Our purpose in life, aside from bearing future alumni was to flutter from reunions to charity luncheons to tennis dates.  Grooming ourselves for those fifteen minutes of fame when as the chairwoman of the fashion show fundraiser and intoxicated by our power, we could wonder what it would have been like to be brave and independent and not the bejeweled wife of a remote and unfaithful man who was not present to share in our glory.

The Academy's preoccupation with civility was supposed to shelter us from the times.  Except those were unusual times.  Like the eroding school foundation, academy girls were slipping.  A descent manifested moments after dismissal where in the narrow rows between lockers, girls made quick changes like models.  Navy skirts were rolled up.  Loafers swapped for seventies platform shoes.  Then the angels in faces freshly made up with black eyeliner and blue mascara sauntered out to boyfriends who stood against the gate.  “That school is a monument to hypocrisy,” I declared at home.  No one cared.

I brooded through the ninth grade and most of tenth until I entered Mr. Hawthorne’s class.  He had a gift for double entendres, hair too long for the nuns and of course, a jacket with elbow patches.  He was a Native New Yorker; divorced father of twins and his girlfriend was a former student.  The scandal burnished Mother Seton’s reputation. 

His American Lit survey course covered The Sun Also Rises, Huck, Gatsby, Death of a Salesman, Iceman, and Washington Square in two months.  “You’re going to have to find the time to read every waking moment,” he said.  I floated home each day as though I had been the first to stumble upon Hemingway’s clarity and Fitzgerald’s lyricism.  

In the spring, the mild weather blew in a bee and stirred a cacophony of hysterical girls.  “Stop trying to swat it,” he told Corey.  He shut off the lights.  “I hope all of you are as excited about submitting your memoirs.  They’re due after vacation.”

A general groan spread through the class.  Corey, basketball star and lead counsel on all assignment litigations raised her hand, “Mr. Hawthorne can’t we do a term paper?  How can we write twenty pages about our lives?” 

 “You’re saying you’ve had no experiences?”  He was reviewing his notes and drinking cold coffee.  The mug’s insignia was from his alma mater that ranked a notch below Ivy League.

 “Yes,” she said. “We’re teenagers.” 

 “Just one day can fuel a novel.  Let the aroma of madeleines inspire you.”  He hung his blazer on the chair signaling he was ready to begin.

“Isn’t that a cookie?”

“Yes,” he said wearily.

“We’re supposed to write about Oreos?”

“Write about whatever you want.  Writing can’t be appreciated unless you’ve tried to put pen to paper and failed even if you’ve succeeded.” 

“What?” she said.

“Kate,” he said loudly, I stopped doodling paisleys.  “What is the significance of the valley of ashes?”  He was looking to scold me and rescue himself.  The class became quiet.             

“Symbol of moral decay.”

“That’s it?”

“Commentary on capitalism, poverty, a recurring motif and key location?"

“Allusion Kate,” he said. 

“Eliot’s Waste Land,” I answered. 

“Corey, tell me about the gigantic blue eyes,” he said smiling at me.

We went on break.  I agonized about the assignment.  At the time, I had only one tale to tell: a sordid and ordinary one that involved committing a venal and then mortal sin by my fifteenth birthday.   

He put the assignments face down on our desks a week after we retuned.  I flipped my paper and saw the A on the cover.  Except for punctuation corrections, it was free of his customary dissection.  Then on the final page, two words: “See me.”

On the way out, he asked, “Good time to talk?”  He moved a pile on his desk and sat down.  “Truth or fiction Kate?”

“I didn’t know the two were mutually exclusive,” I answered.

“Your point,” he said like an announcer.

“Truth.”  My only goal was not to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “That’s Mrs. Anderson’s son isn’t it?”  She was an alumnus and the school secretary.

“The one and only.” 

“She’s always waxing poetic about Glen’s innumerable perfect qualities.”

“I guess she just loves him.”

“And you?  Don’t answer that it’s not my business.  As you can see, I’m having trouble approaching this,” he said.

“Because it’s such an ugly story.”  

“Oh great, now I’m making you cry.”  He held out the tissue box.  “I don’t know what to say.”

“You at a loss for words, that’s a first Mr. Hawthorne.”

“No never.  It’s a powerful story.  I wanted to resist thinking about the people involved but I couldn’t help myself.  What I really want to say is that you should keep writing.  And no, it was not an ugly story.  It’s a lot of other things but not that.”

“Things?”  When he caught words like nice or things, he would draw fat circles and demand specifics.  It’s not a tree.  Is it a sycamore?  A willow?  An oak?

“Two.  At least you’re not crying anymore.”  I picked up my books. 

“Hang in there,” he said.

After class the following day, he had me wait for the girls who lingered to leave.  He placed a postcard of the Washington Square Arch on my notebook.  “Turn it over.”  I deciphered his scratchy handwriting, “Autobiography is only to be trusted when it reveals something disgraceful.  A man who gives a good account of himself is probably lying, since any life when viewed from the inside is simply a series of defeats.” 

"Orwell.”  The story is not ugly,” he said when I looked up at him.  “And this, The Bell Jar.  It hit me that I’ve never included women.  Big mistake.  You have a lot of reading to do this weekend and the test on James.  Come on I’ll give you a ride home.” 

“I have to go to my locker,” I said stalling for time to take it all in.  Appearing stupid was worse than crying.  “I’ll meet you outside.”  

Mr. Hawthorne was dropping an overstuffed PBS tote into the trunk of his yellow bug.  “I think I’ll walk,” I said.

“What’s the matter, you don’t trust me?” he said coming around to open the door.

“I trust you.  I’m just worried about how it will look for you.”

He shrugged.  I got in.

At the end of the year, I received acceptance into the accelerated graduation program.  For the last month, we had talked in his classroom, his car and over coffee which he had taught me to drink black.  On the last day of school, he grabbed me in the hall.

“I have your summer reading.” 

“I have the list Mr. Hawthorne.”  I would have double English.  Each reading list was two pages.

“These are on your list.  Please stop calling me Mr. Hawthorne.  That’s my father.  David.”  

“I’ll try.”  He handed me a short stack.

“Tropic of Cancer, On the Road, The Stranger, and The Importance of Being Earnest for levity,” he said.

“You’re serious.”  I said.

“What do they say about idle hands?  I cut out two big Russians.  You should be grateful.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m walking home.” 

In the fall, notions of a science career drained away in chem lab.  I enjoyed Spanish lit, tolerated US 2, endured trig, learned to square dance, completed college applications, retook the SAT, wrote essays, ran around getting recommendations, co-edited the paper and worked on yearbook.  

But I lived for my classes with Mr. Hawthorne. 

That year Mother Seton was in chaos.  The schedule had been revamped so that every third week was unstructured: no scheduled classes.  Students were to elect from special offerings, engage in independent studys and participate in field experiences.  The plan had holes in it that the most sanctified of prayers could not mend.   

Mr. Hawthorne seized on the confusion.  He devised field studies to Manhattan from which we were separated by a ten-minute train ride.  Accompanied by my best friend Jean, the rest of his groupies and Allison a sweet teacher who was unwisely and hopelessly in love with him, I felt released from the suffocation of Jersey City and he was back home. 

We queued at the TKTS booth, crammed into tiny theatres in the village, ate burgers at Sardi’s, borscht in the East Village, and lost ourselves in museums, rooftops and parks.  At each turn he would surprise me by pointing out a ghost sign or a clock in the sidewalk, or a mermaid trapped in a façade or a verdant alley amid skyscrapers. By his side, I wandered through a city that had been defeated, bankrupted and abandoned but retained an immortal soul.  And by that June when we crossed the thunderous span of the Brooklyn Bridge I had been transformed to more than a sixteen year old with a permission slip.   

On graduation day, we walked down the church aisle in white gowns.  I had survived Mother Seton’s.  I began college.

In the late fall Jean said Mr. Hawthorne wanted to take me out for my birthday. 

That night we walked along twinkling sidewalks in Chelsea.  “How do you find these places?”  I was following him through the clutter of an antique shop.  

“Open the door,” he said.  First piano music then a glass enclosed courtyard garden with a pond, water lotus and mallards.  “Are you ever going to disappoint me?”  I asked. 

“Let’s hope not.”  He took my coat and grazed my shoulder.  “Cashmere.  Still trying to torment me?”

“Always.  Would you have preferred my uniform?” I looked at him from over the menu.  “It’s not fair for them to serve duck.”

He looked over his glasses, “Get the trout.”  I didn’t like fish.  “So how’s college,” he said.  You look different.”  He looked the same.  

“Great.  Struggling with British lit.”

“To be expected,” he said.  “And the boyfriend department?  You seem in love.”

“Not in love.  Not involved. Tom’s nice though.” 

“Kate,” he scolded.

“Suburban.  Injured on a baseball scholarship.  Double A surname.”

“Is he an English Major?”

“Economics.” 

“I should have gotten that with the sports.  How could you end up there?”  My new school was a mediocre state college.  

“I told you that my parents would not allow me to go away or to school in New York.” All semester I had retaliated by sneaking off to cafés in the village and smoking cigarettes with Russian poets when I was supposed to be in the library. 

“Transfer after this year.  You’ll be eighteen.”  The waiter was deboning the fish at the side of the table.

“What difference does it make?” 

He took a deep breath. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Sometimes you really piss me off.”

“Yes when I don’t do as instructed,” I said.  

“Exactly, you’re too willful.  Remember Antigone.”

“The trout’s delicious.  I’m not going to die in a cave.”

 “Have you declared the major?” he asked.

“It’s too early but I’m thinking Psych.”

He lowered his glass.  Now you’re trying to provoke me.  That major is absurd.” 

“And English is more viable.”

“Listen,” he said his voice up a decibel. “I began teaching when you were just out of diapers.  I think I know you better than you know yourself. You’ll see that I’m right.  Watch the bones.  He missed some.” 

“Yes Mr. Hawthorne.  That was to provoke you.  How’s work?  And the girls?” 

“First grade.  This is my last year.  My ex is relocating.  I have to convince Cynthia to move.”  He pulled the photo from his wallet.  

“They are so beautiful.”

“Copies of their mother.  It’s a new by the book administration.  They want me to teach Silas Marner.  Cynthia will want to get married.”                                                 

“There are only two cures for love,” I started.

“Marriage and suicide,” he finished.  “Keaton’s last silent.”

“You’re still the best,” I said.  He unwrapped the gift.  A yellow tie like the one he was wearing.  “British stripes, they slant the other way,” I said.

“Next you’ll say you want to study fashion.  You want dessert?”

“Read the card.”  The photo was of the Montmarte steps at dusk.  On the back a quote from Aeschylus. 

“This is on Bobby Kennedy’s tombstone.”

“I didn’t know that.”  I said.

“It’s not on the test Kate.” 

We finished our coffee and made our way back listening to the fading sound of Van Morrison played by a single trumpeter.  Mr. Hawthorne placed a volume of poetry by Pablo Neruda in my hand.  “I imagined sonnets.”

“Love can only be understood in Latin languages,” he said.  He leaned against the car.  I read the inscription from Si Tu Me Olvidas, If You Forget Me.  I moved in closer to him.

“It’s okay,” I said.  He rested his brow against mine.  When he kissed me, I felt him rush through my entire body.  And I knew then, that whenever I walked along the streets of this city, he would be there with me.  “So that’s what it’s supposed to feel like,” I said. 

“What are you thinking about?” he said as we drove through the tunnel.

“I can’t tell you,” I said.

“Don’t trust me anymore.”

“I wish it had been you the first time.”

“As you are aware, I’m twenty years older than you.  That would have been morally reprehensible, unethical.”

“Yes, but it would have been right,” I said.  He parked around the corner from my house.  “You’re worried about appearances now?”

“More than I used to be,” he said.  “I gather you’re not.” 

“Nope.  My reputation grows with every failure.”

“Shaw,” he said.  He kissed my cheek.  “Change the major.”  I was almost out of the car.  I turned back and kissed him.  “Kate, one more thing,” he said.  “Be kind to me when you write the story.”