“We swear we won’t say anything!” Gabi grabbed Alyssa’s hand and then crossed her heart as she looked at Sue with all the feigned innocence of a priest. “Please tell us what you heard. Pleaseeeee….” Alyssa managed to hide the disgust she felt. One would have thought Gabi’s life depended on the information in question. She was such a hypocrite - such a gossip driven heifer!

Alyssa looked at Sue and gave a small nod. She had to admit she was a bit curious about what had been said about Mr. Gonzalez despite the bad taste Gabi left in her mouth with the fake ways.

The three women were fifth grade teachers at Portsmouth Elementary School. At present, they huddled closer together in the workroom, in anticipation of what secret Sue was about to divulge. Whatever it was, Alyssa thought Sue had best hurry because their co-workers were about to enter the room eager to enjoy their brief lunch breaks.

Sue peered over her shoulder one final time to ensure they were alone before she leaned closer and spoke in a whisper, stifling a girlish giggle despite the fact she was almost forty. “I heard Mr. Gonzalez was called to task – maybe even written up and disciplined – for wearing such tight pants.”

Mr. Gonzalez was the school’s Assistant Principal. Even though he was about forty-five years old, he dressed as if he thought he was still in high school or college, his overly snug slacks reflective of the same. Pretty much everyone, including staff, parents, and most likely some students, agreed his tight pants revealed more than they should. The fact that he was an Administrator in an elementary school only made the matter worse.

“Well, I can imagine how difficult a discussion that must have been for Principal Langston. She probably wanted to crawl under her desk and hide.” Alyssa was the most serious – and perhaps the most mature of the three. She spoke with the utmost gravity, somewhat embarrassed for the Administrator who had been faced with such a daunting task.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. His pants show everything – and more!” Gabi spoke like a witness in a courtroom who held evidence that would lead to a criminal’s conviction.

“Still, do you not find it a bit unfair.....?” Alyssa threw out the question, but the women were abruptly interrupted as other teachers entered the room, putting an end to the ongoing discussion and leaving the question she had just thrown into the mix unanswered.

*************

Two hours later, Gabi was leaving the restroom during planning period and encountered Sarah, the Gifted Teacher, in the hallway. Gabi gestured for Sarah to come a bit closer, indicating she had news to share.

“Did you hear about Mr. Gonzalez?” she asked.

Sarah shook her head to indicate she had not.

“Well, it’s finally hit the fan. He’s been suspended because of his tight pants.”

Gabi felt it was okay to go ahead and add the suspension as she was sure it was bound to happen anyway. Her reasoning (or lack thereof) was that she might as well tell it like it was or not bother telling it at all.

*********

Later that same afternoon, Alyssa reported to the cafeteria to assist with the daily chore of dismissal. When only a few students remained, her co-worker, Lydia, moved to stand beside her, obviously intent on sharing some bit of gossip. Alyssa suppressed an eye roll. Women were such habitual creatures, were they not?

“Did you hear about Mr. Gonzalez’ suspension?” Lydia asked, her eyes gleaming with the prospect of sharing such delicious gossip. Oh, but how quickly things could blow like a sandstorm through a staff of about one hundred people, most of whom were women.

Alyssa turned and eyed Lydia. Her distaste for the subject matter Lydia was spreading was evident. Here and now was a chance to add another piece to this story. Perhaps what she was about to say would circulate just as quickly as the initial gossip had.

“Why Lydia Thompson, I’m a bit surprised at you spreading such rumors. Do you not find it the least bit hypocritical that Mr. Gonzalez was reprimanded for tight trousers when more than two-thirds of our staff," she clucked her tongue and shook her head as she looked pointedly at Lydia's skirt hem before continuing, "wear dresses up to only God knows where? Such double standards, don't you agree?"

Surprise flooded, and Lydia’s eyes grew large at the other woman’s words.

Alyssa looked up to find Mr. Gonzalez entering the cafeteria, as always, ready to assist teachers with their duties. Her face broke into a large, catlike grin. She nodded, gesturing for Lydia to look in the direction of the Assistant Principal. “Well, there he is - Mr. Gonzalez, who has NOT been suspended, alive and well, in the flesh.” After a moment, she returned her attention to Lydia, who now stood red-faced, much like a chastised child. “As with politics and social media, you can’t believe everything you hear around here, my friend. If you choose to spread what you do hear, however, you should probably fact check or research it first - or at least look at both sides of the coin, so to speak.”

A look of triumphant satisfaction crossed Alyssa’s face with her words. It was likely no one would ever hear any of what she'd just said - at least not in the manner in which it was intended - but in some small way, she felt justified, both for herself and Mr. Gonzalez. She should really be his PR person, she thought, giving herself a mental pat on the back for her wisdom and efforts.

Alyssa walked across the room and stood beside Mr. Gonzalez, as though in solidarity and to offer her unbridled support. Glancing down, she released a pent up sigh: a mixture of satisfaction and something akin to frustration. Now, about those damn, tight ass trousers….

His

My parents were never really proud of me because I chose not to work in the family business. Instead, I went to college to become a lawyer. I got into the top school, Harvard, but all my parents saw was disappointment. So, when I left to go there, I was overjoyed to get away from them and start a new life away from farming.

There, I met the most beautiful girl: long blonde hair, blue eyes, the whole trope of a pretty girl, and she even looked my way. Her name is Ava, and when the sun hits her hair, it's like a golden river flowing all the way past her perfect arms. In the first year, we talked a lot and became best friends, so naturally, by the second year, we started dating. She would write me love poems and beautiful songs, ranging from talking about how I was tall, dark, and handsome, to how cute she thought my laugh was.

I never felt love like this in all my days. My parents acted like I was a leech, just there for money, when in reality, I was just a puppy begging to be pet. I loved getting her flowers, and the blue light beamed from her. I just fell so deeply in love; I wanted to be together forever, however cheesy that sounds.

By the fourth year, we were finishing up college, and that was also the year I found out. We were in class, I was listening to the professor preach to us about something or other, and I saw a note go from the left side of the room all the way to me, sitting at the far right next to the door. I opened it, thinking how childish it was to still pass notes at our age. It clearly said, in familiar writing, "I cheated on you because I am a lesbian." Thinking it was a joke at first, I looked up, but all I saw were her eyes looking at me in sorrow. Storms crashed inside me, and anger filled my sails. I never spoke to her again despite her multiple attempts at reaching out throughout the years. I hope it eats her alive.

Hers

I love my parents so much more than anyone in the world, and I admired them for raising me with all the right skills I needed to get into Harvard. They even paid for everything, and I am beyond grateful for this. In the first year, I kept up my studies and my grades never fluctuated; I was an A+ in everything. But then I met Jake. He had dark hair and eyes that looked as black as space. Seeing myself in his eyes, I fell in love, for I saw a future with him. We both wanted to be lawyers, and we would be able to be successful together. He was the first boyfriend I ever had, and I spent each weekend writing poetry for him. It seemed like I never ran out of things to write about. He was just so perfect in my eyes, but my parents disapproved because I started to not focus on studies quite as much. But I was investing in my future with him.

I was able to keep a high enough grade until the fourth year. I was almost done with law school and could finally be with my boyfriend of three years. Unfortunately, my parents finally had enough and demanded we split. Splitting us would be like killing a swan's forever partner. I needed to listen to them because they paid for my schooling. So, I devised a plan. I thought it would hurt him less if I said I was a lesbian. I would definitely get bullied, but I'm almost done. The pain is worth it. I broke it to him in a note passed through the class. I couldn't bear to see the glimmer in his eyes disappear like the brightest shooting star burning out. I killed the passion inside myself, and I could tell I killed him too. Star-crossed lovers, never meant to be. I look at him lovingly every day, only to be met with hatred. It hurt more because he didn't even try to talk about it before just giving me the silent treatment. I hurt daily for him, but I hope he's happy.

In all honesty, I don't know what to say. My mind goes blank whenever I think of her or at least try to think about what went through her head when she broke up with me, not once but twice. She kept saying she was miserable, depressed even but wouldn't give me a reason as to why she was feeling that way. Sometimes I feel as if I barely knew her. Throughout our relationship, it felt like something were separating us, never allowing us to be one, like the veil that separates the dead from the living (though in her case, it was her thoughts and emotions that she kept masked effortlessly behind sparkling eyes and that beautiful smile). I think Sitara is and always will be an anomaly for me, a mystery that I will never be able to solve, you know why? Because she won't trust me. She won't trust me with that side of hers that she dare not show a single soul and I'm starting to think now that she may be right because if she weren't, then I'd still be there by her side, waiting for her to open up to me so I could embrace her for all that she is. Maybe it's better this way. But that doesn't mean that I have or ever will forget her; I am and will forever be haunted by the ghost of her.

I’d always liked her stubbornness, but I think I liked it a little less when she managed to drag a friendship out of the ashes of our short lived romance. She talked a big talk about mutual friends and not wanting me to change for her, but she never stopped talking. And I never stopped listening. Two years later, I was still stuck in her orbit. I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try again. I don’t think I would have forgiven her if she had said yes. I needed the closure, the reminder of why the answer needed to be no. I dropped a love letter on the table as I left, apologies still on my lips. She had watched me walk in knowing what I was going to say, knew her answer would be no. She let me say it anyway, too nice to send me away, too desperate to keep our friendship. I knew she wouldn’t take the risk to try again, would give me the rejection I wanted. But it still hurt to walk out the door.

She’d been perfect. I loved the southern accent and the mismatched socks that she never seemed to be aware of. She was like a breath of fresh air in the Electric City long since dying, maybe even dead already, after coal became nearly obsolete. I tried to tell her often that I appreciated her, that she was pretty, and that she was talented. They weren't lies. I never lied to her.

She didn't lie to me. Usually. I let it slide when she did. She’d say she couldn't go out, but I'd see her with her friends. I only confronted her once. She was so determined not to talk, so damn stubborn, that I asked her if she even wanted to date me. If she had ever trusted me. It made her cry. Her dad didn’t want her to see me, she relented. She usually blamed her father, a big, stoic guy with years of military service and an obsessive Christian faith. He never liked me. But she didn’t talk much even when we did see each other.

When she asked me to read a short story of hers, I jumped at the opportunity. I must have read the piece thirteen times. I could see her personality flowing into the words. Every word I read, I learned more about who she was. From her poetry to full novels, the picture of her became clearer and clearer. I tolerated the lies, because she spoke plainly on the page. Our own system of communication.

Nobody really saw it coming when she ended up in the hospital after tossing half a bottle of acetaminophen down her throat. I was terrified. All I got was a 2-sentence text from her mom the morning after.

She came back to school a week and a half later. I was one of few people who knew why. She lied to everyone else. She returned more closed off. There were no more stories and fewer dates. I was so scared she'd do it again, that I pushed her often to tell me what was going on in her head. Why had she done it? Was it so bad to be alive? Sometimes, she would tell me she was fine. Sometimes she wouldn't respond at all.

I saw her writing diligently in a notebook a month after her hospitalization. I felt a wave of relief, like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders, seeing her pencil drift back and forth across the page. Maybe she was ready to talk again.

As soon as I asked, she snapped the book shut. I could have sworn guilt washed over her face. She refused to let me read it. Something deep in me guttered. She was always lying, always secretive, and always blaming it on her damned father. I realized I couldn't do it. "Are you hiding something from me?" I couldn't stop the words. If she wasn't going to trust me, I had to break up with her. It was driving me insane. I told her so.

She slowly handed me the journal. I read it in one night. It must have been 80 pages of her. Of her fears and desires. Of her secret thoughts and fragile hopes. Her words coiled around my heart. She was okay.

I was relieved. I returned her journal and asked if we could talk. She came over that afternoon. I did most of the talking. I tried to kiss her, but she wouldn't kiss me back. I just wanted her to feel something. I pulled her close and slid my hands under her T-shirt. She cried. And I guess that was the end.

After weeks of nothingness from her, I told her I was breaking up with her. She said, okay. She wouldn't even let me drive her home. She walked down my driveway and around the corner. She barely acknowledged me again after that. She looked like a shell. I heard she attempted again after high school. A part of me hates her for being so depressed. The other part hates myself for not being able to help.

Other perspective: https://www.theprose.com/post/813274/why-i-write