Dear Student,
I don’t draw (except for chromosome diagrams and Punnet squares…and poorly). I don’t draw words; I don’t pencil stories; and I refuse to sketch poetry. But my dream is for you to unfold in a compositional mural, so I traced a fable. Sorry if I infringe upon dear, old Walt. He copied anyway (from a guy named Charles Perrault (who copied from someone else). I did the research.
I thus determine this gives a science teacher liberty to render — for you — a variant version of the world’s most famous fairy tale:
IF CINDERELLA WAS A MAN
He would be called Cinderello. His step-brothers would beat him and lock him in a closet. After his father’s abandonment, his mom, too busy, would never notice. He’d spend nights and days curled among scarves and cleaning products with his only friend, a mop he named ‘Gary.’ For hours, he’d twist fingers around dreaded threads, braiding and begging,
“Gary. Please. Tell a story.”
Yet every time he thought he heard the faintest strum of a fable, closet doors unlatched to shoe taps, rustling fabrics, and blaring white light searing his eyeballs. Hands of kin would pull Cinderello out of the closet to do the hardest lawn chores.
One night, locked away, after all fell dark and still, Cinderello allowed one tear to fall, though he granted zero permission to the others that followed. He stuffed his face into Gary’s shag and wailed, “I can’t take anymore!”
He heard the strum, the tip, the tap, the swish of sleek fabric; expecting blinding light and splitting wooden doors, Cinderello assumed the fetal position. But in lieu of brute brothers rushing in, a bird-like fairy godmother appeared, shimmering in velvet quills.
“Bitch. Pick yo’ head up. Imma take you to the Ocean Ball.”
“I can’t swim,” Cinderello cried, burrowing into Gary.
“No, you can’t. Here’s a flotation device. Return by midnight.”
The hangers and hats began to shake and rattle, and the closet began to spin. The gravitational force pulled at Cinderello’s hair roots, and he felt his stomach caving in. In a maddening blur of vests and puffers the closet spun and spun until he found himself floating in the middle of the ocean on an inflatable, yellow O-ring.
“You’ll need these,” his hummingbird fairy appeared, swooping a thin, silver stick. In a puff of sprinkles, a pair of thick, sole-crusted boots materialized on Cinderello’s two feet.
“I can’t swim! What am I to do with heavy boots in the middle of the ocean? And why am I riding a yellow donut among enormous battleships?!”
“This is the Ball, baby,” the fairy-bird nipped his ear. “Remember midnight,” then fluttered its wand all around, blew a kiss, and disappeared.
He didn’t survive. I’ll spare the details.
At the deep, navy stroke of midnight, Cinderello shot awake in a closet gasping for air. He checked, right away, if Gary was next to him. Gary was there. Cinderello held no memory of an embattled ball or a deep sea sinking, so he entangled yarn with yawns, and permitted heavy lids and limbs to pull him asleep, spending the remainder of the night tossing and turning, heated by dreams of an underwater masquerade.
Cinderello awoke the next morning in sweat-soaked clothes with a laser pen pointed at his forehead. The band of step-brothers dragged him out, by both hands, to make him clean the toilet. Yet instead of sobbing into a closet mop when all fell dark and quiet, Cinderello curled cotton coils around his wrist and purred.
“Gary, sing me an allegory.”
“Bitch, where’d you learn that word?” His bird god-fairy appeared again with a curt slap. Cinderello smarted wide-eyed, mouth open, for he truly could not remember the answer. The fairy smacked his head again, “I gave you two boots. Where’s the other?!” He looked down, speechless, to one boot on his foot and one boot missing.
“Guess you going swimmin’ again. Don’t return without it.”
“NO!” Cinderello howled, clutching after Gary. “I beg you. Not again!” The closet began to spin in powerful rotations, pulling Gary’s knotted threads into stretched-straight edges. “Not the ocean!” he screamed, gripping the mop. Gary carved his hands, like a whip, from centrifugal forces. Blood pooled along sliced skin.
“I don’t know how to swim!”
“Fine,” his fairy hip-pouted. “I’ll give you a boat this time. Return by midnight.”
And for a second time Cinderello floated in a violent, unrestrained Ocean Ball, but instead of an air-filled donut, he rode a rickety raft of tied-together branches. He lurched and slipped; he wrestled towering, white-toothed crashes. He smashed against Carbon-artillery warships, the turbulence made it impossible to stand, to steer. Spray stuffed his nose and salt whipped his eyes. Nylon ropes, no longer belonging to Gary, sawed his bleeding palms. Asphyxiation suffocated cries.
I’ll spare the rest of the details.
Let’s just say his boat capsized, split in half, he sank down into the depths of the sea again.
At the final resonation of the twelfth vibration of an acient hallway clock, Cinderello’s eyes popped open, in white, round circumference to coats swaying from hangers above. He grappled the dark for Gary, found him, and looked down. One boot on and one boot still missing. He had fragmented visions of an underwater masquerade behind closed eyelids, and he noticed, pinched between his fingertips, a long, red feather. With a sigh, he nuzzled into Gary, stroking his beautiful, ruby treasure.
“Tonight, Gary. I’m going to weave, for you, an Odyssey.”
From the other side of the closet doors, Cinderello heard a soft, gentle humming of a long-forgotten tune. The hum slowed to a tremble, and stopped, followed by a tip-toe crack and the shush of fabric. Cinderello hid the feather in his pocket, held his breath, expecting an assault from a fairy godmother. None came. He braced his body, hands to face, expecting a step-brother beating. Nothing.
A creak.
A slice of light thrown upon Gary.
Cinderello moved closer to the closet doors, heart beating; he paused, frozen, ears peaked. His breath pumped in pentamic meter through flared nostrils. From the other side of the closet doors, he heard a breathing, beating echo. He moved closer, sweating.
Creak.
Cinderello’s palm touched the paneled doors, nudged them open a little more. The light on Gary grew wider, the pulsing echo from inside and out increased in volume. He heard the call-back pounding of his beating heart, closer. His chest burned. He exhaled. On hands and knees, Cinderello peered between the crack with one eye trembling shut, and one eye wide open.
Another eye peering in.
Cinderello jumped back. The two wooden doors flung open, allowing light to filter inside the closet. Chords began to strum in the distance. Cinderello blinked. He blinked some more. He blinked and produced no words.
For on the other side of the closet doors, speechless and blinking the same, stood the prettiest little princess dressed in chameleon sequins. They blinked in unison.
“Hello.”
“Hi.” His cheeks flew into a flush. She stuffed a flower into her pocket and sprang a cardinal blush.
“You’ve got one boot on,” he pointed down.
She raised a gaze and pointed, “So do you.”
Their pupils grew large, leveled and connected. Distant and low, from a deep recess, a melody began to swell; Cinderello recognized the tune from an underwater masquerade. He recalled a pirouette, a ballad, reflective weightlessness at the feet, memories of a fluid mirrored image dancing. He grinned at her.
“I know this song,” the princess in chameleon sequins whispered, unable to cast her eyes downward. “Do you know the words?” Her cheeks bloomed crimson.
“Si tu savais,*” Cinderello said, his chest rising in step with hers. “I learned them…once upon a time.”
“In a dream.”
Cinderello nodded, “In a bizarre underwater reverie. Have we…met before?” He bowed, extended his hand with a wink; the princess in chameleon sequins curtsied and accepted with a giggle.
“Do you remember the rest?” she scanned his eyes, intertwining her fingers with his. His lips curved like a full crest wave, breaking into a smile, brilliant and beaming.
“I do,” Cinderello said.
“I do, too,” the princess murmured, “Ce que tes yeux me disent*.”
Cinderello’s cheeks burned raw, the glittering princess’s dampened eyelashes fluttered. She clasped his hand to her chest; he counted her heartbeat’s rhythm.
“I found the missing boot,” they whispered in chorus.
I can’t promise happily ever after, though. I’m not sure it exists yet.
Fin (The End)
*Si tu savais: If you only knew
*Ce que tes yeux me disent: What your eyes say to me
*******************************************************************
Sorry.
Your first word spoken in any given situation, mumbled from a mouth rarely pried or wrenched open. “There’s no reason to apologize,” I’d reply. Sorry, muttered again atop furious lead scxribbling. During class discussions, you’d retreat behind follicle veils, braid lips, and pick at chipped nails. The only information I gathered about you came from a First Day of Class Survey.
Why are you taking AP Bio? I want to be a dentist.
Liar.
I knew the truth within the first week of class. You had zero interest in science. I saw the real answer scrawled by a turtlehead pen poking out of a wrinkled, ink-soaked sweatshirt. Without any words, you bled history into simple doodles on the back of worksheets. Our eyes rarely connected beyond the frizz wall, but when they did, I witnessed wisdom far beyond your classmates.
If the stars align, and the cosmics deliver, I pray those eyes read this letter. I’m sorry. We never really spoke much, but I kept some of your drawings. I should have kept more. You are so talented. The world will know your art (not your work as a dentist). How am I so sure? I took a little peek at your ‘Gram. All I can say is WOW.
Look at you out there swimmin’.
I’m so proud,
your teacher
No Real Balance 