Tom Reamy - Twilla

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TOM REAMY

Twilla

Tom Reamy began writing science fiction only a few years ago after a career in

Dallas as a technical writer for the aerospace industry. Laid off there, he

went to Los Angeles and tried his talents on film, screenwriting and acting as

property manager on Flesh Gordon. Although many science-fiction writers came

out of fandom and many still keep up their fan activities, Tom may be the

first to have a story nominated for a Nebula Award and to publish a fanzine

(Nickelodeon), that has been nominated for a Hugo. He has not yet had a novel

published, but if he can find time from his graphic design studio and his

labors as editor and designer of the publications for the 1976 World Science

Fiction Convention to be held in Kansas City, readers may find more such

stories as this deceptively commonplace story where incredible events lie in

wait for a simple Kansas town.

Twilla Gilbreath blew into Miss Mahan's life like a pink butterfly wing that

same day in early December that the blue norther dropped the temperature forty

degrees in two hours. Mr. Choate, the principal, ushered Twilla and her

parents into Miss Mahan's ninth grade homeroom shortly after the tardy bell

rang. She had just checked the roll: all seventeen ninth-graders were present

except for Sammy Stocker, who was in the Liberal hospital having his appendix

removed. She was telling the class how nice it would be if they sent a

get-well card when the door opened.

"Goooood morning, Miss Mahan." Mr. Choate smiled cheerfully. He always smiled

cheerfully first thing in the morning, but soured as the day wore on. You

could practically tell time by Mr. Choate's mouth. "We have a new ninth-grader

for you this morning, Miss Mahan. This is Mr. and Mrs. Gilbreath and their

daughter, Twilla. "

Several things happened at once. Miss Mahan shook hands with the parents; she

threw a severe glance at the class when she heard a snigger-but it was only

Alice May Turner, who would probably giggle if she were being devoured by a

bear; and she had to forcibly keep her eyebrows from rising when she got a

good look at Twilla. Good Lord, she thought, and felt her smile falter.

Miss Mahan had never in her life, even when it was fashionable for a child to

look like that, seen anyone so perfectly . . . pink and . . . doll-like. She

wasn't sure why she got

such an impression of pinkness, because the child was dressed in: yellow and

had golden hair (that's the color they mean when they say golden hair, she

thought with wonder) done in, of all, things, drop curls, with a big yellow

bow in back. Twilla looked up at her with a sweet radiant sunny smile and

clear periwinkle-, blue eyes.

Miss Mahan detested her on sight.

She thought she saw, when Alice May giggled, the smile; freeze and the lovely

eyes dart toward the class, but she wasn't: sure. It all happened in an

instant, and then Mr. Choate continued his Cheerful Charlie routine.

"Mr. Gilbreath has bought the old Peacock place."

"Really?" she said, tearing her eyes from Twilla. "I didn't know it was for

sale."

Mr. Gilbreath chuckled. "Not the entire farm, of course. I'm no farmer. Only

the house and grounds. Such a charming old place. The owner lives in Wichita

and had no use for them."

"I would think the house is pretty run-down," Miss Mahan said, glancing at

Twilla, still radiating at the world. "No one's lived in it since Wash and

Grace Elizabeth died ten years ago. "

"It is a little," Mrs. Gilbreath said pleasantly.

"But structurally sound," interjected Mr. Gilbreath pleasantly.

"We'll enjoy fixing it up," Mrs. Gilbreath continued pleasantly.

`Miss Mahan teaches English to the four upper grades," said .: Mr. Choate,

bringing them back to the subject, "as well as speech and drama. Miss Mahan

has been with the Hawley school system for thirty-one years."

The Gilbreaths smiled pleasantly. "My . . . ah . . . Twilla seems very young

to be in the ninth grade. " That get-up makes her look about eleven, Miss

Mahan thought.

The Gilbreaths beamed at their daughter. "Twilla is only thirteen," Mrs.

Gilbreath crooned, pride swelling her like yeast. "She's such an intelligent

child. She was able to skip the second grade."

"I see. From where have you moved?"

"Boston," replied Mr. Gilbreath.

"Boston. I hope . . . ah . . . Twilla doesn't find it difficult to adjust to a

small-town school. I'm sure Hawley, Kansas, is quite unlike Boston."

Mr. Gilbreath touched Twilla lovingly on the shoulder. "I'm sure she'll have

no trouble."

"Well. " Mr. Choate rubbed his palms together. "Twilla is in good hands. Shall

I show you around the rest of the school?"

"Of course," smiled Mrs. Gilbreath.

They departed with fond murmurings and good-bys, leaving Twilla like a

buttercup stranded in a cabbage patch. Miss Mahan mentally shook her head. She

hadn't seen a family like that since Dick and Jane and Spot and Puff were sent

the way of McGuffey's Reader. Mr. and Mrs. Gilbreath were in their middle

thirties, good-looking without being glamorous, their clothes nice though as

oddly wrong as Twilla's. They seemed cut with some outdated Ideal Family

template. Surely, there must be an older brother, a dog, and a cat somewhere.

"Well . . . ah, Twilla," Miss Mahan said, trying to reinforce the normal

routine, "if you will take a seat-that one there, behind Alice May Turner.

Alice May, will you wave a flag or something so Twilla will know which one?"

Alice May giggled. "Thank you, dear." Twilla moved gracefully toward the empty

desk, Miss Mahan felt as if she should say something to the child. "I hope you

will . . . ah . . . enjoy going to school in Hawley, dear."

Twilla sat primly and glowed at her. "I'm sure I shall, Miss Mahan, " she

said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was like the tinkle of fairy

bells-just as Miss Mahan was afraid it would be.

"Good," she said and went back to the subject of a get-well card for Sammy

Stocker. She had done this so often-there had been a great many sick children

in thirty-one years-it had become almost a ritual needing only a small portion

of her attention. The rest she devoted to the covert observation of Twilla

Gilbreath.

Twilla sat at her desk, displaying excellent posture, with her hands folded

neatly before her, seemingly paying attention to the Great Greeting Card

Debate, but actually giving the rest of the class careful scrutiny. Miss Mahan

marveled at the surreptitious calculation in the girl's face. She realizes

she's something of a green monkey, Miss Mahan thought, and I'll bet my pension

she doesn't let the situation stand.

And the class surveyed Twilla, in their superior position of established

territorial rights, with open curiosity-and with the

posture of so many sacks of corn meal. Some of them looked at her, Miss Mahan

was afraid, with rude amusement-especially the girls, and especially Wanda

O'Dell, who had bloomed suddenly last summer like a plump rose. Oh, yes, Wanda

was going to be a problem. Just like her five older sisters. Thank goodness,

she sighed, Wanda was the last of them.

Children, Miss Mahan sighed again, but fondly.

Children?

They were children when she started teaching and certainly were when she was

fifteen, but, now, she wasn't sure. Fifteen is such an awkward, indefinite

age. Take Ronnie Dwyer: he looks like a prepubescent thirteen at most. And

Carter Redwine, actually a couple of months younger than Ronnie, could pass

for seventeen easily and was anything but prepubescent. Poor Carter, a child

in a man's body. To make matters worse, he was the best-looking boy in town;

and to make matters even worse yet, he was well aware of it.

And, she noticed, so was Twilla. Forget it, Little Pink Princess. Carter

already has more than he can handle, Miss Mahan chuckled to herself. Can't you

see those dark circles under his eyes? They didn't get there from studying.

And then she blushed inwardly.

Oh, the poor children. They think they have so many secrets. If they only

knew. Between the tattletales and teachers' gossip she doubted if the whole

student body had three secrets between them.

Miss Mahan admonished herself for having such untidy thoughts. She didn't use

to think about things like that, but then, fifteen-year olds didn't lead such

overtly sexual lives back then. She remembered reading somewhere that only 35

percent of the children in America were still virgins at fifteen. But those

sounded like Big City statistics, not applicable to Hawley.

Then she sighed. It was all beyond her. The bell rang just as the get well

card situation was settled. The children rose reluctantly to go to their first

class: algebra with Mr. Whittaker. She noticed that Twilla had cozied up to

Alice May, though she still kept her eye on Carter Redwine. Carter was not

unaware and with deliberate lordly indifference sauntered from the room with

his hand on Wanda O'Dell's shoulder. Miss Mahan thought the glint she observed

in Twilla's eyes might lead to an interesting turn of events.

Children.

She cleared her mind of random speculation and geared it to Macbeth as the

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Tom Reamy - Twilla

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