Graphic Novellla
טקסט Storyboard
- RING!!
- Thursday, March 5
- Thursday, March 5
- Complete page 122 B for homework.
- Thursday, March 5
- See you tomorrow!
- Thursday, March 5
- School always ends too quickly...
- Thursday, March 5
- I need to clean the house over the weekend...
- Thursday, March 5
- ...It's so dusty.
- dFor the thousandth time, I take in the classroom, the worn paint and scratched desks, the clock which is always a few minutes behind. I linger for a moment, taking the time to pack up my dog-eared textbooks.
- Thursday, March 5
- At least I don't have much homework. I can get started on cleaning.
- When it would be imprudent to stay any longer, I rise, taking short, quick paces to the door. I duck out before the door swings shut. These movements are a dance, one that I know so well. Each step has been examined, trialed, and reexamined. There is no room for error in this sequence.
- Thursday, March 5
- As I walk outside, a chill wind whips my hair, ebony strands shining in the watery light, coals lit with a flickering light from within. I brush them back, smoothing wrinkled clothes.
- Thursday, March 5
- I wish I had more books.
- Feet pulsing with a throbbing ache, due to shoes a size too small, I walk the path I have traveled a thousand times before. Even as I pull my hair around my face, ensuring my anonymity, I force my shoulders back, refusing to cower. I will not let shame overcome me. Although we are poor, I have to believe my life will one day improve, for if I have no dreams, what am I but an empty shell of blood and bone?
- Thursday, March 5
- Mi hija, Viviana!
- I’m on a break. I only have a few minutes, but I wanted to see you. Have you finished all your homework?
- When I reach my destination, I pause for a moment, reaching down to find my key. After unlocking the door, I push it open, the creak resounding through the vacant streets.
- Thursday, March 5
- Mama, You're home early!
- Sí. We’re nearly out of paper, Mama.
- I tread softly in, the discoloured carpet masking my footsteps. Dust rises up to greet me, a swirling mass of inconstant motes.
- Thursday, March 5
- How many sheets do we have left, Viviana? Enough to last through until June?
- Maybe, if we are careful. I’ll write smaller, and lightly, so I can erase the pencil. If not, we will figure something out.
- My handwriting, neat and cramped, fills up the page in uniform rows. My life, in a way, is similarly foreseeable, any situation preprogrammed with one response, and only one. My mother works three jobs a day, occasionally more. Still, with all the time she spends, it is never enough.
- ScienceHomework
- I trail my fingers longingly over a creased spine, lovingly worn. Black Beauty, the only book I have ever owned. I remember that book drive, when I was in fourth grade, more than three years ago. . I never let my mother notice just how much the simple action meant to me.
- I hunger for words, for that sweet silence which can only be brought on by an enchanting tale and buried thoughts. To shed my worries, for even just a moment, and become someone else, someone with unspeakable courage and loyalty.
- I am pulled out of my thoughts, with a sharp tug, by the slowly opening door. I drop my hand, erasing any expression of yearning from my face.
- My mother has never been home at this time, not since I was nine, when my father walked out, in a drunken rage, and never returned. I remember how my mother wept then, tears seeping into her cheeks, tracing a lonesome path of misery.
- I can see the conflict warring in her eyes, and I instantly wish the phrase could be taken back. Such a thoughtless sentence, most would think nothing of it. When I was younger, I would have thought of only the minor inconvenience it supplies. Now, however…
- I'll see what I can find. I have to go now.
- Thursday, March 5
- I don't want her to worry. I shouldn't have said anything...
- Thursday, March 5
- Why are we so poor?
- Thursday, March 5
- How... how is this possible?
- Thursday, March 5
- Thursday, March 5
- NO!
- Thursday, March 5
- It was all just a dream - again.
- I never should have said anything. Now she'll stress about finding paper, of all things.
- Friday, March 6
- Viviana, could you stay for a moment?
- I cannot stop thinking of my mother’s sad, doleful eyes as she contemplated my statement, simple words which carry so much weight. I never should have brought it up; I know that now, and I knew it then.
- Friday, March 6
- It has come to my attention that, because of your home situation, you do not have the proper access to many of the resources middle schoolers should have..
- I open my eyes to a tunnel of darkness, disappearing into oblivion. I walk down it, because there is nowhere else to go.
- Friday, March 6
- Next week, we are going to take a field trip to a Los Angeles Public Library, and all students will be given library cards. Fill out this paperwork over the weekend, and bring it to me by Tuesday.
- I enter a room, a bedroom. The colour seems to have been sucked out of everything, leaving a monochrome view. Bookshelves line the walls, and a different version of myself sleeps, an open book on the bed.
- Friday, March 6
- I gaze upon the room. but I do not have time to appreciate it, before I am sucked back into the tunnel, a book clutched in my arms.
- Friday, March 6
- I wake with a start, silver tears pooling in my eyes. I have had that dream so many times.
- Friday, March 6
- My breath catches for a moment, thoughts swirling around my mind. What have I done? Students snicker as they leave, whispering behind cupped palms. I walk to her desk, frowning with concentration. Whatever could this be about?
- My eyes go right back to that scuff mark, inhaling sharply. I can feel her eyes burning into me, but I do not lift my head. I knew this conversation must happen eventually, but I have fought it for so long, I thought I could escape it.
- Um...
- I don't see where she is going with this. What could she want?
- As if in a daze, I walk out the school, back home, the paper light in my hands, such an impossibly precious gem of possibility.
- I fumble with the lock, hands white with anticipation.
- I scribble down each answer, name, date, phone number. Before long, it is done, blank lines now filled with large writing, care forgotten in my excitement. Smiling faintly, I rise, leaving it on the table, awaiting nothing more than a signature from my mother.
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