Renata Balvin:
NO
Kaylee Johnson:
YES. She *literally* strolls into class late in a full length dress with an enormous hoop skirt. Doesn’t say a word to anyone until she gets up to do her oral presentation.
Nina Voltaire:
As soon as she’s up there, she turns on a recording of drumbeats and starts going on and on about this creepy voodoo ceremony in Haiti. Then, all of a sudden, she runs out of the classroom and pushes in this cart carrying a cake shaped like a pig. It’s covered in black fondant and everything!
Renata Balvin:
Did it taste good?
Nina Voltaire:
...That’s like not even the point of the story -____-
Renata Balvin:
I’m just saying! I don’t really like fondant. It’s pretty but too sweet and tastes super fake
Nina Voltaire:
ANYWAY she takes out a knife from the big pocket of her dress and slices open the neck of the pig cake and blood LITERALLY SPRAYS EVERYWHERE
Renata Balvin:
NO
Nina Voltaire:
YES. The first two rows were dripping with it and the red food coloring stained all the desks and the whiteboard and Sister Wagner’s computer and the ceiling and MY TOP which I’m definitely gonna make her pay for
Kaylee Johnson:
And who would be sitting smack dab in the line of fire but Peter Logan
Renata Balvin:
Omg he’s allergic to everything
Kaylee Johnson:
Including gelatin apparently which she had put in her gross little mixture
Nina Voltaire:
Yup. Wagner’s screaming, Peter starts wheezing and going into anaphylactic shock. Alaine is *still* holding the knife and freaking out until she finally dumps out his bag and stabs him with his EpiPen so he doesn’t DIE
Renata Balvin:
Wow! Yeah she’s def a psycho... And isn’t Peter’s dad like a judge?? How much trouble will she be in?
Nina Voltaire:
Mmhmm. I heard that he’s trying to get her dumb ass expelled
Tatiana Hippolyte:
NOT COOL EVERYONE
Alaine Beauparlant:
Y'all. I. Can. See. Everything. You’re. Saying.
Nina Voltaire:
Kaylee you were supposed to remove her
Alaine Beauparlant removed herself from
LAT.AM/C.W. STUNNAZ.
Annotated transcript of what I heard when I listened in on the second house phone (yup we still have those) during Dad’s (pointless) conversation with Mom
DAD: How are you, Celeste?
Translation: I may not have grown up with a summer home in Pétion-Ville, but I have manners too.
MOM: Fine. You?
Translation: I’m not going to spill my guts to you.
DAD: Alaine and I are fine.
Translation: EVERYTHING IS FINE. I have everything under control. By the way, you have a daughter.
MOM: I was getting to that.
Translation: You idiot.
DAD: I can’t believe she got herself suspended over a stupid class presentation.
Translation: Alaine is dismantling everything we’ve worked to put together for her future.
MOM: Well-behaved women rarely make history.
Translation: I feel the need to be antagonistic with you by habit, but I agree.
DAD: Well, Constantine Logan rarely doesn’t get what he wants. And right now, what he wants is Alaine out of school for almost killing his son! What if they press charges?
Translation: I’m spiraling, woman!
MOM: Okay, take a deep breath. We’ll figure this out.
Translation: Chiiiiilllllll.
DAD: [takes a shaky breath and clears throat] Thanks. So... How’s Haiti treating you? How’s Estelle?
Translation: Ugh. Maybe she won’t notice my change in subject.
MOM: It’s Haiti. Estelle’s...Estelle.
Translation: I’m not going to make this easy for you.
DAD: ...
Translation: Well, then.
MOM: ...
Translation: Ugh.
DAD: ...
Translation: I’m a psychiatrist and very comfortable with extended periods of silence when I speak with reticent patients.
MOM: ...
Translation: I’m a journalist and very comfortable with extended periods of silence during interviews with reticent politicians.
ALAINE: Hey, everyone! Can this conversation get any more uncomfortable?
No translation needed.
DAD: Oh! Hey, honey.
Translation: Oh, thank God.
MOM: How are you doing?
Translation: This is a thing that mothers ask their children, yes?
ALAINE: Fine, fine. I’ve started a new skin regimen and my pores have really embraced this rosewater face wash. How are you?
Translation: Will I finally be visiting you soon? Do you miss me? Have I adequately distracted you from the larger issue at hand?
DAD: I’ll let you two have some mother-daughter time.
Translation: Because you’re never available for any real mother-daughter time.
MOM: I actually have to get going. Jules, tell her.
Translation: I’m very busy and perhaps terrified to speak to my daughter alone.
ALAINE: That’s okay! Talk later?
Translation: What a surprise. Psych.
MOM: [hangs up]
Translation: Probably not.
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
After that horrifically unpleasant phone call, I sat patiently in my room, waiting for Dad to explain himself. Just as I’d anticipated, I heard a soft knock on my door.
“Come in.”
My dad drifted into the room and paused just past the threshold. He walked over to my desk chair and sat down before getting up to gingerly perch himself at the foot of my bed instead. He was using his “concerned shrink” face. I knew something was wrong before he said a word.
I remember when he sat down at the same corner of a much smaller bed and sighed before announcing to seven-year-old me that our family hamster, Flavia, had died. The tears fell almost instantly and he was ready with a box of tissues and a spoon for the pint of chocolate chunk ice cream he held behind his back. He enveloped me in a hug and kissed the top of my puffy hair.