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     FICTION



    The Girl Who Planted Flowers by Sheila Heti
    The Girl Who Planted Flowers by Sheila Heti



    When she woke in the morning there beside her was the boy she had dismissed the night before as far too ugly and ingratiating, and on the other side, even more of a surprise, the boy she had dismissed as far too pompously intellectual. And there she was in the middle, and though she thought she was in the house where she had partied the night before, she wasn't sure, she just wasn't sure.
         She climbed gingerly over the one and went to the window and looked out into the backyard where she saw huge piles of sand, little mountains with peaks, and as she had no idea why or where they had come from, she quickly decided, "I must have blacked out." Then she went to the bathroom and returned as the two boys were rising.
         "Hello boys," she said lazily, without surprise or enthusiasm. And the boys, first one, then the other, said hello and looked at each other, and as they did not smile or seem to commiserate, the girl took her seat at the foot of the bed.
         "I'm hungry," she said. "Are you two hungry?"
         One boy nodded while clearing the sleep out of his eyes, and the other boy looked around trying to figure out where he was.
         "Well then, let's go," she said. And since they were all in their clothes there was nothing to do but leave.
         One boy was taller, and the three moved slowly down the road, and it was cold. It was already November and should have been colder, but still, it was cold, and the girl thought nothing. When the sidewalk narrowed the intellectual hung back, and the ugly boy and the girl walked ahead.
         After five minutes they reached a good place to eat. It had eggs, it seemed, and bacon and potatoes and unlimited coffee, and no sign that forbade smoking, so they took a booth at the back, and the booth was brown, and the lighting was dim, and the sun wasn't shining, and they were all wretched and existing in states of humility and banality.
         They all ordered the same thing, except for the ugly boy who was a vegan, and he ordered nothing but black coffee and orange juice, and the girl thought drearily in her head, "Oh God, I slept with a vegan." And the tall intelligent boy kept his eyes on the table and said nothing, and none of them said anything except the girl, who made comments like, "Are you sure you don't know what happened last night?" and, "Your name is Malcolm, I think I remember."
         Eventually she grew irritated with their silent and purposeful ignorance, their childish posturing, and she thought that since they weren't fessing up to anything or saying anything, probably something like that had never happened to either of them before, but the thought was so terrible she pushed it from her mind.
         "Well," she said, when the food arrived, and inwardly cursed these humorless boys, whose dark moods succeeded in pulling her down with them, and she knew, even then, that it would be much better if they were cocky and glowing and gay.
         They ate their food in silence, and the intellectual, she could tell, wanted terribly to go. Before he was finished he asked for the bill, and the young waiter brought it and the young waiter left, and the intellectual left while she was still eating. Then the ugly boy gulped down his juice and left, and neither said more than "okay" or "good-bye."
         Now she was alone. She put down her money and realized for the second time that she was out of cigarettes, and she felt horrible and hung over and nothing like a slut.
         The girl walked through the city that day, and it was cold and dark, and the sky was uglier than it had ever been, but not as ugly as the boy she had slept with, and then she realized that she was twenty-one, and she thought of her life, "What a waste," and nothing convinced her otherwise.  



    Excerpted from The Middle Stories, which is being published this month by McSweeneys Press.


    ©2002 Sheila Heti and hooksexup.com, Inc.

    ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
    Sheila Heti's first book, The Middle Stories, has been translated into German, Spanish, French and Dutch. She lives in Toronto, where she runs the lecture series Trampoline Hall. She is working on a musical with Dan Bejar of the band Destroyer.

    Commentarium (16 Comments)

    Oct 23 02 - 2:56am
    ajh

    What a depressingly vivid descrption of a very low point in this girl's life. I hope there has since been experiences as beautiful and filled with color as this one is gray and empty.

    Oct 23 02 - 4:29am
    eva

    please. you have good intentions, but need to work more on the execution. perhaps rereading those raymond carver short stories would be a good idea.
    it just gets a little too obvious.

    Oct 23 02 - 10:02am
    CC

    Is this part of the Christian Coalitions' campaign for abstinence and morality?

    Oct 23 02 - 10:02am
    PM

    Such malaise, and none of her characters seem particularly redeemable. Sad, really, that no one finds even a shred of release.

    Oct 24 02 - 12:01am
    lh

    I hope saying that I won't be reading the rest of the story is being disrespectful.

    Oct 24 02 - 12:33am
    HSE

    teenager existentialism?

    wo es partied, soll ich werden?

    I frequently wakes up to what it did, and then, I either explains it, says 'I did it because of this or that,' or just remains in that other bleak place where things don't really matter, are not really felt.

    Oct 23 02 - 2:24pm
    P

    What Happend in your story? What was the reason this was told? Is there any significance between the narrator and the actions or the audience. It seems unecessary and incomplete - yet it is interesting and held my attention. It does not have any bearing - I want more story to fill it up ... Hmm?

    Oct 23 02 - 2:44pm
    mean

    If the point was to be leave us with a feeling of nothingness and frustration. Sure, fine, you did that. But truth be told that was not so hard to achieve. THis is a true pseudo-intellectual piece if ever there was one.

    Oct 23 02 - 2:52pm
    O.G.

    Seeing as this "The Girl Who Planted Flowers" is exerpted from a longer story, I quite liked it. Giving us a sense of the characters and settings through an accesible style lets the reader do their own filling in and such a style becomes more powerful as one reads. Kind of like adult comic books do. They are more about what is not said. And nice job of illustrating the pathos of modern male-female adolescence. So sad, those boys. I especially like that the role of shame has somehow reversed itself in modernity, with the female character having the power of knowing what she feels vs. young men who are confused to the point of being ashamed. Truthfull. Thanks.

    Oct 23 02 - 3:04pm
    hh

    The word "and" is used far to much.

    Oct 23 02 - 4:46pm
    jds

    apparently, some people in this feedback section have never woken up in the morning between two people, not remembering anything about the night before. bravo, sheila heti, for nailing the desolation of youth. sometimes good fiction doesn't come pre-packaged with pretty little stylistic bows.

    Oct 23 02 - 6:37pm
    J

    ....I liked the header picture.....

    Oct 23 02 - 7:21pm
    jw

    Don't pay any attention to them, writer. I liked it because of the title and the rhythm. I don't think it's intellectual. I don't think it's psuedo-intellectual. I don't think it's sad. I don't think it's anything more than what it is.

    In his little letter to the writer, an anonymous source tells Edwardo Galeano: "There's not much pleasure in writing what you live. The challenge is to live what you write. And at your age it's time you learned." That's true of all of us, ain't it? And Steve Earle: "i come to you with empty hands/ I guess I just forgot again" so do we all

    Oct 24 02 - 6:13am
    bk1

    a definite misstep. poorly thought-out and written, seemingly without focus or purpose. boooo.

    Oct 24 02 - 5:08pm
    RA

    I was annoyed by the pointless vegan bashing.

    Oct 27 02 - 3:26am
    JC

    Obviously, the people who bitched saw themselves in the story and are nothing more than fucking narcissists who wanted further attention.

    Sometimes, you make a stupid mistake. You sleep with people you shouldn't. You wake up, you eat and you realize someone else is going to think you're a whore, whether you are or not.

    Who gives a damn about the men, anyway? They acted in a manner of most men. They fucked, they ate, they left.
    And the girl has to clean up the mess.

    I dug it.

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