The Janitor's Daughter

          My mom used to take me to work with her during the summers. They needed an extra set of hands since Karen went to Massachusetts every year, and I needed a summer job if I wanted to even think about that biology degree. I would meet her at the office as soon as I was done with my waitressing shift Tuesdays and Fridays, and the rest of the week we went over together in the old VW Beetle that Grandma didn’t drive any more.

          The people who worked at the office were friendly – we usually met as Mom and I were coming in and they were going out, and they’d always wave hello as we passed. I got to know the ones who worked late a little bit – Jeff was the one who always left blue ballpoint pens on the table in the conference room; Linda insisted I take a Jolly Rancher from the little glass bowl on her desk; Shawn had a picture of his two-year-old stuck upside down on his computer (his son had put it there himself and wouldn’t let his daddy fix it). The second-shift warehouse guys were the ones I knew best, though, because they were always around when Mom and I came by after the office closed for the evening. Toby listened to 99.3 while he worked. He’d sing along to every song, even if he didn’t know it, and somehow it always sounded right. Aaron always asked me about my summer reading, and if I was having trouble with a book he could steer me in the right direction. Darren collected postcards from different places, so my sister and I would send him one whenever we were on vacation.

          Jim had been the supervisor as long as I could remember. I can still hear his voice booming between the aisles.

          “Hey there, Katydid, how’s it going?”

          He’d called me Katydid ever since I was little, chasing grasshoppers one day at the company picnic. At five, my interest in  a baseball game didn’t last much longer than an inning. It was more fun to scare up bugs from the grass on the hill next to the stands. He’d caught one for me and showed me its wings. Now, if I’d watched carefully enough, I could describe a bird to him and he could tell me what kind it was and imitate its call just by its color and the way it flew.

          I met Kate the summer after I graduated from high school. She was Linda’s neighbor – summer help, just like me, brought on while Sarah was on maternity leave. She’d gone to the high school on the other side of the city from mine, so I guess if I’d had some over-the-top school spirit we’d have been rivals to begin with. But I didn’t, and we weren’t.

          Usually, I didn’t see Kate when I was at work. She was only there on Wednesdays and Thursdays, anyway, and even then our paths didn’t cross often. I was most likely to run into her on the way in or out of the bathroom or when I was working in the break room, but the only time I was sure to see her was when I came through the office collecting the trash.

          She wore short dresses and flawless makeup, and her hair was almost too perfect for the summer heat outside. Kate didn’t look up from her computer when I came by. She was the office intern. I was the cleaning lady’s daughter.

          I think I must come from a long line of janitors. My last name means “custodian.” Grandpa told me it was in the “guardian” or “caretaker” sense, but those were just other words for “janitor” in my mind. And that was what I was – caretaker of the bathrooms, guardian of the cleaning closet, and just a substitute at that.

          It wasn’t bad, though, as far as summer jobs went. The work wasn’t too hard except when gross things got tracked into the warehouse or the coffee exploded (how else would it have gotten on the walls?), and it paid pretty well for a teenager. I didn’t have a formal dress code to worry about, the people were nice, and for the most part I worked on my own or with Mom. The only time I really minded it was when I emptied Kate’s trash. It made me feel somehow inadequate when I came by in my t-shirt and shorts, dragging the garbage can with sweat clinging to my back and my ponytail undoing itself no matter how tightly I’d put it in. The warehouse boiled over in the summer, even the bathrooms Mom and I went out there to clean.

          “Hey there, Katydid, how’s it going?”

          Kate and I never said much to each other. I think the extent of our conversation was her response to my asking if she had any recycling or excusing myself as I reached past her to grab the trash can beneath her desk. There was something about the way she held herself that told me we were different sorts of people, and even if I was a talkative person I don’t think we would’ve had a lot in common.

          “I hear you’re headed off to college soon. I thought you might like this to take with you, since you won’t be hanging around here anymore.”

          I wasn’t much of a book person, but this one was an exception. It was a glossy softcover Peterson Field Guide to Birds of North America. The paintings were beautiful, and among them was almost a full page dedicated to screech owls. “Those eat katydids, you know,” Jim had told me, eyes twinkling, when my ten-year-old self had declared them my favorite. I’d told him it was a good thing I liked them, then, and we’d both laughed.

          “You’re welcome. Let me know how things are going, hey?”

          August was just about over when I punched out for the last time. I left my ID on Linda’s desk like I did at the end of every summer so she could file it away until the next year if they needed me again. My picture smiled up at the ceiling above my name in bold letters: Kate Kastellan.

          I still have that field guide Jim gave me. I take it down from the shelf every now and then, sometimes to look up a bird and sometimes just to feel the worn spine and remind myself of the man who taught me to love birds and scribbled the black ink across the title page.

          Keep flying, Katydid.

          I don’t know where Kate went after that summer, I think to some university out of state. Sometimes I wonder if I should have tried to be a little more friendly. I’m still not an outgoing person, and we were definitely very different people. And yet, I remember that one day when I caught a glimpse of the screech owls on her desktop background, and I have to wonder if, maybe, we might have had a little more in common than just a name.

Child of the King

It's been suggested to me more than once that this is chapter one. I've thought several times about turning it into a full-length novel, but I don't have the inspiration now, and I think it stands alone all right. So, someday. Maybe. Anyway, it's some kind of fantasy setting, but I really don't know anything about it myself beyond this. Written for Calvin College's Youth Writing Festival. Unfortunately, I don't know the exact date it was written, but I'm pretty sure it was some time in February.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          She froze, her legs trembling beneath the outstretched skirt of her handmaiden's dress. She could not move, could not manage the words that she knew she must speak. It was as though time had ceased, the crowd holding its collective breath, and she, bent in the delicate pose, several paces in front of them. She could feel the disappointment of a thousand hopefuls radiating behind her like a sigh of a fading sun.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          The words each one so longed to hear had been spoken for her; why could she not take up their sweet offering? Each of them had come for that reason, to hear those words, to be the one, the Child. They were ranged behind her now, each with his or her private thoughts, dismay, anger, envy, loss. Why? Why not me?

          She also wondered, silently, in that space of a moment, why? Why me? They all wondered. Why such a lowly servant girl? Why? How they had all wanted it, longed for it! The chosen one was not one of them, not the beautiful, rich nobles or proud, strong citizens, but a handmaiden. A handmaiden who was even too tall and slim to be a proper maiden was the chosen one, the Child.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          Five words, five simple words that they had all so hoped to hear. They were words that held power and meaning, words that could bring joy and responsibility and could cure poverty and despair. The people had travelled from distant reaches of the kingdom in the hope of hearing those words, only to be disappointed by the choosing of a humble maid.

          They traveled every year for the ritual, and every year most left in regret. They had made the journey in anticipation of the ritual every year, as long as anyone could remember. It marked the coming of age of all who had turned sixteen in the past year and the choosing of the Child.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          She had never indulged in the fanciful dreams of the other girls, to wear the elegant gowns of the rich, to have her red-gold hair trimmed to sweep her shoulders, to be treated as one of the Royal Family. She had never thought of change to the dress of a handmaiden, to her hair coiled in its braid on her head that marked her as a commoner, to being shown her place as a servant of those above her. She had never hoped to be chosen to enter the service of the king as the others had dreamed of.

          They were called forward, one at a time, a tedious process that would take hours, even days, just to be presented to the king. The name was read, then a bow or a curtsy and a nod in return was all. So it was for all but one. The one to whom the words were spoken, the one who would join the ranks of the Royal Family and govern the kingdom.

          The man had read her name, one of the ay-rens and arr-ens that everyone tried. She had taken the careful steps forward, one, two, three, four, then lowered herself into the graceful curtsy, head respectfully bowed. She had waited for the nod, the signal to rise, return the four steps to the crowd, and await the choosing of another. It was not so.

          “Aeren.” The one word held her in shock; he, the king, had spoken to her, had said her name. He had pronounced it correctly, the graceful, flowing aye-rin that she had thought only she knew. “Come to me, my Child.”

          She knew what the ritual required of her; she knew what she was compelled to do. She wondered what would happen if she simply refused, turned back to join the crowd and wait for the choosing. She was certain it was not allowed, for the privilege that was granted to one young man or maiden upon that day was irrevocable. Unalterable. Unchangeable.

          Slowly, she stood, brought herself up to stand on unwilling, unsteady legs, and raised her head, only slightly, as all those her age had been taught. She knew the response she had to give and knew she did not want to give it.

          “If it pleases my king, I will come.”

          The words slid softly from her lips, yet they seemed to reach every corner of the spacious throne room. She did not believe she was worthy of this honor; she was merely a stable girl who spent her days in the midst of animals and manure. She was not dressed in the fancy gowns of the rich, but the simple garb of the servant. She had not been taught at an expensive school, had not learned more than how to read and write. But she was chosen.

          She walked forward, exactly seven more steps as she had been taught, and performed the curtsy again. Five more steps brought her to the foot of the throne. Four from the crowd, seven to the curtsy, five to throne. Sixteen paces that were the longest moments she could remember, sixteen paces that were watched by the entire kingdom, sixteen paces that reflected on sixteen years of life.

          The king stood and descended from his throne as he had when she had watched many times in years gone past. This time it was she who knelt before him to take on the responsibilities of the Family. He placed his hands on her shoulders, either side of her bowed head, and she knew as he spoke that this was what she must do.

          “You are a Child of the king.”