The Last Class

A Short Story by Cynthia Norris Graae

The final assignment for my creative writing class at the Fine Arts Center on the Randolph Estate was:

Combine the techniques we have learned with your own natural spontaneity into an oral presentation, with a beginning, middle and end. Make notes to use in class, but plan to use them only to refresh your recollection.

But I was late again, and - as usual - unprepared. I flung open the classroom door and dashed toward the only empty seat, across the table from Moonbottom (the teacher) and Peter Canary.

He beamed a flicker of recognition, so precisely aimed that only someone in his direct line of vision could detect it. That someone was me. His crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, flattered his tan. He was the only one who wasn't sagged out by Washington's humidity.

Moonbottom frowned. "Could you shut the door?" he asked as I reached for the empty chair. His short-sleeved polyester shirt was shiny and graying. It was almost transparent, revealing his tom undershirt. he looked as if he had body odor, the sweet-putrid kind. Oh, why did my imagination conjure up such intimate details?

"Could we leave it open?" I inquired. "It's like a swamp in here, " said one of the graduate students. At least I had one supporter. I sat down and shoved my backpack under my chair.

"The air conditioner is working tonight," said Moonbottom. "It'll cool down faster with the door shut.' "I'd really feel better with it open," I said.

A graduate student leaned toward Peter Canary. He didn't quite cover his mouth with his hand when he said to Peter Canary, "She's just nervous about having to tell a story. I hope the teacher doesn't let her get out of this one,"

"You'll feel better after you've had your turn," reassured a woman with frizzy yellow hair.

"Why don't you go first?" Moonbottom asked me.

Peter Canary, having perfected the art of silent communication, winked in my direction without moving even an eyelash. The air conditioner was not working. it was circulating hot air, I felt flushed. I asked about the door again.

The graduate student sitting next to Peter Canary said to me. "You're just procrastinating. Mr. Jenks, you should tell her to get with the program or let someone else have a turn." Apparently he lacked the authority to call his teachers - even Moonbottom - anything but "Mr. ,"

I said, "The thing is, I haven't done the assignment. I mean I really thought it was terrific, but-" I was in a hole. Peter Canary caught my eye again, Elaborate a little, he was telling me, imperceptibly to anyone else, and I began talking.

"I put the instructions in my notebook during class last week. Driving home, when I approached the traffic light on Wisconsin A venue, I reached into my backpack to have another look at the instructions. I wanted to think about my presentation while I drove. I discovered that my notebook was missing