The Manuscript of Irene Summers

There’s a certain euphoria in discovering something new in yourself. Something unique. Your painting came out leagues better than your classmates’—why, look at that. Maybe you ran the fastest mile in the entire school. Extraordinary. Let’s unpack that. Let’s explore. Sign up for art lessons. Get a gym membership. Stand out. Compete. Make something of yourself.

For me, I discovered early in life that I could make people laugh. The class clown was a gilded title in middle school, and it was mine. Our town was quaint, historical, and—there’s just no way around it—flatly boring. The most exciting news that hit the front page of our volunteer-run newspaper was the 200th-anniversary of some long-dead novelist who lived here, or an acquisition from the antique bookstore downtown. So, back then, we needed a reason to laugh. And kids are good at finding them.

I’m making excuses.

Let me start again.

My seventh-grade class was small, and there was a niche for everyone. Some people hate hometown public schools for that very reason—but for me, I thrived. I was a drifter, and not the type who begged for scraps. Not the type who wandered the cafeteria like it was a desert, desperate for an oasis of peers to whom they could be a clinger-on—no, I was a drifter who could make any group my own. The jocks liked me because I had a smart mouth during pick-up baseball. The popular kids were boring, I admit, but they were my bread and butter—I was putting in hours at their weekend sleepovers like it was comp time, and that kept me high on everyone’s social lists. Honestly, the only classmates who were wary of me were the uptight ones—yet they also viewed me as some source of authority, just because my mom was an English professor. I knew who Chaucer was, and, while I wasn’t a stand-out student, I was decent at creative writing. I even knew about college, that fuzzy, maybe-one-day concept for anyone in the K-12 public school pipeline. And so, I was just a class clown—not a blacklisted troublemaker. My jokes didn’t hurt anyone.

Mostly.

At the start of the school year, the social equilibrium I had always known was interrupted when our class expanded by one. A new arrival in town, Irene Summers was an infuriatingly bookish girl with a penchant for spending more time in her head than in the rest of the world—reading under her desk in class, slow to respond if you cornered her in conversation. And yet—no one even seemed to mind. Teachers praised her. Students whispered that she must be writing a novel, with all the scrawling she did in notebooks. I even heard the owner of the rare bookstore downtown—Mr. Harding—allowed her to assist with his special collections on weekends. My mother was the first to tell me this: she knew Harding professionally, bringing her students to his bookstore every semester.

“He says Irene wants to study Amelia Beckham,” my mother told me over breakfast one morning. Amelia Beckham was a nineteenth-century novelist whose house still stood in town, now used as a museum for academics and tourists alike. I was sick of hearing about Amelia Beckham the way I was sick of hearing about Irene Summers—Beckham’s novels had always been impenetrable to me, far less palatable than my favorite adventure series.

When I didn’t respond, my mother was oblivious. “You should invite Irene over sometime, Evelyn,” she said. I would’ve preferred to eat my own shoe, but I simply offered her a mollifying smile.

It wasn’t that Irene had done anything directly to slight me. It was the way she acted as if she was better than all of us, when really, the most unique thing about her was that she liked boring things.

And so, my humor found a new target.

I started out small. Snapping her books shut when she left the classroom. Knocking her pens and pencils off her desk. It was easy. It was vicious fun. And swiftly, I turned the tide of my classmates’ thoughts against her. No longer was Irene smart and mysterious, but strange and obsessive. All it took was one person pointing it out—and the rest of our class scrambled to agree, to prove that they were nothing like Irene.

And yet, maddeningly, Irene didn’t seem to notice what I did. She’d smile and make small talk when she spotted my adventure books, calling me “Evie” instead of “Evelyn,” as if we were friends. I hated her with a passion only thirteen-year-olds were capable of mustering, and yet I was barely a blip on her radar of evolving stories and Amelia Beckham biographies.

Until our class took a field trip to Amelia Beckham’s house museum.

We had all visited it before in elementary school, but this year, we’d be focusing on nineteenth-century life for our history class. Predictably, Irene brought an armful of books for the occasion: not just her notebook and textbook, but also a peculiar wrapped parcel.

During the tour, our class wove from room to room while our guide soliloquized on Beckham’s household; until finally, we arrived in the sweltering kitchen, made even hotter by a lit hearth, where the museum workers were cooking stew as a treat for our class. I ended up next to Irene, beside the hearth; and Irene had set her books atop a stool so she could page through her textbook.

My eyes strayed to her stack of books. Callous amusement danced in my chest, and an idea sprung to mind.

And, as I faux-tripped into the stool, Irene—for once in her life—looked up from what she was reading. She cried out as her notebook and parcel tumbled into the hearth’s lapping flames.

“Klutz,” I yawned. “Sorry, Irene.”

Irene desperately fumbled for the poker to scrape out what she could, but she was too slow.

I remember a teacher shouting my name. I remember the gasps of my classmates. But these are eroded memories. Irene’s expression, on the other hand—tears in her eyes as she recognized me for the type of girl I was—will never leave my mind.

I learned a few things that day. I learned that Irene had been writing a story in her notebook—a novel, that is, inspired by Beckham’s best, which had taken months of work and the whole of her heart. I learned that Irene was going to give a surprise presentation on Beckham’s first book for the field trip—and that she had been loaned a rare first-edition copy by Mr. Harding for the occasion. It had been covered in protective wrap, in the case of spills or accidents. But it wasn’t fireproof, because no one factored in a foolish, hateful girl.

The first-edition had cost twenty-thousand dollars, and it was worth zero once a worker fished the remains out of the hearth. Irene’s notebook, for its part, was completely destroyed.

I ended up with suspension, while Irene transferred to a nearby school for eighth grade. I haven’t heard from her since, but I wonder if she’d be comforted to know that my mother looked at me with disappointment for months after what happened. That my friends are no longer that—that I’m the one who sits alone at lunch now, who stays quiet on the bus and stares down at my book.

There’s supposed to be a certain euphoria in discovering something new in yourself.

But what if you discover that you are—unpardonably, ruthlessly—a bad person? I’m the villain of this story, and there’s no apology to be made, no matter how hard I want it. I took a young girl’s friendship and I threw it away like it was nothing.

But with unpopularity comes time, and I’ve put mine towards something tangible.

It’s been four years, now. I hope it’s enough.

* * * *

Once Mr. Harding finished reading the handwritten entry in the little black notebook, he looked to the bundles of hundred-dollar bills on his bookstore desk in quiet shock; then, at the twelfth-grader before him, who held her emptied backpack with trembling hands.

“Twenty-thousand dollars,” Evelyn said. “It’s what the book cost, isn’t it? That’s what the newspaper said, after the book was—destroyed.”

“Evelyn,” began Harding. He rubbed his temple. “This is…quite a significant amount of money. How did you even begin to…?”

“I worked at the convenience store, afternoons and weekends,” said Evelyn. “And in the summers, I mowed for folks around town. I saved every penny, Mr. Harding.”

Something resembling pity crossed Harding’s face, and he leaned forward on his elbows. “Evelyn. I gave a valuable book to a seventh-grader for a trip to her favorite writer’s house. I was well-aware of the consequences, and yet I did it anyways. What you did was wrong—but you alone aren’t to blame.” He spoke softly. “And, to be truthful, I don’t mourn the loss of Beckham’s book that day so much as the writings of another budding author.”

Evelyn couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze, instead staring at the wood-paneled floor.

“I won’t be keeping this money,” continued Harding. “We’ll call your mother later and decide what ought to be done with it. But you’ve meditated on what happened, and I wholeheartedly accept your apology. On the condition that you give another gift today.” He lifted the black notebook. “This belongs with Irene.”

Evelyn blanched. “Does she still work with you?”

“Of course. She has one of the most astute literary minds I’ve ever come across, but most importantly, she has a compassionate heart,” said Harding. He glanced at his pocket watch. “Her piano class is out at three, and she’s told me she cuts over the bridge by the mill to get home. You better hurry, if you’re going to catch her before the rain. I think you owe her a conversation.”

Evelyn swallowed, and made for the door—but was stopped by Harding, who plucked a ballpoint pen off one of his shelves and offered it to her. “I believe she’ll be needing this as well,” he said.

Evelyn gave a shaky smile, and left to find an old classmate, pen and notebook in hand.

Irene Summers, true to her name, liked to watch the August sun set. Evelyn found her on the bridge by the mill, where she was staring at the sky’s painterly mess of pink and orange clouds. Evelyn hesitated, but approached Irene with a racing heart, just as the first drops of rain arrived.

“Irene,” said Evelyn, drawing near. Irene startled, those owlish eyes growing wide. “I was wondering if I could speak with you.”

“E-Evie—hi,” stammered Irene. “It’s been a while.”

Evelyn gulped. “I never apologized for what I did to you. I was…So cruel, when you were only ever kind to me.” She thrust forward the notebook and pen. “So I…wanted to give you this. I’m sorry, Irene.”

Flabbergasted, Irene accepted the gifts and opened her mouth to reply, when suddenly, a downpour of pounding rain began. “Oh!” exclaimed Irene. “Oh, dear! Here—Come with me!”

Irene took Evelyn by the hand, and together, the two ran to an oak tree across the bridge, taking refuge beneath its foliage. While Evelyn wiped her wet face with her sleeve, Irene flipped through the notebook with a gasp. Its pages had turned grey from running ink.

“Evie—your writing! Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed.

Evelyn could only give a weak laugh, gesturing towards the pen. “Well, that’s the most important part, anyhow. I know I can never make up for what I did, but—I’d like to try. I’d love to read your stories, if you’re still writing them.” Her face felt hot. “If you’d let me.”

“Evie…” said Irene, searching Evelyn’s expression with wide eyes. “Why, of course you can.”

Evelyn’s throat felt tight, and she looked away. Their conversation turned to happier things—books they had read, and dreams about travel and imagined futures. Irene was smiling while Evelyn was breathless, and together the two girls huddled to watch the storm give way to kinder skies.