The Papers of Victoria Frankenstein
Edited by Her 8th
Grade English Teacher,
Mr. Bob Walton
Packet I: I Discover
Who I Am (1983–1995)
a novel by
Daniel Dyer
Copyright © 2013 by
Daniel Dyer
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
DEDICATION: For
those Harmon School eighth-graders in the 1990s who, in my class, watched Frankenstein and The Munsters, listened to “Monster Mash,” ate those Frankenberries, and
wrote those amazing stories …
It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn ….
— Victor
Frankenstein, in Frankenstein;or, The
Modern Prometheus, by Mary Shelley, 1818 (1831 edition)
READERS: DO
NOT SKIP THIS PART!
I hesitate to publish this. I could be making a serious mistake. A very
serious mistake. And as you probably
know, teachers don’t like to be wrong—about anything.
It’s possible that everything
you’re going to read in this book is a lie—well, not everything. The part I’m writing is true. At least, I believe it is. Then again,
maybe I’m just crazy. The older I get,
the less sure I am about who’s sane and who isn’t. About what’s real … and what isn’t.
So anyway, if I’m not insane, you
can believe what I’ve written. But the
rest of the book? The part supposedly written
by the girl who calls herself Victoria Frankenstein? Can you believe her? Well, can you trust any eighth grader to tell the
truth? Ever?
I’ve got to go back a little and
explain myself. My name is Mr.
Walton. Mr. Bob Walton. I’m an eighth grade English teacher. I should say, I was an eighth grade English teacher in a suburban school near
Cleveland, Ohio. I’m retired now, but I
still think of myself as a teacher. I’m like an old hunting dog—lame and blind,
lying in the sun—who can still imagine himself sprinting across a field,
chasing—and catching!—rabbits. In your
own mind, you’re never old. In your
dreams, you’re forever young.
I live alone now. My wife of more than thirty years has passed
away. I will probably write about
her—about her loss—one of these days.
But this is not the time or place.
Something else is very much on my mind at the moment.
Years ago, in the fall of 1997, I was in the waning months of my teaching
career. I had already turned sixty and
was no longer the teacher I had been years before, when I’d started—full of
energy and ideas. Those long-ago days
when I loved kids, loved my job, loved my future. And could not imagine myself doing anything
else.
Now I could imagine lots of
things. Lots. I still loved my students (well, most of
them), still enjoyed going to work (usually).
But I’d grown weary of the routine, the grading, the meetings … I was
ready to retire. Very, very ready.
Just before the start of that 1996–1997
school year—when all this began, my final year of teaching—the chairman of the
English department called me into her office on warm August day, one of those
days when teachers start preparing their rooms—and themselves—for classes.
“Mr. Walton,” she began, looking across her
desk at me closely. “I’ve got an idea
for you.” She always had ideas for me.
But from what her students said, she didn’t have too many ideas for herself.
But that’s another story.
I looked at her. Like the rest of us, she had dressed casually
for the day. She wore jeans and a white peasant
blouse. But her hair—silver now, like
mine—formed a tight clump on the top of her head—like a shiny petrified
hamburger bun. And her glasses,
rhinestones glittering from the temples, dangled from a chain around her
neck. Her eyes were dim and dull, like grapes gone
bad.
I’d known her for twenty
years. We didn’t care much for each
other, so we still addressed each other with Mr. and Mrs.—no Ms. for her: She hated it.
“An idea for me?” I replied with false
enthusiasm. “That’s very thoughtful of
you, Mrs. Clairmont. I’m fond of good
ideas.” I hoped I sounded sincere. Because I
wasn’t. Because the last thing I wanted were some of her ideas. I just wanted to finish the year and
disappear into retirement.
“I was thinking that the eighth graders ought
to read more classics this year.”
“More classics?”
“Yes. I
mean, it’s all well and good that they read these . . . popular . . . books”—she spoke the word popular as if it were something filthy, as if she were expelling
from her mouth some ugly bug that had flown in. “But we’re really not doing our
jobs if we don’t teach more classic works of literature.”
Now, I was no dummy. I knew that when she said “we,” she meant
“you”—she wanted me to teach more
classics. She already taught plenty of them, proved by the loud sounds of
snoring coming from her classroom.
“What classics did you have in mind?” I asked,
trying not to sigh.
“How about something exciting?” she said as
she leaned forward in her chair.
“Shakespeare … Dickens … Austen.
Maybe even something like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.”
I couldn’t believe my ears! She was giving me permission to teach Frankenstein! A book about a monster! My students would eat it up. Of course, I’d never read the book myself,
but how much of a problem would that
be? I’d get to it in the next few days.
“Frankenstein! That’s a great idea, Mrs. Clairmont,” I said
with enthusiasm. “And I think I’ll teach
it around Halloween, too.”
“Why would you want to do it then?” she asked.
I looked to see if she was
joking. She wasn’t. Mrs. Clairmont’s stairway did not reach the
top floor.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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