A modern-day Pride and Prejudice character sketch.
For Mary Bennet, high school is a different experience than it is for her older sisters.
Jane, the eldest, is homecoming queen. She’s a cheerleader who’s genuinely kind and sincerely loved, even by people who hate cheerleaders. When she isn’t organizing fun runs for children with cleft palates, she’s volunteering at the pediatric ward of a local hospital and at an animal shelter.
Elizabeth is on the debate team, the soccer team, and the staff of the school newspaper as a photographer. She’s made 99th percentile on her SATs and is running an extracurricular chemistry research project on a local polluted lake. She isn’t as well-liked as Jane, but she’s pretty and witty and fairly good-natured, which means that other people are more apt to accept her unabashed intelligence and occasional lapses in temper.
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Before getting trapped in the swimming pool filter, the frog had not been aware of time and death. He had never reflected on the course of his life or thought about what he was and what would become of him. He had kept his eyes on the small stirring things in the world: a fly darting, a gnat drifting, the crickets quivering in the grass.
The swimming pool had been peppered with bugs. They had dashed across the surface or bobbed around near death. The frog had plopped in and felt a sting of chemicals. For a long time, he had swum around, until he had become exhausted. The filter had drawn him in then, gently into its mouth.
Once he crossed into the filter, he changed. He knew he was going to die. Normal frogs don’t think about death, not consciously. But in the filter, amid cast-off leaves and motionless bugs, he considered his fate. He was trapped, with nothing to eat and nowhere to go; he would die, his body embalmed in chlorinated water.
In this state the young girl found him. She hoisted the sodden filter basket and smiled down at him. Her face was thin, and her skin was pale and almost as translucent as an egg sac. When her hand closed over the frog’s cool flesh, he was too tired to struggle against it. Whether or not she’d kill him remained to be seen. For now, he was alive, with the sun starting to stir his cold blood. He twitched, and her grip tightened. She took him into her house.
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I visit Sigrid’s apartment with a plate of sugar cookies, store bought because I haven’t yet learned how to bake. She opens the door in a cloud of gold hair and vanilla-scented perfume. In a day or two she’s taking down her fairy Christmas tree, and invited me to see it.
It’s decorated with fairy figurines she made herself.
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Mika, who is nine, lives with her parents, Mario and Michiko, and her brother, Max, in Apartment 2d.
My first impression of her: small, watchful, darting. Her straight dark hair falls to her shoulders, and flies out as she bolts up the stairs or around corners in the narrow hallways.
She loves art of all kinds – painting, crafts, making theater props. Outside of her family, the person she’s most connected to at Kilter Street Manor Apartments is Sigrid.
Max is 13 and lives with his parents, Mario and Michiko, and his sister, Mika, in Apartment 2d.
He’s quiet, thin, dark-haired, and often ducks his head, at least in front of people he doesn’t know well. He plays viola and has a lovely, rare smile.
When I see him around the Kilter Street Manor Apartments, he’s usually watching over his sister, or hanging out with a friend or two whose names I don’t know.
Mario lives with his wife, Michiko, and his kids, Max and Mika, in Apartment 2d. He’s the building’s maintenance man, and doesn’t mind the recurring jokes about how he’s a guy named Mario and owns plumbing tools.
He’s cheerful, robust, easygoing, and even-tempered. He isn’t curious about much, but seems to just take things as they come and live with contentment. One of his chief enjoyments is social media. His Instagram site is an ongoing documentation of disasters in Kilter Street Manor Apartments: flaking ceilings, burst pipes, the elevator that only works well for one resident, John.
Both sides of his family came to the U.S. from Italy. Sometimes he likes to play up his Italian heritage by speaking with an exaggerated accent and singing pseudo-arias, because it makes his kids groan.
The main impression I get from Lewis is that he isn’t happy.
He’s a young man, maybe early 20s. Stringy, with a lean face and matted light brown hair. He’s pale and has some freckles under his eyes and on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t smile much. When he does, his eyes stay hard. He’s angry, maybe, but about what? I don’t know yet.
He lives with his dad, Eben, and works in his dad’s ice cream store.