The Misfortunes of Lolita

01 | when lolita spoke

THIS IS AN UNEDITED AND SIGNIFICANTLY DIFFERENT VERSION OF THE MISFORTUNES OF LOLITA. I AM PUBLISHING IT IN FALL 2021—PLEASE FOLLOW ME ON IG @/ls.akhter and GOODREADS (L AKHTER) TO STAY UPDATED. I am so excited to share TMoL with you again.

CHAPTER 1

"As days go by I wonder if I'm getting better, or if I'm losing more of who I am."

-Lolita's writing journal

THE FIRST TIME Frank had seen her, it had been in the late-students line.

Their school had this policy that late students-whether they were sixty seconds or sixty minutes late-had to stand in a uniformed line and get a slip to show their teacher. Preventative measures so that students don't skip morning classes, he guessed. Stupid.

He wasn't there because he was late, though. He was in the main office, getting his new schedule, when she walked in, exactly thirty five minutes late, her bag in her hand, her sweater covered in places with little white feathers, her nose scrunched up as she tried to pull her bag up with her big bulky jacket in her hand.

She wasn't pretty. That's what Frank had noticed, at first.

No, that's not right. What he had noticed at first was the fact that her eyes kept wandering back to this couple in the main office, this guy and girl, holding hands. He didn't understand. But she looked at them as if they were proof that her life was crumbling into pieces, and he'd never seen such destruction in anyone's eyes.

"Slept in," She had muttered her reason, smiling slightly at the attendant, and he remembered staring at her the whole time. There was something about her smile, too. It wasn't forced, not exactly. It was just... she was just. Just. She just looked like she was trying to absorb the sadness from people. Like she was hoping that her smile could cure people, even when she knew it couldn't.

"Detention after school," The attendant had grumbled, and she had closed her eyes, pressing her lips together as if her head hurt.

Frank remembered how he had forgotten to look at his schedule, because he'd been staring at her.

She was a painting in black and brown, skin the colour of earth, her stance as shaky as the summer wind. He'd blinked when her eyes almost settled on him, but then wandered around the office, going to the couple again for a split second.

Frank remembered glancing at the couple, himself. He didn't understand.

"Frank Novak," The other attendant had grumbled, in the same manner as the first. It was like they were trained to grumble. Like they had a special factory, just for making and supplying grumbling attendants. "Is your schedule okay?"

He'd grumbled right back. "Yeah. Fine."

"Then stop crowding the office," The attendant had responded, monotonously.

There would be a day, when Frank would be eighty something years old, lying on his death bed, trying to remember this very moment, and he'd forget the two attendants' faces. He'd forget their gender, heck, he'd forget why he was even there, but he'd remember her.

Lolita.

She was forgettable. But he'd remember her.

Because in a room full of people who were trying their best to be colourful, she was a painting in black and brown.

"Fucking god," He muttered to himself now, as he stared at his white ceiling. His neck had started to hurt from his hard pillow.

Today, he'd noticed for the first time that she liked to tuck her pants into her socks.