How to go From Point "A" to Point "Yes I Will Marry you Bobby Michael Bradley, I will." (short fiction piece)
Flooded with sobs, your sheets become a cocoon of emotion and vice- cabernet-sauvignon self-pity, chocolate almond anger. The only shows you seem to find feature: brides glowing in lace gowns, gliding. Grooms, broad-shouldered with broader smiles. Desperate bids for approval. You throw the cold, black brick of a remote. You don’t change the channel. It’s been three days since you’ve stepped outside. The bed has begun conforming to your shape, or yours to its. The telephone rings and you stare for a moment. You’ve almost forgotten the sound.
“You can’t hide forever,” your Mother says. You hear her take a deep pull from the butt of her cigarette. The hiss of stale air squeezing through the cracks between her teeth seers your ears. You cough, a reflex. She exhales a smoke laden buffer and you clench your fist. She continues. “Besides, the clock is ticking,” she coughs, now.
“It isn’t,” you bark, propelling your shoulder blades from the warm, down pillow. It’s been hours, at least, since your back was last exposed. The fresh air sends a shiver down your spine.
“It is.” You hear the crunch of stale ashes grinding against a silver-crusted glass dish. “But you should have thought of that earlier.”
You’re back to work in no time. The crowded subway creates the illusion of togetherness. You smile slightly with the left side of your mouth and grip the center pole with both hands. You always stand in the center. Each time the double doors retract, your stomach knots and sinks. You gasp, a quiet gasp, letting your hands fall to your sides. You look to check if anyone is watching. No one is watching. You tilt your chin up and funnel through the doors like the rest.
Cathy from accounting says she knows a guy.
“Charming,” she says. “And he likes books.” You turn your head from the spreadsheet on the screen in front of you. “I think you’d like him.” You nod. The weeks crawl by.
“Bobby,” Cathy reminds, slipping you a small square of white paper with mismatched edges. Two are perfectly straight. Two are jagged and carelessly torn. “Here’s the address.”
The paper feels smooth as you gently run your thumb and index finger in circles on either side. You sigh.
“Thank you.”
You sit at a small, round table, sipping your Chardonnay. You swirl the oaked liquid about inside the confines of your pursed lips. It’s nothing special. It’s better than cabernet. You glance around the busy restaurant. Waiters like ants carry entrees about, gliding through aisles and smiling- careful not to run into one another- before disappearing back into the kitchen. The lights are dim and you struggle to keep your eyelids apart. You check your watch, shift your weight. It’s quarter-past seven.
Bobby arrives exactly one minute later. He is tall. His strawberry-blonde waves have settled into a style as impeccable as it is, most likely, unintentional. Your heart punches your sternum and you sit up. His smile is contagious. Charming- just like Cathy said. He hands you a single pink Camellia. Your cheeks mimic the color. The night flies by.
The following days are a whirl of fun. You talk about films and music and art. You tell him about the time you broke your wrist when you were fifteen. You learn that his parents are Republicans from Norfolk. You think it’s hilarious. You laugh.
Bobby takes you to all of the galleries you haven’t seen since college. You loved them when you were in college.The night Bobby first kisses you, he makes it into a game.
“Which photograph is your favorite?” he asks, placing his hand on your back. Not too high. Not too low. He places his hand exactly where a lover’s hand goes.
“Guess,” you say. You focus on the warmth of his fingers, the small of your back. You try to seem attentive.
“Fine,” he says. You smile. “What happens if I guess right?”
“We’ll see,” you answer. You can’t remember the last time you were coy.
You stare at the tall ceilings once you’re bored with a picture. You don’t notice yourself doing this. You don’t notice Bobby noticing you doing this. He guides you around the large, open room. He stops in front of a black and white photograph. You stop, too. The hardwood floor reflects your silhouettes. You notice this when you look down at your shoes and smile.
“It’s this one, isn’t it?” Bobby asks. You look up grinning. “So what do I get?”
“I don’t know,” you say. You like being coy.
He leans in and brushes his soft lips against yours. You forget where you are.
The following weeks are a flash of fantasy. You’ve never laughed so much. You walk the paths you haven’t walked in ages. You always loved walking the pier at night. The evening Bobby plans to tell you that he’s serious, you beat him to it.
“Were you going to say something?” you ask, having noticed Bobby breathe in and turn toward you. He didn’t say anything though, it just seemed like he might have. You hadn’t noticed intentionally, anyway. There was a charter passing along the canal. You liked the way the lights hung and it seemed like someone was making a toast. You were trying to see if you could hear them. Noticing Bobby’s breathe was incidental, but you say something about it anyway.
“No,” Bobby stutters and pauses. This is unlike him. “Well, I guess,” he pauses again. His voice is secondary to the drum of the soft waves smacking against the old wooden docks. You notice a flowerpot on the dock. It is small and unusual, strangely centered amongst splintered planks. Camellias. At least, you think they’re Camellias.
“I’m serious about this,” you say.
“Really?” You find his boy-like surprise somewhat irritating. Others might find it flattering. Your gaze is still fixed on the flowerpot. You shift your eyes.
“Yes.”
He laughs. He laughs an uncomfortable laugh- of overwhelming relief and joy. Bobby Bradley is falling in love.
You haven’t heard from your mother in weeks. You decide to call her. You pick up the phone, dial. Six rings later, you hear her raspy breath.
“I met someone,” you say. You’re being assertive.
She clears her throat.
“Let’s hope this one lasts.” You feel the methodical thump of her palm to the carton through the phone. Four times, like always. The tearing of plastic.
“It will,” you say. At least, you’ll make it. You hang up.
Over dinner you talk of work and exhaustion. You sit, cross-legged, in an artless eatery. The clinking of crystal. Muffled whispers. Bobby looks you in the eye.
“I’ll never finish by Friday,” you say. You swirl your half-empty merlot in the glass.
“You’ll finish long before Friday,” Bobbygrins. You’re not amused. You take a swig from your glass.
He thrusts, continuously. Rhythmic. Tribal. The drum of his hipbones against yours reminds you of waves crashing against a dock. You stare at the ceiling. Sweat drips onto your chest. You look at Bobby. His breathing is heavy, steady. He looks at you, cups your shoulders gently. He begins thrusting harder. The mahogany headboard snaps back and smacks the crown of your head. Not hard. It doesn’t hurt. You gasp anyway.
“Are you okay?” Bobby asks. The pause in motion is jarring. A knot forms in your stomach. You rub your head. It doesn’t hurt.
“Yes. But my head hurts.”
“I’m so sorry.” Bobby rolls over. He strokes your cheek with a paralysing softness. You want to die.
“Let’s just sleep.”
You wake up and Bobby is cooking you breakfast. The smell drifts in from the kitchen, attacking your nostrils. You hear the pan sizzle, the coffee drip. Bobby is humming perfectly on key. You slowly rise from the bed that is his. You sleep there so much that it’s started to conform to your shape, or yours to its. You open one of the drawers Bobby cleared out for you. He cleared out four. You only needed one. You feel the sudden urge to yank them all out. Instead, you remove an over-sized, heather grey t-shirt. It says Cornell, Bobby’s alma mater. You catch a glimpse of yourself in passing. It is strange and alarming. You stare for a moment. Your hair has grown long, your breasts less taut, your forehead slightly more wrinkled than before. The skin under your eyes looks fragile and grey. -----
“Breakfast is served,” you hear from the other room. His voice is candid, cheerful.
On the way home from work you stop at the corner store. Bobby asks if you can pick up a few things. You would have stayed out a little later, anyway. Now you have an excuse. In line you reach for a tabloid. Celebrity X is cheating on Y with Z, and Q has packed on pounds since the baby. You drop the tabloid. You stare at the glossy paper against the scuffed, murky floor. A strange hand reaches for the magazine before you do. You look to the face attached to the hand. It is handsome- olive, with piercing grey eyes. Your eyes lock. You feel embarrassed and ashamed at the same time. You want to look away, but you don’t. Neither does he. The cashier clears her throat. You snatch the tabloid from the strange hand, nod and place milk and bread on the conveyer. Bobby waits patiently.
“Sorry. The store was crowded,” you say placing the bags on the counter. Bobby walks up to you and kisses your forehead. He says nothing. You say nothing. The store wasn’t crowded.
The weather gets warmer. Bobby suggests you take a weekend trip to the beach. He knows how you love the beach. He packs up everything you’ll need. All you have to do is ride along.
You set your chairs down in the sand, open the cooler. Bobby pours you a glass of pinot grigio. Your favorite. He pours himself a glass, too. Bobby hates white wine. You sit next to each other, the breeze tossing your long locks, his strawberry waves. The translucent liquid sits still in your glass. He turns to you, crouches.
“Audrey Laura Anderson,” Bobby is on one knee. The four words shuttle off his tongue like bullets. “Will you marry me?” You want to scream, shove them back in his mouth like the four drawers he cleared out for you. For you. You want to get so close to him you touch noses, not stomachs, and yell; How could you, I only needed one! You see the grey skin, translucent and disintegrating under your eyes, your sagging breasts beneath the Cornell seal- the stranger, the ants, the blank, blinding spreadsheet. You hear your mother’s raspy breath. The tearing of plastic.
“Yes, Bobby,” you pause. You freeze. Your lips purse and you want to say it- you’re blanking.
“Michael,” he laughs. He trembles.
“I’m just so excited,” you say. You’re not. “I know, I know.” You didn’t.
“Yes, Bobby Michael Bradley, I will.”
“You can’t hide forever,” your Mother says. You hear her take a deep pull from the butt of her cigarette. The hiss of stale air squeezing through the cracks between her teeth seers your ears. You cough, a reflex. She exhales a smoke laden buffer and you clench your fist. She continues. “Besides, the clock is ticking,” she coughs, now.
“It isn’t,” you bark, propelling your shoulder blades from the warm, down pillow. It’s been hours, at least, since your back was last exposed. The fresh air sends a shiver down your spine.
“It is.” You hear the crunch of stale ashes grinding against a silver-crusted glass dish. “But you should have thought of that earlier.”
You’re back to work in no time. The crowded subway creates the illusion of togetherness. You smile slightly with the left side of your mouth and grip the center pole with both hands. You always stand in the center. Each time the double doors retract, your stomach knots and sinks. You gasp, a quiet gasp, letting your hands fall to your sides. You look to check if anyone is watching. No one is watching. You tilt your chin up and funnel through the doors like the rest.
Cathy from accounting says she knows a guy.
“Charming,” she says. “And he likes books.” You turn your head from the spreadsheet on the screen in front of you. “I think you’d like him.” You nod. The weeks crawl by.
“Bobby,” Cathy reminds, slipping you a small square of white paper with mismatched edges. Two are perfectly straight. Two are jagged and carelessly torn. “Here’s the address.”
The paper feels smooth as you gently run your thumb and index finger in circles on either side. You sigh.
“Thank you.”
You sit at a small, round table, sipping your Chardonnay. You swirl the oaked liquid about inside the confines of your pursed lips. It’s nothing special. It’s better than cabernet. You glance around the busy restaurant. Waiters like ants carry entrees about, gliding through aisles and smiling- careful not to run into one another- before disappearing back into the kitchen. The lights are dim and you struggle to keep your eyelids apart. You check your watch, shift your weight. It’s quarter-past seven.
Bobby arrives exactly one minute later. He is tall. His strawberry-blonde waves have settled into a style as impeccable as it is, most likely, unintentional. Your heart punches your sternum and you sit up. His smile is contagious. Charming- just like Cathy said. He hands you a single pink Camellia. Your cheeks mimic the color. The night flies by.
The following days are a whirl of fun. You talk about films and music and art. You tell him about the time you broke your wrist when you were fifteen. You learn that his parents are Republicans from Norfolk. You think it’s hilarious. You laugh.
Bobby takes you to all of the galleries you haven’t seen since college. You loved them when you were in college.The night Bobby first kisses you, he makes it into a game.
“Which photograph is your favorite?” he asks, placing his hand on your back. Not too high. Not too low. He places his hand exactly where a lover’s hand goes.
“Guess,” you say. You focus on the warmth of his fingers, the small of your back. You try to seem attentive.
“Fine,” he says. You smile. “What happens if I guess right?”
“We’ll see,” you answer. You can’t remember the last time you were coy.
You stare at the tall ceilings once you’re bored with a picture. You don’t notice yourself doing this. You don’t notice Bobby noticing you doing this. He guides you around the large, open room. He stops in front of a black and white photograph. You stop, too. The hardwood floor reflects your silhouettes. You notice this when you look down at your shoes and smile.
“It’s this one, isn’t it?” Bobby asks. You look up grinning. “So what do I get?”
“I don’t know,” you say. You like being coy.
He leans in and brushes his soft lips against yours. You forget where you are.
The following weeks are a flash of fantasy. You’ve never laughed so much. You walk the paths you haven’t walked in ages. You always loved walking the pier at night. The evening Bobby plans to tell you that he’s serious, you beat him to it.
“Were you going to say something?” you ask, having noticed Bobby breathe in and turn toward you. He didn’t say anything though, it just seemed like he might have. You hadn’t noticed intentionally, anyway. There was a charter passing along the canal. You liked the way the lights hung and it seemed like someone was making a toast. You were trying to see if you could hear them. Noticing Bobby’s breathe was incidental, but you say something about it anyway.
“No,” Bobby stutters and pauses. This is unlike him. “Well, I guess,” he pauses again. His voice is secondary to the drum of the soft waves smacking against the old wooden docks. You notice a flowerpot on the dock. It is small and unusual, strangely centered amongst splintered planks. Camellias. At least, you think they’re Camellias.
“I’m serious about this,” you say.
“Really?” You find his boy-like surprise somewhat irritating. Others might find it flattering. Your gaze is still fixed on the flowerpot. You shift your eyes.
“Yes.”
He laughs. He laughs an uncomfortable laugh- of overwhelming relief and joy. Bobby Bradley is falling in love.
You haven’t heard from your mother in weeks. You decide to call her. You pick up the phone, dial. Six rings later, you hear her raspy breath.
“I met someone,” you say. You’re being assertive.
She clears her throat.
“Let’s hope this one lasts.” You feel the methodical thump of her palm to the carton through the phone. Four times, like always. The tearing of plastic.
“It will,” you say. At least, you’ll make it. You hang up.
Over dinner you talk of work and exhaustion. You sit, cross-legged, in an artless eatery. The clinking of crystal. Muffled whispers. Bobby looks you in the eye.
“I’ll never finish by Friday,” you say. You swirl your half-empty merlot in the glass.
“You’ll finish long before Friday,” Bobbygrins. You’re not amused. You take a swig from your glass.
He thrusts, continuously. Rhythmic. Tribal. The drum of his hipbones against yours reminds you of waves crashing against a dock. You stare at the ceiling. Sweat drips onto your chest. You look at Bobby. His breathing is heavy, steady. He looks at you, cups your shoulders gently. He begins thrusting harder. The mahogany headboard snaps back and smacks the crown of your head. Not hard. It doesn’t hurt. You gasp anyway.
“Are you okay?” Bobby asks. The pause in motion is jarring. A knot forms in your stomach. You rub your head. It doesn’t hurt.
“Yes. But my head hurts.”
“I’m so sorry.” Bobby rolls over. He strokes your cheek with a paralysing softness. You want to die.
“Let’s just sleep.”
You wake up and Bobby is cooking you breakfast. The smell drifts in from the kitchen, attacking your nostrils. You hear the pan sizzle, the coffee drip. Bobby is humming perfectly on key. You slowly rise from the bed that is his. You sleep there so much that it’s started to conform to your shape, or yours to its. You open one of the drawers Bobby cleared out for you. He cleared out four. You only needed one. You feel the sudden urge to yank them all out. Instead, you remove an over-sized, heather grey t-shirt. It says Cornell, Bobby’s alma mater. You catch a glimpse of yourself in passing. It is strange and alarming. You stare for a moment. Your hair has grown long, your breasts less taut, your forehead slightly more wrinkled than before. The skin under your eyes looks fragile and grey. -----
“Breakfast is served,” you hear from the other room. His voice is candid, cheerful.
On the way home from work you stop at the corner store. Bobby asks if you can pick up a few things. You would have stayed out a little later, anyway. Now you have an excuse. In line you reach for a tabloid. Celebrity X is cheating on Y with Z, and Q has packed on pounds since the baby. You drop the tabloid. You stare at the glossy paper against the scuffed, murky floor. A strange hand reaches for the magazine before you do. You look to the face attached to the hand. It is handsome- olive, with piercing grey eyes. Your eyes lock. You feel embarrassed and ashamed at the same time. You want to look away, but you don’t. Neither does he. The cashier clears her throat. You snatch the tabloid from the strange hand, nod and place milk and bread on the conveyer. Bobby waits patiently.
“Sorry. The store was crowded,” you say placing the bags on the counter. Bobby walks up to you and kisses your forehead. He says nothing. You say nothing. The store wasn’t crowded.
The weather gets warmer. Bobby suggests you take a weekend trip to the beach. He knows how you love the beach. He packs up everything you’ll need. All you have to do is ride along.
You set your chairs down in the sand, open the cooler. Bobby pours you a glass of pinot grigio. Your favorite. He pours himself a glass, too. Bobby hates white wine. You sit next to each other, the breeze tossing your long locks, his strawberry waves. The translucent liquid sits still in your glass. He turns to you, crouches.
“Audrey Laura Anderson,” Bobby is on one knee. The four words shuttle off his tongue like bullets. “Will you marry me?” You want to scream, shove them back in his mouth like the four drawers he cleared out for you. For you. You want to get so close to him you touch noses, not stomachs, and yell; How could you, I only needed one! You see the grey skin, translucent and disintegrating under your eyes, your sagging breasts beneath the Cornell seal- the stranger, the ants, the blank, blinding spreadsheet. You hear your mother’s raspy breath. The tearing of plastic.
“Yes, Bobby,” you pause. You freeze. Your lips purse and you want to say it- you’re blanking.
“Michael,” he laughs. He trembles.
“I’m just so excited,” you say. You’re not. “I know, I know.” You didn’t.
“Yes, Bobby Michael Bradley, I will.”
God's Not Coming (creative nonfiction piece)
My eyes followed the blinking cursor from the bottom left corner of the page to the top right. File, save, close. I pushed all of the air in my body out in a cathartic sigh of relief. I stared blankly at the clock in front of me crossing an item off of the long list I’d been keeping in my head. A green, glowing fifty-five slowly came into focus. Shit. I looked over at my bed where a pile of open notebooks lay. My gaze fixed on the big, block letters that read STUDY, ASSHOLE with a vicious spiral of circles around them.
“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at,” I finally said out loud. I blinked furiously. I’d been staring at the same ambiguous photograph for upwards of thirty seconds before she walked through the door.
“I think it’s the ship,” she offered, glancing at the open page as she set her bags down on the counter.
I curled my bare toes against the cold kitchen floor and swivelled back and forth in the stool a bit. I hadn’t noticed the time. It was much later than I’d thought.
I kept flipping through my photography book while she checked the messages and rummaged through a pile of bills. She chuckled.
“Oh good, this bill’s for Dana, not me!” she laughed and put the crisp white envelope in a separate pile. “I love that,” she said almost under her breath as her lips pressed into a harmless smirk. “Did he tell you he applied for that full time position?”
“Yeah he told me,” I clasped my hands around my coffee mug in preparation to say what I thought about my boyfriend’s latest post-grad opportunity. “It’s great,” was all I could come up with. It was.
“Did he tell you how much it pays?” she asked, putting the last of the crisp white envelopes into their respective, orderly piles.
“He did,” I slowly loosened my grip and squared my shoulders to hers. “I told him you guys are going to kick him out… fast.” I smiled a little. I did tell him that.
“Oh, we won’t,” she grinned wide and tilted her head back, “we’ll just expect him to help out around here a little more,” she said, laughing a serious laugh.
I nodded and laughed along. The water rose past my ankles.
“No but really, we don’t mind him here as long as he’s working- and saving. As long as he’s got a plan,” she assured me.
My phone vibrated, shaking my focus. Staring down the abyss of a reminder I’d nearly forgotten that I was still waiting for a response. I’m always waiting. I ripped my phone out of my pocket to check. Please, please, please. The answer wasn’t good enough. That’s not part of the plan. I picked through a pile of clean clothes at the foot of my bed, throwing anything and everything I didn’t actually need over my shoulder. I heard a lamp fall somewhere behind me. I didn’t look back to check. At the bottom of the pile was the black, collared atrocity I hoped I’d never find. I pulled it over my head in a flash, hit the lights and darted out the door, all the while cursing the injustices of my schedule.
“That’s fair,” I replied before sipping my coffee. I gulped big and in that moment was sure that I’d swallowed an ounce of uncertainty that would expand like a black hole from the pit of my stomach and engulf me entirely in an ignorant panic. Questions raced through my mind as I felt the void looming slowly up my oesophagus, nearly suffocating me from the inside out. What’s the plan? I quickly gulped again, trying to choke down my insecurity.If I let it fester in the depths of my insides I could pretend it wasn’t there- or so I thought.
“He’s just gotta get himself together and realize he can’t quit this unless he has something as good, or better lined up. All this LA talk,” she’d moved to the sink and was rinsing dishes. I cut her off.
“He’s gotta earn it,” I imposed. It’s up to my knees.
“He just has to realize that if he wants to make movies that’s great- but he’s gotta get situated first.”
I faltered slightly and felt the jagged rocks flying back behind my feet as I walked an aggressive walk up the wide and painfully shallow steps leading up to the intersection. One of them found its way into my shoe and was jabbing my heel as I approached the corner. I stopped to fish it out before realizing the light was just about to turn red. I watched a line of cars mockingly roll by as I leaned against the telephone pole. The corner of a flyer gently tickled my ear. I rubbed my head on my shoulder and reached out to tear down the paper offender.
Stressed out? Overwhelmed? Need tips to manage your time?
My eyes didn’t make it past the first line. You’ve got to be kidding.
I crumbled the flyer and threw it behind me.
“I’m fine, thanks.” She nodded at me, acknowledging my response before pouring herself a cup of coffee and leaning back against the counter. “He’s on the right track though,” I agreed after a moment, my voice slowly trailing off.
“You don’t want to end up like my ex-husband,” she turned toward me and wiped her hands dry on a nearby dishtowel. She went on, “the starving artist, so talented, SO talented and never wants to work, what’s he doing now?”
I didn’t know, but she didn’t have to tell me. My ship was sinking.
“Same with my dad,” I cringed. He never got his shit together. “He was a great musician, brilliant, really- but he never wanted to work.” If I recognize it then it won’t actually happen, right? I clenched my coffee cup. I felt it crawling up my throat again and I forced out a sigh. My lip quivered. “Great. You’re a genius- and where did it get you?”
No one answered.
“Pick up or delivery? Hold please?” Joe put the line on hold and whipped his hand in a circular motion toward me. I’m running out of time.
I awkwardly maneuvered past a line of eager customers in the narrow space the store’s setup allotted. I picked up the line. Sara slid through the kitchen door while I was still taking the order. Through the crowd I didn’t notice her walk in. I finished up jotting down a succession of apps and entrees and placed the worn black receiver back on its base.
“Oh, are you gonna work tonight?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she answered.
“Are you sure you want to?” I asked differently this time- guilty, almost. I wanted to talk her out of it. I always fix the leaks last minute- but at least I do it myself. Looking at her formed a pit in my stomach. I’m dragging her down with me.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine,” she said waving her hand down at me. She wasn’t making eye contact with anyone and her voice was soft and tired.
“Do you still need someone to work for you Saturday? I’m going away for the weekend or I would,” I was talking to make up for what I wasn’t able to do.
“Yeah, well…” she started, but I cut her off.
At the same time, Dave was walking past us casually on his way out. I stopped him dead in his tracks. Welcome aboard.
“Dave! What are you doing Saturday?” I called out. He stared down at what I assumed was an imaginary planner on the ground and scrunched his forehead. I didn’t let him answer. The more the merrier, trust me. “Want to work for Sara Saturday since you graduated already and she’s probably got a midterm on Monday to study for and more assignments than you could imagine to work on all weekend?” I could have kept going but I could tell by his tapping foot and bopping head that I didn’t need to. We literally had him cornered; Sara still wouldn’t make eye contact.
Plug. Plug. Plug.
“You know what,” he smiled, reluctantly, “I don’t have anything going on. I’ll be here,” he assured both of us and stepped toward the door. He swung his shoulders back to half-face us, “And Kia, thank you for asking for Sara,” he sneered and glared at her. She ignored his cutting glance, “But yeah, I’ll be here,” he repeated.
Dave left as Sara walked past Joe and into the restroom. I stood quietly next to the counter. Joe was seated at the far end of the kitchen, making orders on his laptop. He hadn’t looked up at us once. It seemed like a century had passed and Sara still hadn’t come out of the bathroom. The more time passed, the more I thought. What am I doing? I stared at the cold stone of the counter top in front of me, wondering how everything would have played out if I reacted differently. I’m not going to get everything done either way. I placed my hands out on the counter top in front of me and leaned over.
“Kia, get up,” she ordered, flicking the lights on. The harsh fluorescents forced my eyes open and a jerk reaction to sit up. Those lights were hardly ever on. The windows let enough light in without them. Mrs. Delconte wanted my attention.
“I have your reading checks from yesterday,” she shot me a look before beginning to pass the stack of papers marked in green pen around the small semi circle of students. There were only seven of us.
She would give me mine last. I looked over at Kyle, who was grinning at his mark. It was a large, green A, as usual. She stood in front of my desk waiting for me to peel my eyes off of my neighbours paper before handing me back mine. When I finally looked up, she slid the assignment on my desk, face down. I didn’t touch it. The bell rang. I flipped my paper over and a big green B stared up at me. I scanned the page for corrections. There were none. I snatched Kyle’s paper from his desk while he made room in his bag for his books. We have, like, all the same answers. What is this shit?
I shoved the paper back on his desk and marched up to Mrs. Delconte, who was seated at her own desk in the corner of the room.
“Why’d I get a B?” I questioned, clenching the paper before her eyes.
“Because that’s what you deserved,” she was unamused with my antics, as usual.
“How? Kyle got an A and we had basically the same answers. You didn’t even mark anything wrong,” I was not following her logic this time.
“Kyle did the reading,” she answered coldly.
“But we had all the same answers. It’s not like I cheated,” I whined. It was true, I hadn’t cheated. Cheating successfully would have been too much work.
“I know you didn’t cheat,” she’d hardly lifted her head from her computer screen until then.
“So what’s the problem?”
She looked me in the eye.
“You didn’t read.”
“Wha-,” I stuttered, “I, but,” she knew I couldn’t lie to her. I was confused, but annoyed enough to argue, “but I answered all of the questions right!”
“That’s great, Kia, but you didn’t do the work. From now on being smart isn’t going to get you A’s.”
The late bell rang. I stormed out.
When she finally reappeared, Sara’s eyes were pink and glossy. She walked slowly. Her shoulders were tight to her chest and her fists were clenched. She offered a half smile. I stood up straight and turned to face her.
“So you’re covered Saturday,” I reassured her. You’re welcome.
“Yeah. Thanks,” she was looking at me now. She turned slightly and opened her eyes wide to fight back a tear.
I put my hand on her shoulder. Why isn’t this working?
I loosened my grip and stared at the flat rock in my tiny palm for a moment before tossing it. It made an anticlimactic splash as it went straight through the water before me. I grabbed another, calculated the motion of my wrist and held my breath. It made one good hop before disappearing beneath the glassy surface. I let out a long sigh.
“Hi,” I heard a voice call from behind me. “What are you doing today?” I turned to see my neighbour, Alex, holding her own pile of rocks and doting an eager grin.
“I don’t know yet,” I replied. I was preoccupied- convinced that on the third time scouring through the pile my perfect rock would magically appear. I looked back up to Alex, who was fidgeting now. I shimmied down the long wooden plank where I sat, dragging my pile with me to make room.
“Hey!” another voice called out from behind us. I turned to see an unfamiliar face that resembled Alex, but taller and with much shorter hair. He walked toward us.
“This is my brother, Ryan,” Alex told me. He was closer now, but still hadn’t sat down with us.
“Hi. I’m Kia,” I told him.
“Kia?” he repeated back loudly.
“Yeah, Kia,” I said, still fixed on scrutinizing my stones.
“What’s your real name?” he asked with a tone of scepticism.
“Kia,” I answered.
He hunched over holding his stomach and let out a bellowing laugh. I looked at his sister, confused. She mirrored my expression.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he held his hand up at us, “you’re name is really Kia?” he was gasping for air.
“Yes my name is Kia,” I huffed. I crossed my arms and looked at him sternly. Why can’t I have regular name?
“HA HA HA,” he emphasized each syllable in mockery. I stood up, gathering my rocks. I looked at Alex, who was still sitting, trying to pretend she didn’t hear her older brother.
“Stop laughing at me,” I pleaded, “I don’t know what’s so funny.”
“Kia! Like Kia pet,” he was laughing hard again, amused at himself.
“Stop it that’s not funny,” I was getting flustered. Why can’t I be regular?
“Kia pet, Kia pet,” he kept taunting.
Alex stood up and turned to him, “stop it Ryan you’re being mean!” she yelled, “I’m gonna tell Mom if you don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop. He just kept yelling, giggling at himself. His voice echoed between my ears and rung all around me in a clamorous roar. I hugged my pile of rocks like a safety blanket, tighter and tighter as the taunts got louder. I couldn’t take it any more. I grabbed one from the pile, dropping most of the rest and threw it at him with all my five-year-old might.
Now I just feel bad.
“Can I work for you tomorrow?” I offered through pursed lips.
She hesitated and wiped her eyes again. She paused before answering.
“It’s up to you, whatever you want,” she replied, slightly hunched over the counter, fighting the urge to hold her head in her hands.
Plug. Plug. Plug.
“I’ll work for you. Don’t worry about it.”
She took a loud, deep breath and nodded her head. She whispered under her breath, “okay, okay.”
I felt the water surging, still.
The phone rang. I answered.
“Ciconte’s, how can I help you?” the words shuttled off my tongue like bullets from an automatic shotgun. I open my mouth, pull the trigger, before long I don’t even realize what’s coming out any more and I can’t stop it. I haven’t gotten any complaints, though. Just a bunch of leaks now and not enough rubber.
I scribbled down the order, noting every detail uttered by the particular old grump on the other end of the line. I hung up and fumbled for my keys on the shelf beneath me. My eyes scanned from the far end of the kitchen to the dust-clad glass exit. No one’s watching me now. I walked home slowly, debating whether the repetitive motion of one foot following the other was actually moving me forward. I was certain it was after watching a rock shoot from the tip of my toes into the street as my foot deserted the level sidewalk to greet the blacktop beneath it. I watched the shard tumble gracefully against the coarse, weathered blacktop. I bent down to pick it up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the gleam of a Mercedes grill flashing around the corner. I was two feet off the curb when I felt the driver’s eyes on me- the screech of the brakes pierced my ears, followed by incessant honking. I raised my head to a ghost white face that looked more frightened than angry.
Whoops.
It hit him straight in the kneecap.
Ryan dropped to the ground and Alex ran to his side immediately. He wasn’t chanting any more. After a moment, he let out a yelp and began sobbing. I could feel the tears welling up in my own eyes.
It’s almost over my head.
I bolted home as fast as I could, still clenching a stone tight in my fist.
“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at,” I finally said out loud. I blinked furiously. I’d been staring at the same ambiguous photograph for upwards of thirty seconds before she walked through the door.
“I think it’s the ship,” she offered, glancing at the open page as she set her bags down on the counter.
I curled my bare toes against the cold kitchen floor and swivelled back and forth in the stool a bit. I hadn’t noticed the time. It was much later than I’d thought.
I kept flipping through my photography book while she checked the messages and rummaged through a pile of bills. She chuckled.
“Oh good, this bill’s for Dana, not me!” she laughed and put the crisp white envelope in a separate pile. “I love that,” she said almost under her breath as her lips pressed into a harmless smirk. “Did he tell you he applied for that full time position?”
“Yeah he told me,” I clasped my hands around my coffee mug in preparation to say what I thought about my boyfriend’s latest post-grad opportunity. “It’s great,” was all I could come up with. It was.
“Did he tell you how much it pays?” she asked, putting the last of the crisp white envelopes into their respective, orderly piles.
“He did,” I slowly loosened my grip and squared my shoulders to hers. “I told him you guys are going to kick him out… fast.” I smiled a little. I did tell him that.
“Oh, we won’t,” she grinned wide and tilted her head back, “we’ll just expect him to help out around here a little more,” she said, laughing a serious laugh.
I nodded and laughed along. The water rose past my ankles.
“No but really, we don’t mind him here as long as he’s working- and saving. As long as he’s got a plan,” she assured me.
My phone vibrated, shaking my focus. Staring down the abyss of a reminder I’d nearly forgotten that I was still waiting for a response. I’m always waiting. I ripped my phone out of my pocket to check. Please, please, please. The answer wasn’t good enough. That’s not part of the plan. I picked through a pile of clean clothes at the foot of my bed, throwing anything and everything I didn’t actually need over my shoulder. I heard a lamp fall somewhere behind me. I didn’t look back to check. At the bottom of the pile was the black, collared atrocity I hoped I’d never find. I pulled it over my head in a flash, hit the lights and darted out the door, all the while cursing the injustices of my schedule.
“That’s fair,” I replied before sipping my coffee. I gulped big and in that moment was sure that I’d swallowed an ounce of uncertainty that would expand like a black hole from the pit of my stomach and engulf me entirely in an ignorant panic. Questions raced through my mind as I felt the void looming slowly up my oesophagus, nearly suffocating me from the inside out. What’s the plan? I quickly gulped again, trying to choke down my insecurity.If I let it fester in the depths of my insides I could pretend it wasn’t there- or so I thought.
“He’s just gotta get himself together and realize he can’t quit this unless he has something as good, or better lined up. All this LA talk,” she’d moved to the sink and was rinsing dishes. I cut her off.
“He’s gotta earn it,” I imposed. It’s up to my knees.
“He just has to realize that if he wants to make movies that’s great- but he’s gotta get situated first.”
I faltered slightly and felt the jagged rocks flying back behind my feet as I walked an aggressive walk up the wide and painfully shallow steps leading up to the intersection. One of them found its way into my shoe and was jabbing my heel as I approached the corner. I stopped to fish it out before realizing the light was just about to turn red. I watched a line of cars mockingly roll by as I leaned against the telephone pole. The corner of a flyer gently tickled my ear. I rubbed my head on my shoulder and reached out to tear down the paper offender.
Stressed out? Overwhelmed? Need tips to manage your time?
My eyes didn’t make it past the first line. You’ve got to be kidding.
I crumbled the flyer and threw it behind me.
“I’m fine, thanks.” She nodded at me, acknowledging my response before pouring herself a cup of coffee and leaning back against the counter. “He’s on the right track though,” I agreed after a moment, my voice slowly trailing off.
“You don’t want to end up like my ex-husband,” she turned toward me and wiped her hands dry on a nearby dishtowel. She went on, “the starving artist, so talented, SO talented and never wants to work, what’s he doing now?”
I didn’t know, but she didn’t have to tell me. My ship was sinking.
“Same with my dad,” I cringed. He never got his shit together. “He was a great musician, brilliant, really- but he never wanted to work.” If I recognize it then it won’t actually happen, right? I clenched my coffee cup. I felt it crawling up my throat again and I forced out a sigh. My lip quivered. “Great. You’re a genius- and where did it get you?”
No one answered.
“Pick up or delivery? Hold please?” Joe put the line on hold and whipped his hand in a circular motion toward me. I’m running out of time.
I awkwardly maneuvered past a line of eager customers in the narrow space the store’s setup allotted. I picked up the line. Sara slid through the kitchen door while I was still taking the order. Through the crowd I didn’t notice her walk in. I finished up jotting down a succession of apps and entrees and placed the worn black receiver back on its base.
“Oh, are you gonna work tonight?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she answered.
“Are you sure you want to?” I asked differently this time- guilty, almost. I wanted to talk her out of it. I always fix the leaks last minute- but at least I do it myself. Looking at her formed a pit in my stomach. I’m dragging her down with me.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine,” she said waving her hand down at me. She wasn’t making eye contact with anyone and her voice was soft and tired.
“Do you still need someone to work for you Saturday? I’m going away for the weekend or I would,” I was talking to make up for what I wasn’t able to do.
“Yeah, well…” she started, but I cut her off.
At the same time, Dave was walking past us casually on his way out. I stopped him dead in his tracks. Welcome aboard.
“Dave! What are you doing Saturday?” I called out. He stared down at what I assumed was an imaginary planner on the ground and scrunched his forehead. I didn’t let him answer. The more the merrier, trust me. “Want to work for Sara Saturday since you graduated already and she’s probably got a midterm on Monday to study for and more assignments than you could imagine to work on all weekend?” I could have kept going but I could tell by his tapping foot and bopping head that I didn’t need to. We literally had him cornered; Sara still wouldn’t make eye contact.
Plug. Plug. Plug.
“You know what,” he smiled, reluctantly, “I don’t have anything going on. I’ll be here,” he assured both of us and stepped toward the door. He swung his shoulders back to half-face us, “And Kia, thank you for asking for Sara,” he sneered and glared at her. She ignored his cutting glance, “But yeah, I’ll be here,” he repeated.
Dave left as Sara walked past Joe and into the restroom. I stood quietly next to the counter. Joe was seated at the far end of the kitchen, making orders on his laptop. He hadn’t looked up at us once. It seemed like a century had passed and Sara still hadn’t come out of the bathroom. The more time passed, the more I thought. What am I doing? I stared at the cold stone of the counter top in front of me, wondering how everything would have played out if I reacted differently. I’m not going to get everything done either way. I placed my hands out on the counter top in front of me and leaned over.
“Kia, get up,” she ordered, flicking the lights on. The harsh fluorescents forced my eyes open and a jerk reaction to sit up. Those lights were hardly ever on. The windows let enough light in without them. Mrs. Delconte wanted my attention.
“I have your reading checks from yesterday,” she shot me a look before beginning to pass the stack of papers marked in green pen around the small semi circle of students. There were only seven of us.
She would give me mine last. I looked over at Kyle, who was grinning at his mark. It was a large, green A, as usual. She stood in front of my desk waiting for me to peel my eyes off of my neighbours paper before handing me back mine. When I finally looked up, she slid the assignment on my desk, face down. I didn’t touch it. The bell rang. I flipped my paper over and a big green B stared up at me. I scanned the page for corrections. There were none. I snatched Kyle’s paper from his desk while he made room in his bag for his books. We have, like, all the same answers. What is this shit?
I shoved the paper back on his desk and marched up to Mrs. Delconte, who was seated at her own desk in the corner of the room.
“Why’d I get a B?” I questioned, clenching the paper before her eyes.
“Because that’s what you deserved,” she was unamused with my antics, as usual.
“How? Kyle got an A and we had basically the same answers. You didn’t even mark anything wrong,” I was not following her logic this time.
“Kyle did the reading,” she answered coldly.
“But we had all the same answers. It’s not like I cheated,” I whined. It was true, I hadn’t cheated. Cheating successfully would have been too much work.
“I know you didn’t cheat,” she’d hardly lifted her head from her computer screen until then.
“So what’s the problem?”
She looked me in the eye.
“You didn’t read.”
“Wha-,” I stuttered, “I, but,” she knew I couldn’t lie to her. I was confused, but annoyed enough to argue, “but I answered all of the questions right!”
“That’s great, Kia, but you didn’t do the work. From now on being smart isn’t going to get you A’s.”
The late bell rang. I stormed out.
When she finally reappeared, Sara’s eyes were pink and glossy. She walked slowly. Her shoulders were tight to her chest and her fists were clenched. She offered a half smile. I stood up straight and turned to face her.
“So you’re covered Saturday,” I reassured her. You’re welcome.
“Yeah. Thanks,” she was looking at me now. She turned slightly and opened her eyes wide to fight back a tear.
I put my hand on her shoulder. Why isn’t this working?
I loosened my grip and stared at the flat rock in my tiny palm for a moment before tossing it. It made an anticlimactic splash as it went straight through the water before me. I grabbed another, calculated the motion of my wrist and held my breath. It made one good hop before disappearing beneath the glassy surface. I let out a long sigh.
“Hi,” I heard a voice call from behind me. “What are you doing today?” I turned to see my neighbour, Alex, holding her own pile of rocks and doting an eager grin.
“I don’t know yet,” I replied. I was preoccupied- convinced that on the third time scouring through the pile my perfect rock would magically appear. I looked back up to Alex, who was fidgeting now. I shimmied down the long wooden plank where I sat, dragging my pile with me to make room.
“Hey!” another voice called out from behind us. I turned to see an unfamiliar face that resembled Alex, but taller and with much shorter hair. He walked toward us.
“This is my brother, Ryan,” Alex told me. He was closer now, but still hadn’t sat down with us.
“Hi. I’m Kia,” I told him.
“Kia?” he repeated back loudly.
“Yeah, Kia,” I said, still fixed on scrutinizing my stones.
“What’s your real name?” he asked with a tone of scepticism.
“Kia,” I answered.
He hunched over holding his stomach and let out a bellowing laugh. I looked at his sister, confused. She mirrored my expression.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he held his hand up at us, “you’re name is really Kia?” he was gasping for air.
“Yes my name is Kia,” I huffed. I crossed my arms and looked at him sternly. Why can’t I have regular name?
“HA HA HA,” he emphasized each syllable in mockery. I stood up, gathering my rocks. I looked at Alex, who was still sitting, trying to pretend she didn’t hear her older brother.
“Stop laughing at me,” I pleaded, “I don’t know what’s so funny.”
“Kia! Like Kia pet,” he was laughing hard again, amused at himself.
“Stop it that’s not funny,” I was getting flustered. Why can’t I be regular?
“Kia pet, Kia pet,” he kept taunting.
Alex stood up and turned to him, “stop it Ryan you’re being mean!” she yelled, “I’m gonna tell Mom if you don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop. He just kept yelling, giggling at himself. His voice echoed between my ears and rung all around me in a clamorous roar. I hugged my pile of rocks like a safety blanket, tighter and tighter as the taunts got louder. I couldn’t take it any more. I grabbed one from the pile, dropping most of the rest and threw it at him with all my five-year-old might.
Now I just feel bad.
“Can I work for you tomorrow?” I offered through pursed lips.
She hesitated and wiped her eyes again. She paused before answering.
“It’s up to you, whatever you want,” she replied, slightly hunched over the counter, fighting the urge to hold her head in her hands.
Plug. Plug. Plug.
“I’ll work for you. Don’t worry about it.”
She took a loud, deep breath and nodded her head. She whispered under her breath, “okay, okay.”
I felt the water surging, still.
The phone rang. I answered.
“Ciconte’s, how can I help you?” the words shuttled off my tongue like bullets from an automatic shotgun. I open my mouth, pull the trigger, before long I don’t even realize what’s coming out any more and I can’t stop it. I haven’t gotten any complaints, though. Just a bunch of leaks now and not enough rubber.
I scribbled down the order, noting every detail uttered by the particular old grump on the other end of the line. I hung up and fumbled for my keys on the shelf beneath me. My eyes scanned from the far end of the kitchen to the dust-clad glass exit. No one’s watching me now. I walked home slowly, debating whether the repetitive motion of one foot following the other was actually moving me forward. I was certain it was after watching a rock shoot from the tip of my toes into the street as my foot deserted the level sidewalk to greet the blacktop beneath it. I watched the shard tumble gracefully against the coarse, weathered blacktop. I bent down to pick it up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the gleam of a Mercedes grill flashing around the corner. I was two feet off the curb when I felt the driver’s eyes on me- the screech of the brakes pierced my ears, followed by incessant honking. I raised my head to a ghost white face that looked more frightened than angry.
Whoops.
It hit him straight in the kneecap.
Ryan dropped to the ground and Alex ran to his side immediately. He wasn’t chanting any more. After a moment, he let out a yelp and began sobbing. I could feel the tears welling up in my own eyes.
It’s almost over my head.
I bolted home as fast as I could, still clenching a stone tight in my fist.
First Chapter of Novel Project
I sit on my bed, shaded in by the translucent tool of the canopy—my cocoon, away from the world-- and bury my head in a pile of leather-bound, dust-covered books. I hope no one comes upstairs as I flip through an old photo-album, breaking only to gaze around my room. I hate this room. The young, purple walls. The flowers. Everything in its place. It’s almost as unnerving as the satin emerald dress that’s taunting me, hanging from the stark white closet door. I let out a deep, airy sigh and look back at the album. My four-year-old self, in a soft pink dress and pointed birthday hat, smiles and waves from the backyard. The yard looks the same. I squint at the picture, hardly recognizing myself. I hear a knock at the door.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I shuffle to gather the books on top of my bed and return them underneath. I lift up the skirt of my bed. She can’t see me with these. There’s hardly room, with all of the others.I shove them in anyway, smoothing out my bed skirt and comforter and make way to the vanity. I should be ready by now.
“Come in,” I say.
“Carly, it's almost seven o'clock. Shouldn't you be dressed by now? Kevin will be here any minute.” My mother pats her perfect hair as she speaks to me.
I run a blush brush over my cheeks. Porcelain, as she’d called them.
“Here honey, I'll do it.” She takes the brush and starts caking on a carnation colored powder. I want to smack the brush out of her hand.
“Not too much, mom,” I say, raising my voice just enough to sound sweet.
“Don't you want to look perfect when they crown you homecoming queen?”
She squeezes my cheeks, hard. I try to shake my head away but can’t in her grip. She finishes painting up my face like this. I bet she’ll tell me after that her hold will make the blush last. She finally releases me and I turn my head, pretend I’m looking at something.
“I don't want to go,” I say.
Her eye twitches and she clenches her teeth. She’s been doing this a lot lately, I’ve noticed. She clears her throat.
“Now, that doesn't sound like the Carly I know,” she says. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You just get dressed, now. Let's not keep everyone waiting.”
She walks to the door and just before leaving, looks back, locks eyes and smiles. I wish she was dead, sometimes.
She quietly pulls the door shut behind her.
I almost forgot. I open the drawer in my vanity and pull out the small, orange and white prescription bottle. I stare at it, twisting in my fingers. The few pills that are left rattle off of the curved plastic inside. I wonder. I put it back in the drawer.
I put on the dress. My mother picked it out. The satin makes my skin tingle, hairs stand up, in the worst way possible. I smooth my hair down, in the mirror noticing it’s the same motion that she does. I feel a knot twist in my stomach and slip on my shoes.
I hear the doorbell. This is it. Luckily, my father beats me to it. Everyone seems to gawk at me, like I’m some foreign bird or a prize in a case, as I walk down the stairs. I try not to look Kevin in the eye, not after last weekend, at least. He looks at me, though, standing in the doorway, flowers in hand. He shakes my father’s hand, firmly I notice, before entering the living room.
“Kevin! So nice to see you,” my father says. I can hear in his voice that he means it and I wish he didn’t.
“You've cleaned up nicely since last night!” My mother says.
I’m not sure if she ever means anything she says.
“Last time we saw him he was covered in mud and making game winning drives, huh, Car?” My father nudges me and smiles, winks at Kevin. I nod and half smile at Kevin.
It’s all I can muster.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Kevin offers, turning his eyes down. He’s so good with parents, pretending he’s modest.
“If you say so, champ,” my father says.
Sometimes I think he wishes he’d had a boy. Not in the powerless, beyond control way. Most people tend to grow happiest in situations they can’t change. His silent resentment, mostly reserved, echoes a wrong choice—one he wishes he could remake.
“Alright, boys, enough football talk. It's picture time,” my mother says, breaking up my thoughts and making me self-conscious. Have they noticed me since they started chatting?
My mother finds the camera while Kevin hands me the flowers he's been holding. We stand near a fireplace in the center of the room. The brick mantel is lined with pictures of us, family photos. Strange, I think, that there are hardly any from my childhood. I’m brought back by the incessant click of snapshots being taken.
“Alright, you two. Ready?” My mother asks, having already taken a few photos wherein we were not. She gestures to us to stand close. I hold the flowers tight in front of me and force a smile. I can feel Kevin grinning showily behind me. I’m thankful that this doesn’t last long.
“Alright, I think that's enough. You two oughta be on your way already,” my father says.
Sometimes I think he cares about me.
“You can never have too many pictures,” my mother says. She takes one more photo before putting the camera down. “How else do you expect to remember these precious moments?” She grins and tilts her head at her husband. My father clears his throat.
“It's getting late, you two should get going,” he says.
Kevin and I gather our things and head out the door. I’m relieved that we still haven’t spoken to one another. Through the front doorway I see the Sheriff's car parked directly outside of the house. Of course, we’re taking that.
“Dad let you have the car tonight, Kevin?” My father asks.
Sometimes, I think he’s jealous of me.
“Guess he thought I earned it after yesterday's game,” Kevin says.
My father gives a reassuring nod as if to say, of course, and we walk to the car.
“Be careful!” My mother calls from the porch.
“Have fun,” my father says.
Sometimes I think my mother resents him.
Kevin nods and I wave.
My mother smiles and waves back. I see her lips purse and move slightly. I imagine she’s muttering something along the lines of she better not blow it under her breath.
Kevin fiddles with the radio as we drive slowly through our cookie cutter neighborhood. I learned that term from a book. A book I probably shouldn’t have been reading. No one would ever refer to such as glorious place as our home that way. Every house that lines the perfectly symmetrical streets looks the same-- size, color, build, they're virtually indistinguishable from one another, though-- and I’ve never really thought about it until now. The formerly comforting neighborhood watch signs and flags with the town seal are especially prevalent.
Is it like this everywhere?
I wouldn’t know.
I continue to stare out the passenger side window as the static grows louder. It doesn’t bother me.
I think back to that night. It was just last weekend. I sat in Kevin’s truck, in nearly the same position, only we were parked on the hilltop, overlooking everything. The stars were so bright, the air so crisp. Everything felt new to me. I wanted to share it.
“Don't you think about it?” I said to him, my gaze fixed on the flood of lights and shadows beneath us. “It's so strange, how we are. I mean, the mountains stretch for miles around us under this crystal clear sky, and he we are, all of us- like a page out of a magazine. When's the last time you heard about a crime? I mean, Jackson Butler tried to sneak out of town past curfew and- I, don't even know.” I said to him. I shifted in my seat and felt my voice quake slightly. “I can't remember the last time I saw him.” I paused again, I really couldn’t. “I saw him drive by the bus stop every morning, and then one day,” I sighed, “I didn't.” I turned to him. “Don't you find it strange?”
Kevin was staring at my chest, practically drooling. I doubted that he’d heard a word I’d said. I yelled his name.
“Yeah, yeah- Jackson Butler. It's strange,” he answered, slowly peeling his eyes from the buttons on my blouse, “if you think nice is strange. People would kill to live here. Besides, where else would you want to go?” He scoffed and I wanted to shove him out of the car. Take off, maybe run him over on the way. “So, why don't we enjoy how nice it is” he said. Then he leaned in, grabbing my head from behind with one hand and unbuttoning the top button of my blouse with the other. Our lips locked for a moment before I pushed him off. It wasn’t at all like what I imagined a kiss would feel like—from what I’ve read—but the contact was nice.
“Stop it! I'm trying to talk to you,” I said. I crossed my arms and inched myself into the farthest corner of the truck's cab.
“I didn't bring you up here to talk,” he answered, which had slowly become apparent to me.
“Take me home then, I have reading to do anyway,” I said.
“Reading. Ha. You and your books. Maybe if you put your stupid books down once in a while you wouldn't be so paranoid all of the time.”
He turned the key in the ignition and slammed into reverse. From then on, I didn’t look at him. Not until tonight.
Now I have to look at him, talk to him. I have to pretend that everything is alright. It’s not.
“What's your problem?” Kevin says after settling on a station.
I sit up straight in my seat and smooth out my dress. I’m in no rush to answer.
“Nothing. What do you mean?” I let the words roll off of my tongue.
If I have to wait to know, so should he.
“I don't know. You're being strange and quiet. I thought you'd be excited.”
“For what?”
“For what? Come on, you know you're going to be crowned queen. Don't pretend like it's a big surprise.” He’s so certain it makes me uncomfortable.
“Oh, that,” I say, feigning nonchalance.
I square my shoulders away from Kevin.
“Yeah, that. It's a pretty big deal. Lots of girls would kill to be you tonight.”
“I wish they would.”
I freeze when the shadow of the school creeps into view, looming in the distance like a treacherous concrete cave. The kind of place few dare venture because of the monstrous, mysterious beast that sleeps inside. A beast whose terror reins in the depths of legend, but who no one has ever lived to describe. I read that once. I wonder what Kevin would say if I spoke of things this way.
It hits me, where we’re going, and I want to turn around.
“Stop being dramatic. You never used to talk like that. You know, you're lucky I don't-“ I cut him off.
Making Kevin angry won’t help anything.
“Calm down, I'm joking.” I say.
We pull into the school parking lot. It’s brimming with cars, the same cars, smitten couples all dressed the same. Cheery pinks and classic reds. Now I know why my mother picked green.
Has everyone always looked this way?
The same?
“Ready?” Kevin says, turning off the engine. I know he’s going to try to kiss me. I suck in a burst of air and turn my cheek. I let his lips land on my skin for a fleeting moment before opening the car door. We walk, in silence, to the gymnasium.
The closer I get to the scene the less distinguishable it becomes. From far away at least the different shades and tones made everyone look separate. In the sea of shades of rose and neatly combed back hair, I can hardly tell where one body ends and the next begins. The only one who stands out is me. My eyes trace around the room. The tall ceiling seems closer and closer the longer I let my gaze linger. I hear laughter, chatting—I can’t help but think it’s about me. Even on the outskirts of the dancing couple cluster, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, mindlessly, without a care or a question in the world. Even the chaperones look like them, a few years from now, grinning.
What are they all thinking?
I have to find out the truth. I’m not sure if I’m ready.
Kevin sneaks up behind me. I feel his hand on my back before I see his face.
“I have to go to the ladies room,” I say. “I’ll just be a minute.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I shuffle to gather the books on top of my bed and return them underneath. I lift up the skirt of my bed. She can’t see me with these. There’s hardly room, with all of the others.I shove them in anyway, smoothing out my bed skirt and comforter and make way to the vanity. I should be ready by now.
“Come in,” I say.
“Carly, it's almost seven o'clock. Shouldn't you be dressed by now? Kevin will be here any minute.” My mother pats her perfect hair as she speaks to me.
I run a blush brush over my cheeks. Porcelain, as she’d called them.
“Here honey, I'll do it.” She takes the brush and starts caking on a carnation colored powder. I want to smack the brush out of her hand.
“Not too much, mom,” I say, raising my voice just enough to sound sweet.
“Don't you want to look perfect when they crown you homecoming queen?”
She squeezes my cheeks, hard. I try to shake my head away but can’t in her grip. She finishes painting up my face like this. I bet she’ll tell me after that her hold will make the blush last. She finally releases me and I turn my head, pretend I’m looking at something.
“I don't want to go,” I say.
Her eye twitches and she clenches her teeth. She’s been doing this a lot lately, I’ve noticed. She clears her throat.
“Now, that doesn't sound like the Carly I know,” she says. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You just get dressed, now. Let's not keep everyone waiting.”
She walks to the door and just before leaving, looks back, locks eyes and smiles. I wish she was dead, sometimes.
She quietly pulls the door shut behind her.
I almost forgot. I open the drawer in my vanity and pull out the small, orange and white prescription bottle. I stare at it, twisting in my fingers. The few pills that are left rattle off of the curved plastic inside. I wonder. I put it back in the drawer.
I put on the dress. My mother picked it out. The satin makes my skin tingle, hairs stand up, in the worst way possible. I smooth my hair down, in the mirror noticing it’s the same motion that she does. I feel a knot twist in my stomach and slip on my shoes.
I hear the doorbell. This is it. Luckily, my father beats me to it. Everyone seems to gawk at me, like I’m some foreign bird or a prize in a case, as I walk down the stairs. I try not to look Kevin in the eye, not after last weekend, at least. He looks at me, though, standing in the doorway, flowers in hand. He shakes my father’s hand, firmly I notice, before entering the living room.
“Kevin! So nice to see you,” my father says. I can hear in his voice that he means it and I wish he didn’t.
“You've cleaned up nicely since last night!” My mother says.
I’m not sure if she ever means anything she says.
“Last time we saw him he was covered in mud and making game winning drives, huh, Car?” My father nudges me and smiles, winks at Kevin. I nod and half smile at Kevin.
It’s all I can muster.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Kevin offers, turning his eyes down. He’s so good with parents, pretending he’s modest.
“If you say so, champ,” my father says.
Sometimes I think he wishes he’d had a boy. Not in the powerless, beyond control way. Most people tend to grow happiest in situations they can’t change. His silent resentment, mostly reserved, echoes a wrong choice—one he wishes he could remake.
“Alright, boys, enough football talk. It's picture time,” my mother says, breaking up my thoughts and making me self-conscious. Have they noticed me since they started chatting?
My mother finds the camera while Kevin hands me the flowers he's been holding. We stand near a fireplace in the center of the room. The brick mantel is lined with pictures of us, family photos. Strange, I think, that there are hardly any from my childhood. I’m brought back by the incessant click of snapshots being taken.
“Alright, you two. Ready?” My mother asks, having already taken a few photos wherein we were not. She gestures to us to stand close. I hold the flowers tight in front of me and force a smile. I can feel Kevin grinning showily behind me. I’m thankful that this doesn’t last long.
“Alright, I think that's enough. You two oughta be on your way already,” my father says.
Sometimes I think he cares about me.
“You can never have too many pictures,” my mother says. She takes one more photo before putting the camera down. “How else do you expect to remember these precious moments?” She grins and tilts her head at her husband. My father clears his throat.
“It's getting late, you two should get going,” he says.
Kevin and I gather our things and head out the door. I’m relieved that we still haven’t spoken to one another. Through the front doorway I see the Sheriff's car parked directly outside of the house. Of course, we’re taking that.
“Dad let you have the car tonight, Kevin?” My father asks.
Sometimes, I think he’s jealous of me.
“Guess he thought I earned it after yesterday's game,” Kevin says.
My father gives a reassuring nod as if to say, of course, and we walk to the car.
“Be careful!” My mother calls from the porch.
“Have fun,” my father says.
Sometimes I think my mother resents him.
Kevin nods and I wave.
My mother smiles and waves back. I see her lips purse and move slightly. I imagine she’s muttering something along the lines of she better not blow it under her breath.
Kevin fiddles with the radio as we drive slowly through our cookie cutter neighborhood. I learned that term from a book. A book I probably shouldn’t have been reading. No one would ever refer to such as glorious place as our home that way. Every house that lines the perfectly symmetrical streets looks the same-- size, color, build, they're virtually indistinguishable from one another, though-- and I’ve never really thought about it until now. The formerly comforting neighborhood watch signs and flags with the town seal are especially prevalent.
Is it like this everywhere?
I wouldn’t know.
I continue to stare out the passenger side window as the static grows louder. It doesn’t bother me.
I think back to that night. It was just last weekend. I sat in Kevin’s truck, in nearly the same position, only we were parked on the hilltop, overlooking everything. The stars were so bright, the air so crisp. Everything felt new to me. I wanted to share it.
“Don't you think about it?” I said to him, my gaze fixed on the flood of lights and shadows beneath us. “It's so strange, how we are. I mean, the mountains stretch for miles around us under this crystal clear sky, and he we are, all of us- like a page out of a magazine. When's the last time you heard about a crime? I mean, Jackson Butler tried to sneak out of town past curfew and- I, don't even know.” I said to him. I shifted in my seat and felt my voice quake slightly. “I can't remember the last time I saw him.” I paused again, I really couldn’t. “I saw him drive by the bus stop every morning, and then one day,” I sighed, “I didn't.” I turned to him. “Don't you find it strange?”
Kevin was staring at my chest, practically drooling. I doubted that he’d heard a word I’d said. I yelled his name.
“Yeah, yeah- Jackson Butler. It's strange,” he answered, slowly peeling his eyes from the buttons on my blouse, “if you think nice is strange. People would kill to live here. Besides, where else would you want to go?” He scoffed and I wanted to shove him out of the car. Take off, maybe run him over on the way. “So, why don't we enjoy how nice it is” he said. Then he leaned in, grabbing my head from behind with one hand and unbuttoning the top button of my blouse with the other. Our lips locked for a moment before I pushed him off. It wasn’t at all like what I imagined a kiss would feel like—from what I’ve read—but the contact was nice.
“Stop it! I'm trying to talk to you,” I said. I crossed my arms and inched myself into the farthest corner of the truck's cab.
“I didn't bring you up here to talk,” he answered, which had slowly become apparent to me.
“Take me home then, I have reading to do anyway,” I said.
“Reading. Ha. You and your books. Maybe if you put your stupid books down once in a while you wouldn't be so paranoid all of the time.”
He turned the key in the ignition and slammed into reverse. From then on, I didn’t look at him. Not until tonight.
Now I have to look at him, talk to him. I have to pretend that everything is alright. It’s not.
“What's your problem?” Kevin says after settling on a station.
I sit up straight in my seat and smooth out my dress. I’m in no rush to answer.
“Nothing. What do you mean?” I let the words roll off of my tongue.
If I have to wait to know, so should he.
“I don't know. You're being strange and quiet. I thought you'd be excited.”
“For what?”
“For what? Come on, you know you're going to be crowned queen. Don't pretend like it's a big surprise.” He’s so certain it makes me uncomfortable.
“Oh, that,” I say, feigning nonchalance.
I square my shoulders away from Kevin.
“Yeah, that. It's a pretty big deal. Lots of girls would kill to be you tonight.”
“I wish they would.”
I freeze when the shadow of the school creeps into view, looming in the distance like a treacherous concrete cave. The kind of place few dare venture because of the monstrous, mysterious beast that sleeps inside. A beast whose terror reins in the depths of legend, but who no one has ever lived to describe. I read that once. I wonder what Kevin would say if I spoke of things this way.
It hits me, where we’re going, and I want to turn around.
“Stop being dramatic. You never used to talk like that. You know, you're lucky I don't-“ I cut him off.
Making Kevin angry won’t help anything.
“Calm down, I'm joking.” I say.
We pull into the school parking lot. It’s brimming with cars, the same cars, smitten couples all dressed the same. Cheery pinks and classic reds. Now I know why my mother picked green.
Has everyone always looked this way?
The same?
“Ready?” Kevin says, turning off the engine. I know he’s going to try to kiss me. I suck in a burst of air and turn my cheek. I let his lips land on my skin for a fleeting moment before opening the car door. We walk, in silence, to the gymnasium.
The closer I get to the scene the less distinguishable it becomes. From far away at least the different shades and tones made everyone look separate. In the sea of shades of rose and neatly combed back hair, I can hardly tell where one body ends and the next begins. The only one who stands out is me. My eyes trace around the room. The tall ceiling seems closer and closer the longer I let my gaze linger. I hear laughter, chatting—I can’t help but think it’s about me. Even on the outskirts of the dancing couple cluster, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, mindlessly, without a care or a question in the world. Even the chaperones look like them, a few years from now, grinning.
What are they all thinking?
I have to find out the truth. I’m not sure if I’m ready.
Kevin sneaks up behind me. I feel his hand on my back before I see his face.
“I have to go to the ladies room,” I say. “I’ll just be a minute.”