In another outfit she might have looked different. Might have fit in with the other girls. But she wasn’t wearing a shrunken polo shirt and low rise jeans, or a flouncy mini skirt with high heels that matched her convertible. In fact she stood in stark contrast to the tanned goddess-type models that attended Santa Monica high school. She’d just moved there from Bristol, and this school was exactly what she had expected of the posh beach town. She sighed and turned her parked car off, squeezing out of it in the space between her old Coop and the glossy black Mercedes next to her. She straightened, slammed her door and adjusted her black mini skirt and examined her tights. They had a new run in them from catching on the car door. Fuck, she thought. She had really been trying to avoid that. At home she never gave a fuck if her tights ripped, even liked it for that matter, but here she felt the tall blondes looking down their noses at her. She threw back her own blonde hair and her slim shoulders, slung her rucksack over her shoulder and began towards the administrative offices, rolling up the sleeves on her distressed jean jacket as she went. Fuck these girls, she thought. Fuck them and fuck my parents and their fucking new jobs. I’ll bet Aud is fucking sleeping now. Bolloks is that the time?
She casually hurried to the office, got her schedule and then headed to her first class. Art. After struggling to find her way through the maze of statuesque brick buildings, she arrived in a courtyard spotted with drawing horses and tall boards. She smelled the chemical scent of acrylic paints mixed with sawdust, and heard quiet music coming through the backdoor of an adjoining classroom, which was propped open with a wayward brick. Ah. Shit American fake alternative crap music. Wonderful. It was apparent that she had unintentionally stumbled into her first class of the day, only about twenty or so minutes late. She strolled over to the back door, paused for a moment and shook out her hair before wrenching the heavy door open and stepping inside. The class was gathered at the center of the room, some on tall artist’s stools, some in beanbag chairs on the floor, and others simply laying on tables. She had walked straight into a class meeting of some sort, and it was just her luck to enter through the one door that the whole class was facing. At this point the teacher interrupts the student speaking to acknowledge her.
“You must be our newest transfer student.” He said without getting up.
At this moment she remembered all the American television shows she had ever seen, where the quirky art teacher puts the poor new student on the spot in front of the whole class. I’m a bloody fucking cliché, she thought.
“Yes, that’s me. Fresh off the boat.” She said, trying to diffuse the uncomfortable aspect of the situation. He nodded and gave her a slight smile before gesturing to an empty stool.
“Learn by doing, that’s part of my manifesto.” He said before turning back to the student whom he had just interrupted, and gestured, again, for the boy to continue this time.
In an awkward lurch she moved toward the art stool. The boy had begun talking again and as she sat her rucksack down and took the seat, she noticed that he had an accent. Not like hers though, not British. Something else. Phwoar, we’ve got an Aussie. Well isn’t this just the little UN, she thought.
As she listened to him she realized this wasn’t a class meeting, but more of an art critique. And the art the class was collectively critiquing was the Australian boy’s.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Experiments in Non-Fiction
She drives through the rain on her way home, speeding because she can’t focus. Chills wrack her body but it’s not because of the cold. To think she could have unknowingly murdered the best relationship in her life…the sobs begin. Not so much tears but heaving gasps for air. She doubles over in the drivers seat as she replays the last conversation she had with him. The tears she blinks and the rain on the windshield make it difficult to see but she makes it past the railroad tracks and into the driveway of her empty house. As she sits there in the dark car she finally breaks down. Please God, if there was ever a time to believe in you it’s now. Please don’t let me ruin this. Don’t let me mess it up. She shivers for awhile and then goes inside.
She changes clothes and gets in bed, reaching for the word processor. Determination to say what she is feeling before sleep can dull the emotions and fray the memory of the conversation. She types it all out choosing her words carefully, picking each one to represent the exact feeling she is experiencing. It sounds stupid to her. Juvenile and clichéd. But she is past caring about that, this is how she feels. Maybe it doesn’t even nick the surface of everything there is to say, but for now it works. There is the future for everything else.
She changes clothes and gets in bed, reaching for the word processor. Determination to say what she is feeling before sleep can dull the emotions and fray the memory of the conversation. She types it all out choosing her words carefully, picking each one to represent the exact feeling she is experiencing. It sounds stupid to her. Juvenile and clichéd. But she is past caring about that, this is how she feels. Maybe it doesn’t even nick the surface of everything there is to say, but for now it works. There is the future for everything else.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Morning Bled at the Water's Edge
Every time you brush my arm with your hand, you rest your leg on mine as we sit on a couch at a party, you laugh at my joke, you come to school early to be with me, you don't hesitate to disagree, you call it like it is, you keep trying to pay for everything even though I rarely let you, you text me, you tell me your problems, you listen to my problems, you hold my eyes with yours a second longer.
Every time I notice you looking, I ponder what you might be thinking, I don't know what to do, I struggle to show you, I make it a minute before I think of you, I want to tell you, I want to kiss you, I want your fingers to linger as you adjust my bracelet, I want to be there for you, I want everyone to know what I know, I want no one else, I want you.
Every time. The dormant thing in my chest wakes up a little more. I think it's real.
Every time I notice you looking, I ponder what you might be thinking, I don't know what to do, I struggle to show you, I make it a minute before I think of you, I want to tell you, I want to kiss you, I want your fingers to linger as you adjust my bracelet, I want to be there for you, I want everyone to know what I know, I want no one else, I want you.
Every time. The dormant thing in my chest wakes up a little more. I think it's real.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Legal
18 years old. The day I’m considered by our society to be an adult. It’s strange, no matter how hard I fought to retain my childhood, it slowly slipped away from me. Year by year, second by second.
The plane of my mind wasn’t always this barren, a wasteland. My young self, untroubled by life, used to swing and climb trees in this very same mind. Back when it was green and lush and fantasy fruits used to flourish on thought-trees. My psyche was a paradise.
But that’s all gone now. Time to walk away from the memory of that inviting old tree and the luster of naivety. 18 has brought a new era to this mind, one where all illusion and hopes have long since migrated to another child’s mind. And all I’m left with is a cracked, barren wasteland, the gnarled remnants of a tree I once called hope, and a rotting swing of disillusionment.
The plane of my mind wasn’t always this barren, a wasteland. My young self, untroubled by life, used to swing and climb trees in this very same mind. Back when it was green and lush and fantasy fruits used to flourish on thought-trees. My psyche was a paradise.
But that’s all gone now. Time to walk away from the memory of that inviting old tree and the luster of naivety. 18 has brought a new era to this mind, one where all illusion and hopes have long since migrated to another child’s mind. And all I’m left with is a cracked, barren wasteland, the gnarled remnants of a tree I once called hope, and a rotting swing of disillusionment.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Nothing Dry
a swimming pool with stars mixed in its grout.
we, the Three, stick to the pool’s great misshapen edge.
trying not to breathe, trying not to move, above all, to not be seen.
we speak our own language of giddy excitement, bursting from our moment of trespassing.
2 small flashlights seem like the strokes of lightsabers, waiting to cut through our sweet, secret charade.
Stop.
Go,
now the Three weave along the black shore,
happy to be free but stimulated and ready for our next obstacle.
live tortoises mix with those of stone in the moonshadows.
Stop.
Go,
back in My place.
billowing sheer white curtains fill with thick sea air and part to reveal a cloud burst.
all the water in the world storming over This ocean.
great cracks of lightning; these must be the roots of the sky.
the Three meet outside, no words,
nothing dry.
we, the Three, stick to the pool’s great misshapen edge.
trying not to breathe, trying not to move, above all, to not be seen.
we speak our own language of giddy excitement, bursting from our moment of trespassing.
2 small flashlights seem like the strokes of lightsabers, waiting to cut through our sweet, secret charade.
Stop.
Go,
now the Three weave along the black shore,
happy to be free but stimulated and ready for our next obstacle.
live tortoises mix with those of stone in the moonshadows.
Stop.
Go,
back in My place.
billowing sheer white curtains fill with thick sea air and part to reveal a cloud burst.
all the water in the world storming over This ocean.
great cracks of lightning; these must be the roots of the sky.
the Three meet outside, no words,
nothing dry.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
A Navy Sky
a navy sky.
air charged with six bodies worth of excitement.
one dark haired, blue eyed boy. hard worker, quiet.
one blond boy, broad shoulders, 6’3”, Russian accent.
one curvaceous blond girl. tousled hair, no makeup, all in black.
one red-head. girl. fiery. green-eyed.
one east-indian boy, wild black hair, slight accent, glasses.
one pale, raven haired girl. red lips, sarcastic sneer.
Mick
Vasily
Maira
Poppy
Abhijit
Ruby
on their way to a concert. a good one. the best one.
“favorite band playing two towns over? of course we all jump in the fucking van and drive on over. we’ve known about them since the beginning. you bet your sweet ass we’ll be there” –Poppy
track 6, playing on the tape deck. not that old fashioned…
waiting to compare, do they sound just as delicious live?
arriving at the club. two bouncers, no i.d.
“drive around back, say we’ve got equipment?” –Abhijit
“fuck no, didn’t work last time, why would it now?” –Ruby
“I say we go. if it comes to it we can get in some other way.” –Maira
“roof?” –Mick
parked van, three lots over. no one goes to run down furniture stores this late anyway.
sneak around, out back pipes twist like ivy crawling up the wall in the yellow street light. we will mimic it.
slinking up a filthy metal ladder, one by one. till we all stand on top. and look out past out city to where we know others live. people we’ve never met and never will. out to the black space to the west where we know the Pacific curls over melted sandcastles. perfect silence. perfect night.
“beautiful. yes?” –Vasily
“yes.” – Mick, Maira, Poppy, Abhijit, Ruby
down small, stale smelling carpeted stairs.
bursting in, joining the crowd in the middle of the set. noise and warmth from so many bodies, but mostly noise, washing over them with the feeling of sinking into a hot bath.
all turning to look at each other and smile, they all knew.
they knew that this is what life is.
air charged with six bodies worth of excitement.
one dark haired, blue eyed boy. hard worker, quiet.
one blond boy, broad shoulders, 6’3”, Russian accent.
one curvaceous blond girl. tousled hair, no makeup, all in black.
one red-head. girl. fiery. green-eyed.
one east-indian boy, wild black hair, slight accent, glasses.
one pale, raven haired girl. red lips, sarcastic sneer.
Mick
Vasily
Maira
Poppy
Abhijit
Ruby
on their way to a concert. a good one. the best one.
“favorite band playing two towns over? of course we all jump in the fucking van and drive on over. we’ve known about them since the beginning. you bet your sweet ass we’ll be there” –Poppy
track 6, playing on the tape deck. not that old fashioned…
waiting to compare, do they sound just as delicious live?
arriving at the club. two bouncers, no i.d.
“drive around back, say we’ve got equipment?” –Abhijit
“fuck no, didn’t work last time, why would it now?” –Ruby
“I say we go. if it comes to it we can get in some other way.” –Maira
“roof?” –Mick
parked van, three lots over. no one goes to run down furniture stores this late anyway.
sneak around, out back pipes twist like ivy crawling up the wall in the yellow street light. we will mimic it.
slinking up a filthy metal ladder, one by one. till we all stand on top. and look out past out city to where we know others live. people we’ve never met and never will. out to the black space to the west where we know the Pacific curls over melted sandcastles. perfect silence. perfect night.
“beautiful. yes?” –Vasily
“yes.” – Mick, Maira, Poppy, Abhijit, Ruby
down small, stale smelling carpeted stairs.
bursting in, joining the crowd in the middle of the set. noise and warmth from so many bodies, but mostly noise, washing over them with the feeling of sinking into a hot bath.
all turning to look at each other and smile, they all knew.
they knew that this is what life is.
Regrets
Sometimes there’s a moment in time that you remember for no particular reason. In my case it’s the first day of second semester. Really, I don’t know how my brain could have foresaw the events that would later transpire, like a butterfly effect from these few moments, but it did.
I suppose I should begin from the top. Senior year was turning out to be pretty damn boring. It’s all well and good to have less homework, more freedom and all that good stuff, but when I get honest about it, it was really just more about being lazy before 13th grade, aka, Community College.
On the first day of the second semester I went to see my counselor. She was a short, somewhat wobbly woman with red hair and tiny rectangular glasses. Her job was simple; grant me the free class period I had been dreaming of for four years, while wasting as much of the time I was supposed to be in class as possible. I walked in, chatted with her about stuff that I can’t really remember now because let’s face it, I’ve got to use those brain gigabytes for more important things. Like song lyrics. Anyhow, the really important part was what happened next. I say my thank yous and step out of her closet-sized office, closing the door behind me. I turn left and head down the hall towards the door. Now listen up, this is the part I was talking about. For no particular reason, I happened to notice a kid and his mom sitting on the old wooden chairs that constitute the waiting area. He has brown hair, a fitted cap, and one of those old-fashioned baseball jackets. He keeps his head down, while his mother chatters away about god knows what. I glance over and then walk out the door. That was it. The thing I didn’t realize, that maybe could have been worthy of my time, was how god damn good-looking he was.
He was new, fresh from whatever hellish high school experience had forced him to transfer to our humble 2000 student institution. I must have seen him three more times that same day. The weird thing was, he already had friends. Let me just take this opportunity to share with you the fundamentals of high school hot boy bro-code. They travel in packs of other Abercrombie model candidates; worse than the packs of their female counterparts. It seemed he had taken up camaraderie with Daniel Bugiardini, Class of 2011’s resident douche bag. That was my first bad sign.
A few weeks passed with me making no notice of him, and then one day I was walking by his group of friends in the hall. I was alone and listening to snippets of conversation and when I walked by I heard his name, Luke Torrazzo. I believe it was all downhill from that moment.
Since you are taking your time to read this, and because they are un-interesting to write, I will skip the boring bits. But to give you an idea, they mostly involve me spying on Luke. It really was quite creepy.
It was over that week that I noticed his square jaw, his tan skin and his stunning smile. Straight white teeth with a wide set smile, he looked like he was sent from another planet to be the Clark Kent to my Lois Lane.
And let me tell you dear reader, that is why I made my move. I decided to take a somewhat roundabout approach in getting him to notice me, and that’s how I conceived my plan. The perfect opportunity arose as I was walking in the hall that Monday. He happened to be walking with an acquaintance of mine, whom I then casually stopped and said hello too. Naturally Luke stopped as well and that gave me the time to say, “Hey, are you by any chance related to John Banner?”
“No…but I am related to a John Torrazzo.” He said.
So I say, “Wow that’s crazy! You look just like him,” and then for the grand finish, “and that would be a compliment, he is very good-looking.”
He smiled at that.
Reader, you can probably tell by now that I truly didn’t believe Luke looked uncannily similar to John Banner. In fact, that was just a made-up opening line for the rest of the conversation. A chance to introduce myself and start building a platform for later encounters.
You are also probably thinking, “Why, this girl is a huge freak and entirely out of her mind with young hot-boy lust”. Well reader, you are probably correct in that assumption, but really, I felt it was completely normal. Well, at least semi-normal.
Anyhow, my plan was not a success.
I’m sure you are not surprised…a reader as clever as yourself could’ve seen that coming. When does stalking pay off? Never. And that is the lesson I have learned.
Anyhow, after a few weeks of chatting here and there, Luke and I had fallen in to a routine where we would walk to our last class of the day together, idly discussing the weather, school functions, etc.
This is when I learned that it is never a good idea to ask a boy you have just met to Prom. Because that is exactly what I did. And the answer I received after toiling for weeks over “Should I? Shouldn’t I?”
That would be “Maybe”.
Maybe? Oh happy dagger, kill me now. Instant embarrassment. So I wait a few days for just a tiny yes or no, but nothing on the topic arises during our daily trek. This is a very curious situation for a teenage girl to find herself in. She has but herself on the line and now she waits, bait in the water facing an uncertain fate. Both equally bad I think; either be eaten or rot in a watery grave.
At this point I have to do something. Desperate times and all that…
So the next day during our walk, I bring it up and ask him to please be honest and just have the decency to let me know that he’s not going, to my face. Not the words I used, though one can’t be sure since I’d obviously lost my head over the whole debacle.
“No, sorry. I can’t go to Prom at all.” Definitely the words he said.
At this point I go back to my friends dejectedly, knowing that I would be needing a large frozen yogurt.
Fast forward to Prom night. Senior prom, me alone, no date. I tell myself I don’t care, but who am I kidding? It’s like I’m being specifically punished for not having a date; shunned to the end of the long dinner table, stuck in the singles car, and utterly jealous of every girl with a matching tux and date inside it.
I swear, I tried to have fun. I really did! I felt beautiful and everyone was having a great time. But then, as all stories must go, disaster struck. This night, it was not in form of a ripped dress, ruined makeup or a natural disaster. No, this was far more humiliating. Luke was at the Prom, not alone, with a date. A date who was drop-dead gorgeous none the less.
Let me just say, that I was really tempted to inflict bodily harm. But reader, if I’ve learned one thing, it would be “Don’t get mad. Get even.”
I didn’t get even though. I went home to a warm bed and ate cookies. Almost as good I would say.
I suppose I should begin from the top. Senior year was turning out to be pretty damn boring. It’s all well and good to have less homework, more freedom and all that good stuff, but when I get honest about it, it was really just more about being lazy before 13th grade, aka, Community College.
On the first day of the second semester I went to see my counselor. She was a short, somewhat wobbly woman with red hair and tiny rectangular glasses. Her job was simple; grant me the free class period I had been dreaming of for four years, while wasting as much of the time I was supposed to be in class as possible. I walked in, chatted with her about stuff that I can’t really remember now because let’s face it, I’ve got to use those brain gigabytes for more important things. Like song lyrics. Anyhow, the really important part was what happened next. I say my thank yous and step out of her closet-sized office, closing the door behind me. I turn left and head down the hall towards the door. Now listen up, this is the part I was talking about. For no particular reason, I happened to notice a kid and his mom sitting on the old wooden chairs that constitute the waiting area. He has brown hair, a fitted cap, and one of those old-fashioned baseball jackets. He keeps his head down, while his mother chatters away about god knows what. I glance over and then walk out the door. That was it. The thing I didn’t realize, that maybe could have been worthy of my time, was how god damn good-looking he was.
He was new, fresh from whatever hellish high school experience had forced him to transfer to our humble 2000 student institution. I must have seen him three more times that same day. The weird thing was, he already had friends. Let me just take this opportunity to share with you the fundamentals of high school hot boy bro-code. They travel in packs of other Abercrombie model candidates; worse than the packs of their female counterparts. It seemed he had taken up camaraderie with Daniel Bugiardini, Class of 2011’s resident douche bag. That was my first bad sign.
A few weeks passed with me making no notice of him, and then one day I was walking by his group of friends in the hall. I was alone and listening to snippets of conversation and when I walked by I heard his name, Luke Torrazzo. I believe it was all downhill from that moment.
Since you are taking your time to read this, and because they are un-interesting to write, I will skip the boring bits. But to give you an idea, they mostly involve me spying on Luke. It really was quite creepy.
It was over that week that I noticed his square jaw, his tan skin and his stunning smile. Straight white teeth with a wide set smile, he looked like he was sent from another planet to be the Clark Kent to my Lois Lane.
And let me tell you dear reader, that is why I made my move. I decided to take a somewhat roundabout approach in getting him to notice me, and that’s how I conceived my plan. The perfect opportunity arose as I was walking in the hall that Monday. He happened to be walking with an acquaintance of mine, whom I then casually stopped and said hello too. Naturally Luke stopped as well and that gave me the time to say, “Hey, are you by any chance related to John Banner?”
“No…but I am related to a John Torrazzo.” He said.
So I say, “Wow that’s crazy! You look just like him,” and then for the grand finish, “and that would be a compliment, he is very good-looking.”
He smiled at that.
Reader, you can probably tell by now that I truly didn’t believe Luke looked uncannily similar to John Banner. In fact, that was just a made-up opening line for the rest of the conversation. A chance to introduce myself and start building a platform for later encounters.
You are also probably thinking, “Why, this girl is a huge freak and entirely out of her mind with young hot-boy lust”. Well reader, you are probably correct in that assumption, but really, I felt it was completely normal. Well, at least semi-normal.
Anyhow, my plan was not a success.
I’m sure you are not surprised…a reader as clever as yourself could’ve seen that coming. When does stalking pay off? Never. And that is the lesson I have learned.
Anyhow, after a few weeks of chatting here and there, Luke and I had fallen in to a routine where we would walk to our last class of the day together, idly discussing the weather, school functions, etc.
This is when I learned that it is never a good idea to ask a boy you have just met to Prom. Because that is exactly what I did. And the answer I received after toiling for weeks over “Should I? Shouldn’t I?”
That would be “Maybe”.
Maybe? Oh happy dagger, kill me now. Instant embarrassment. So I wait a few days for just a tiny yes or no, but nothing on the topic arises during our daily trek. This is a very curious situation for a teenage girl to find herself in. She has but herself on the line and now she waits, bait in the water facing an uncertain fate. Both equally bad I think; either be eaten or rot in a watery grave.
At this point I have to do something. Desperate times and all that…
So the next day during our walk, I bring it up and ask him to please be honest and just have the decency to let me know that he’s not going, to my face. Not the words I used, though one can’t be sure since I’d obviously lost my head over the whole debacle.
“No, sorry. I can’t go to Prom at all.” Definitely the words he said.
At this point I go back to my friends dejectedly, knowing that I would be needing a large frozen yogurt.
Fast forward to Prom night. Senior prom, me alone, no date. I tell myself I don’t care, but who am I kidding? It’s like I’m being specifically punished for not having a date; shunned to the end of the long dinner table, stuck in the singles car, and utterly jealous of every girl with a matching tux and date inside it.
I swear, I tried to have fun. I really did! I felt beautiful and everyone was having a great time. But then, as all stories must go, disaster struck. This night, it was not in form of a ripped dress, ruined makeup or a natural disaster. No, this was far more humiliating. Luke was at the Prom, not alone, with a date. A date who was drop-dead gorgeous none the less.
Let me just say, that I was really tempted to inflict bodily harm. But reader, if I’ve learned one thing, it would be “Don’t get mad. Get even.”
I didn’t get even though. I went home to a warm bed and ate cookies. Almost as good I would say.
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