They totally ignored me.
Maybe that was why I thought they were cool.
They each had their own little black hoodies with some distinguishing characteristic splashed across the back with mall-kiosk airbrush pen. This made them official. They were the Exclusivists because they were exclusively friends, exclusively elite, excluding all others.
Others like me.
“Lets all drink PBR and eat pizza.”
“Okay!”
They did stuff like this in their dorm rooms.
There were three girls and three guys. The “leaders” of this secluded six were a couple that had been together since high school. They were philosophy majors and were unfortunately under the impression that they were better than anything that moved and or breathed. This also included myself.
“Brad, do you have any more cloves?”
Brad was Charlotte’s boyfriend. They were the supreme team that led the secluded six, the Exclusivists.
“I think we should run and get some before the pizza comes.”
Charlotte, Brad, Darren, Elizabeth, Maryanne, and Nigel all filed out of the room. I squeezed Nigel’s little finger and followed them down the stairs. After all, he was my boyfriend.
Nigel was tall, bronze skinned, and had a face with angular features. His eye lashes were dark and unusually long. This gave him a youthful, boyish look. He also sported a faux hawk. It might have been the only thing that gave him edge. He was pouty, self-centered, and only slightly spoiled. His parents had divorced money and married into more money. They showered him modestly by their standards, which was of course extravagantly by my standards.
I had managed to land my position as his girlfriend after a 3$ matinee led to a make out session in his car under the guise of a deep discussion on the merit and fallacies of the band Blink 182. The cd looped 3 times.
“Here, you want one?”
I didn’t smoke. The awesome six-some had just gotten back from the “Yellow Roof” which was their code word for the Discount Tobacco Outlet down the street run by an eccentric Jordanian man.
“They’re not real cigarettes. You don’t inhale them.”
Oh. I took one. Nigel handed me his lighter. He had to help me light it. I couldn’t get the thing going without fearing the fiery death of my fingers.
“Thanks.” I didn’t even cough. I thought of Michael, and our quiet and not-so-quiet rebellions at Lavery. He used to smoke, too. Breathing in the smoke, I could almost taste the memories flickering away inside my head. I was still fresh from Lavery in some ways. The incident there had only occurred seven months before.
“You’re welcome.” Nigel slung his arm around my shoulders and I nestled perfectly into his side like a mold. It made me forget about Lavery.
We were all sitting on the steps around the backside of Charlotte and Elizabeth’s dorm. Charlotte and Elizabeth were roommates. Charlotte, Brad’s girlfriend, made a big show of the fact that she weighed only 95 pounds, while Elizabeth quietly kept to herself the fact that she might have made two and a quarter Charlottes. I reminded myself that I had weighed 95 pounds in the fifth grade, and was considered a midget. I should not be concerned about the thirty-pound difference in Charlotte and myself. Elizabeth, in fact, could have reasonably taken offense. Yet Elizabeth always agreed with Charlotte, and was a nurturer by nature.
Maryanne, a radiantly pale redhead, had only joined their group this year, when she streaked across the quad in her bra and underwear as an homage to Edna Pontillier from Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. She was a year younger. Her face was soft and pretty, unlike Charlotte’s, whose pinched nose and plain features were constantly viewed at an angle. In a way, she was always looking down and straight ahead simultaneously.
“I think I was chunkier when I met Brad,” she looked up at him from her position on the stair below him. He had a leg on either side of her. She was leaning back on her stair, and he was sitting forward on his. It crossed my mind that they probably had sex daily.
“How did you meet Brad?” I looked up at Nigel when I said it. I didn’t want him to think I was butting in.
“Yes, tell us a story!” Maryanne chirped. She danced over next to Charlotte and sat down on the stair, laying her head in Charlotte’s lap like a little girl.
“Please, mommy!?” Even Elizabeth was squishing herself onto the stair with the two of them. I nuzzled myself deeper into the hollow under Nigel’s right arm.
“Well,” Charlotte started. She patted the top of Maryanne’s head. “It was junior year. We were both at the same party. It was a costume party, around Halloween time.”
“What were you dressed as?”
“I was a black cat.”
“She had little ears, whiskers, a tail, the whole bit.” Brad was getting sentimental, too.
“Brad and I kept looking at each other across the room.”
“What was Brad?”
“I went as a zombie,” Brad said.
“He had eyeliner on,” Charlotte grinned up at him.
“It was part of the costume!”
“Anyway, Brad and I kept looking at each other, and then suddenly I couldn’t see him in the room any more. So I told my friends I to go to the bathroom, and wandered into an empty room.”
“Guess who was there?” Brad interjected.
“You were there, and what did I say?”
“You said, ‘I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got bad luck now.’” Charlotte giggled as she remembered this and then leaned back into Brad, with Maryanne’s head still in her lap. Brad continued. “And I said, I think its good luck if the black cat that crosses you is as beautiful as you are.”
“Awwwwwwww!” Maryanne and Elizabeth cooed and sat up straight to stare at the happy couple. Next to me, Nigel choked back a laugh.
“And then we made out,” Charlotte finished before planting a kiss on Brad’s chin.
“Way to go, Brad.” Nigel cheered. He was clearly not a romantic.
“Dude, I honestly thought she could have been thirteen or something. I’d never met a sixteen year old that tiny looking.”
“Oh come on, I was chunky then!”
“Char, you know you weren’t. You never were.”
“And I’m still your little girl!”
“Yes, my little girl.”
Ew.
So I was thoroughly grossed out by the fact that Charlotte, at 95 pounds, with her blonde hair and her elitist attitude, while making out with Brad, really did look like a small child. And I briefly thought to myself that maybe a Napoleon complex was to blame for all her arrogance.
“Now, my friends, story time is over! Let us go upstairs and partake of wetness on this dry campus!” Charlotte hopped to her feet, and began hopping—marching?—
up the stairs.
One month later, Nigel broke up with me outside of the on-campus Subway. He told me that he was bored by me, and that his parents didn’t really like me.
“Why? I knew your mom was kind of stiff, but I’m shy around new people! Geez, forgive me for being shy!”
“She thought you were kind of rude, actually.” Deadpan. Way to break things to me gently, there, Nigel.
“Rude? I’m not rude.” I’m about to be rude, I thought.
“That day when you she came to the football game with us? She told you to have a nice night, and you said, ‘I will.’”
“…huh?”
“You didn’t say, ‘Thanks,’ or ‘You too.’ You just said, ‘I will.’ My mom thought that was really rude.”
“…I –
“And you just didn’t mesh well when you came for dinner that one night.”
Yeah. I’m not rich, stuck up, snobby, or drop-dead new-money gorgeous, and I’m sure as hell not an “Exclusivist”. Also, I hate green bean casserole.
“I thought your Dad liked me! You said he liked me!”
“Actually my Dad was the only one who said he didn’t care for you one way or the other.”
He left me on the bench outside while a long line of hungry students snaked their way through the sandwich line into the door in front of me. They were so obviously trying not to stare, and I had no idea why I was crying.
Everybody wants to belong somewhere. Everybody wants to fit.
It turned out Nigel had been seeing Maryanne behind my back for almost two weeks and everybody in the “group” knew.
Believe it or not, they had a pregnancy scare not two months after he broke up with me. They started coming up with baby names, and laughing about it like it was just great! But when the whole thing was over, Nigel split with Maryanne citing undue stress. I was told he could be seen sending up a few silent hallelujahs. He moved back into his mom’s house and told everyone he was going to art school. I think his “fit” was right under his mom’s metaphorical wing, bound and gagged with her apron strings.
Elizabeth tried to date Darren, Brad’s best friend, to no avail. Darren was very nice about it, but Charlotte intoned that it was probably because Elizabeth was too emotional, clingy, and last but not least, significantly overweight. Elizabeth caught up with me in the Student Center one day and tearfully recounted a “meeting” of the Exclusivists in which everyone tried to tell her that leaving the group would be for her own good. She said Darren had sat silently while they told her they could no longer be her friends.
I wondered if perhaps Darren had really liked Elizabeth after all, but that Charlotte’s influence had been so strong that her opinion in the matter was law. Because of this, I wondered how Charlotte had ever been able to allow “rude” little ole me into the inner workings of this “Exclusive” circle.
For some reason, she must have enjoyed my company.
“Hey, so we’re having a housewarming party. Charlotte and I moved to a new apartment. I don’t think I ever told you that. So we’re asking some people from the old crew to get together and hang out.”
“…really?”
I couldn’t believe Brad still had my phone number. And the “old crew??” How was that going to work?
“Nigel won’t be there. He’s not really our friend anymore.”
And I am? I thought.
“Come on! There’ll be jello shots!”
It had been close to two years since I’d been in a room with the whole exclusive crew. Out of curiosity, I had to say I’d be there.
“Nigel was a total jerk, dear. It only sucks that he kept you from us.”
Charlotte was in full matriarch mode. She stretched herself out over the sofa lounge she and Brad had no doubt bought at the Goodwill. It was a hideous orange color. Yet strangely, being a lounge, it suited Charlotte’s goddess-of-everything tendency.
“Do you know he’s trying to date my sister now?” Brad had just poured himself a new drink, and sat down next to Charlotte on the lounge.
“Your sister? Isn’t she, like, in high school?” I was sipping a mixed drink Charlotte had made me. I hoped it wasn’t poisoned.
“She was in high school,” Brad said, “She’ll be a freshman in college this year, though. And Nigel is begging me to let him go out with her.”
“Well how does she feel about it?”
“She thinks he’s really hot, of course. Just like you two did.” He gestured at Maryanne and myself. Maryanne was in a chair adjacent me. She was still gorgeous. “What a douche,” Brad finished.
I stood up.
“Well, anyone want to come smoke?” I pulled out a scrunched pack from my back pocket.
“Oh, we don’t smoke any more. We quit,” Charlotte informed me.
I looked at the four others in the room. Brad, Maryanne, and Darren were all looking at different spots on the floor. Chase, whom I had met only a few times, looked not at the floor but at me, as he had all night.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
“I will too.” Maryanne hopped up from her retro chair. “I’ve been drinking,” she said, as if this accounted for her lapse in smoking-related judgment.
We filed out the door and I didn’t look to see what sort of face Charlotte might be making.
“Brad and Charlotte are getting engaged.”
Maryanne, Chase, and I were all leaning up against the brick wall of the apartment building. It was much like the days we used to lean up against the brick wall of Charlotte’s dorm.
“They’ve been together forever, haven’t they?” Chase asked. He had known the couple because he had lived down the hall from Brad and Nigel in the boys dorm.
“Pretty much. But I think they’ll be engaged for a while. Charlotte’s not exactly the nesting type. You know, nurturing, motherly.”
“Right?” I laughed a little bit at the understatement, and Maryanne smirked at me.
“You know, Nigel was a real dumbass,” she blew out a puff of smoke, and looked at me again. “I’m not just saying that because he messed with my head, either. I’m saying that because I saw him mess with yours and somehow I thought I was different.”
Doesn’t that just mean you’re the dumbass? I thought
“Well, you know, I was outside you guys’ ‘circle’ or whatever. After a while I thought he probably would get on better with you.”
“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s not really a circle. It never really was. It’s just Brad trying to reach out to as many people as he can in his love/hate relationship with Charlotte.”
“But… Brad’s not the reason it’s a circle. It’s a circle-- I mean-- It’s called the Exclusivists because Charlotte made it that way. Isn’t she the reason you guys don’t hang out with Elizabeth anymore?”
“Woah. Elizabeth was a mopey, depressed mess when she stopped hanging out with us. We wanted her to get over Darren, that’s all. And as far as Charlotte’s concerned, she’s got Brad in a headlock. He’ll never get too far from her. He gets us all together all the time so he doesn’t have to be the only one she tries to control. And the term Exclusivists was exclusively a Charlotte thing. We only thought it was cool for a little while.”
“So you know she’s controlling?”
“Well, yeah, but she’s a real softie. I mean Brad and her are sewn up. It kinda makes me feel sorry for them. And… I a little liberated and free for myself. Nigel was a douche, yeah, but at least I’m free.”
Oh.
Man, I felt bad for Brad.
“And anyway, I think we sort of share something because of the whole Nigel thing.”
This was the most I had ever talked to Maryanne. She’d never really spoken to me seriously about anything. I had always lumped her with Charlotte as another pawn or minion. But this made me see her differently.
Besides, boy hate can seriously bond girls together.
“Yeah,” I said. I smiled at her.
“Yeah. Nigel was an elitist scumbag!” Chase announced. We both looked at him. “…I always thought so.”
He turned and punched me lightly on one arm. Lets go inside.
Somehow I felt like he was talking only to me.
When he walked inside ahead of us, I saw that the black sweatshirt he was wearing was one of the old Exclusivist jackets they’d had made. In faded print, I could read the words Poet Laureate on the back of it.
Could it be possible that I’d actually want to spend time with some of these people?
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Notification of Impending Mutation
Please note.
Lesser Known Works has always been a great source of pride for me. I am aware that I am neither widely read nor greatly impacting the cosmic flow of ideas in the universe. What I am doing is what I have always wanted to do. I am writing not only for myself, but for others. This is a small stage, I know. But I prefer not to think of it as a tinker toy tower next to the great pyramids, or the empire state building. I prefer to think of this miniscule stage as a lonely star in the great dark universe shining constantly, if feebly, into the great beyond in the hopes that one day, maybe light years and light years later, on another distant lonely star, someone will hear my tiny voice and feel something important. Maybe they won’t feel so alone. And because of this, I myself, the feeble light shiner, feel less alone just thinking about it.
Which brings me to my next point.
The book, my friends, is bunk.
I cannot write it.
This new revelation comes to you in light of some news that many of you may find shocking, scandalous, outrageous, appalling, and perhaps even nauseatingly girly.
I want to get married.
Please stop feigning composure. I am aware that this statement should be accompanied by the loud boom of explosives, and dynamite, and screaming fireworks, the sudden incessant wailing of small children, and perhaps a few dying animals. Please also note that this is not happening right away, and you must save your best roman candles for a while yet.
Lesser Known Works has always been a great source of pride for me. I am aware that I am neither widely read nor greatly impacting the cosmic flow of ideas in the universe. What I am doing is what I have always wanted to do. I am writing not only for myself, but for others. This is a small stage, I know. But I prefer not to think of it as a tinker toy tower next to the great pyramids, or the empire state building. I prefer to think of this miniscule stage as a lonely star in the great dark universe shining constantly, if feebly, into the great beyond in the hopes that one day, maybe light years and light years later, on another distant lonely star, someone will hear my tiny voice and feel something important. Maybe they won’t feel so alone. And because of this, I myself, the feeble light shiner, feel less alone just thinking about it.
Which brings me to my next point.
The book, my friends, is bunk.
I cannot write it.
This new revelation comes to you in light of some news that many of you may find shocking, scandalous, outrageous, appalling, and perhaps even nauseatingly girly.
I want to get married.
Please stop feigning composure. I am aware that this statement should be accompanied by the loud boom of explosives, and dynamite, and screaming fireworks, the sudden incessant wailing of small children, and perhaps a few dying animals. Please also note that this is not happening right away, and you must save your best roman candles for a while yet.
Specifics are not important to me yet. But I realize that one day I will greatly expect the inevitable change, as things and people do continually change.
Says Shelley:
“Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;/ Naught may endure but Mutability.”
This mutation of my role in humanity does not change the necessity of this feeble light I call LesserKnownWorks. Yet the things that have been said here are not exactly conducive to married life, the future, and the possibility of one day creating Rafaelas (see immediate previous entry).
How can one change, but to throw off the chains of torrid memory, the phantoms that fetter you to your former self?
Says Wordsworth:
“Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear/ the longest date do melt like frosty rime.”
These things need to melt. I can’t resurrect them any longer, and I can’t keep the parts of myself alive that time would like to bury. I need to let them die softly away into the recesses of memory. Publishing them would achieve the exact opposite of what I originally aspired to do.
You see, I thought that by going through my overloaded phone contact book, writing vignettes, conjuring my worst images and purging myself of them in front of everyone would prove that I am changing and am done with all the muck of erroneously finding myself. But the truth is that this constant conjuring prolongs the purging process.
When I taught at the alternative school we used to have a policy that new students would not be judged by why or how they had gotten there. They had a clean slate. And they were graded on how hard they pursued their potential best, at whatever level that may have been.
You see, despite your worst days God has given you many choices in this life. He will forget your past much quicker than you can, if you let him. Clean slate. New start.
The “Waiting By The Phone” project at Lesser Known Works will be no more, in response to the needs and true character of its author.
Future posts regarding a Young Adult fiction book will follow, as well as a few unfinished entries from the “Waiting By The Phone” series. However, all ancillary entries to this series shall cease, though they may still exist online for posterity.
If you were wondering, the multitudinous numbers will be deleted from my phone regardless of the existence of a vignette for each. I will lose them forever. But this new change is a much better forever.
LesserKnownWorks will remain alive. However, for the purposes of the death of this series, Sarah Teasdale once penned a good epitaph:
“Remember me as I was then;
Turn from me now, but always see
The laughing shadowy girl who stood
At midnight by the flowering tree,
With eyes that love had made as bright
As the trembling stars of the summer night.
Turn from me now, but always hear
The muted laughter in the dew
Of that one year of youth we had,
The only youth we ever knew
--Turn from me now, or you will see
What other years have done to me.”
Says Shelley:
“Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;/ Naught may endure but Mutability.”
This mutation of my role in humanity does not change the necessity of this feeble light I call LesserKnownWorks. Yet the things that have been said here are not exactly conducive to married life, the future, and the possibility of one day creating Rafaelas (see immediate previous entry).
How can one change, but to throw off the chains of torrid memory, the phantoms that fetter you to your former self?
Says Wordsworth:
“Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear/ the longest date do melt like frosty rime.”
These things need to melt. I can’t resurrect them any longer, and I can’t keep the parts of myself alive that time would like to bury. I need to let them die softly away into the recesses of memory. Publishing them would achieve the exact opposite of what I originally aspired to do.
You see, I thought that by going through my overloaded phone contact book, writing vignettes, conjuring my worst images and purging myself of them in front of everyone would prove that I am changing and am done with all the muck of erroneously finding myself. But the truth is that this constant conjuring prolongs the purging process.
When I taught at the alternative school we used to have a policy that new students would not be judged by why or how they had gotten there. They had a clean slate. And they were graded on how hard they pursued their potential best, at whatever level that may have been.
You see, despite your worst days God has given you many choices in this life. He will forget your past much quicker than you can, if you let him. Clean slate. New start.
The “Waiting By The Phone” project at Lesser Known Works will be no more, in response to the needs and true character of its author.
Future posts regarding a Young Adult fiction book will follow, as well as a few unfinished entries from the “Waiting By The Phone” series. However, all ancillary entries to this series shall cease, though they may still exist online for posterity.
If you were wondering, the multitudinous numbers will be deleted from my phone regardless of the existence of a vignette for each. I will lose them forever. But this new change is a much better forever.
LesserKnownWorks will remain alive. However, for the purposes of the death of this series, Sarah Teasdale once penned a good epitaph:
“Remember me as I was then;
Turn from me now, but always see
The laughing shadowy girl who stood
At midnight by the flowering tree,
With eyes that love had made as bright
As the trembling stars of the summer night.
Turn from me now, but always hear
The muted laughter in the dew
Of that one year of youth we had,
The only youth we ever knew
--Turn from me now, or you will see
What other years have done to me.”
Monday, November 9, 2009
A Note on Bad Breath, and Other Deterrence
“Boys are so disgusting. And they are all the same. In fact, people in general are all the same. They’re boring and they annoy me.”
Rafaela was starting another of her brooding rants. Aleighna knew it. Instead of stopping her, she focused on the road ahead and breathed a few silent breaths.
“Whether they’re mean or they’re nice, they are all the same. Boooring. And disgusting. Of course.” She flipped down the mirror in Aleighna’s passenger seat and checked her black eye liner for the second time.
“How are they boring? You sure are making a lot of assumptions for a person whose never had a boyfriend.” Aleighna was secretly proud of this fact for her daughter.
“Well. They all have bad breath sometimes.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you have bad breath sometimes too, Rafaela.”
“Mom! Geez, so do you.” She crossed her arms and cocked a perturbed eyebrow. She looked like a beautiful bronzed pouting statue. With black eye liner and jewelry. She continued on. “Anyway, they all say the same things. Come-ons, you know.” She looked at Aleighna out of the corner of her eye.
“I know you get hit on, Rafaela, you’re my beautiful girl.”
Rafaela sighed heavily at her mother’s utter dorkiness.
“Thanks.” She grinned cheesily.
“You’re welcome.” Aleighna smirked. “Be careful.”
“I knew that was coming...”
“I’m just saying.”
“I know!” With a grumble, she tightened her crossed arms. “They are just… all the same. That’s all. I don’t see how girls get married anyway. How can they want to dedicate their lives to something so disgusting? Boys disgust me. They’re stupid. They’re inferior. They don’t deserve me.”
“That’s right, dear.”
“…They can be hot.”
“You’re saying that to annoy me.”
“But they have bad breath.”
“That’s more like it.”
Aleighna looked over and smiled at her daughter. From the moment Rafaela could form any opinion at all, she had reminded Aleighna of herself. A little bit angsty, a little bit picky, a little bit scared whitewashed with grandiose statements and girl power. Aleighna was impressed by her own gorgeous spawn. She found she didn’t mind so much being the mom in the background.
Still, at the same time that Rafaela’s similarity to her delighted her, it also scared the crap out of Aleighna sometimes. She couldn’t tell Rafaela why she was so hard on her. She didn’t want her to understand. Aleighna had fought so hard to be the kind of person who could have a beautiful daughter like Rafaela with a beautiful husband like Ignacio. She had fought so hard for this version of herself. She did not want her daughter to ever fight like that.
“Rafaela one day you’ll understand. But to be honest, you’re not supposed to right now.”
“Understand what? I do too understand. Boys are not worth my time with their disgusting, stupid selves. I will never get married. I can’t be with one person forever. I will live alone my whole life because the only person I can stand is myself.”
A chuckle escaped Aleighna as she pulled up at the high school.
“Look, believe it or not, one day --not today, or tomorrow, or in the next five years… ten years, whatever-- you’ll meet somebody who doesn’t irritate you. Who doesn’t have bad breath even when he does have bad breath. You’ll meet this person who will be good to you, won’t make you cry, and will want to know everything about you. And he won’t care what it is that scares you about yourself. He’ll love every piece of you, even the gross small pieces like your bad morning breath.”
“Gross, mom. You’re really weird, you know that?”
She hopped out of the car and swung her bag up onto her shoulder before rolling her eyes a little bit.
“I love you too!” Rafaela shut the door halfway through this, to avoid anyone hearing the whole thing, Aleighna knew, before waving warmly, then turning around and stalking off toward the front door.
Chip off the old block, Aleighna thought. Then she checked her eyeliner in the rearview, and drove around the loop toward the school parking lot exit.
Rafaela was starting another of her brooding rants. Aleighna knew it. Instead of stopping her, she focused on the road ahead and breathed a few silent breaths.
“Whether they’re mean or they’re nice, they are all the same. Boooring. And disgusting. Of course.” She flipped down the mirror in Aleighna’s passenger seat and checked her black eye liner for the second time.
“How are they boring? You sure are making a lot of assumptions for a person whose never had a boyfriend.” Aleighna was secretly proud of this fact for her daughter.
“Well. They all have bad breath sometimes.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you have bad breath sometimes too, Rafaela.”
“Mom! Geez, so do you.” She crossed her arms and cocked a perturbed eyebrow. She looked like a beautiful bronzed pouting statue. With black eye liner and jewelry. She continued on. “Anyway, they all say the same things. Come-ons, you know.” She looked at Aleighna out of the corner of her eye.
“I know you get hit on, Rafaela, you’re my beautiful girl.”
Rafaela sighed heavily at her mother’s utter dorkiness.
“Thanks.” She grinned cheesily.
“You’re welcome.” Aleighna smirked. “Be careful.”
“I knew that was coming...”
“I’m just saying.”
“I know!” With a grumble, she tightened her crossed arms. “They are just… all the same. That’s all. I don’t see how girls get married anyway. How can they want to dedicate their lives to something so disgusting? Boys disgust me. They’re stupid. They’re inferior. They don’t deserve me.”
“That’s right, dear.”
“…They can be hot.”
“You’re saying that to annoy me.”
“But they have bad breath.”
“That’s more like it.”
Aleighna looked over and smiled at her daughter. From the moment Rafaela could form any opinion at all, she had reminded Aleighna of herself. A little bit angsty, a little bit picky, a little bit scared whitewashed with grandiose statements and girl power. Aleighna was impressed by her own gorgeous spawn. She found she didn’t mind so much being the mom in the background.
Still, at the same time that Rafaela’s similarity to her delighted her, it also scared the crap out of Aleighna sometimes. She couldn’t tell Rafaela why she was so hard on her. She didn’t want her to understand. Aleighna had fought so hard to be the kind of person who could have a beautiful daughter like Rafaela with a beautiful husband like Ignacio. She had fought so hard for this version of herself. She did not want her daughter to ever fight like that.
“Rafaela one day you’ll understand. But to be honest, you’re not supposed to right now.”
“Understand what? I do too understand. Boys are not worth my time with their disgusting, stupid selves. I will never get married. I can’t be with one person forever. I will live alone my whole life because the only person I can stand is myself.”
A chuckle escaped Aleighna as she pulled up at the high school.
“Look, believe it or not, one day --not today, or tomorrow, or in the next five years… ten years, whatever-- you’ll meet somebody who doesn’t irritate you. Who doesn’t have bad breath even when he does have bad breath. You’ll meet this person who will be good to you, won’t make you cry, and will want to know everything about you. And he won’t care what it is that scares you about yourself. He’ll love every piece of you, even the gross small pieces like your bad morning breath.”
“Gross, mom. You’re really weird, you know that?”
She hopped out of the car and swung her bag up onto her shoulder before rolling her eyes a little bit.
“I love you too!” Rafaela shut the door halfway through this, to avoid anyone hearing the whole thing, Aleighna knew, before waving warmly, then turning around and stalking off toward the front door.
Chip off the old block, Aleighna thought. Then she checked her eyeliner in the rearview, and drove around the loop toward the school parking lot exit.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Brandon Cole #1141
I can remember nearly every single girl Brandon Cole dated.
I met him when I was 13 years old, and a few months away from my freshman year in high school.
“This is Brandon! He’s going to be a junior at Overbrook next year.”
“Hi. Brandon.”
We looked at each other across my parents’ living room. He was older than me, and at the time, that scared me.
And excited me.
Of course.
I remember wanting to rip the kitten off of the white fitted tee I was wearing with rigor. I wore white tees a lot back then. They all had something different on them, but I thought the white made my skin look darker. I was very pale.
“Nice to meet you.” Brandon stepped forward and shook my hand warmly. It was the first of many times I would see him do it. “So you’ve done pretty well at speech and debate, huh?”
Our parents went off into the dining room to discuss wood paneling and wall paper.
“I think so. I won first place at every meet I’ve been to.”
Brandon chuckled a little bit and crossed his arms.
“High school speech isn’t like that. They're tournaments, not meets. They last all day, and only one person at the whole contest wins first place over all. Middle school speech meets are totally different.”
“Oh.” Crush my dreams, why don’t ya.
“Yeah. And you have to watch out for Mrs. Barnes. She really knows what she’s talking about, but she’s not exactly the warmest person when you first meet her.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Telling me I was out of my league might have been a dick move on his part, but I didn’t care. I was already into him. Albeit mildly, and from a distance. Never once did I consider he might actually like me.
I don’t think he ever did. Maybe I scared him.
I dated his best friend, who did like me. Russ went to Brickmore High. Brandon and my mutual like for Russ, along with our parents’ friendship, kept us in touch and a sibling-like understanding stood between us. I respected Brandon for qualifying for Nationals with top in the state debate ranks, and I liked being invited to sit with him and Russ, and other Nationally recognized debaters. I liked being near him. He exuded confidence that in some way, I knew he didn’t really have. Debaters are always good at lying.
Heather Almeda: Brandon dated her his junior year. She had an identical twin sister, and I never quite understood how he could tell them apart, or why he liked one over the other. They split up because Brandon was too eager to please. I made a face when I heard, because Heather wasn’t great looking anyway.
Sarah Starnes: He dated her for almost a year. She looked just like me. Long dark hair, big poofy bangs. She was more light and ditzy sounding than me, though. She was outgoing. I wondered if I just didn’t have the personality to keep up with Brandon. I wondered if he wanted a sunshine-smiling, Laura Bush-esque girl. After enjoying some success competing with two more mad-man type speech performances my freshman and sophomore years, I was not sunshine-smiling.
Brielle Heffinger: Also looked like me. She was short, with long thick dark hair. Her eyes were large and pretty. She had a distinct look to her nose and face shape that was shared by her entire family. They all looked like little European hand puppets, and they could perform like them, too. They loved theater, and they loved Brandon. Brielle and Brandon broke up some time after Brandon went to college. I was still dating Russ.
Brandon took up multiple clubs and organizations in college. He had a serious ambition to be President some day, and joined the Young Republicans. He created a new social club on campus. He became active in a Human Rights organization. All of this he did from his college campus at Lavery. Lavery College just happened to be the same private Christian establishment I went to straight from high school.
Our next few meetings went like this:
“Hey!”
“Hi.”
“It’s so good to see you!”
“Yeah.”
“I’m just so busy with everything, Young Republicans, you know, I never get to see you. And you’re here, aren’t you! Don’t you love it!?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I gotta go.” His phone would ring, and he would pick it up while walking away, never looking back at me.
Carly Lewis: She was the same age as me. She lived on the same hallway as me at Lavery. She was a die hard, conservative Republican. Her father was a local Republican politician. In the required class, “Matrimony and Christian Family Values” Carly had called anyone who voted for the Democratic presidential candidate a person who wanted babies to die. She was thinking of abortion. Carly had chunky legs and a round happy face that was usually smiling beneath her strawberry blonde hair. She even smiled while making the assertion about baby killers. She was always so cheery. Brandon had found his Laura Bush. And he married her.
I didn’t go to the wedding. I don’t know if I was still sore about Lavery, or whether I was somehow disappointed that Carly Lewis was getting married at 21 in a totally acceptable ceremony with parents and a church full of guests who were all happy for her.
Maybe it was because Russ didn’t come to the wedding either. He had moved out of state. Though we had dated for a near solid four years, we had grown apart. I had grown into myself, or whoever I was then. Russ had grown into himself too. And he had grown hundreds of miles away.
Sometimes when I think about Brandon Cole, I feel alone. Brandon grew into himself while loving Lavery, and he turned it into an identity for himself. I freaking hated it, and I’m still trying to make my own identity. In high school I felt like Brandon was so much like me we could have been siblings. In college though, he went the way I couldn’t go. My pride and my somewhat arrogant disgust for all things definitively conservative kept me from embracing some person I could have been.
But I’m not Carly Lewis.
I’m not a Republican.
I’m not a baby killer.
I’m not branded by that place and that persona I refused to try on.
I’m not married because I want to live my own life, not someone else’s. And I think that if I had ever dated Brandon Cole I would have found out that we did too have something in common. He was damn good at lying about being happy.
I guess I’m just not as eager to let someone tell me what happy feels like.
I want to really feel it.
I met him when I was 13 years old, and a few months away from my freshman year in high school.
“This is Brandon! He’s going to be a junior at Overbrook next year.”
“Hi. Brandon.”
We looked at each other across my parents’ living room. He was older than me, and at the time, that scared me.
And excited me.
Of course.
I remember wanting to rip the kitten off of the white fitted tee I was wearing with rigor. I wore white tees a lot back then. They all had something different on them, but I thought the white made my skin look darker. I was very pale.
“Nice to meet you.” Brandon stepped forward and shook my hand warmly. It was the first of many times I would see him do it. “So you’ve done pretty well at speech and debate, huh?”
Our parents went off into the dining room to discuss wood paneling and wall paper.
“I think so. I won first place at every meet I’ve been to.”
Brandon chuckled a little bit and crossed his arms.
“High school speech isn’t like that. They're tournaments, not meets. They last all day, and only one person at the whole contest wins first place over all. Middle school speech meets are totally different.”
“Oh.” Crush my dreams, why don’t ya.
“Yeah. And you have to watch out for Mrs. Barnes. She really knows what she’s talking about, but she’s not exactly the warmest person when you first meet her.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Telling me I was out of my league might have been a dick move on his part, but I didn’t care. I was already into him. Albeit mildly, and from a distance. Never once did I consider he might actually like me.
I don’t think he ever did. Maybe I scared him.
I dated his best friend, who did like me. Russ went to Brickmore High. Brandon and my mutual like for Russ, along with our parents’ friendship, kept us in touch and a sibling-like understanding stood between us. I respected Brandon for qualifying for Nationals with top in the state debate ranks, and I liked being invited to sit with him and Russ, and other Nationally recognized debaters. I liked being near him. He exuded confidence that in some way, I knew he didn’t really have. Debaters are always good at lying.
Heather Almeda: Brandon dated her his junior year. She had an identical twin sister, and I never quite understood how he could tell them apart, or why he liked one over the other. They split up because Brandon was too eager to please. I made a face when I heard, because Heather wasn’t great looking anyway.
Sarah Starnes: He dated her for almost a year. She looked just like me. Long dark hair, big poofy bangs. She was more light and ditzy sounding than me, though. She was outgoing. I wondered if I just didn’t have the personality to keep up with Brandon. I wondered if he wanted a sunshine-smiling, Laura Bush-esque girl. After enjoying some success competing with two more mad-man type speech performances my freshman and sophomore years, I was not sunshine-smiling.
Brielle Heffinger: Also looked like me. She was short, with long thick dark hair. Her eyes were large and pretty. She had a distinct look to her nose and face shape that was shared by her entire family. They all looked like little European hand puppets, and they could perform like them, too. They loved theater, and they loved Brandon. Brielle and Brandon broke up some time after Brandon went to college. I was still dating Russ.
Brandon took up multiple clubs and organizations in college. He had a serious ambition to be President some day, and joined the Young Republicans. He created a new social club on campus. He became active in a Human Rights organization. All of this he did from his college campus at Lavery. Lavery College just happened to be the same private Christian establishment I went to straight from high school.
Our next few meetings went like this:
“Hey!”
“Hi.”
“It’s so good to see you!”
“Yeah.”
“I’m just so busy with everything, Young Republicans, you know, I never get to see you. And you’re here, aren’t you! Don’t you love it!?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I gotta go.” His phone would ring, and he would pick it up while walking away, never looking back at me.
Carly Lewis: She was the same age as me. She lived on the same hallway as me at Lavery. She was a die hard, conservative Republican. Her father was a local Republican politician. In the required class, “Matrimony and Christian Family Values” Carly had called anyone who voted for the Democratic presidential candidate a person who wanted babies to die. She was thinking of abortion. Carly had chunky legs and a round happy face that was usually smiling beneath her strawberry blonde hair. She even smiled while making the assertion about baby killers. She was always so cheery. Brandon had found his Laura Bush. And he married her.
I didn’t go to the wedding. I don’t know if I was still sore about Lavery, or whether I was somehow disappointed that Carly Lewis was getting married at 21 in a totally acceptable ceremony with parents and a church full of guests who were all happy for her.
Maybe it was because Russ didn’t come to the wedding either. He had moved out of state. Though we had dated for a near solid four years, we had grown apart. I had grown into myself, or whoever I was then. Russ had grown into himself too. And he had grown hundreds of miles away.
Sometimes when I think about Brandon Cole, I feel alone. Brandon grew into himself while loving Lavery, and he turned it into an identity for himself. I freaking hated it, and I’m still trying to make my own identity. In high school I felt like Brandon was so much like me we could have been siblings. In college though, he went the way I couldn’t go. My pride and my somewhat arrogant disgust for all things definitively conservative kept me from embracing some person I could have been.
But I’m not Carly Lewis.
I’m not a Republican.
I’m not a baby killer.
I’m not branded by that place and that persona I refused to try on.
I’m not married because I want to live my own life, not someone else’s. And I think that if I had ever dated Brandon Cole I would have found out that we did too have something in common. He was damn good at lying about being happy.
I guess I’m just not as eager to let someone tell me what happy feels like.
I want to really feel it.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Brad Billings #8555
“Are you sure you want to do this one?”
“I’m sure.”
“You really have to go for it, okay? I mean, this is dark. Really dark. You’re a crazy murderer.”
“Dr. Langley, I’m sure.”
I was holding a worn out packet of paper with the heading Tell-Tale Heart. I knew what I was doing.
“All right then. We’ll start in about twenty minutes, now go sit and read through it.”
Dr. Langley eyed me with skepticism from behind her reading glasses. She was my favorite teacher. She was a middle aged woman who reminded me of Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld. She wore slacks and dressy, silk shirts all the time that she accented with oversized gold jewelry. She wore a tie to school once. She was no nonsense, and for some reason she liked me a lot.
It might have been the time I wrote half of a poem on the back of my homework about how her student teacher sucked at classroom management. I didn’t mean to turn it in, but when the student teacher saw it, Dr. Langley called me out of my fourth period to tell me I needed to write an apology letter. I was mortified, but Dr. Langley couldn’t stifle a few spurts of laughter. At the time I couldn’t understand why she would laugh at me over something so horrible. As it turns out, I think Dr. Langley would probably have liked the adult me as well. With her sense of humor, we could have been great friends.
I sat down in a desk near the back corner and started reading the piece to myself. I had heard of it before, and I knew it was about a crazy guy who kills his roommate. I liked the idea of pretending to be someone evil. Dr. Langley didn’t know what she was unleashing when she put that piece in the box.
My best friend Brenna had come to the after school Forensic team tryouts, too. She was in a chair two seats down from me reading something soft and fluffy sounding.
“I don’t see any boy pieces in here, Dr. Langley.”
Brad Billings had been rifling through the basket full of papers for probably twenty minutes already.
“They’re in there, Brad. Just read something.”
“But, um…” He was holding three packets and looking helplessly at them, his snaggle teeth exposed by his open-mouthed confusion.
“Oh, here. Let me help you.”
Brad Billings was skinny, pasty white, and had a mom who was a substitute teacher. His sandy brown hair was always mussed up, and his clothes were always sub par by the then current clique rules. It looked like his mom not only embarrassed him by substituting in the same school her pre-teen son attended, but it often appeared that she might have been dressing him, too. Brad always wore either blue jeans that were a little too tight and too short, or the kind of pants that had an elastic band at the waist. In 1998, elastic was so last decade.
Really, though, his teeth were what made him who he was. They were a dentist’s nightmare. Several were actually growing on top of each other and pointing in odd directions. He looked like he had a mouth full of oversized chicklets when he talked, or laughed, or did anything that required the opening and shutting of his mouth in general.
Dr. Langley settled Brad down with a piece called “Dr. Loveletter.” He sat down next to me.
“How’s your mom?”
I looked up at him from my maniac piece and glared.
“Fine.”
“Jake doing any better in English yet?”
“I don’t know.”
I kept pretending to read. I didn’t want to talk to Brad. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t come to his house on Saturdays because my little brother was bad at Language Arts. I wanted to pretend our moms weren’t friends, and that our little brothers didn’t run around together in his back yard playing with Batman figurines. Brad had nothing to do with me. Brad’s single mom had nothing to do with me. His whole family and their buckteeth could just go away. Especially while my best friend was two seats away.
She looked at Brad sitting next to me, smiled politely and looked back at her own paper.
Being twelve and just a little bit nerdy was not cool. There were standards of decorum at that age that were never as important to me afterwards.
I huffed so Brenna would know I didn’t want to sit next to Brad.
Brad didn’t win awards as Dr. Loveletter, but I made a surprisingly convincing madman.
Brad’s mom ran away in his summer after 8th grade to be with her high school sweetheart whom she hadn’t seen in twenty years. She moved the whole lot of them out to North Carolina, and I never heard from him again until I was in college.
I wasn’t huffy at all. I called him from the number he had emailed me and spoke to not only him, but also his mother. They were really nice. I called partly because Brad didn’t look like a nerd anymore. From his pictures it looked like he had gotten braces somewhere along the lines and now looked, in just the right light, like an Abercrombie model. I wasn’t thinking about how he looked, though. So much had changed since 8th grade that I was also a different person. While Brad had gotten sweeter looking, I had begun to feel like I was rotting on the inside.
I can remember sitting in the car outside my dorm room smoking a cigarette out my window with one hand and my cell phone pressed to the ear with my other.
“I can’t believe you’re actually calling me after all these years!”
“I know! It’s been so long!” I gush back.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” he said, “That sucks.”
“Yeah.” So does getting kicked out of school. So does being ostracized. So does breaking up with your boyfriend of four years. So does being told you’re fat. I took another drag and exhaled.
“You know Carly Lewis? She used to be a good friend of mine from church.”
“Yeah. She’s married now.”
“Woah.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with people these days. I guess that’s great, for her.”
He laughed at my cynicism.
“I wish we could hang out,” he said after a bit.
I wondered what it would be like hanging out with Brad Billings again. Would I go into autopilot and start flirting and forcing out innuendos? Or would I be like I was in eighth grade, all sweet and innocently going with the flow of things. I wished I could be like that again. Unassuming. However awkward it had been, however pretentious I might have seemed at times, my problems were so small then.
“I wish we could too,” I said.
“Too bad I’m in North Carolina.”
“Yeah.”
After I hung up, I considered calling someone else, but I couldn’t think of anything easy. Over the years I had painted myself into a social corner, and the only thing to do was to either pretend to be someone else, or to call someone who might like me. Pretending to be a madman from the Tell Tale Heart had been easy long ago. Pretending to be happy, on the other hand, was hard.
I scrolled through the contacts on my phone.
Brenna was in New York State.
Brad was in North Carolina.
Dr. Langley was teaching college classes up north.
I kept scrolling.
“I’m sure.”
“You really have to go for it, okay? I mean, this is dark. Really dark. You’re a crazy murderer.”
“Dr. Langley, I’m sure.”
I was holding a worn out packet of paper with the heading Tell-Tale Heart. I knew what I was doing.
“All right then. We’ll start in about twenty minutes, now go sit and read through it.”
Dr. Langley eyed me with skepticism from behind her reading glasses. She was my favorite teacher. She was a middle aged woman who reminded me of Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld. She wore slacks and dressy, silk shirts all the time that she accented with oversized gold jewelry. She wore a tie to school once. She was no nonsense, and for some reason she liked me a lot.
It might have been the time I wrote half of a poem on the back of my homework about how her student teacher sucked at classroom management. I didn’t mean to turn it in, but when the student teacher saw it, Dr. Langley called me out of my fourth period to tell me I needed to write an apology letter. I was mortified, but Dr. Langley couldn’t stifle a few spurts of laughter. At the time I couldn’t understand why she would laugh at me over something so horrible. As it turns out, I think Dr. Langley would probably have liked the adult me as well. With her sense of humor, we could have been great friends.
I sat down in a desk near the back corner and started reading the piece to myself. I had heard of it before, and I knew it was about a crazy guy who kills his roommate. I liked the idea of pretending to be someone evil. Dr. Langley didn’t know what she was unleashing when she put that piece in the box.
My best friend Brenna had come to the after school Forensic team tryouts, too. She was in a chair two seats down from me reading something soft and fluffy sounding.
“I don’t see any boy pieces in here, Dr. Langley.”
Brad Billings had been rifling through the basket full of papers for probably twenty minutes already.
“They’re in there, Brad. Just read something.”
“But, um…” He was holding three packets and looking helplessly at them, his snaggle teeth exposed by his open-mouthed confusion.
“Oh, here. Let me help you.”
Brad Billings was skinny, pasty white, and had a mom who was a substitute teacher. His sandy brown hair was always mussed up, and his clothes were always sub par by the then current clique rules. It looked like his mom not only embarrassed him by substituting in the same school her pre-teen son attended, but it often appeared that she might have been dressing him, too. Brad always wore either blue jeans that were a little too tight and too short, or the kind of pants that had an elastic band at the waist. In 1998, elastic was so last decade.
Really, though, his teeth were what made him who he was. They were a dentist’s nightmare. Several were actually growing on top of each other and pointing in odd directions. He looked like he had a mouth full of oversized chicklets when he talked, or laughed, or did anything that required the opening and shutting of his mouth in general.
Dr. Langley settled Brad down with a piece called “Dr. Loveletter.” He sat down next to me.
“How’s your mom?”
I looked up at him from my maniac piece and glared.
“Fine.”
“Jake doing any better in English yet?”
“I don’t know.”
I kept pretending to read. I didn’t want to talk to Brad. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t come to his house on Saturdays because my little brother was bad at Language Arts. I wanted to pretend our moms weren’t friends, and that our little brothers didn’t run around together in his back yard playing with Batman figurines. Brad had nothing to do with me. Brad’s single mom had nothing to do with me. His whole family and their buckteeth could just go away. Especially while my best friend was two seats away.
She looked at Brad sitting next to me, smiled politely and looked back at her own paper.
Being twelve and just a little bit nerdy was not cool. There were standards of decorum at that age that were never as important to me afterwards.
I huffed so Brenna would know I didn’t want to sit next to Brad.
Brad didn’t win awards as Dr. Loveletter, but I made a surprisingly convincing madman.
Brad’s mom ran away in his summer after 8th grade to be with her high school sweetheart whom she hadn’t seen in twenty years. She moved the whole lot of them out to North Carolina, and I never heard from him again until I was in college.
I wasn’t huffy at all. I called him from the number he had emailed me and spoke to not only him, but also his mother. They were really nice. I called partly because Brad didn’t look like a nerd anymore. From his pictures it looked like he had gotten braces somewhere along the lines and now looked, in just the right light, like an Abercrombie model. I wasn’t thinking about how he looked, though. So much had changed since 8th grade that I was also a different person. While Brad had gotten sweeter looking, I had begun to feel like I was rotting on the inside.
I can remember sitting in the car outside my dorm room smoking a cigarette out my window with one hand and my cell phone pressed to the ear with my other.
“I can’t believe you’re actually calling me after all these years!”
“I know! It’s been so long!” I gush back.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” he said, “That sucks.”
“Yeah.” So does getting kicked out of school. So does being ostracized. So does breaking up with your boyfriend of four years. So does being told you’re fat. I took another drag and exhaled.
“You know Carly Lewis? She used to be a good friend of mine from church.”
“Yeah. She’s married now.”
“Woah.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with people these days. I guess that’s great, for her.”
He laughed at my cynicism.
“I wish we could hang out,” he said after a bit.
I wondered what it would be like hanging out with Brad Billings again. Would I go into autopilot and start flirting and forcing out innuendos? Or would I be like I was in eighth grade, all sweet and innocently going with the flow of things. I wished I could be like that again. Unassuming. However awkward it had been, however pretentious I might have seemed at times, my problems were so small then.
“I wish we could too,” I said.
“Too bad I’m in North Carolina.”
“Yeah.”
After I hung up, I considered calling someone else, but I couldn’t think of anything easy. Over the years I had painted myself into a social corner, and the only thing to do was to either pretend to be someone else, or to call someone who might like me. Pretending to be a madman from the Tell Tale Heart had been easy long ago. Pretending to be happy, on the other hand, was hard.
I scrolled through the contacts on my phone.
Brenna was in New York State.
Brad was in North Carolina.
Dr. Langley was teaching college classes up north.
I kept scrolling.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Brian Who Puked #4738
Kyle stared at us from his porch, and I felt terrible.
“Come on, how are we getting home?”
“We?” Brian’s forty was nearly empty now, and I guessed he was done for the evening. He took another swig.
“Yeah, come home with me.”
I glanced at Kyle, now smoking on the porch, pretending he wasn’t out there just to see who got in what car. Then I looked at Brian. He gazed back at me from behind his artsy glasses, looking all relaxed and sleepy.
“I can’t go home with you.”
Kyle had been glaring at me ever since I’d responded positively to Brian’s come-ons. I didn’t know why I was doing it, but I was. His glasses were nice. He looked trendy. He had a closely shaved beard-like thing. His upper lip was eclipsed by it, and I didn’t intend to kiss him, but I had. We had been behind the stairs next to Kyle’s back door. The rest of the party was inside, and Kyle hadn’t noticed us go out. But he’d seen us come back in.
I liked Kyle. I always had. Since the first day I walked into my first college class with him. I had just broken away from private school pseudo-bliss. Kyle was a great guy. He was quiet, southern, and sweet. His demeanor had mostly been defined by his awkward high school years as an overweight funny guy. Since then, he had nearly lost Nicole Ritchie’s entire body mass. He was different outside, but inside he was still shy, inexperienced, and a little bit paranoid.
I had been through an inexplicable crush on him in my first semester that I knew was bad news. Kyle liked me, would probably do anything for me, and I was using his affection like a never-ending gobstopper. I sucked it dry while I ran wild. Then, when a slutty looking freshman made out with him in his driveway on Cinco de Mayo, I flew into a jealous rage, much like the one he was pouting his way through now on the porch. Only “now” was almost three years later.
“Come on. I live close.” He drained the forty in his hand. Only disgusting alcoholics and white guys who think they’re funny drink forties of beer.
“You do probably need a ride, don’t you?”
“Kiss me.” He smelled thick and sweet. And as he leaned in I shot a look back at Kyle who was going back inside.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go.”
Now, I had only bought a six-pack of Blue Moon that night, and I didn’t even get to drink it all because the party got out of hand and people kept going in the refrigerator and stealing them. So I wasn’t toasted.
“That was a pretty great party Kyle had, huh?” We were in my car, driving away from the city. Apparently Brian lived in the upstairs of an old house near the historic district. I was jealous. What did he do?
“What do you do?”
“I work with Kyle.” Oh crap. “At the pizza place next to campus.”
“Really?”
“Yeah…” He leaned toward me and reached for my leg. “Kyle’s a really nice guy.”
“I know.”
“Hey,” he was looking right at me. Maybe he wasn’t drunk. “Are you going to come up?” His eyes were brown and shining. I didn’t know what I would do when I got there. Drive away?
“I plan not to come up.”
“Can I make you change your plans?” He spread his long fingers out over my leg and moved up and down. Something shifted inside me, but I reminded myself not to ignore the fact that there was a large empty beer bottle in the floor of my passenger seat.
“Turn here.”
We turned onto a narrow street lined with old Victorian style houses. They had beautiful lattice porches, but were otherwise sad looking. Such was the way with that college town, though. The real estate could look beautiful. It could be over one hundred years old. Yet it would be rented out to a bunch of partying, drug experimenting, co-eds who had no real ambition but to stay as wasted throughout college as possible. It would definitely explain the beer pong table set up on the wrap around porch of the yellow two-story we pass before turning into a driveway.
Brian is still massaging my thigh. We stop at the end of the driveway around back next to two other cars.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over towards me.
I stare at him, still warm from his hand on my leg.
He is about to touch my neck. He’s just breathing on it, still.
“…Inside with me?” he says.
“Huh?”
Then he sits straight up. He looks a little—green?
“Come on, let’s go.”
He opens the car door, and says “Man, I think those two beers were a bad idea.”
When he stands up he bends over and pukes into the grass.
Ew.
I sit there for a minute, my hand still on the steering wheel. I’m frozen. In the third grade, this girl named Brandy Houston threw up in my lap and I never felt the same way about body fluids after. This weird fear rises up in me, and as he’s still retching, I say aloud, “Well, Brian, that’s my cue!”
I lurch over the console and grab enough of my passenger door to close it without disturbing Brian’s “situation.” Then I turn the key in the ignition and back out of the driveway. At the corner, I chuck his beer bottle out the window after I make sure no one’s looking.
It makes a satisfying shattering noise in the street.
I don’t talk to Kyle for three weeks after. I don’t want to remember this ever even happened. And when Brian asks Kyle for my number at the pizza place, Kyle gives it to him one digit off.
Good ole Kyle. He always protected me even when I should have known enough to protect myself.
“Come on, how are we getting home?”
“We?” Brian’s forty was nearly empty now, and I guessed he was done for the evening. He took another swig.
“Yeah, come home with me.”
I glanced at Kyle, now smoking on the porch, pretending he wasn’t out there just to see who got in what car. Then I looked at Brian. He gazed back at me from behind his artsy glasses, looking all relaxed and sleepy.
“I can’t go home with you.”
Kyle had been glaring at me ever since I’d responded positively to Brian’s come-ons. I didn’t know why I was doing it, but I was. His glasses were nice. He looked trendy. He had a closely shaved beard-like thing. His upper lip was eclipsed by it, and I didn’t intend to kiss him, but I had. We had been behind the stairs next to Kyle’s back door. The rest of the party was inside, and Kyle hadn’t noticed us go out. But he’d seen us come back in.
I liked Kyle. I always had. Since the first day I walked into my first college class with him. I had just broken away from private school pseudo-bliss. Kyle was a great guy. He was quiet, southern, and sweet. His demeanor had mostly been defined by his awkward high school years as an overweight funny guy. Since then, he had nearly lost Nicole Ritchie’s entire body mass. He was different outside, but inside he was still shy, inexperienced, and a little bit paranoid.
I had been through an inexplicable crush on him in my first semester that I knew was bad news. Kyle liked me, would probably do anything for me, and I was using his affection like a never-ending gobstopper. I sucked it dry while I ran wild. Then, when a slutty looking freshman made out with him in his driveway on Cinco de Mayo, I flew into a jealous rage, much like the one he was pouting his way through now on the porch. Only “now” was almost three years later.
“Come on. I live close.” He drained the forty in his hand. Only disgusting alcoholics and white guys who think they’re funny drink forties of beer.
“You do probably need a ride, don’t you?”
“Kiss me.” He smelled thick and sweet. And as he leaned in I shot a look back at Kyle who was going back inside.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go.”
Now, I had only bought a six-pack of Blue Moon that night, and I didn’t even get to drink it all because the party got out of hand and people kept going in the refrigerator and stealing them. So I wasn’t toasted.
“That was a pretty great party Kyle had, huh?” We were in my car, driving away from the city. Apparently Brian lived in the upstairs of an old house near the historic district. I was jealous. What did he do?
“What do you do?”
“I work with Kyle.” Oh crap. “At the pizza place next to campus.”
“Really?”
“Yeah…” He leaned toward me and reached for my leg. “Kyle’s a really nice guy.”
“I know.”
“Hey,” he was looking right at me. Maybe he wasn’t drunk. “Are you going to come up?” His eyes were brown and shining. I didn’t know what I would do when I got there. Drive away?
“I plan not to come up.”
“Can I make you change your plans?” He spread his long fingers out over my leg and moved up and down. Something shifted inside me, but I reminded myself not to ignore the fact that there was a large empty beer bottle in the floor of my passenger seat.
“Turn here.”
We turned onto a narrow street lined with old Victorian style houses. They had beautiful lattice porches, but were otherwise sad looking. Such was the way with that college town, though. The real estate could look beautiful. It could be over one hundred years old. Yet it would be rented out to a bunch of partying, drug experimenting, co-eds who had no real ambition but to stay as wasted throughout college as possible. It would definitely explain the beer pong table set up on the wrap around porch of the yellow two-story we pass before turning into a driveway.
Brian is still massaging my thigh. We stop at the end of the driveway around back next to two other cars.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over towards me.
I stare at him, still warm from his hand on my leg.
He is about to touch my neck. He’s just breathing on it, still.
“…Inside with me?” he says.
“Huh?”
Then he sits straight up. He looks a little—green?
“Come on, let’s go.”
He opens the car door, and says “Man, I think those two beers were a bad idea.”
When he stands up he bends over and pukes into the grass.
Ew.
I sit there for a minute, my hand still on the steering wheel. I’m frozen. In the third grade, this girl named Brandy Houston threw up in my lap and I never felt the same way about body fluids after. This weird fear rises up in me, and as he’s still retching, I say aloud, “Well, Brian, that’s my cue!”
I lurch over the console and grab enough of my passenger door to close it without disturbing Brian’s “situation.” Then I turn the key in the ignition and back out of the driveway. At the corner, I chuck his beer bottle out the window after I make sure no one’s looking.
It makes a satisfying shattering noise in the street.
I don’t talk to Kyle for three weeks after. I don’t want to remember this ever even happened. And when Brian asks Kyle for my number at the pizza place, Kyle gives it to him one digit off.
Good ole Kyle. He always protected me even when I should have known enough to protect myself.
The Office: 10 Reasons Your Workplace Deserves Its Own Episode
You know your workplace deserves its own episode of The Office when:
1) As part of a Can Drive, there is a karaoke competition complete with dj downstairs in the auditorium. It lasts three hours.
2) Your boss sends out an email detailing his involvement next week in a program called PMP Training.
3) Your co-worker one cubicle over has a last name that sounds like Toaster Streusel and works the expletive “Shit!” into nearly every phone conversation, good or bad.
4) Your superior in the sales department dances in her office at your mere mention of Salsa music, then loudly requires that everyone gather round to watch.
5) You participate in a skit for Charity that involves dancing provocatively to Flo Rida’s “Low” while waving phony money at people in the audience.
6) Shorts Friday turns into Butt Cheek Day as a few misguided youths wear butt shorts to work in September.
7) The names of customer companies provide a continual source of merriment as you file away “Taynt Co.,” “Diggin Durty Inc.,” and “Phat, Ho.”
8) The company picnic happens during work hours, with a free lunch, free ice cream straight from a truck parked at the curb, and the results of a contest meaning 5 executives will get pies in the face.
9) Someone has written “feces” in pencil on the bottom of the list of non-recyclable garbage above the green bin in the workroom.
10) One of your co-workers continually tries to hook you up with an associate who lives in Michigan and has no idea who you are. She postulates about your future with him and whether he would move to be with you.
1) As part of a Can Drive, there is a karaoke competition complete with dj downstairs in the auditorium. It lasts three hours.
2) Your boss sends out an email detailing his involvement next week in a program called PMP Training.
3) Your co-worker one cubicle over has a last name that sounds like Toaster Streusel and works the expletive “Shit!” into nearly every phone conversation, good or bad.
4) Your superior in the sales department dances in her office at your mere mention of Salsa music, then loudly requires that everyone gather round to watch.
5) You participate in a skit for Charity that involves dancing provocatively to Flo Rida’s “Low” while waving phony money at people in the audience.
6) Shorts Friday turns into Butt Cheek Day as a few misguided youths wear butt shorts to work in September.
7) The names of customer companies provide a continual source of merriment as you file away “Taynt Co.,” “Diggin Durty Inc.,” and “Phat, Ho.”
8) The company picnic happens during work hours, with a free lunch, free ice cream straight from a truck parked at the curb, and the results of a contest meaning 5 executives will get pies in the face.
9) Someone has written “feces” in pencil on the bottom of the list of non-recyclable garbage above the green bin in the workroom.
10) One of your co-workers continually tries to hook you up with an associate who lives in Michigan and has no idea who you are. She postulates about your future with him and whether he would move to be with you.
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