It’s him again. He’s wearing his black jacket, the one with a hole in the elbow. He doesn’t care. His hair looks dirty. I just drooled. Oh shit, I literally just drooled! Great, it’s on my shirt. Good thing I’m easy to miss. I really wish we had more than four minutes to get to class. With so little time, how can I NOT carry all my books at all times? I’m sick of getting laughed at for it. That theater club bitch trips me every day before sixth period. I’d love to just sock her. Take her completely off guard. Sad thing is, I’d get crucified by the administration. School play’s female lead vs. German club treasurer. This school’s politics are such a joke. There’s a Chemistry test today? Shit! I stayed up all night on Facebook! I wonder if they’d let me go home if I said I started my period and threw up in the bathroom.
He didn’t do a single thing out of the ordinary, but I’m lost in this indescribably girly trance. I’ve felt this approximately 413 times, assuming one for each day I’ve called him mine. He’ll never know that he doesn’t have to try to make me smile. It’s the palate of skin over softly rounded bone that sends my senses silly with recognition. But it’s so much more than his flushed cheeks, soft shoulders, and warm arms that draw me in. He doesn’t have to speak for me to know the singular wonder that beats inside that perfect cradle of a chest. I never can word my amazement, even now, in my own mind. He thinks I’m beautiful, but he looks so much deeper than my eyes. He sees something in me the same way I do in him. He thinks I’m perfectly imperfect. Me. This sunset caliber of a beautiful man loves ME, mirrors my amazement. It’s not surprise dates to apple orchards or Sunday night movies that make us one of a kind. Anyone can pretend to be happy. Him and I, we’re happier than we even have the capacity to feel.
“I hate you!”
I wish I had known how much this stings when I was a little girl. I screamed it until I fell asleep every time my mom sent me to my room. Now it’s my turn, and I’m mother to a curly-haired terror so much like my young self. I always swore I’d be different when I was older, but slowly, I’ve realized that she isn’t the enemy. She’s my hero. It started in college, when I realized I was within reach of the real world. Her ability to conquer the world before dinner became my sole focus when I came home on the weekends. I passed on plans with friends to watch crime dramas with her and my dad. It’s her zest for life, her strength that only relents when someone else needs it more. I swallow my pride and admit my respect in her words.
“That’s okay sweetie. I still love you.”
My screaming terror transforms after ten quiet minutes. Her eyes, now touched with softness, are puffed and red.
“I didn’t mean it mommy. I love you, I really do.”
I don’t know what I was thinking when I said I’d never grow up to be like her. I feel like a superhero.
I spent $60 on discontinued Poloroid film that won’t develop. It rained today. I wore flip-flops. My feet look like raisins. Now I’m running late to work, and I have a mountain of homework to do when I get off. I can’t reach my phone, so I ignore it. Goddamnit, apparently whoever it is can’t take a hint. Of course, my brother. He lives to irritate me. This isn’t right. He’s crying. Josh doesn’t cry.
“Sis, I made it. I’m in remission.”
I remember that I have parents that are happily married after 25 years. I have an older sister who’s making her dreams come true. My best friends live close by, and I can get to them easily with the Dodge Neon I love so much. My house is awesome. My parents buy good food. I can choose to waste my life away just laying in bed watching reruns or go out and waste money on fast food and gas. I have money to waste. I have time to spare. My brother is going to live to see me get married. My brother is alive. I’M alive. Today is the best day of my life.
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