Assignment

One of the first assignments were were given in class was to write a two page short story about an emotion, use a random topic: either Marilyn Monroe/ The Earth or Garden Furniture and use a line we wrote in class as our first line. I chose Angst (of course), Garden Furniture and well, this was my first line... and also the subsequent story. (FYI it's in the voice of a boy).

If Only

Screeching through the air a bird swoops down on me from high above, its skin looks leathery almost prehistoric, it’s talons nearly grasp me, and then I awake.

The alarm clock flashes 12:23, 12:23, 12:23. Oh Shit. I fumble around drunk from oversleeping and pick up a pair of jeans and a dirty t-shirt from the floor. Without bothering to brush my hair or teeth, which I never do anyway, I run downstairs slide on my Chucks, grab my keys, set the alarm and lock the door. I congratulate myself for what must be a new record, less than 1 min from waking to departure.

My foot falls into a puddle from last night’s thunder storm soaking my shoes. I’m barely a block away, my foot’s waterlogged and I realize that I don’t have my backpack or notebook. Ehgh... The perfect beginning to summer school.

Then a flash, a wave, a genius idea travels from my gut to my brain: Fuck it. I leisurely stroll back to 27 Lake Placid Green. The door shuts behind me with an echoing slam, which seems to shout “freedom!” There is no one here to tell me what to do, no one even to check up on me. My parents are an hour drive away in the city. Why did I bother trying?

I pour myself a bowl of Cheerios and step out onto the back patio. Reclining on our once Clorox white but now sun-stained deck chairs, which I keep promising to power-wash but have managed to avoid for three months now, I contemplate how to spend this day. Write another song on the guitar? Visit my friend who works at the Amsterdam Cafe? Figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life so that I can move out in a year?

My black Che t-shirt bakes as the sun reaches its peak. I’m tempted to take it off but remember that our neighbor, Samantha might be home. I needn't embarrass myself anymore by exposing my pale excuse for a chest. Although my new nipple piercing might impress her some, if she’s that kind of girl... but I doubt it.

Last week from my second story bedroom I watched her swing in her hammock reading an “In Style” magazine, twirling her hair. It’s strange about how primally I’m drawn to her even though she epitomizes everything I hate: enthusiasm, optimism and social acceptance. She seemed to notice me and gave a twitter of her fingers in my direction. Of course, I panicked, hit the floor then shut the blinds. God, if only my parents would let me move to the basement. And paint it black...

So many if only’s... If only she wasn’t so completely out of my league. If only I wasn’t 17 with the legs of a chicken.

Bowl of Cheerios now devoured, my back and bony excuse for an ass are developing welts from the plastic slats of the chair, so I stand up and stretch out my sleepiness.

Samantha emerges into her garden like Venus from the clam shell dressed in jeans and a tank top. “I’m bringin’ sexy back,” blares from a stereo in her house. “Them other boys don’t know how to act.” Stomach cringes. Heart skips a beat. Justin Timberlake- barf.

Over the fence, our eyes meet, then look away, then meet again. I’m ashamed of myself for liking her, with her cliche girl-next-door pretty and niceness, but not nearly as ashamed as I am to know this song... and to be foot taping to the beat.

I gaze up to the sky. Now God, kill me now. A Magpie swoops down, lands on the fence that separates our perfectly manicured back yards.

“Morning,” she says and pulls out a copy of The Motorcycle Diaries.

“Morning,” I smile back.