Part Two of the Now not so short Story

The thing about anyone's Sophomore year in high school is that it is always an experiment. No matter who you are, or where you come from, you try different looks, girls, ideas and activities. A lot of my inspiration came from those more popular with the ladies than I was. There was this guy, Dave, in my gym class. Dave was a year ahead of me, and he ran Cross Country. And he always had a very new, very hot girlfriend. Since I had absolutely no interest in running long distances, and practically no hope of being with girls as hot as Dave's current girlfriend, I decided to give sprinting a try. I figured it required less commitment, and at this point, I would literally take any girl.

My mother, of course, was more than happy to equip me with the latest and greatest running gear. Even special underwear that kept my junk from flopping around. My school was fairly small, so there were never any try outs. If you showed up to practice, you were on the team. My first day on the track team was also my first day ever running. It was not too terribly hot, and at first, I completed the drills with ease. Running and jumping over hurdles? No problem. Baton passing? I had it down. When it came time to do the longer distances, though, I threw up. All over my new Reeboks. It became very clear to me in that moment that running was not my passion. Not only that, but I realized that throwing up all over myself was not going to get me any girls- not even the not so pretty type. I really needed to rethink this whole thing.

I tossed my now ruined running shoes, changed my (very uncomfortable) underwear, and called my mom to pick me up. While sitting on the curb behind the football field waiting on her, I realized that I could do nothing physically demanding. So, I decided to focus on being really into punk rock. I figured there were plenty of girls that might like that. I asked my mom to take me to buy safety pins, acid wash jeans, and a black t-shirt. That night, I cut up my jeans, gave myself a mohawk, and took my dog for a walk in my Doc Martens. The next day at school, I decided, I would skip my very first class ever (gym), and venture below the bleachers to smoke with all of the other kids dressed like they had just stepped out of an episode of The Munsters. After my parents went to bed, I woke my brother up to help me smoke a pack of Mom's Virginia Slims. I had to build up my tolerance if I wanted to make this believable.

On my way to school that morning, I stopped at the corner store and convinced a senior to buy me a pack of Marlboro Reds. Those seemed pretty legit. After third period, I hid in the bathroom until everyone else was where they needed to be. I headed down to the bleachers, my heart pounding with every step. This was beyond new territory. I had invited myself into another world entirely. With the first step that I took, I knew that I had made a really good decision. Everyone was standing around with their cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, pretending to ignore each other. This was perfect. I took a seat on a pile of rocks in the corner, taking out a copy of "Catcher in The Rye" to broaden my appeal to the literary minded girls that I knew were around. I continued this routine every day for the rest of the semester, and no one ever talked to me. No one ever talked to each other, come to think of it. The only benefits that I really saw come out of skipping gym every day was that I gained 10 pounds, my voice got raspier because of the smoking, and I began to really enjoy what little I could understand of J.D. Salinger's work.

Normally, my parents would have taken notice of the changes in me, but they were very distracted with their own problems. I am not quite sure what exactly was going on, but I did hear them fighting one night about my brother's basketball coach. Something about him and my mom spending too much time together. Looking back, there must have been some sort of affair going on, but I could not be bothered with that. As much as it was tearing my family apart, this distraction came at the perfect time for me. I had started driving a few months before, and I could stay out as late as I wanted to, listening to tapes that I made of bands that some other people wore t-shirts of, like The Ramones, and The Smiths. They were not my favorite, but I liked their shirts, and on the offhand chance that one of us talked to another, I would have something to talk about. I remember driving around for hours trying to like that music, smoking pack after pack of Marlboros. There were nights that I stayed out all night, without my parents ever asking me a question about it.

The last four days of my life were filled with celebration. My younger brother was graduating from the eighth grade, and my parents took the opportunity to reclaim their position as the best party throwers in the neighborhood. Thursday, after school, Dad had us cleaning out the pool together. Like many things my father made us do, cleaning out the pool was unnecessary. But, we let it occupy us for the two hours before dinner, happy to have an excuse to get out of the war zone that our home had become. We ordered pizza that night, because the oven was occupied with the third batch of cookies for the day. I remember how weird it was to eat pepperoni pizza while smelling burnt chocolate chip cookies, and how I could almost close my eyes and imagine that I was eating a big, charred cookie cake.
Friday, Mom let us skip school to go watch Jeremy's graduation. I had never graduated high school before, but I had a feeling that it did not include as much pomp and circumstance as this one did. Every student got a plaque with their name and the date of their graduation. Parents took pictures, and one mom a few rows up even cried. I have to admit, it was all too much for me to digest, and I had to take a smoke break about 10 minutes in. The whole ceremony took a little over two hours, or enough time to count the ceiling tiles a grand total of 243 times. After the thing was over, my parents took turns doting over my brother, and subtly bragging to other parents about the party, which of course they were all invited to. I offered to start the car, thankful for the escape that it offered. Why did I not think of this earlier?
Saturday was the day of the big party. From the moment I woke up, my mom was telling everyone what to do. My responsibilities included taking the dog out for a walk, running to grocery store for some condensed milk and coconut flakes, and picking up new swim trunks for myself. No Problem. Anything to get me out of that madhouse. At the grocery store, I decided to buy condoms. I had never gotten any before, and so it was a little awkward. I stood on isle 7, the one with tampons, creams for vaginal itch, and condoms. God, I wanted to be able to use one. I knew exactly who I wanted to use one with, too. Veronika Greene was so good looking that I could barely contain myself just THINKING about being in the pool with her. That reminded me to pick up some waterproof eyeliner (which I had begun wearing a few weeks before. I saw this poster in the record store of Kiss, and I know they get a lot of chicks). I figured there was nothing less sexy than a guy wearing runny black eyeliner trying to make a move on you in the pool at his brother's eighth grade graduation. So, condoms and waterproof eyeliner in tow, I made my way to the Penny's to get new swim trunks. After trying on a few pair and realizing that I just did not look good, I decided that maybe feet in the pool was the best route for me to go. I had never tried waterproof eyeliner, either, so I didn't want to chance that going south.

An Un-Named (and incomplete) Short Story

Growing up, everything in our home was always brand new. New clothes, new cars, new appliances. One upping our neighbors was, in my opinion, the sole thing my parents had in common for the majority of their marriage. My dad would come home from his job at the car dealership, and my mother would report all of the day's business. The Simmons family had purchased a new dryer, and ours was simply not good enough. My dad would say that, come to think of it, he had noticed that it was drying just a little more slowly the last few weeks. "It's all about efficiency these days, Linda," he would nod in agreement. As she finished the scalloped potatoes, Mom would tell of the new socks she had picked up for us at Penny's. They were woven with the most finely wound thread made of steel. Perfect for the grueling half mile walk to school we took every day.

After the obligatory family dinner small talk, my brothers and I would do the dishes. Looking back, it would have been easier to just have one us do them each night, because it always seemed to take eons to finish the small stack. The problem was that everyone always wanted to be the one to dry the dishes. We would always try to come up with a system, but in the end, someone was crying and we were all soaking wet. Defeated and soggy, we would head upstairs, brush our teeth, and get ready for bed. At 16, the monotony of this routine was really starting to bother me.

But this story is not about my parents' shallow tendencies, or my discontent with the life that they created for us. This story is about the end of that life. Well, the end of my life, at least.

I was 16 and three quarters of a year old when I died. The year was 1987 and my favorite song was "Catch Me (I'm Falling)" by Poison. Until about three months before I died, I had never kissed a girl (One year at summer camp, Jenny Graham let me touch her boobs when we were under the water, but as far as real girl connection, that's about all I had experienced). The girl I kissed was Cassandra. I wish I could say she was beautiful, but she wasn't. She sang in the school choir, had brown hair, and messy teeth. We had American Literature together our Sophomore year, and since her last name was Wilson and mine was Williams, we sat next to each other and worked together on most projects. She was over at my house one night working on a partner essay on The Grapes of Wrath, and it happened. I looked at her and knew that I needed to, I HAD to kiss her. I leaned in and made my move. Our mouths met in a sloppy, awkward way that reminded me of this film we had watched in French class that always made me want to gag. After about 10 seconds, we broke the kiss, and she excused herself from the room. "That went over really well..." I thought to myself while adjusting the crotch of my jeans.

Before Cassandra came out of the bathroom, my mom brought in some new recipe that her friend had messed up the previous week, so Mom was trying to perfect it. It was some sort of casserole with spinach and cheese on top, and from the looks of it, not much improved. Cassandra came back in, and we went about our writing as if nothing had happened. I shoved the mediocre casserole into my mouth bite after bite, thankful for something to fill the awkward lack of conversation now settling in on us. We finished our paper, and she drove herself home. I suppose the night was not a total loss, though. Our paper got graded a B+. One day shortly after, I caught Cassandra doodling my name with hearts all around it. The next day, I heard that we were a couple, and by third period, I knew I had to end it. This was really quite smothering. So, I sent her a note through our friend Samantha about the (inevitable) end of our relationship. It was, I said, much like the Grapes of Wrath. It was time for us to both move on to bigger and better things. I thought it was really poetic, actually. So, as it stands, Cassandra was my very first, and (unknown to me at the time) last girlfriend that I would ever have. Quite lackluster, really.

Addict.

*A sort of autobiographical, too-intimate look at my life in the moment (it should be noted that almost NOTHING else that I write is about me, but I feel this is necessary for background/therapy reasons). *


I saw a car the other day like the one that you had when we first met (You know, the one we sold before we moved to Baltimore. I think we got $300 for it). It reminded me of you at 19 and me at 17. You and I were a lot of things that we aren't anymore, the most significant of which is in love. I was so young, and you swooped in with your "band hair" and your bench seats, and took me away from the mess that was my life. You cleaned up my messes, opened bank accounts with me, cried with me, for me, over me. Invited me in, and erased my past all in one fell swoop. And that was it. I was 17, and I was in love.
You were the thing that was to save me from my past. When I was with you, I did not think of my awful home life, or my failing grades. I did not think of ANYTHING but you. You made me laugh when I did not think it was possible to crack a smile. You were a numbing drug when all I needed to do was feel. I knew that I had to chase this feeling, this high, until it ran out. So, when you moved to go to school, I followed. When you asked me to marry you, I did. And for many of those moments, I think I was surface-happy. There was, however, always a nagging feeling that something was bubbling just below the surface.
How many years can you ignore your past before it turns around and bites you on the ass? As much as you tried to help, not dealing with problems never solved anything- now, don't get me wrong. I am not blaming you. I am confessing that I used you. I knew what I was doing. "Just smile and look pretty" became my middle name. Well, I am tired of smiling if I am not happy. And I am sick of having to look so damn good all of the time.
So, after much debate and heartache, I left you and the life that we spent so many years building together. Because I love what you do for me, but I don't love you. You were my band-aid on my gaping wounds of the past, but it's time to clean them out, and get some sutures so that I can finally heal. I would like to form more friendships with people based on who they are, and not what they can give. I would like to be able to fall in love and have fewer regrets. I would like to have enough time and energy to finish an entire novel, and, without having to put so much effort into keeping my marriage from falling apart, maybe that will be possible.




*So, this is where I find myself. 24. Single. Writing. Struggling. Missing. Rebuilding. This is the background to everything I write, to give some context.*