Power Outages...
I probably don't hate 'em as much as I should. It's only when they leave me without a light to read by before I go to bed that I start to feel the inconvenience. Or if I reallllly need to use the computer. Being without light can be a little disconcerting, though, especially in your grandma's house in rural North Carolina where there aren't even streetlights. Imagine not having streetlights. It seems very, very wrong, although it must save quite a lot of electricity.
As to the rest of my life, I had my first locking-my-self-out-of-the-house episode today. I went outside to spray paint one of Granny's many garden statues for her. She was out taking Jordan to be groomed (Now he looks like a freaking rat-- I hate it. When I look at him I don't see Jordan anymore.), and I didn't realize that the door was set so that it locked when you closed it. I was just wondering what I was going to do outside without my book, when my grandma pulled up, thank goodness. I suppose I could have just asked one of the neighbors for a key, but I hadn't quite gotten there yet.
After this episode, and when the power came back on, I checked my email and found a reply from S to my rejection. It was very mature, which made me feel worse. I wish he would have yelled at me, as much as you can yell over email.
Instead he said, "Yeah, sure, let's just be friends. When I said all that I didn't think I would get the answer I wanted, anyway."
It was the "When I said all that I didn't think I would get the answer I wanted, anyway" bit that really got me. I had to apologize again.
My last and final point is that I am just beginning to realize how wrong I feel without my laptop. I'm used to opening it before I go to bed and dashing out a few paragraphs on all my stories. I keep finding myself thinking about them, but I can't remember where I left off. I guess I could write entirely separate scenes, farther along in the story than I really am. The trouble is that I'm not really sure where most of them are going. I know that's not the best way to write, but I'm much better at going with the flow than trying to force a storyline out. Oh well.
Resignedly,
Rosie L.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Of Unreasonable Temperatures and Unrequited Love
I was out walking Jordan today in the hot, hot sun (it really shouldn't be anywhere near eighty degrees at six o'clock in the evening, should it?) when I saw Skateboard Boy again. He was standing in his driveway, in front of a house on a street I usually go down. I think I have quite a chance, although I also think I may be being a bit stalkerish. I certainly hope not, but it is quite a possibility. Stalkerish or not, I wonder how I can talk to Skateboard Boy. It would be too weird to just go up to him and introduce myself, but what else can I do?
On a darker note, S told me he liked me today in an email. I most definitely do not come anywhere close to liking him as more than a friend. I love him as a friend, but I can't ever see it being anything more. I had to reject him, something I've never done before. It felt simply horrible. I hope I never have to do it again, although I'm not too sure how I'm going to manage that. I hope he doesn't mind too very much. Oh, I need to go read and get my mind off of this.
Painfully,
Rosie L.
On a darker note, S told me he liked me today in an email. I most definitely do not come anywhere close to liking him as more than a friend. I love him as a friend, but I can't ever see it being anything more. I had to reject him, something I've never done before. It felt simply horrible. I hope I never have to do it again, although I'm not too sure how I'm going to manage that. I hope he doesn't mind too very much. Oh, I need to go read and get my mind off of this.
Painfully,
Rosie L.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Of Halfhearted Waves and Reassuring Whispers
I have managed to dig up a young person in this blurred haze of the elderly! I saw him yesterday while I was walking Jordan. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a brown-haired, clearly male, clearly young figure skateboarding down the street I was just about to turn on to. Normally, my heart would not skip a beat at something so trivial. I mean, I see kids skateboarding all the time. It's not exactly a rarity. But here, where 85 percent of the population is over the age of fifty, seeing someone like that is a big deal. And, really, it was everything I had been hoping for. Isn't that why I had toiled down the streets every day, towing a poodle in the sun, sweltering even at five in the evening? Isn't that why I had taken care to make my hair turn in just right, even though I am only visiting my grandma?
But I showed no outward signs of my surprise, and continued walking as if I were completely unphased. When I walked by, I turned to look at him. Because, while I didn't want to appear too keen, it would have been weird to pretend as if I didn't notice him. So I just turned and glanced over at him, nonchalant and brief. A glance that can best be described by the words, "What's that-- oh," and turn away.
To my astonishment, he acknowledged me. Normally it seems to be a code between people my age that you do not wave to someone when you see them unless you know them. It simply isn't done. Nonetheless, he inclined his head and raised two or three fingers in a sort of half-hearted wave. I guess it was the Southern Hospitality thing.
Not that I've been thinking about it too much or anything.
On an equally bright note, I had the most wonderful dream last night. The beginning started out horribly-- I was at theater camp, when I was whisked away to help with the filming of Juno. There must have been something wonky, though, because Juno had already come out, and was already one of my favorite movies. Not to mention I already had a massive crush on Paulie Bleeker. When I got to the set, I found that Ellen Paige hated me and Michael Cera ignored me. Not so good. On my first vacation, I came back to my old school. I was standing by N's old house venting to her and Na, when Michael Cera came up. I went up to feebly apologize to him (for what I'm not sure-- it seemed valid at the time). Then he did something completely unexpected. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulled me close, and started whispering in my ear. He whispered about how he was sorry for ignoring me, and how I shouldn't let other people's opinions of my affect how I see myself, and all the other things I can't recall now. He whispered about everything. When he finally let me go, I woke up in a joyous haze. It was the best dream I have ever had.
On top of it all, I am counting the days until Breaking Dawn comes out.
But I showed no outward signs of my surprise, and continued walking as if I were completely unphased. When I walked by, I turned to look at him. Because, while I didn't want to appear too keen, it would have been weird to pretend as if I didn't notice him. So I just turned and glanced over at him, nonchalant and brief. A glance that can best be described by the words, "What's that-- oh," and turn away.
To my astonishment, he acknowledged me. Normally it seems to be a code between people my age that you do not wave to someone when you see them unless you know them. It simply isn't done. Nonetheless, he inclined his head and raised two or three fingers in a sort of half-hearted wave. I guess it was the Southern Hospitality thing.
Not that I've been thinking about it too much or anything.
On an equally bright note, I had the most wonderful dream last night. The beginning started out horribly-- I was at theater camp, when I was whisked away to help with the filming of Juno. There must have been something wonky, though, because Juno had already come out, and was already one of my favorite movies. Not to mention I already had a massive crush on Paulie Bleeker. When I got to the set, I found that Ellen Paige hated me and Michael Cera ignored me. Not so good. On my first vacation, I came back to my old school. I was standing by N's old house venting to her and Na, when Michael Cera came up. I went up to feebly apologize to him (for what I'm not sure-- it seemed valid at the time). Then he did something completely unexpected. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulled me close, and started whispering in my ear. He whispered about how he was sorry for ignoring me, and how I shouldn't let other people's opinions of my affect how I see myself, and all the other things I can't recall now. He whispered about everything. When he finally let me go, I woke up in a joyous haze. It was the best dream I have ever had.
On top of it all, I am counting the days until Breaking Dawn comes out.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Of Sitcoms and Communication
Now don't get my wrong, I love my grandparents, but they are honestly like characters on a TV sitcom for the elderly. At dinner tonight, my grandpa looked out the window and said, "Look, Martha, Den and Dennis are standing outside. What do you think they're doing?"
My grandma said, "I don't know, Gil. I can't see them. What are they looking toward?"
And they had this whole conversation about what Den and Dennis (those are really their names), the across-the-street neighbors, could be doing standing outside. They came to several possible conclusions: looking at something in the sky, commenting on the weather (rainy, unusual for North Carolina), trying to figure out the best way to trim the hedge. I had to work hard to keep from giggling. I just kept my mouth shut, because otherwise I probably would have said something sarcastic.
Later that night, when I was doing the dishes, my great-aunt called and told my grandma all about how this tree had fallen in her yard from the rainstorm. Then my grandma handed the phone to my grandpa and my great-aunt related the whole story to him, too.
Little do they know that I am watching their soap opera with eager fascination.
On a completely different note, I have just emailed my ex and told him exactly why it was I broke up with him. He was quite eager to know at first, but then I didn't know. Eventually he stopped asking. When I was in the shower this morning, though, I figured it out.
These were my reasons: the whole asking-weird-questions-on-the-phone-thing was part of it, and the other part was that I could never dress up for him. If I ever tried to make myself as pretty as I could to go out with him, he would reprimand me for caring too much about my appearance. I'm glad he liked me for more than my looks and liked me the way I was and all, but I wish I had been able to spend hours dressing up for my date, and then have him appreciate it. It seems like a petty, trivial reason, but I guess it mattered enough.
Anyway, emailing your ex and telling him why you broke up with him seems like kind of a... weird is the only word I can think of right now... thing to do, and I wasn't going to at first, but then I found this horoscope:
Hopefully you've noticed over the past few weeks that it's been a lot easier to talk to other people - perhaps one Very Important Person more so than anyone else. This has been thanks to the passage of the communications planet Mercury through your House of Other People. He's about to leave now, but before he does, he's giving you a few last opportunities to say what you need to, to that Significant Other Person (past, present or potential) in your life. So what are you waiting for? Communication is the key to pretty much everything in relationships, non?
It was scary how related it was.
Kind of Emotionlessly,
Rosie L.
My grandma said, "I don't know, Gil. I can't see them. What are they looking toward?"
And they had this whole conversation about what Den and Dennis (those are really their names), the across-the-street neighbors, could be doing standing outside. They came to several possible conclusions: looking at something in the sky, commenting on the weather (rainy, unusual for North Carolina), trying to figure out the best way to trim the hedge. I had to work hard to keep from giggling. I just kept my mouth shut, because otherwise I probably would have said something sarcastic.
Later that night, when I was doing the dishes, my great-aunt called and told my grandma all about how this tree had fallen in her yard from the rainstorm. Then my grandma handed the phone to my grandpa and my great-aunt related the whole story to him, too.
Little do they know that I am watching their soap opera with eager fascination.
On a completely different note, I have just emailed my ex and told him exactly why it was I broke up with him. He was quite eager to know at first, but then I didn't know. Eventually he stopped asking. When I was in the shower this morning, though, I figured it out.
These were my reasons: the whole asking-weird-questions-on-the-phone-thing was part of it, and the other part was that I could never dress up for him. If I ever tried to make myself as pretty as I could to go out with him, he would reprimand me for caring too much about my appearance. I'm glad he liked me for more than my looks and liked me the way I was and all, but I wish I had been able to spend hours dressing up for my date, and then have him appreciate it. It seems like a petty, trivial reason, but I guess it mattered enough.
Anyway, emailing your ex and telling him why you broke up with him seems like kind of a... weird is the only word I can think of right now... thing to do, and I wasn't going to at first, but then I found this horoscope:
Hopefully you've noticed over the past few weeks that it's been a lot easier to talk to other people - perhaps one Very Important Person more so than anyone else. This has been thanks to the passage of the communications planet Mercury through your House of Other People. He's about to leave now, but before he does, he's giving you a few last opportunities to say what you need to, to that Significant Other Person (past, present or potential) in your life. So what are you waiting for? Communication is the key to pretty much everything in relationships, non?
It was scary how related it was.
Kind of Emotionlessly,
Rosie L.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Of Fantasy Worlds and Antisocial Wedding Attendees
Good day, all! I am currently in merry old North Carolina visiting my family again. It's very... hot here. There really is no other way to describe it. I practically had a heat stroke just watering the flowers this morning. My mother is now a happily married woman (once again). The wedding was just a few days ago, and it was lovely. I could hardly keep from bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet when they were saying the I Do's. I was looking forward to seeing an old friend there, but he was rather antisocial. I tried a few times to strike up a conversation with him, but several one-syllable answers later I decided that he either didn't want to talk to me, or didn't want to talk to anyone. I don't know why he bothered coming, really. In any case, now that I'm in North Carolina again, I'm back to doing mindless chores for my grandmother (Most of which I really don't mind. I've always had a fondness for busywork) and wandering the streets every evening, walking the dog and looking for My Prince. I don't really expect to find him, but it's a pleasant fantasy world to live in. Plus, it gives me something to try for. A new and exciting adventure every time I walk the dog and so on.
You know, I've been wondering about fantasy worlds. I tend to live in one more often than not. Is that really healthy? I mean, it definately makes life more fun when it's getting monotonous, but will it give me an unrealistic view of the world. I certaintly hope not. I get disappointed enough as it is. Actually, possibly more than the average person. Maybe I already have an unrealistic view of the world. Maybe I build things up in my mind to be more exciting than they are. Actually, if I'm reading a really good book, I tend to get so engrossed in it that I'm really living for the book. I think about the characters almost all of the time. Dream about them, even. When I do this, though, I really start to get a bit depressed when I finish the book. I miss the characters. Sad, I know, but when you are deprived of social interaction with people your own age for a month or so, what else is there to do?
I would make an attempt to look at the world more realistically, but I can't be bothered. I like living in a fantasy world.
Dreamily,
Rosie L.
You know, I've been wondering about fantasy worlds. I tend to live in one more often than not. Is that really healthy? I mean, it definately makes life more fun when it's getting monotonous, but will it give me an unrealistic view of the world. I certaintly hope not. I get disappointed enough as it is. Actually, possibly more than the average person. Maybe I already have an unrealistic view of the world. Maybe I build things up in my mind to be more exciting than they are. Actually, if I'm reading a really good book, I tend to get so engrossed in it that I'm really living for the book. I think about the characters almost all of the time. Dream about them, even. When I do this, though, I really start to get a bit depressed when I finish the book. I miss the characters. Sad, I know, but when you are deprived of social interaction with people your own age for a month or so, what else is there to do?
I would make an attempt to look at the world more realistically, but I can't be bothered. I like living in a fantasy world.
Dreamily,
Rosie L.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Of Challenging Individualism and Film Auditions
Good evening, all! I am no longer down about My Prince, or, indeed, anything at all! Nothing at all! Except for maybe the fact that I just got an email from the actor's guild saying that there were auditions for a film that was being filmed locally. Well, where I used to live, but it's only forty-five minutes away. I feel like I'm passing up a big opportunity not going, but my mom's getting married the day after auditions, so I'll probably be really busy! Plus, I think they really want professional actors, and I've only done a few plays and some acting lessons. I don't want to make a fool of myself. Sigh. I wish I knew what kind of people they were talking about. You probably don't need much acting experience to be an extra, but... I don't know. I guess I could ask N what she thinks I should do, beacause... she's coming back from Connecticut tomorrow! I think she's going to stay here with me, too! I am so excited I can hardly wait!! Apart from that, I've been doing a bit of writing (not entirely unusual), and I think I've come up with a good bit for Raspberry Beret. It's kind of farther along in the story than I actually am, but I really like it. The scene is a conversation between Rosie and Claire that challenges Claire's punk vibe. Actually, I don't know if I put the bit where Claire meets Rosie on my blog or not. Well, if I didn't, Rosie is one of the people who live in the Purple House. Claire meets all of them, and spends most of her time there. She is going steady with Sebastian (one of the other people who lives in the Purple House) at this point. Here's the scene:
"Why do you do that?" I finally asked Rosie, as we sat on the front stoop that evening, watching the sun creep excruciatingly sluggishly down the sky, turning the blue expanse ever-so-gradually ino a twisted collage of gold, pink, and orange. The dark representations of the houses in front of us lengthened surreally.
"Do what?" Rosie asked, her voice punctuating the chilly, brisk evening air that hung around us.
"Dress like that," I answered, listening the sound of my own, softer, voice cutting almost as sharply through the almost silence. I tried desperately to lower it and still be heard. "Listen to music like that. Just like everybody else does. Don't you want to be different?"
Rosie raised her eyebrows at me. She looked almost angry. "I am different. I just don't have to wear it or blast it out of my car speakers to be it. I'm not insecure."
"I know, but I dress different and blast it out of my car speakers because I want people to know it."
"Can't people just get to know you to understand your individuality?" Rosie challenged. "Isn't that what getting to know people is all about, anyway? You don't ahve to shove your personality into their faces. You wouldn't just go up to someone and say, 'Hey, my favorite color is yellow,' would you? Sometimes surprises are good, Claire. They make life interesting."
"Yellow is a very sick color," I informed her. "Sunshine, sunflowers. Everything begins with 'sun.' Yellow is the cult of patriarchy."
"Beside the point, Claire!" Rosie said in exasperation.
I didn't even respond to that, just stared at her. Usually my "I-don't-give-a-crap" stare combined with my "Get-out-of-my-way-you-rat-worshiping-tramp" stare was pretty powerful. But I didn't hold a candle to Rosie. I suppose all her years as queen bee in high school had taught her well, and she was a master at staring people down. Now she was combining it with disbeleif and anger. It was prevailing. Ruthless.
"Fine. So what if I shove my personality in other people's faces. At least I'm nonconformist. At least I'm still an individual."
"No. Being nonconformist doesn't make you an individual. What if I want to conform just because the conformist thing to do is the thing I want to do? Would I do what I don't want just to fit into my own boundaries? Just to be 'nonconformist'? That's crap. That's what's not being an individual."
"But being nonconformist is hardcore," I argued. "I'm hardcore. You're... sorry if this offends you or anything... not."
"I don't want to be hardcore. I just want to be me. And there are so many of you. You're not all individuals, you kids who call yourselves 'hardcore,' because, frankly, you're all the same. You all have too much angst, so you have to hide behind your baggy clothes and all-consuming headphones, listening to music that just makes you angrier and trying to express yourself through art that only depresses everyone around you so that they can end up just like you. In fact, you're almost like a cult, just sucking in everyone else in with you." I couldn't think of anything to say. I was just stunned and, I'm sorry to say, a little impressed by this display of raw opinions. At that moment, Rosie could have been a poet. I didn't have to think of a worthy response, though, because she plowed on. "But you're not even like them. You aren't full of angst, are you? You're just like this to piss off your parents. Doing things just to be rebellious. It's the most ridiculous crap I've ever heard," and she propped her chin up on her hand, turned, and watched the much-farther-progressed sunset. Rosie never walked away, even when she was supposed to, even when it was so anticlimactic not to that it almost made me cringe. She just turned her head and expected that you wouldn''t talk to her.
I got up and did the walking away for Rosie. I walked back into the house, and through the living room. When I got to my favorite door, the most daunting door, I knocked a few times, and stepped back to wait, hardly noticing the Broadway musical posters that I usually surveyed with cynical interest. Before two minutes were up, Sebastian opened the door. When he saw me, he smiled, and all the darkness flew out of the world on a high speed jet belonging to Arnorld Schwarzenegger. It's phenomenal that some people can twitch their face muscles and make the world right again. I collapsed into Sebstian's arms without a word, falling over sraight-backed and straight-legged, like a gymnast, into his waiting embrace.
"Wo-oah," Sebastian said, as he caught me. I took some of my weight off him, but couldn't bring myself to pull away from his warm, comfortable chest, swathed in a soft gray cotton t-shirt. Sebastian wrapped his arms around me and said, "Hey Claire. What's shakin'?"
"Rosie and I just had another argument."
"About the ketchup again?" I could hear Sebastian smiling, even though I didn't take my face out of his shirtfront to see.
"No. This time it was about being... individualist, I guess." I told him.
"What? How did that come along?" Sebastian steered me toward his bed, and we sat down together.
"Well, we were sitting there watching the sunset, and I stupidly asked her why she dresses like she does and likes what she likes, because it's all just like everybody else. And we got into this big debate..." I told him all of it, about how Rosie thought it wasn't cool to be hardcore, and about how I had accused her of being unoriginal, and about how she was just so right.
When I said that last part, Sebastian scooted away from me on the bed and turned so that he could look into my face without ravaging his neck muscles. "Claire, Rosie's not right. I mean, she has a point, but she's not right. You and Rosie are very different people, and you both have your own kind of different. Rosie's is more subtle. It's mostly just the little quirks that you can only see when you get to know her. Your different is loud and overstated. You wear it and talk it and breathe it, really, and you want to make sure everyone knows it. Do you want to know the reason, Claire?"
He actually stopped and waited for me to answer. Most people would just go on and tell you the answer, even if you really didn't want to hear it. But this time, I did. "Yeah, tell me."
"Its because you don't care as much. You don't care what people think. In fact, you want them to think you're a freak, because you want to make a statement. Am I right?"
He was exactly right. I don't know how he always managed to put my jumbled, screaming feelings and thoughts into civilized words, but he did. I couldn't think of anything to say, or how to thank him, so I just let my head fall into his lap and folded my arms across my chest, hugging myself. He rocked me gently back and forth. "Sebastian, can I ask you something?" I said, after a while.
"Anything," he answered gently, leaning down and kissing me on the forehead.
"Do you ever argue with Rosie?"
"Not anymore," Sebastian said pensively. "We used to fight nonstop. I remember one particularly bad argument about some turnips. Rosie insisted that they were okay, but I thought all the purple was a bad spot. We screamed and yelled and stormed off, even."
"You sure don't know much about turnips," was all I could think of to say.
"Nope. Never did, never will. Not really my thing, you know?"
Suddenly, I was tired of joking around. I usually loved it, as any sane person would, but right then I wanted answers. "Why don't you ever fight with Rosie anymore?" I asked, and Sebastian must have heard the tone of seriousness in my voice, because he stopped chuckling.
"I'm not sure. There wasn't ever a clear reason, or even a clear time that we stopped. We just matured, I guess."
"But Rosie and I are older than you were then," I insisted, sitting up.
"Well, yeah, agewise, but you haven't known each other for very long. You haven't matured together." Sebastian clarified. It was amazing how wise he could be sometimes. I found it difficult not to imagine him with a long silver beard and a monocle. "Claire, don't mind what other people say." He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze.
"I know." I replied, a little snippily.
"I know you know," Sebastian said mildly, ever-tolerant.
Now don't get me wrong; I am most definately not against nonconfmity and punk-ness. I just thought it would be interesting to challenge it. Anyway, my future plans for this story are to have a scene where Sebastian and Rosie do get into an argument. Claire overhears, and bites her lip because she thinks it's her fault. It turns out to be about something kind of serious (I'm not sure what yet, but I think it will have a lot to do with the plot of the story.), and Sebastian goes to Claire for help. I don't want Sebastian to be all wise-man-of-the-forest and Claire to be a damsel in distress, so I don't want Sebastian always helping Claire. That's not how it should work. Well, toodle-oo!
Ever-So-Happily,
Rosie L.
"Why do you do that?" I finally asked Rosie, as we sat on the front stoop that evening, watching the sun creep excruciatingly sluggishly down the sky, turning the blue expanse ever-so-gradually ino a twisted collage of gold, pink, and orange. The dark representations of the houses in front of us lengthened surreally.
"Do what?" Rosie asked, her voice punctuating the chilly, brisk evening air that hung around us.
"Dress like that," I answered, listening the sound of my own, softer, voice cutting almost as sharply through the almost silence. I tried desperately to lower it and still be heard. "Listen to music like that. Just like everybody else does. Don't you want to be different?"
Rosie raised her eyebrows at me. She looked almost angry. "I am different. I just don't have to wear it or blast it out of my car speakers to be it. I'm not insecure."
"I know, but I dress different and blast it out of my car speakers because I want people to know it."
"Can't people just get to know you to understand your individuality?" Rosie challenged. "Isn't that what getting to know people is all about, anyway? You don't ahve to shove your personality into their faces. You wouldn't just go up to someone and say, 'Hey, my favorite color is yellow,' would you? Sometimes surprises are good, Claire. They make life interesting."
"Yellow is a very sick color," I informed her. "Sunshine, sunflowers. Everything begins with 'sun.' Yellow is the cult of patriarchy."
"Beside the point, Claire!" Rosie said in exasperation.
I didn't even respond to that, just stared at her. Usually my "I-don't-give-a-crap" stare combined with my "Get-out-of-my-way-you-rat-worshiping-tramp" stare was pretty powerful. But I didn't hold a candle to Rosie. I suppose all her years as queen bee in high school had taught her well, and she was a master at staring people down. Now she was combining it with disbeleif and anger. It was prevailing. Ruthless.
"Fine. So what if I shove my personality in other people's faces. At least I'm nonconformist. At least I'm still an individual."
"No. Being nonconformist doesn't make you an individual. What if I want to conform just because the conformist thing to do is the thing I want to do? Would I do what I don't want just to fit into my own boundaries? Just to be 'nonconformist'? That's crap. That's what's not being an individual."
"But being nonconformist is hardcore," I argued. "I'm hardcore. You're... sorry if this offends you or anything... not."
"I don't want to be hardcore. I just want to be me. And there are so many of you. You're not all individuals, you kids who call yourselves 'hardcore,' because, frankly, you're all the same. You all have too much angst, so you have to hide behind your baggy clothes and all-consuming headphones, listening to music that just makes you angrier and trying to express yourself through art that only depresses everyone around you so that they can end up just like you. In fact, you're almost like a cult, just sucking in everyone else in with you." I couldn't think of anything to say. I was just stunned and, I'm sorry to say, a little impressed by this display of raw opinions. At that moment, Rosie could have been a poet. I didn't have to think of a worthy response, though, because she plowed on. "But you're not even like them. You aren't full of angst, are you? You're just like this to piss off your parents. Doing things just to be rebellious. It's the most ridiculous crap I've ever heard," and she propped her chin up on her hand, turned, and watched the much-farther-progressed sunset. Rosie never walked away, even when she was supposed to, even when it was so anticlimactic not to that it almost made me cringe. She just turned her head and expected that you wouldn''t talk to her.
I got up and did the walking away for Rosie. I walked back into the house, and through the living room. When I got to my favorite door, the most daunting door, I knocked a few times, and stepped back to wait, hardly noticing the Broadway musical posters that I usually surveyed with cynical interest. Before two minutes were up, Sebastian opened the door. When he saw me, he smiled, and all the darkness flew out of the world on a high speed jet belonging to Arnorld Schwarzenegger. It's phenomenal that some people can twitch their face muscles and make the world right again. I collapsed into Sebstian's arms without a word, falling over sraight-backed and straight-legged, like a gymnast, into his waiting embrace.
"Wo-oah," Sebastian said, as he caught me. I took some of my weight off him, but couldn't bring myself to pull away from his warm, comfortable chest, swathed in a soft gray cotton t-shirt. Sebastian wrapped his arms around me and said, "Hey Claire. What's shakin'?"
"Rosie and I just had another argument."
"About the ketchup again?" I could hear Sebastian smiling, even though I didn't take my face out of his shirtfront to see.
"No. This time it was about being... individualist, I guess." I told him.
"What? How did that come along?" Sebastian steered me toward his bed, and we sat down together.
"Well, we were sitting there watching the sunset, and I stupidly asked her why she dresses like she does and likes what she likes, because it's all just like everybody else. And we got into this big debate..." I told him all of it, about how Rosie thought it wasn't cool to be hardcore, and about how I had accused her of being unoriginal, and about how she was just so right.
When I said that last part, Sebastian scooted away from me on the bed and turned so that he could look into my face without ravaging his neck muscles. "Claire, Rosie's not right. I mean, she has a point, but she's not right. You and Rosie are very different people, and you both have your own kind of different. Rosie's is more subtle. It's mostly just the little quirks that you can only see when you get to know her. Your different is loud and overstated. You wear it and talk it and breathe it, really, and you want to make sure everyone knows it. Do you want to know the reason, Claire?"
He actually stopped and waited for me to answer. Most people would just go on and tell you the answer, even if you really didn't want to hear it. But this time, I did. "Yeah, tell me."
"Its because you don't care as much. You don't care what people think. In fact, you want them to think you're a freak, because you want to make a statement. Am I right?"
He was exactly right. I don't know how he always managed to put my jumbled, screaming feelings and thoughts into civilized words, but he did. I couldn't think of anything to say, or how to thank him, so I just let my head fall into his lap and folded my arms across my chest, hugging myself. He rocked me gently back and forth. "Sebastian, can I ask you something?" I said, after a while.
"Anything," he answered gently, leaning down and kissing me on the forehead.
"Do you ever argue with Rosie?"
"Not anymore," Sebastian said pensively. "We used to fight nonstop. I remember one particularly bad argument about some turnips. Rosie insisted that they were okay, but I thought all the purple was a bad spot. We screamed and yelled and stormed off, even."
"You sure don't know much about turnips," was all I could think of to say.
"Nope. Never did, never will. Not really my thing, you know?"
Suddenly, I was tired of joking around. I usually loved it, as any sane person would, but right then I wanted answers. "Why don't you ever fight with Rosie anymore?" I asked, and Sebastian must have heard the tone of seriousness in my voice, because he stopped chuckling.
"I'm not sure. There wasn't ever a clear reason, or even a clear time that we stopped. We just matured, I guess."
"But Rosie and I are older than you were then," I insisted, sitting up.
"Well, yeah, agewise, but you haven't known each other for very long. You haven't matured together." Sebastian clarified. It was amazing how wise he could be sometimes. I found it difficult not to imagine him with a long silver beard and a monocle. "Claire, don't mind what other people say." He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze.
"I know." I replied, a little snippily.
"I know you know," Sebastian said mildly, ever-tolerant.
Now don't get me wrong; I am most definately not against nonconfmity and punk-ness. I just thought it would be interesting to challenge it. Anyway, my future plans for this story are to have a scene where Sebastian and Rosie do get into an argument. Claire overhears, and bites her lip because she thinks it's her fault. It turns out to be about something kind of serious (I'm not sure what yet, but I think it will have a lot to do with the plot of the story.), and Sebastian goes to Claire for help. I don't want Sebastian to be all wise-man-of-the-forest and Claire to be a damsel in distress, so I don't want Sebastian always helping Claire. That's not how it should work. Well, toodle-oo!
Ever-So-Happily,
Rosie L.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Of Wishing Wells and Butterflies
I have successfully distracted myself from everything that is wrong in my life, and it's not with with Love, Your Secret Admirer, either. It is because I have changed living spaces. Yes, that's right. I now live in my new house in Suburbia Central, and I have been so busy unpacking that I have had no time to pine over My Prince. All I've been able to think about is whether the butterfly chair should face the window or the closet, and where, God, is the nearest phone jack. In fact, I have left my old My Prince philosophy there at my old house, and come up with a new one. I think it's much more sensible, at my age: Work hard and look for someone I like, not necessarily someone who fulfills my every irrational fantasy. My school is very competitive, and I want a low maintnance social life, with nerdy-cool friends who will understand if no, I can't go the mall with them, I have to finish my biology homework. But most of all I want a steady boyfriend, one who I don't have to think about what I say with and is just as much friend as he is boyfriend. And one who doesn't ask weird questions. I had all that stuff with my ex, but when I was on the phone to him, he'd ask me things like, "Why do you like me?" A little chat with my boyfriend felt like a test. A stead boyfriend (who doesn't ask weird questions) is what I wish for every time I blow out the candles on a birthday cake, or blow the seeds off of a dandelion, or through a penny into a fountain. It's the one thing in my life that I don't really have control over. Everything else I can make happen on my own. I don't need luck to publish a book; I just need to be a good writer. Anyway, getting back on topic, I can't wait until I start school. I want my first batch of homework. I want my textbooks. I want that butterflies-in-the-stomach, big-important-day first-day-of-school feeling. Come quick!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Of Paranormal Activity and My Prince
In order to distract myself from the overwhelming possibility that my ex-boyfriend might be My Prince, I have started a new story. It's called Love, Your Secret Admirer. Here's the beginning:
I'm not quite sure where it's going, but I think it's going to have something to do with vampires, instead of ghosts.
I really hope he's not My Prince. My ex, I mean. Poo.
Hopelessly,
Rosie L.
Love, Your Secret Admirer. Those were the last words on the page. They were classic words. They were museum words. Words everyone knew about but never actually said or heard. That's why I was so surprised to find them at the bottom of that page, especially because the rest of it did not remotely resemble a love letter. Puzzled, I read it over again, although I had already done so at least five times, and the contents had not become any less baffling.
Dear Kerry Martin,
How to put this? I think, for [not sure what word to put here- time or something]’s sake, I will put it bluntly. I and my associates would like it very much if you could steer clear of room 238 for the next few days. I especially would like to request your cooperation. Your sacrifice will not go unappreciated.
Love,
Your Secret Admirer
I was just stuffing the letter into my backpack when I felt arms creep around my waist and meet in front of my stomach.
“Heeey, Kerry,” I deep and very familiar voice intoned.
“Hi, Josh!” I said, turning around and giving my boyfriend a kiss on the cheek.
“What’s that you got there?” Josh asked, removing one of his hands from around my waist to gesture at the letter.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, quickly stashing it away in my bag. “Just a note from Teresa about Roger’s party next week.”
“Oh, yeah. You going?”
“I don’t know… might be a drag, knowing Roger and all.” I said. I wasn’t quite sure why I had lied to Josh about the letter. It just seemed a little weird.
“It’s not really about Roger’s party, is it, Kerry?” Josh asked. I shouldn’t have bothered lying, either. Josh could always tell.
“…No…” I admitted. Josh withdrew his arms from around my waist and turned to face me.
“What’s it about then, that you can’t tell me?”
“Nothing that I can’t tell you. It’s just… a little weird.” For lack of a better word.
“I can deal with weird,” Josh reminded me. Of course. Of course Josh could deal with weird. He did want to be a [scientist that studies the paranormal], after all. So, with slight dubiousness, I dug the letter out of my bag, smoothed out its crumpled surface on my knee, and handed it over to Josh.
Josh read it in silence. In fact, it was so long before he looked up that I suspected he had read it as many times as I had.
“It’s just I have English in room 238. I can’t just skip English for a few days…” I mused to myself as he read.
“Kerry,” Josh said blissfully. I looked over at him and found that he was beaming, the letter still clutched in his hand. “This isn’t just some prank. It’s a ghost mystery!”
I rolled my eyes, at the same time feeling my stomach fluttering. He was just so cute. “Please, Josh. A ghost mystery? First of all, that sounds like something a seven-year-old would talk about.”
“Oh, Kerry, come on! Don’t be so closed-minded all the time. At least come back to my house so we can try to figure it out.” He looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “I just want an excuse to spend more time with you.”
I knew this wasn’t entirely true—Josh loved this kind of stuff—but I found I couldn’t resist those eyes. “Okay, fine,” I said.
Josh grinned at me, and, taking my hand, led me out the school doors. Fortunately, the bell had already rung, or Josh probably would have insisted on cutting class to get started on his research.
“You want a ride home?” I asked, when we got into the parking lot. It was pretty backwards that I had a car and Josh didn’t. I was always the one picking him up whenever we went on a date. We got in and I revved up the engine. Josh was practically bouncing up and down in his seat.
“Hang on!” he said, as we pulled out of the parking lot. “I think I once read something about something like this. This lady in
I nodded, smiling fondly.
At that point, Josh got very serious. “Kerry, please don’t fall in love with a ghost like that lady, even if he is your secret admirer. I don’t want you to fall in love with someone else, Kerry. I love you.” He looked over at me with big, sincere eyes, and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes on the road.
Fortunately, we pulled into Josh’s driveway then, and I stopped the car. “Josh,” I said. Smiling at him with my heart beating hard, threatening to crack one of my ribs, I leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. Josh pulled me closer and fell deeper into the kiss. When we finally pulled apart, I said, “I won’t fall in love with a ghost, Josh. Don’t worry.” Then I added teasingly, “A ghost couldn’t kiss like that.” Josh looked convinced, and we got out of the car and into his house.
As soon as the door opened, a strong, feminine voice called out, “Josh, is that you?!”
“Yeah, Mom!” Josh shouted, at the same time as I bellowed, “Hi, Mrs. Van Della!”
“Oh, hi, Kerry!”
“I see your mom’s busy again,” I commented. Josh’s mom was an assemblage artist. She made sculptures out of things she found, and whenever she was working on a project, she holed up in her second-floor studio for days on end working. Otherwise, she was out morning till night dredging through dumpsters looking for inspiring junk.
“Yep. An old glass doorknob” Josh said, answering my unasked question with a sigh. I think he was just tired of having to fend for himself most of the time.
“Hey, how about you come to my house for dinner?” I asked. My older brother, who had raised me, was studying to become a chef, and dinner at my house was always a big deal.
“Yeah. Thanks, Kerry,” Josh said appreciatively, giving my hand a squeeze. When we got to his room, however, he was all business. He instructed me to sit on the bed, booted up his computer, and grabbed a couple of books from his bookshelf almost all in one motion. A few minutes later, Josh let out a triumphant, “Aha!”
“What, Josh? What could you possibly have discovered in three minutes?” I asked, impressed but slightly exasperated.
“Google is a useful thing, you know, Kerry. Quick, too. Anyway, come see what I’ve found.” I got up from Josh’s bed, and went over to stand behind his chair and stare and the harshly glowing computer screen. The first few links were to online dating services, but about halfway through the page we began to get some useful hits. There were things like “The Minnesota Historical Society” and “London Association for Studies of the Supernatural” and even a blog called, “Compilations: Findings of Ghost Love Stories, Experiences and Sightings.” I tried to stop imagining Josh’s head exploding at this, but it was hard. Really hard.
“So… what are we supposed to do with these links, Josh?”
“See what they lead to, of course. We might find something out,” Josh said.
“Wait, Josh, I don’t understand. What, exactly, are we looking for?”
“[Person who studies the supernatural] always research their case thoroughly so that they know what they’re dealing with,” Josh informed me. “Then we can start doing field work.”
I was really hoping I had misunderstood him. “Field work?!” Maybe I had misinterpreted it, and field work didn’t mean what I thought it did. I sincerely hope so.
But then Josh answered my skeptical inquiry, and I knew that wasn’t the case. “Yeah. Field work. You know, going to, in our case, room 238 to check stuff out there.”
“Josh, think about this. I’m hoping I’m wrong, but if I’m right, and I think I am because I’ve seen both Ghostbusters movies, what you intend is break into the school at night, which is illegal, and go to room 238, which we have been warned to stay away from, and wait until we think we see a ghost?” Josh, a typico, nodded as if this had all been obvious. “Josh, we can’t just break into the school.”
“Why not?” Josh looked genuinely baffled. That was the thing about him: he tended to be really clueless. Usually it was cute, but sometimes it got on my nerves.
“Well, to start, it’s illegal.”
Josh shook his head like I was the one suggesting we break into the school at night to stake out the English classroom for a ghost. “Oh, come one, Kerry. No one will actually care. Besides, we won’t get caught. What if it really is a ghost, Kerry? I won’t let you just walk into the room for English the next morning. You could get killed or seriously injured. I can’t let that happen.” As he said these last few words, his voice lowered in pitch and volume, and he looked at me very intensely.
I softened immediately, light a frozen pizza being put in the microwave. “Okay, Josh. When should I be there?”
Instead of answering, Josh turned around and kissed me on the mouth. It wasn’t until the computer started whirring to remind us of our forgotten research that we broke apart. “We probably won’t do the stakeout for a few days,” Josh answered, belatedly.
“’Kay,” I answered, going back to sit on Josh’s bed and digging my trig homework out of my bag.
I'm not quite sure where it's going, but I think it's going to have something to do with vampires, instead of ghosts.
I really hope he's not My Prince. My ex, I mean. Poo.
Hopelessly,
Rosie L.
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