Hoarse

I have an intense fear of embarrassment, as do probably most people. My throat, still recovering from a sour soreness and then a slimy coat, is unwilling to hit the notes I'll need to tonight onstage. One more week until the show. The first real show I'll ever lead. One more week, and what if I still can't reach high E flat or low G? Regardless, tonight I'll step onstage and have to practice. And lose the lingering respect of anyone who will be watching. Tonight, my dreams will shine like mud. I hope, with all of my heart, that the vocal chords pull a miracle out of some back pocket and I can sit on them and wait until the end of my solo.

Tucked In

It's always so nice on Mondays, when our housekeeper stops by for her weekly cleaning of our tiny little apartment balanced on seven teetering ones below. She fixes the blankets I've tossed around in my sleep, thrown onto the floors and into the crack by the window. I crawl into bed that night and everything is so soft, like the inside of a silk thread cocooning a worm. Everything is secure, tucked into the sides of the frame.

This was a short blog. I'm tired. I'll go sleep now.

Erase Button

People deal with anger or feeling uncomfortable in as many ways as there are fish flopping in the sea's watery kingdoms. Some will crack jokes, to release the tension pushing their skin outward. Some will yell, or scream, to make everyone around them aware of their current state of being: fury. Others, like me, prefer to pretend we were never there. While everyone is giggling or screeching away the pain, we grab everything and scurry away, so when they come up to breathe we are not there to look in the eye. Perhaps one day this way of running away from the source will be my curse, but for now, I can be happy I escaped. This time.

Disaster on the Floor

I had all the remnant materials together to bake a beautiful cheesecake. I'd melted the butter in the microwave. Crushed the cookies in a bag. Poured the last bit of sugar from the canister. The cheese and milk sat in wait in the spotless new fridge. Until... I tapped the edge of the springform pan and everything fell onto the floor. I'm sorry, A. I used up everything too quickly. Everything is such a mess right now; I'll go clean up.

Prank Call

While watching Downton Abbey with my parents this evening, I received a call from a private number. Innocently, I paused the video and answered. "Hello?" I asked.

"YOUR LOVING GIVES ME DIABETES!"

After a brief banter, during which I accused the caller of being E2 and they denied it, I hung up the phone. My mother, amused by the situation, grabbed the phone from me when it rang again seconds later. Adopting an accent, she stuttering, "Hello?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

And the line was disconnected. My dad complained that he wasn't getting any of the fun, so he took the phone... And this continued. Ah, how I love the reality of having occasionally ridiculous parents.

Inverse

I spotted an opposite today. It was on the drive home, at the one spot on the highway where a northern building looks southernmost and things are generally upside-down. There was a large black cloud covering half the sky, hanging over a brushed-gray sky. In the latter hung some small, wispy black ones, and above some wispy, small white ones. As different as can be, but made from the same part. It's almost the end of my first upper year. The strange thing is, though the colors are different, both skies, both floating worlds, are made from the same parts.

Recovery

The contra dance in my part of the city has so much electricity running through its people that you could power an entire third-world country. They are young, smart, and nice, as my dad puts it; these are the people that will take control of this dying art when its originals start to fade away. I danced as much as I possibly could, collecting compliments and introductions, and my hair flying in my face served as a sufficient shield against those who creeped me out more than the average human does. The midway break rolled around, and I was enjoying too many peanut butter cookies in the corner, my father approached me, a strained expression staining his face. When I asked what was wrong, he responded, "My shoulder is..." He winced as his words faded away, faded away. "I can't stay."

The remnants of the internal energy lingered on our sweaty skin as we walked the mile home in suddenly 40 degree weather. We were not cold. When I asked what was causing all of this trouble with each shoulder, he told me, "I don't heal as quickly anymore." Add two months onto this whole situation: I'll be a teenager. Add thirty and I'll be the caller behind the microphone at some dance that people think I'm too old for because I still am wearing fedoras long after the craze. Add that thirty and my father will be slowly disappearing into the background, fading away...

Subtract thirty, please.

Running

Waiting at the deli for J3's BLT to pop cleanly out of a thrice-used toaster, the rain picked up until it gushed in rivers down the hill towards the river. R was the first to notice. The first to throw off her backpack and hoist herself into the fray. She screamed, ran around for a few seconds, and returned as if she had just stepped out of a cabin shower. "Watch my stuff." I ditched my blue purse, my lunch bag, my wheelie, and opened the door. The wind was that of the Kalahari, with the moisture of the Marianas. My head was that of an action figure banged against the wall: a little bit looser than it was before. Without a backwards thought, I rushed out and laughed harder than I have. A woman stopped to stare at me under her spineless umbrella. I didn't care; all of the cigarette butts from the past few weeks were hurrying down the storm drains.

Yearbook

There are currently eight yearbooks on my shelf - not including the dusty, folded ones my mom forgot to get rid of or forgot she wanted to keep. They are in order of year, the first from my finger-painting days at age 4 (the earlier years they just gave us placemats with our picture on them) and the last from my sixth grade at age 11. Each has its own distinct theme; one is globally themed with maps on every page and red marks instead of name plaques, another is board game themed featuring a Game-of-Life-esque roll-and-move board on the inside cover. Today, I walked into my Wednesday club to discover that my seventh grade yearbook was off the presses. People were laughing at their photos, examining their friends', and reminiscing about the year. No. Wait. No one else was reminiscing. I couldn't help it. I could just see the bold red spine sitting on the shelf in a few weeks, waiting for its younger siblings to slowly file into place.

On The Roof

It was somewhat of a movie moment, when we all, the four of us, emerged into the juicy sunlight. Instinctively our hands flew to our brows and we laughed. Everything around us was radiant green or milky gray, the color of my eyes in that second before I burst into tears. But the lines... the lines were so sharp. The stiff sides of a building someone's grandfather was underpaid to build loomed on the right. To the left, an artificial hedge so that we wouldn't see the drooping awnings below. Any sign of weakness was eliminated, intimidating the tourists, rejuvenating the patriot, and wildly confusing me. "Take a picture," I giggled, holding out my camera to them. The burning, scorching, invasive sunlight pushed my borders until ironic tears burst upwards like geysers and I shut them out tight. I couldn't stop smiling. Downstairs, examining the pictures, I discovered the most peculiar thing: In every wrong picture, I fit right in with the world around me: the world over the edge, not the superficial garden, like a popular clique making your imperfections stick out and hiding their own with concealer or mascara or picturesque buildings in the exact place a real person can't open their eyes.

New Day (or Chain of Events pt. 2)

It's Monday. The start of a new week. And things are already resolving themselves. I was late for one class today, one that doesn't involve lessons. My grades are gradually pulling back up as if suspended from a wire. I have almost no homework, so I can't finish it late. I found my copy of To Kill A Mockingbird before I had time to hand over fifteen dollars cash for its replacement. I don't have to worry about singing because I have a cold... but only a cold, no fever, stomachache, dizziness... One GOOD thing, too, and it's like more waves. I finally feel like all of the poison has been pulled away, magnetically almost, and now it's time for Tuesday. And moving on.

Energize

I dropped the TV remote in front of a cabinet and the back of the battery pack jumped off, scattering the two boxes of energy to the winds. We got out flashlights and yardsticks and poked around under every piece of furniture, finding long gone cat toys and newspapers from January but no batteries anywhere. Eventually I had to open a new package and restock the supply before the TV noises became too obnoxious to bear. Annoyedly, we rummaged through closets on ladders to find some new ones, but in the end, the power was right there, only hiding. The power was behind a couple of doors but ready for immediate installation.

Chain of Events

Since 2:02 p.m. on Wednesday afternoon, an increasing number of bad things have been happening to me. The weirdest things, too, as though they were stolen from someone else's destiny and decoupaged onto my own. Arriving late for class, because I forgot I had anything to do, an end purpose. Bad grades, some of the worst I've ever received, for stupid things. Not finishing my homework until four hours after my usual, and sometimes forgetting parts altogether. Losing school materials and facing a steep fee. Not singing well at rehearsal, and having your directors notice it. Waking up this morning with a headache, nausea, stomach pain, and a rubbed raw sore throat that tea can't help, and then finding out I'm still required to go to school on Monday because I don't have a fever. One bad thing and it's like waves: The momentum of the crash flings some more water up, and then the only place to go is down again.

Songwriting

My friend L is an exceptional songwriter. And an exceptional editor. Which means her songs are great. But sometimes she inadvertently makes mine look like plastic bags floating in the wind that will someday choke a turtle: worthless. It's not that she says that - no, no, L is a joy. The problem is that she is really good at everything even when she says she isn't. So I used to be good at English - oh wait, L is better. I used to be good at acting - oh wait, L is better. I used to be a songwriter - oh wait, L is better. And I'm honestly proud of her. She's moved past my simple chord progressions and still doesn't see the originality in her taxi cab metaphors, and such.

But here I am. Just finished writing a song. Here's a quote: "I'm not gonna torment you, never want to hurt you, even if I did you'd still walk by free, me lonely. You've a right to hate me although it frustrates me, but I won't throw away the words you gave me. The past can't run away like some yesterday, I won't let it run away." I emailed that bit to another friend, E, and asked for advice. It's late. Almost no one is up. I really didn't expect anything. But suddenly, a message came through: "Keep it up!" I was stunned. And thrilled. And suddenly it didn't matter if L was better than me. It mattered that we had both managed to transform our pain into beauty, which sounds cliché but is one of the hardest things to master. Now that all of those tears, and frowns, and heads-being-banged-on-walls are on the page, I can rearrange them. Rearrange the letters in heads-being-banged-on-walls and you get: We all beg-and-bashed in song.

Walking In

I walked into art and there was everyone. I was late, like always, and you always discount the outlier when calculating the average, so I'm used to sliding around to my chair by the back row, quietly. Today, everyone was staring at me. No one spoke. I was almost positive they had just been talking about me. Silently, I slithered into my seat. I heard a few pestered whispers from somewhere to my right. Turned over my shoulder quickly; mouths were shut. I'll never know what they were saying. But I'll make myself not care if it's the last thing I do.

Blurry

Do you remember the way the world looks when you've just come out of a pool and the chlorine has clouded your vision? When you cry over something stupid and the liquid makes everything wobble? Do you remember the way the world looks when you are unconditionally happy, to the point that laughter and song and spilling out of your mouth, your ears - your eyes? They're not really that different when you think about it. In both cases you can't tell what's right in front of you and what's far away, and what's even there at all. In both cases you can barely remember how you got to where you are and how on Earth to get back. In both cases it's impossible to know what the world looks like to a normal person, someone a little less dislocated than us. Think of that: To that unstuck elbow joint, where are you? And who else is there? And do they honestly care if that thing in front of you is a person or a telephone pole? Not unless you walk into its waiting steel arms and bang your head. And forget everything.

"Can't you see that you lie to yourself? You can't see the world through a mirror. It won't be too late when the smoke clears, because I? I am still here." -Avril Lavigne, describing the life of one C Lev

Owl Pellet

The Owl Pellet Laboratory Exercise is a stereotype in public schools. With little funding, all you need is an owl pellet and a pair of tweezers and you're off. For those of you lucky, lucky ones who get lots of private funding, basically you pick through the remains of what an owl didn't want, couldn't stomach, had no way to deal with. It's been compacted into one "Forget It" bundle, and it's our job to find the "Save It" few. Looking through all of these bits of fur, shards of bone, scraps of plant, I couldn't seem to find anything worth saving. Looking through all of the risks I didn't want to take, chances I couldn't stomach, opportunities I had no way to deal with, there's so much I wanted. But now that it's all in the "Forget It" bundle I'm too tired to reclassify. And too scared.

Stripedy

I wore my striped socks today. No one could see them, because I pulled my black boots on over, but they were there, just as they had been for years on years. They are completely worn through. In fact, even now, lying on my bed with the blue curtains shut, I can see two of my left foot toes peeking out next to me. Many, many times before a stoop sale, my mom's gone through the sock drawer with me and stopped on these rainbow dusted ones: "Hey, aren't these ready to get rid of? Should I throw them away?" Before she could say anything else, I always grabbed the socks and yanked them back towards me. They remind me of a time before I knew what curse words meant, before I had gaping purple bags under my eyes, before I cared if people say my mismatched rainbow socks. I wore boots over, covered all of that old, wrinkled fabric. So maybe I am ready to throw them away, in the trash along with the one Barbie doll I owned, my chewed-up stuffed dog Sleepy, and the dress I wore to my fourth grade graduation. Goodbye, socks. (Hello, stockings.)

Falling Apart

It seems that I'm the only uncracked egg left in the carton. My mother sprained her arm. She bandaged it up herself with tan gauze and closed it first-aid style, as if she was back at camp and fell off a canoe onto a rock, and they lost their paddle, and... and this metaphor is getting longwinded, I'll move on. My father stretched his shoulder. He leaves it like normal and tries not to say anything about it to me, with little etchings of discomfort on his cheeks as if unable to erased. And me? I'm insanely fine. So here I am, feeling like I shouldn't be so serene. So here I am, feeling it is wrong to be happy. So here I am, half of me, away from the rest, not caring. Being happy is nice.

Cityscape

When my uncle came to town for the first time since entering our closely knit and widely spread family,  for my aunt's baby shower, he was surprised at three things: Number one. I was suddenly 5' 3'', a shocking revelation. I could feel him make a conscious choice, reluctantly, that from now on, he had to tilt his head down a little less and accept that I was catching up to him. Number two. Jewish families are weird. This was his first non-holiday interaction closely with the branches of his wife's family tree, and more than once, in a car or on the street, he said, "Are you sure?" to which we responded with a vigorous nod. Southern hospitality is instinctual, but Jewish advice is ironwill. Number three. My room had an incredible view of the entire skyline, left to right, up to down, with an indirect view of the bleeding sunsets. He walked in. It had enough floor space to fit a classroom art table, plus my bed, propped up against the window. I had never looked on it as anything more than a disappointment, a 4 foot subway car I had to crane my head to get into. But uncle W? "WOW!" he exclaimed. "Now this is city living! Almost nicer than a big house! I think I'd rather live here!" I looked around with his eyes. The blue paint on the walls was quaint. The cityscape out the window was amazing. I loved the city, and yearned for a bigger window, a larger zoom on my camera, and a balcony to walk out onto and scream whenever I needed to. I could settle for city. I could rely on city. I could be a part of the city, like a bead on a necklace: You could get me off, but not without removing everything in sight and splitting open the threads.