"And... when a beautiful person cries the whole world stops to listen." The film subtitles carefully click off and the tension for the bell gets higher by the second. No clocks allowed in Mr. Sanders class. Mr.Sanders is a boring teacher. He wears brown pants, a boring coat over a boring button up. The only music he likes is the sound of his own watch. I wish this class would just pass me by.
"Dialogue..." Mr.Charles rusty voice croaks as the screen went black, "Is one of the most difficult things to master." He clears his throat.
"To naturally bounce back and forth an object is a skill. An object of truth, an object of emotion, an object of the self. To get the ball and be responsible enough to throw it back."
Three, two, one.
"I'm going to be sick." Is all I can say. All the chairs scoot back and I look at the words on my piece of paper.
"If I could paint a picture in my head it would be the richest paint spread on a canvas, if I could actually paint a picture it would be food from my stomach on the AP English classroom floor." Lucille reaches over to read.
I remember when I would literally drown her out.
"How's that different than any other day?" She says flatly.
"Well this is for the express piece response." I say annoyed and a little prissy to get at her.
"The one due yesterday?" I hate the way she looks at me. I nod.
Lucille. The love of my life. Two lips like roses and clover. She turns her head to the door as almost everyone has funneled out of the classroom for the evening. She has this new short haircut that slopes at the ends so high it makes her seem unreal.
I grab my backpack from around my chair on my back.
"Interesting response." She laughs. Her laugh was always to... whispy.
"Your idea of a painting is a horror show." Her eyes move further from their sockets.
"Acted out." I giggle.
We walk out, and when the sun hits my eyelids... these October days are starting to take over me.
"The warmth from the outside is all I long for." She says looking straight forward. The hallway gets oranger and oranger, and the hallway gets hotter and hotter.
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I kick the gravel in front of me, "the nature commute" is always better. I really mean the dry little dirt road on this dingy path to my house. These low and almost colonial house set ups are different than most areas in California. I look at the vines and butterflies that flutter on the gates to the beige and red painted houses. It always smells like cigarettes and cooked meat here. Like July all year. Occasionally I'll walk by the bakery window east of my house. Nothing like Lucille and baked bread. Except she isn't with me. Only I wish she was.
Once I meet the house where the lady with the old dolls live down Feeble street, in the earbuds go. I try to find the song that reminds me of Lucille the most, without the lyrics being to much of a love confession. The suns coming down and I have another twenty minutes until I'm home.
"Why, hello Angel!" Terry's screechy voice travels across the street. Terry's a sweet lady, last time I came around at this time she gave me ginger chews and black licorice with sprinkles on a paper plate. Unexpected but still appreciated.
"Hi." I wave across the street as she heads down the stairs of her porch. She has a bit of a bad leg and her yellow dress sways awkwardly as she goes down the next three to the sidewalk. I take my ear buds out as the night starts closing in.
"Why don't you come in for a little bit." She offers. I think about it for a second. Then nod my head.
"Oh I'll call your mother." This is becoming annoying.
"I baked fresh biscuits. Right out of the oven!" She says. Her thin and balding hair shakes fresh out the rollers.
I'm not ready for one of these events. Not a saucer conversation, I can't do those.
"Oh alright." The words slip out of my mouth. The porcelain and painted faces stare at me as I walk into her white scalloped house.
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"How has school been?" She asks as she sucks in the air in between her teacup and the hot water.
"Fine." I shrug nervously. I click the rim of the cup into the saucer. A tender spot in my neck is starting to develop and my eyes are starting to burn from the steam. I start to get paranoid about what's going on behind me in the window.
"The streets pretty empty tonight." I say looking behind as the floorboards creek under my foot.
"I remember when you would ride your bike around the street." She says directly into my eyes.
"Yeah." I squirm in my seat. I can feel the stitched on flower pattern under me.
"I remember Mr.Hernandez would have to come and pick you back up every time you swerved down the street lamp." She points at the light to the side of my eye.
"I remember." I smile at the crumbs left on my plate.
"You were so tinnnny." She pinches her fingers.
It's true. I still am. My height is okay, but my frame is small and frail. People often think I am taller just by being so thin. It hurts a little though. I couldn't quite grip the handles right. I was pretty good at soccer though. Hell, practice is still a breeze for me. I pinch a crumb and squish it in between my fingers and nibble on it.
"Why don't you bring Lucille?" I feel the blood rush through all over and the fuzz come like frost.
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