i. Do You Like Stars
A M A B E L L E
I am a young teenager, so pardon me if I am filled with angst, I thought to myself. A sad kind of song was playing, a girl moaning about how her love was gone. I looked outside the window in a morose kind of way, the way people in movies do when there is a sad kind of song playing. A weird kind of haze made my eyes grow heavy, and I leaned my head against the window. It was peaceful, the song was lulling, and I felt as if nothing could stop me. I began drifting off.
And the window kept. on. banging. itself. against. my. head. I groaned, and stopped repeating the same mistake I always did when I was sleepy and in a car. I sat up, looking at my big sister reading a book. Damn, I thought, I should have thought of that. I was bored, and my dad had switched to a talk show with a man blabbering about his paycheck, so that was that. What else could I do other than bug my sister? I leaned over her shoulder, reading the book she carried around so many times.
“That guy sounds hot,” I told her. Dreidel looked at me, glaring. Yes, her name was Dreidel. My mother was the decision-maker (aka tyrant) of the family, and being new to the foreign language (according to her, fifteen years in the United States doesn’t do you much good) of English, she had picked a word that had showed up on the Christmas reruns that talked about other ways people celebrated December 25th.
“He is fit,” Dreidel defended, “Not hot.” Her glasses looked ready to fall off her nose, and I felt tempted to laugh. Dreidel hated to wear glasses, and in that moment, my boredom and sad sense of humour spurred me to being annoying to my family.
“You guys aren’t allowed to know any hot guys,” My mom yelled to us from her seat. Dreidel started pouting, something she had mastered from having two years more experience from me.
“The guy I’m reading about is fit, Mom,” The elder one stated, “Our little palindrome here just likes to embellish.” While my mom was asking my dad about what embellish was, I was busy being annoyed at the notion that I was our family’s palindrome. It wasn’t fair that my dad had nicknamed me Ama, and that my sister had been having a particularly stupid moment of clarity on the specifics of what my nickname was. I quite liked my real name: Amabelle. It was better than being named after a spinning top.
Today was the day where for three months, I would be older than my sister. My dad felt that it was also a day to be lazy and not cook dinner, so we were driving for three hours to the nearest old-fashioned diner, to a town close to the suburbs where we lived: Emery Creeks. It was where we headed every year because my parents found it funny that my mom’s water broke in that diner.
You try eating a nice apple pie whenever your parents start talking to the waitress (that we know quite well, might I add) about how your mom gave birth to you. Today was a day of history, my dad would like to proclaim, a day where we thought about the origins of our family.
Funny how he doesn’t do that on Dreidel’s birthday. “You guys, we are here like a good chug of beer!” My dad exclaimed, and my mom responded to this by slapping my dad on the back of his head. Thank god he had already parked our car.
Can you tell that my mom is a little bit on the violent side? No? She is. “Harold Mercedes!” She said in that weird voice moms make when they are severely disappointed in their husbands. My dad began laughing.
“What? Don’t teenagers like to be drunk? Our friends used to smoke pot,” He said. My mom shook her head. Me and Dreidel were snickering. We’re very mature teenagers.
“No! Not our daughters! They don’t talk to anyone like that! And btr, it was your friends who did those things!” My mother started ranting. My dad stared at her, his hands still on the wheel.
“Btr?” He asked her.
“By the road,” She said, “Marge taught me how to text.” My dad gave her another blank stare.
“It’s by the way.” He said, and we all got out of the car, fearing that this would be another long argument consisting of my mom and her misleaded beliefs. He was busy trying to convince my mom that Marge made a typo when she wrote that and that my mom assumed incorrectly, and that it was actually by the way when we all sat down to our usual table where Bethany Anne would serve us.
I found Bethany Anne quite a cute name for a rather uncute lady. No offense to her, but Bethany Anne was a rather nice elderly woman until the day me and Dreidel were found eating the pies and having wrecked the stuff in there looking for them. It was the first and last day she babysitted us, and that was about ten years ago. Now she had this condescending smile toward us.
I’m kind of scared of her, to be honest, and I’ve watched the Michael Meyers movies over fifteen times. You can blame that on my other babysitter who had had no other way of dealing with me back when all I did was stare into someone’s eyes/soul/being/whatever other “big” word she called it.
But back to the matter of the moment, in which Bethany Anne is asking for our order. “The usual please,” My father asked her, and she snorted.
“I’m sorry if people call this bad service, but Howard, I see you once a year and I’m growing old. I don’t know what your dang usual is.” She told us frankly. My dad chuckled, and he ordered for all of us. I sat down, spinning my spoon around and around. And around in the coffee mug that had been ordered about ten minutes ago. I was 17 in a world where everyone in my sophomore year except for the ones who were born really late in the previous year was 16, glad to finally be able to drive.
Doesn’t it suck to be born on the New Year’s? I was the kind of person who obsessed about when others were born, and it took some getting used to, but people got used to it. Somehow. “I can’t believe that every year this restaurant is still open even on holidays,” I muttered. It started when my mom and dad came here because their car had conked out in front of the diner. The diner was closing early because of the holidays, and Bethany Anne had invited them in.
And that was the day I was born. My mom now has a new appreciation for Bethany Anne’s car ever since that day, and every time we leave that diner, we are all supposed to say goodbye to it. Dreidel sticks out her tongue because she now has a little sister. I just groan.
We were just about the only people in the diner, except for a few lonely souls speckled here and there. I stared at each and every one of them, wondering about their birthdays and their dark days. I was still in the habit of staring after all those years of Michael Meyers. I found that a little sad, really.
It was just as we were about to eat that the bell to the door rang, signaling that someone was coming in. I turned my head to mentally stalk them. To my surprise, it was a family just like ours.
Well, not just like ours. They had more people. I scanned each and every one of them, but my stalking was over when Dreidel slapped me on the shoulder. She had taken off her glasses, so now her eyes were less magnified but just as big. Why? Because she looked kind of surprised.
“That’s Easton Turner!” Dreidel whispered to me. I looked over. And as soon as I did, I realized that indeed, it was Ethan Turner. It was that one boy in my Pre-Calculus class that my sister had with me who my sister just adored. He played guitar and piano, she oozed. He was cute, she told me.
He looked like a stoner, I thought to myself. Okay, that was a very mean thought, but I was protective of my big sister. She liked to go through stages in her life, places where she would completely fawn over something so badly that it hurt, and then the next day, she would bawl and completely forget about it. In this case, Easton Turner had been something she obsessed about ever since he got abs, which was three years ago, when I was still in middle school and she was a freshman.
I was hoping the phase would just end already, but apparently Easton Turner started swimming. And running. And studying.
So he got hotter. Fitter. Whatever. His hair was in that messy annoyingly in his eyes kind of style as he sat down, and my sister was practically drooling. She should thank her blessings that there was a delicious pie in front of her. I took a piece from it, just for the fun of taking advantage of someone.
While I was chewing, I went back to mentally stalking. They were sitting in the booth across from us, with their big coats and hats. I looked down at my T-shirt and shorts. I looked back at their attire. Back and forth I went until my sister slapped me again, and I started giving my mom the stink eye for teaching her the light slap. I did not tolerate violence.
I slapped my sister on the knee, harder than she had. I told you I didn’t tolerate violence. She didn’t even care, she was too busy worshipping Ethan Turner and building yet another shrine for him. This was the way to a guy’s heart, I am sure.
I took greater notice in the fact that the guy had such a big family, though. There were these two twins who looked 8 playing around, and a two girls around the same age talking to each other. Then there was Ethan and another guy who looked about our age, Ethan looking bored and said other guy writing furiously in a journal of some kind. The mom and dad were trying to calm down the twins as one of the girls looked up and started shaking the boy writing to pay attention as Bethany Anne came over.
I was instantly reminded of Dreidel. Dreidel continued to stare along with me, and at some point, they noticed us. Since they were only about a yard away from us, one of them began talking. “Sorry,” The girl who had been shaking her brother (I think that was her brother) said. “We must be creeping you out.” Mom and Dad were busy ignoring them accidentally-but-actually-purposely.
“Not at all,” Dreidel assured them. “I mean, we’re the ones staring.” I didn’t say anything, I just nodded, continuing to spin the spoon in my cup over and over again.
“Hey, you’re in my math class, right?” Easton asked. Dreidel began replying enthusiastically, going in a rant. After she was done, he blinked.
“Oh, you too? I was talking to her,” He pointed at me. I blinked, and smiled.
“Yeah, I am. Um, you’re Easton, right?” It was an answer I already knew, but surprisingly, he shook his head.
“No, that’s actually my little brother here. I’m Enzo.” I stopped spinning my spoon around to glance over at Dreidel. She was blushing. Enzo was looking at the boy who had been writing, who right now was currently staring off into space.
“Oops,” She mouthed. The poor girl had been crushing on a guy, muttering his name over and over again--only to find out it was his brother’s name. Ouch.
“Sorry.” I squeaked, and Enzo chuckled.
“It’s fine,” He reassured me (and Dreidel), “people get us mixed up all the time.” We continued chatting for a while as we all ate our food, and by the end, I found out that Easton was in the same grade as me, and that the twins were only their cousins. Our parents started talking, too. By the time we were finished eating, Dreidel had died and gone to heaven, and I was more acquainted with the Turner family.
So maybe Enzo wasn’t a stoner. But he looked like one. Sometimes. “Hey, did you know that today is our daughter Ama’s birthday, here?” Dad said. Everyone over at the Hunter table looked over at each other, and they all started laughing.
“Seriously? It’s Easton’s birthday too!” Enzo said, giving his brother a noogie. He grumbled, and me being obsessed with birthdays as usual (Enzo’s was in February), my head whipped back over to them.
“What time?” I asked him. Easton shrugged.
“Like, 2? In the morning?” He told us. I jumped up and started cheering. Everyone in the diner looked at me.
“Yes! Oh my god, yes! Yes!” At this point, my happiness had turned back the clock of evolution, and my vocabulary was very limited. I was jumping and screaming, waving my fork around dangerously. Fortunately, we have known Bethany Anne for a long time, and she liked my mom and dad.
Note that I didn’t say anything about me and Dreidel. After I was done, I sat back down, grinning. “I was born at 6. In the morning.” I exclaimed, laughing. Dreidel was frantically trying to explain to the people on the other side of us about my birthday obsession.
“I’m finally younger than someone!” I added in. My sister’s crush stared at me. “Who’s around my age!” I exclaimed. Now they were all looking at me.
“Who is in their junior year!” I explained. At this point, I couldn’t talk normally. After a few minutes of a little more small talk, we all went inside and went our separate ways. But it might as well have been Dreidel’s birthday, because she got Easton’s--sorry, Enzo’s--phone number, and the whole car ride home, our whole family’s thoughts were wrapped up with the Hunter family.
My mom’s was probably: Oh no, oh dear. My daughters have finally met guys who are civilized. They are going to grow up, and get married, and make babies, and then they’ll hate me for not teaching them how to cook. My dad was probably thinking: Ahh, Patrick (Enzo and Easton’s dad) was so funny. We should share jokes sometime.
We all know what Dreidel was thinking about, and there I was, happy that I was born at 6 in the morning. Obviously there was something wrong with me here.
~*~
I got home to the solemn sound of everyone grumbling sleepily. We had been celebrating far too much, Dreidel especially. I hoped that things would go smooth for her as I brushed my teeth, which was just about the most random thing ever to think when you are brushing your crunchy-crunch, but go figure. I liked to do my deepest thinking while whitening up my yellows while others did it in the shower.
I started laughing as I realized how wrong that sounded while the toothpaste was frothing in my mouth. Poor Dreidel didn’t dare disturb me in the bathroom like usual when she walked in on me, so for that night, that blessed night--I was left alone. No sounds of my mom cooing about how perfect me and Dreidel were, or any of my Dad’s bad jokes.
I sat down in bed, the door shut, and I took out a pen and grabbed the journal I had hidden in my guitar case. Yes, I played guitar. No, I wasn't very good with at all. I was one of the wannabes, sadly, but I still liked to strum chords to calm myself, sometimes. I clicked the pen, the journal open, and I began falling into the routine that had always helped me fall asleep.
Five years ago, when I was twelve, growing up, and suffering from growth pains and insomnia, like every other girl, I had had quite a fancy with a boy. His name was Peter Hankshaw, and he had barely even noticed me, save for the times we were the only ones who showed up at band practice (Once upon a time, I had played the flute). Peter had brandished himself with a trumpet, and although he wasn’t the virtuoso like my fantasies had caused me to believe, I remembered how the way he played made me smile. Peter was a nice boy, a daring one, and by the end of the year, he moved away.
And there I was the next year, still unable to sleep, that I got out a journal and wrote a letter to the imaginary Peter whom I never knew. And I did the same thing the day after that, and every single time, like clockwork, I fell asleep onto the lined pages. Four years later, with me being over the hurdle of Peter Hankshaw, I still did the same thing. It didn’t matter who I wrote to anymore, but something about his name was special.
I didn’t write much this time. Like every birthday I had, I asked him when he was born. Today was a day of pondering of who and where the real Peter was. I looked up and outside the window, the stars unusually shining bright for a night where no one slept lightly, or at all. I scribbled something down real quick before I ended my entry for the night.
So I end this entry with a question to you:
Dear Peter Hankshaw, do you still like the stars? You used to tell everyone how we were all stealing the stars from the sky and making them into people, so that we would never have to look up to wish anymore, but have you realized that we envy those people more than anything, and give hate to our icons everyday? Are we really stealing them, or do the lights of our cities steal away the real stars?
Pondering much,
Amabelle Mercedes
The night made me write like a lovesick idiot, but he would never read it, so I didn’t mind. My mind was just filled with weird thoughts, and it was nice to fall asleep to knowing that once upon a time, my life had been this simple.
ii. She's One for the Jerseys
A M A B E L L E
The morning sun had risen to greet the new day, and there I was, slumbering like a cow. Honestly, I had no other adjective for it considering the way my family liked to video me and the way my jaw moved around in my sleep. It’s freaky, considering that, you know, I’m human, and my jaw does crazy things on my face. The winter break was now over, and the first day returning to school was always the worst. I had about five alarms, not including my family members themselves, and the only thing that could ever wake me up was--nothing. The fact that I woke up each morning was a miracle, honestly. I never quite understood how dysfunctional I could be.
“Amabelle, you have to help me with Enzo today!” Dreidel shouted happily. She threw off my blankets, her laughter annoying me to the point where I decided that having a sister is nothing special. It would be much better if I murdered her and buried her somewhere in the open fields. I groaned, rolling off my bed. Alarm five had not rung yet.
“No.” I told her, trying to hold myself up. She grinned at me.
“But he’s so dreamy.” My older sister with more experience with the English language told me. If you wake me up like that, I expect a 5-paragraph essay full of prose describing him, not one word used by all other girls to describe guys who had long eyelashes.
“He’s dreamy, huh? Well, shut up, I’m dreamier, and I’m your sister. What more do you want?” I yelled, climbing back onto bed. Dreidel had a whole group of giggly and determined girls to help her along her way to ten kids and a successful marriage. She didn’t need me.
“Ama! You stupid little palindrome, get out of bed! Your alarms all stopped working because there’s a power-out, and there's only five minutes left until school starts!” Dreidel said, and just like that, I jumped out of bed ready to take over the world.
Two hours later, I was in Math class with Dreidel and Enzo, and seeing the way Dreidel stared into his eyes (aka the back of his head) made me want to gag. How in the world could someone be so happy while writing and learning about Pre-Cal? I looked down at my warm-up pages, wanting to bawl. This textbook needed to have less math, I swear. What kind of textbook that teaches math actually puts math in it?
I slumped down over, ready to give up on life. My sister was trying to flirt with someone whom we only talked to for a night, and my life was hopeless, filled with nothing but myself messing around at home.
I heard Dreidel laugh near me. “Oh, my sister Amabelle, you know her, right? Yeah, she does nothing but mess around at home.” Hearing her confirmation only made me feel so much worse about myself, and I sat there trying not to stab the textbook.
Which, of course, needed to have less math in it. Less x’s and y’s, too. And every other letter in the freakin’ alphabet. I think the teacher sensed that I was about to cry, because she walked over to me. “Is something wrong?” She asked. I nodded, tears ready to form. I was quite a wuss.
“I’m having some problems,” I told her, and her eyes widened.
“Lady problems?” She asked. What in the world does she mean by lady problems? Gosh, this was everyone’s problem, math should just crawl in a hole and die, for god’s sake!
“Yeah,” I sighed, and in a snap, she ushered me to the nurse’s office, telling me to stay there for as I liked, and after hesitating for half a second, I sprinted down the hallway, all to have my freedom interrupted by bumping into the object of my untimely demise.
“Whoa,” Easton chuckled, “watch yourself, there.” I sat there on my butt, glaring up at him.
“I get a free pass for the whole math period, and now I’ve been interrupted in my moment of freedom by you.” I grumbled. He laughed. It was a low, hoarse kind of laughed that made me think he was the type to smoke. I remained there, sitting just about ten feet away from the torture chamber of Pre-Cal.
“How’d you do it?” He asked.
“I looked like I was crying and then she asked me if I had lady problems, as if math isn’t everyone’s problem, and then she told me to rest.” I informed Easton. The boy burst out laughing, making me question if he was actually older than me.
Then it hit me. Of course, lady problems. As in--lady problems.
Exclusively. I covered my face, sure to be flushing right now. I could not believe how stupid I was. Enzo stood over me, smirking. “Oh my god,” I told myself, my head in my hands.
“You’re a funny girl, Amabelle.” He said. I smiled a little bit into my hands. I didn’t like to show people when I was pleased.
“Thanks,” I spoke into the little curtain covering my face. “Considering I only mess around at home, thanks.” Easton stared at me.
“Well, stop messing around at home, then. Mess around at school. That’s what Enzo did, and look at him now. Abs and everything.” The little brother said. Didn’t look so little now that I was on the floor.
“And girls,” I added, smirking.
“Heck, he has guys drooling too.” Easton retorted. We both started laughing, but silently. You don’t laugh loudly when you have, er, lady problems.
~*~
You know those idiots who like to pay thousands of dollars for people to tell them what they already know, i.e. that they need to get a life? I always laughed at those people until a few periods (as in, a class) later, Easton’s words slapped me in the face like a fish I had just caught from the sea. If I hated being pathetic so much, why didn’t I just go and do something? I sat there staring at my notebook like it was my lifeline as one of the teachers started talking about how they were recently married. The whole class was happy: we never liked her much, and in a few months, she was probably going to ask for a pregnancy leave. It was the cycle of single teachers at our school. At some point, it happened.
“Look at that girl trying not to cry.” I heard Yolani whispering to her friend. I looked around the classroom. I didn’t see anyone crying. I continued to stare down at my notebook until pretty soon, the whole classroom quieted down. Silence like this was just short of a miracle. I looked up again. They were all staring at me, everyone from Macy, who had her head glued to the phone keyboard hidden under her desk, to Harold, who slept in class 110% of the time.
“Amabelle, are you okay?” Yolani snickered. I blinked.
“Yeah,” I said hesitantly, “why do you ask?” Yolani smiled. It was a slow, cautious, I’m-basking-in-the-moment kind of smile.
“Well, you were staring quite intensely at your notebook. And--you have tears running down your face.” I touched my face. Sure enough, there were tears. Did Easton move me enough to cry?
Or was it because I’d been looking at the notebook too long without blinking? Deciding it was the latter, I soon became flushed. Red. In the middle of class with 37 pairs of eyes staring at me. “I’m having problems.” I grumbled.
Yolani leaned toward me. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I growled.
“I’m having lady problems!” I yelled. That was the wrong thing to say, but unfortunately, I had been thinking of my second encounter with Easton Turner, and it had come out. No one looked me in the eye for the whole period after that.
But of course, they had enough class to laugh at me with their eyes. And in Macy’s case--I saw her hand moving slowly to press the “End Record” button, as if intentionally showing me what was going to happen. I frowned. Stopped. Thought about Easton’s words again. Remembered that we had a girls’ lacrosse tryouts today. I was an okay runner, with okay reflexes (thanks to a shady past with video games), and I’d already had experience with that type of thing. I stopped moping. I smiled at Macy Rogers.
And I gave her the middle finger. For those of you thinking of how daring I am, don’t. This is not the end of the story, you know. Thankfully, Macy had stopped recording after that, but after I gave her the rude gesture, Yolani caught a glimpse of it and reported me.
Which was how I ended up in the office again. “So, Ms. Mercedes, care to tell me the reason for this visit?” The secretary raised her left eyebrow. I smiled sheepishly.
“I’m supposed to see the principal for misconduct in class,” I told her. She sighed, and she guided me to the door and let me in. Mr. Shepherd was sitting with the back of his chair facing me, tufts of hair hair floating over the head. He wasn’t actually short, or balding, either. The chair was huge. 6 feet, even. I sat down in the chair, waiting for him to turn around. Eventually, the hulking--thing--did turn around. I have been to his office multiple times, but never for something like this. It was always good things, like for good grades or being a good role model or something along those lines.
“So, Amabelle,” Mr. Shepherd said flatly. I fiddled with my fingers. “I see you’re being quite the mischief-maker today.” I shrugged. It was a little disrespectful, but I was cranky. I couldn’t help it; nonexistent lady problems had followed me all day.
“I’m sorry.” I told him. He smiled.
“You have an exemplary record, so I’ll be light on you. I’m giving you a fair warning not to cause any stir like this ever again, okay, Amabelle?” I was surprised that in a school of two-thousand people, he still remembered my name. But I guess if you’re a good student with no life, they’ll like you, especially when you make an effort to talk to teachers (They were my lunch-eating buddies, sadly. I had about three friends, total). I nodded.
“Sir, is it too late to register for the lacrosse tryouts?” I asked. Mr. Shepard looked at me with the most animated expression I had ever seen on his face in the three years I had been a student under his care.
“Umm-no, I don’t believe so,” Her coughed. “You may go now, Amabelle.” I jumped out of my seat to head off for lunch. The bell rung right about then, and students of all kinds rushed out of the doors. For the first time in history, I, Amabelle Mercedes, the girl who usually ate lunch with the teachers, was first for the hot lunch line. It was usually either Oscar something or other and Shaina something or other. And everyone knew that if you were first in the hot lunch line, you had your picture posted up on the “Hot Stuff” Wall, where all the people first in the hot lunch line were made known. I gulped.
This was the most excitement I’d ever had. I misbehaved once in my life, and I was suddenly on the “Hot Stuff” wall which in my opinion, was quite a silly school tradition. But it was also a tradition for a reason. Usually, Oscar and Shaina were first in line because no one ever went in front of them.
But today, I heard both of them were absent, so--I held onto my tray tightly. I could feel the glares. I sat at the closest table I could find, seeing as my three “friends” were probably at the library. Honestly, I relied on Dreidel more than anything, and realizing that, I wanted to hide in a hole.
I was obsessed with a boy I saw five years ago. I never ventured away from home, and my friends probably didn’t even know that just a few days ago, it had been my birthday.
“So--who are you?” I heard a voice say. I looked up. I was looking at the face of an athlete, one I didn’t know the name of, but a girl who I saw all the time running around the track with her group near my house. I always watched people hang out at the park next to my window, but honestly, I never thought to join them.
“I’m Amabelle Mercedes,” I squeaked. She started laughing. I instantly envied her laugh. It was a nice one, the kind that makes you smile. I smiled.
“Nice,” She said, “You scored your place on the wall. Even I’ve never done that.” I looked down at my lunch.
“Honestly, I don’t even know what the lunch lady gave me,” I admitted, poking the goo with my fork. It smelled good, but it was goo.
“Trust me, it’s good,” The girl told me. “It’s usually gone after the first fifteen minutes, so if you’ve never tried it, I kind of feel sorry for you.” I cringed at that; this was about my tenth time trying out school cafeteria food. I scooped a spoonful of the gunk, and shoved it into my mouth.
I chewed and swallowed, and after that, I vowed that trouble was right in looking for me today. The goo was heaven--solid-liquid heaven. “Yeah, I thought so.” She chuckled. Soon enough, some of her friends started sitting at the table too. I felt like an intruder.
“I’m kind of new at sitting outside of the classrooms,” I informed them all. The girl who had first talked to me smirked.
“I could tell, but hey, welcome to the brothel of me and my friends,” She remarked. “My name is Lydia Howard.” I almost choked onto the delicious goo.
“Do you--um, know what a brothel is?” I asked them all. One of the girls immediately started looking it up on the phone, never mind that that was against the rules. Lydia started blinking.
One of the girls started whispering in her ear. They all started coughing. “Thanks,” One of them told me. I grinned.
“So, how is our school’s lacrosse team?”
~*~
Impressum
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.07.2013
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Widmung:
to people who are lost, you are made of stardust and will find your way.