One Lapse

You’re going to hate me, I just know it… That’s right. I forgot to post yesterday. During Story A Day May. The May during which I am to write one story (and post one blog entry) for each of the 31 days it contains.

And. I. Didn’t.

I’m a failure as a human being and I don’t even deserve to call myself a blogger. Even if only one person reads this blog. Even if I have steadfastly refused to tell anybody about this blog. Despite those things, I call myself (in my own little head) a blogger, and now… Now, who am I to say such LIES?

I’m not actually really upset that I haven’t managed to keep up with this. Honestly, I’m surprised that I only missed one day this far in. I’ll just keep going… I’m trying to learn how to accept my mistakes instead of mull over them for days and not recover. So, yeah, I’m just going to sigh a little big and forget about it, so I can just move past it.

–Oh, gosh. I accidentally found fanfiction of an anime I used to watch. But it was in Spanish, and I only recognized a very few words, so I Google Translated it… I couldn’t ask for anything better.

–

I logged in to Skype. It’s ten years since I saw her last, I thought, nervously tapping a pen on my computer screen. It’s been three years since we emailed each other… Two years since she found me on Facebook…

And now, it was the day that we’d agreed upon: a Saturday in August when neither party was busy. We would Skype–start with instant messaging, then voice-chat, and then video chat. After that, who knew, maybe we could meet up again. For Starbucks or something.

Two minutes.

Kim was always organized. Well, probably. She wouldn’t be late for their Skype-Date.

I heard the familiar–though still shocking–beep. It was Kim–“HonestAndDumb88–and I answered.

“Hello,” I typed. I deleted it. Thought about it. What would be the best thing to say? The quintessence of my life since I last saw her? A greeting that would sum up everything she needed to know about me.

What, I asked myself, have I been doing this last decade? I looked around my room. I saw a certificate that I got from working with Habitat for Humanity in Argentina one summer. I saw an honor roll ribbon from fifth grade–now a pale, faded blue. There was a glossy print of what appeared to be a clay sculpture. I noticed a paper under my elbow, a 94% on an AP Spanish test from a few years ago.

“?Que pasa, chica?” I clicked enter. All it meant was “What’s up, girl?”, and I decided that it was all I needed to establish myself as a culturally-aware member of twentysomething-year-old society.

Her response: “Verzeihen Sie mir?” and a winky-face.

I had no idea what that meant. She seemed to figure that out, though, saying, “I took German in high school… LOL.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. High school was three years ago. I was done with high school. Why had I brought it up with my stupid AP Spanish test thing?

“Anyway, what’s happening?” I wrote.

“Nm.”

It took me a while to figure out that she meant “not much”. I’d never been any good at the whole chatspeak thing.

“Wanna go to voice chat?” I asked.

She agreed and I asked her  to “hold for technical difficulties” while I wrestled my microphone out from my desk drawer. “Okay, Kim! I got it!” I said to the mike.

“Whoa!” she laughed. “Ack, ack, my headphones are turned way the hell up!”

We settled that and got to talking about everything. I learned that she had a lovely boyfriend named Roderick who rode a motorcycle that he was buying from his uncle. I learned that he had acute tuberculosis. I learned that Kim’s friend, Michelle, had coughed all over him while he was so sweetly visiting her in the hospital, which is how he got this tuberculosis.

I learned so much stuff I didn’t care about regarding Kim and her stupid boyfriend. I was starting to wish terrible things upon poor Roderick when Kim–praise the Lord–said, “Oh, shoot, that’s my ride… I have to go now.”

“That’s okay!” I said, maybe a little too quickly.

“Oh, but… Amy, I’m so sorry! I took up all the conversation!”

Yes,  I thought, Yes, you did, you little wench. What I said, however, was, “Oh, don’t worry about it. Maybe we can talk some other–” Wait, that’s not what I wanted at all. I rephrased: “Actually, I’m selling my computer soon. So probably, we won’t be able to talk. Still, it was great catching up with you!”

“Yeah,” said Kim’s chipper voice. “It was great! Bye bye!”

I logged off of Skype, turned off my computer, and slunk deep into my desk chair with a heavy sigh. That hadn’t been worth it at all.

Stupid Kim.

My Very Social Brother

My sister and I just got back from a party at my boyfriend’s house, and when my mom showed up with my three-year-old brother, Max, he hugged and shook hands with a bunch of my friends, which they found adorable. He even high-fived our very intimidating 6′ 3″ friend (when he crouched down very much so that Max could reach his enormous hand), which was a surprise to everyone. When you take into consideration the fact that he usually just covers his face up whenever he sees someone unfamiliar, it’s pretty impressive what he did tonight, don’t you think?

Okay, so I actually have a story for tonight, because it occurred to me during the car ride home that I can actually just use all the little segments from unwritten stories that I have planned out for my story-a-days. Then, when and if I ever get around to writing the rest of that story, if I get to a writer’s block, I’ll have something sitting around that I can use! Isn’t that nice?

So, here it is. This is a little snippet of a story that my one and only reader will recognize from last summer. The part I’m going to show you is somewhere near the beginning of the story, so you won’t be too in the dark about it all. Besides, the only person who reads this blog has basically an entire summary of the story that I told him last year, so there oughtn’t be anything too confusing in there.

–

Jamie stormed in and all seven pairs of eyes in the room fell on her: two women, five men in all. They were all sitting on their thick mattresses on their cold metal bed frames. She cast a frigid glare around the room.

The seven of them got up and left immediately. One of the girls, Anya, smiled uncomfortably at Jamie. The rest didn’t look at her, just kept their heads up and walked away. They had all known Jamie since she was young, and they all knew that she was to be left alone when she was getting ready for bed. None knew why, but they listened to her. Everyone listened to her.

Jamie marched to her bed, the one in the southwest corner of the room, farthest from the only window. She moved rigidly, still steaming mad from the news she had just received: that boy, that stupid boy from the Italian branch was coming in to “supervise” her home. The League didn’t trust her to run it anymore.

“I’ve been doing just fine all these years…” she muttered. “What makes them think that I need supervision?”

Jamie started through the familiar process of removing the rarely-washed afghan from beneath her mattress and laying it out under the standard-issue gray duvet that covered every bed in the league. She hugged a stuffed animal–a hippo–and crammed it under her pillow, just like she did every night while her dorm-mates were politely out of the room.

She checked, as she always did, to make sure that neither her hippo nor her blanket were showing, because if it got around that The Jamie Facello (not that most of them knew her last name, of course) needed to sleep with comfort items, they would lose the respect that she had spent so many of her sixteen total years cultivating in her peers.

Jamie was tough, cunning, and elusive, and the youngest and most fearsome agent in the International League of Espionage (ILE or Island, for short), and she wasn’t about to blindly follow some Italian guy in a leather jacket who said he was in charge because he had a piece of paper. This girl didn’t give up.

Her ears were naturally sensitive, and before the knob was even turned all the way, she had her pistol aimed at the door, where the cursed Italian entered.

He saw her gun and held his arms up defensively. “Hey, down, girl,” he said.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she growled. He sat down on  bed near the door.

“I just came to talk,” he told her. He pushed some sun-bleached hair out of his eyes and looked at her firmly. “I understand that you require your dorm-mates to leave at certain times.”

“Yeah, I do. Everyone knows to leave me alone when I’m getting ready for bed, and you’re no exception to that rule. Get out of my room.”

“This isn’t your room,” he pointed out calmly. Infuriatingly. “Everything in this base is property of the ILE, and you don’t have the authority to dictate whether or not people are allowed in some rooms.”

“That little monster,” I said, indicating the big bird that landed on his leather-clad shoulder, “is certainly not allowed in this room, or any room in this base.”

He stroked its neck and fed it a little morsel from a pouch on his hip. “Phoebe is not a monster. She is a tracker, and I’ve been training her since her birth. She was part of a program we initiated in Italy and hope to spread to the League’s other locations around the world, the training of small birds of prey like the Levant Sparrowhawk–an Italian native–to inconspicuously track down enemies. Don’t call her a monster.”

Jamie glowered at the bird. “Get it out of my room. And get out with it.”

He sighed. “Jamie…”

“Don’t call me that. Just leave.”

“Fine. Facello, then. I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I know you’ve been doing this–running your branch–for a lot longer than I have. You know the people here, and they trust you; I have the leadership training and people-skills. If you can help me a little bit, I think I can really make the American branch into something worth being proud of. Friends?” He held out his hand, his tan-skinned, calloused, squarish hand.

Jamie just stared it down. “No. You really think I’m going to help you?” She looked him in the eye. “Not on my life. You don’t belong here, you don’t know us. Leave.” This time, she wasn’t just asking him to leave the dorm. She wanted him gone, gone, gone.

He got up off the bed and Phoebe flapped in protest. Absentmindedly calming the bird, he said to Jamie, “You haven’t left me with any choice, then. I’ll earn their trust and you’re not going to hold any power anymore. You can’t run this place like a dictatorship, and I won’t let you do that anymore.” Jamie glared at him, her eyes as hard as stone. “Have a nice night, Ja–Facello.”

He left, and she glared at the spot where he had been sitting. She was still holding her gun.

–

Okay, that’s it. That was actually much more tense than it was meant to be… They aren’t supposed to want to kill each other, just, y’know, not get along well. That’s alright, though, I can handle that. I have to go to bed, so good night, my chickedies.

I Hate Moths

Well, I hate all bugs. I’ve been trying (okay, half-heartedly) to not hate as many things anymore… but I really don’t like bugs. They creep me out and they fly everywhere and they bump into me and feel all icky and it just gives me the skeevies. I’m sorry, bugs. I’m sure your parents love you.

Hm. Sometimes, I read things about people who are going through their parents’ divorce and they talk about how they’re scared and they don’t want to be “the kid with two houses” or they don’t want to have stepparents and stuff like that. Was I too young in first grade to be impacted by my parents’ divorce? Were my parents just very mature about the matter, not making a scene about it? Did they really only fight when (they thought) my sister and I were napping in our room, so that we wouldn’t have to go through that? I mean, are all these other people going through something that I never had to experience?

Sometimes, I feel just a tiny bit cheated that I’ve had the watered-down version of some of the standard “bad childhood experiences”, like my parents’ easy divorce and my mom’s marriage to my kind and friendly stepdad and the birth of my two loving and adorable half-siblings and the meeting of my dad’s loving and wonderful girlfriend. All of these things just wound up working out for me in the best possible way. I’m really glad that my parents–all three of them–are so mature and easy to get along with, as well as understanding and accepting. I love my family so much. I really am happy with my life… But sometimes, I really wish I could relate to people who have had so much go wrong in their lives because then maybe I’d be more able to help them.

Well, okay, that’s enough of that emotional crap for now, you probably don’t really want to hear it… So I’ll just write tonight’s story, and then I’ll go to bed. I have a party tomorrow night at my boyfriend’s house, in honor of the end of state testing! Now it’s just finals… and drum major tryouts. Other than that, though, stress-free me!

–

I was beginning to drift to sleep behind my textbook during English. We were reading The Odyssey and I could barely stay awake because the translation was so dull.

I saw the paper out of the corner of my eye before I felt it graze my ear. When I picked it off of my desk, I saw that it wasn’t just a wadded up piece of paper: it was a rather elaborately-folded paper balloon. I unfolded it carefully, not ripping any of it, and found that inside was a note. It was on a torn sheet of binder paper and it said, “Plans after school?”

I looked around for who might be asking this. I didn’t recognize the handwriting. My eyes locked with a broad-shouldered brunette boy named Anthony and he grinned at me.

I replied, “Not in particular…”

I threw the paper back at him and it soon landed back on my desk. I read it: “Kickass. Want to go play on the swings by the park by my house? I know a place where we can get some awesome French fries if you want.”

I smiled. “French fries and swings? Could I possibly say no?” is what I wrote back.

A new scrap landed on my desk, since we’d filled up the original. “I don’t think so, ma’am. You would find yourself hard-pressed to think of a better offer. P.S. I’ll totally pay for the fries.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I responded. I drew myself giving a thumbs-up and sent the paper back his way.

A blue sheet of stationary appeared next to my hand. I opened it. Carefully penned was a message: “When did you and Tony get chummy? BTW, you guys are funny, throwing paper back and forth at each other. Text me?”

The note wasn’t signed, but I recognized the paper from the notepad I’d given my best friend, Izzy, for her birthday a few months ago. I had a good look around the classroom and saw the substitute teacher, sitting at his desk, reading The Peterson Field Guide to Birds of North America.

I took my phone out under the desk and texted her, “I’ve almost never talked to him. I think we worked on a history project in seventh grade together?”

I felt a paper hit me in the head and I whirled around to see Anthony grinning sheepishly at me before stuffing his nose in the textbook. I read the note. “Eeeexcellent! The park is only a little walk away Where shall we meet after school? I have P.E. last period.”

I wrote back, “We’ll meet by the bus stop?” I crumpled it into a ball and threw it, and it landed precisely between his face and the textbook. I watched his eyes light up in astonishment and I chuckled.

My phone lit up; I read the text, which said, “Oh, yeah, huh? Well, what are you two talking about?” I replied with, “Nothing much,” because I didn’t really want her to invite herself along, and besides, I knew she had a Mock Trial Club meeting after school, so she should go to that.

I got the note back from Anthony. “Perfect! See ya then!”

I turned around and smiled at him, and he smiled back, until he looked down very theatrically at his book. I glanced surreptitiously at the sub, and saw that he was glaring in our direction. I whipped back around my book and smiled, knowing that I finally had plans after school with someone other than Izzy or one of my friends from tennis. Finally, I was branching out. This was a good start.

Six Billion Secrets (dot-com)

Super depressing website. It really makes you want to help, though. Go on it if you dare. Read lots of stories about people with eating disorders and depression. Appreciate your life. Love yourself, love your body, change things in a positive way. If something is wrong, please, please just get away from it. Reach out for help. Call teenage crisis hotlines. Please, people, for the love of God, don’t let it all get you down. Never. Get therapy or any other help that you need, okay? Talk to a trusted adult or counselor or favorite teacher… somebody? Okay?

Thanks, that’s my little anti-self-harm public service announcement. I kind of want to do that thing where you write lots of really nice things on sticky-notes and post them all over the halls of the school. Our administration is actually pretty chill, so I don’t think they’d mind.

Hm. I’m thinking about my secrets. Now I kind of want to write them all down somewhere… Consider the following list my story for today.

–

• I get scared when I hear about people who have had very troubling lives because I want to help them but I’ll never be able to relate–thank God–so I don’t know if I can
• I really like how I look; I like my eyes and my hair, and even if I have bad skin, I don’t mind; whenever I pass by a reflective surface–mirror, tinted glass, anything–I can’t help looking at myself, tousling my hair, and smiling. I feel silly but I do it anyways
• I love people who complement people; not just me, anybody. People who go out of their way to give somebody a specific complement–like “I like your hair” or “red looks good on you”–are really just nice people
• I get worried when I see people who seem perpetually unhappy; sometimes, I think it’s just because they want attention, but then I feel really bad because sometimes, well, it’s not, and I don’t want to be the kind of person who assumes that
• I push myself really hard to be confident–to look people in the eyes, to hold my head up, to walk with my back straight, even though my tote bag and purse are both very heavy and rest on the same shoulder. I smile at and say hi to everyone I pass by who I recognize, just in case they’re having a bad day
• I don’t try as hard as I would like to in school, but I don’t know if I’m going to do anything about it; that sometimes worries me, but I still don’t change
• I’m really afraid of the future; college, job-life, going away from my family, all of it just scares me because I have no idea what to expect. I try to keep a positive attitude about it, but I can’t help being nervous and desperate to stay a little freshman for a while longer
• Sometimes, I’m really desperate for attention; I know I shouldn’t be, because I am in no way starved of it, but I am, and that really bugs me because I do stupid things when that happens
• Feminists scare me a little bit. I believe in women’s rights, but I think that shaving is a personal choice and that nobody should criticize me for doing so. Or for believing in love. I don’t know if I can love any person to my fullest capacity at this age–I know that I’m young and probably more naive than I think I am, but I know that if I tell you that I love you as much as I can love anyone right now, I’m being honest.
• I admit it: I am slightly uncomfortable around flamboyantly gay men and very attractive lesbians. I’m not homophobic; I also don’t mind being around them. It’s just that I feel kind of weird. I don’t know why. This is something that I will certainly try to get over, because I don’t want to be offensive. (if there’s anyone reading this who is something other than heterosexual and you feel personally offended, please don’t; I hold you in no lower or higher respect than any heterosexual person, mkay?)
• I totally wish I could fly. I mean, seriously, how chill’d that be?
• Sometimes, I’ll hear someone use a cool phrase or word and I’ll immediately be jealous of them because that takes away any opportunity I might have had to say that word–if I say it within the same conversation, I’d obviously just be copying them, and that would be SO lame of me
• Makeup intimidates me. I don’t think I’d ever be able to wear makeup. For one thing, I simply don’t know how to put it on. A lot of people tell me it’s easy, why don’t I just go to the makeup counter at Nordstrom or whatever and try it there, or have one of the nice counter ladies do it for me? Why? Because I don’t think I’d look all that good. Because I don’t want to clog my pores. Because my boyfriend thinks that I already look pretty (thank you, darling!) and he says that if I’m wearing makeup and he kisses me on the cheek, I’ll just taste like chemicals, and, hello? Ick. Also, because I’m scared of getting sucked into the makeup thing. I don’t want to depend on makeup to make myself feel confident. I’m comfortable in my skin, dammit!
• I don’t like people who tell me what kind of makeup they think would look good on me. I don’t let it get to me, but it bothers me that they think I might want to change something about my appearance. I mean, if I wore makeup, that’d be one thing, And if I asked what you thought might look good, that’s also a different story. But if you just tell me, then that’s kind of weird, and I don’t much like that. So thanks, but you can keep it to yourself.
• I wish I could sing more often, but I’m too embarrassed. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, but I really enjoy singing; there’s just nowhere private enough for me to do it–not even the shower, since then, of course, everyone in my house will hear. So that’s one of my biggest–and one of my few–confidence issues.
• I think about things that I say, but usually  not until after I’ve said them. I know so many people who proudly say, “I”m the kind of girl [usually it’s a girl, at least] who speaks her mind! I don’t care what other people say, I just express my opinion.” I used to be like that. Now, I try as hard as I can to decide whether or not something will be offensive, because I know that even just a little thing can eat at someone for hours and days, and I don’t want to put people through that
• I really like people. I have some friends who don’t like to meet new people, and I feel really awkward around them because I don’t want them to think I’m ditching them, but I also don’t want to seem stand-offish to whoever the stranger is. I’m constantly in little tiny insignificant battles like that with myself.

Okay, that’s enough personal stuff for one night. Those are things that I don’t really tell people, so, y’know, enjoy knowing some of my most introverted thoughts.

Farmers’ Market

The only reason I’m even going to bother going to school tomorrow is to go to the local farmers’ market in the mall parking lot after school. I have a fairly aggressive cold right now, and I don’t really want to wake up at six tomorrow and have to suffer through classes all day; it’s not like we’re doing anything important. I’ve got speeches to watch in Public Speaking, normal, easy-to-do-on-one’s-own Spanish stuff, probably not much in English, maybe some algebra review in math. Then, after lunch, I just have band and AP Environmental Science–and we’re just going on a bird-watching hike in the canyon adjacent to the school, and it’s really not at all pertinent to what we’re presently learning…

So I don’t really have any reason to go to school except so that I’ll be in the area and thus able to walk to the lovely farmers’ market. They have lots of free samples there. You know I couldn’t miss out on that.

Well, anyway, despite having to go to school tomorrow, I will resolutely stay up late enough to finish writing my Story-A-Day, because I am just that determined… and resolute.

Hm. I was just looking at an art meme (an art meme is different than an Internet meme; Internet memes are basically just inside jokes on the Internet, like Rebecca Black; art memes are more like questionnaires that artists fill out using words and images) about character development. Basically, you put a picture of the first drawing you ever made of a character, and then you put a very recent drawing of the same character and see how much they changed.

The juxtaposition makes it really interesting. I mean, there are some characters that you’ve been carrying around for years. Sometimes, they started out as imaginary friends, who you went on adventures with when you played by yourself, and then they developed into an actual character who you liked to draw or write about, and now they’re someone completely new. I mean, over the years, you start tweaking their personalities and appearances, and then you find that your character has grown up so much with you. It’s really cool.

I wish I could draw… That would make thing so much more interesting. I mean, it would be so much easier to show the development of a character visually than through words. Some thoughts are so easy to convey through images… Ah, if only.

Honestly, though, I don’t really spend a lot of time cultivating any single character. I mean, there are a few that I just use as defaults–like when I come up with an idea that I’d like to entertain, I need some characters to sort of “act it out” for me in my head. If I like it, I come up with real characters for it. If I like it a lot, I let my defaults continue to play the roles, because my defaults are really cool and well-developed (I’ve had them for a while, why wouldn’t they be?), but if I actually use them, I need to come up with new defaults. It’s like having an ace in your sleeve–sure, you have it, but once you use it, it’s gone.

And, alright, they’re figments, nothing but ideas. They’ll never be gone, per se. It’s just that it would be pretty lame to use the same character for a lot of different things. Sure, you have lots of great ideas, but characters should be the easiest things to come up with. You know lots of characters: everyone you know is a potential character. Everyone you see while waiting in line at Starbucks or sitting on the bus… that’s a character waiting to happen. A hero could very easily be made out of the guy carrying six cups of coffee to his boss or friends or whatever: he’s probably a pushover, and maybe an intern, and he’s totally misguided and doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life. There you go. The theme: seeking out the purpose of life. Super.

Okay, that’s enough. I really should write something and then go to bed; I’m getting awfully sniffley again.

–

Back straight, chest out, shoulders back, chin up, eyes forward. Heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe, hell-to, all-you, who-make, me-walk, like-this… Heel-toe…

I paraded across the stage in my uncomfortably tight dress, dragging the train over the ground and probably ruining it. I almost forgot to smile for how much I was focusing on walking properly.

“Thank you very much,” I said to the jovial-looking elderly gentleman who was handing me a stiff piece of paper and smiling at me. He reached to shake my right hand, but I was holding my inconvenient little clutch in that hand and the certificate in the other. I shifted the clutch to my left and shook his hand awkwardly. Sparse laughter came from the audience. I made almost a mad dash to my seat in the grand banquet hall of the Plaza in New York, New York, a city I’d always dreamed of coming to.

I was starting to hate it already. Maybe it wasn’t the city that was eating at me, though. More likely, it was the event for which I’d been invited to the city: an awards banquet for us young artists who had entered an apparently prestigious art contest and had been better than the rest.

I didn’t even enter the contest. My stupid ceramics teacher did. She sent in my nesting-doll teacup and teapot set and they just ate it up, I guess. So, here I was: stuck at a banquet with a bunch of pretentious artist-types who all seemed to completely snub me when they saw that I was nothing more than a tenth-grade ceramics kid who had to make some tea pots for a final project.

There was only one person who interested me at all at the banquet: a girl who looked maybe a little older than me with pixie-cut brown hair except for two dyed-purple locks on either side of her face that reached her chin. She had seamed bifocal glasses with navy blue rims and dark, dark brown eyes. Her gaze was critical. Her posture was immaculate.

Her dress was stunning. The floor-sweeping emerald number glittered subtly with unobtrusive silvery discs in a gradient that covered the corseted bodice. The skirt was feathery and looked weightless, and it hovered gently off the tile whenever a humid July breeze blew in from the open windows.

Finally, after the awards had all been presented and we were allowed to eat dessert–for which I was all too grateful, after not having anything for dinner because all they had was fillet mignon and grilled Mahi-Mahi, neither of which I could stomach–I walked over to the girl’s table (against the banquet rules, but what did I care?) and tried to strike up a conversation with her.

“What did you win an award for?” I asked, smiling as charmingly as I could. “I didn’t hear.”

“Design…” she said quietly. Not timidly, just quietly. “I design clothing.”

“Really? That is so cool! What did you design?”

“This dress,” she said, running a milky-white hand down the skirt.

I stared, awestruck. “Seriously? That’s amazing. Did you make it, too?”

“Yeah,” she answered. “It was… fun.”

“Oh.”

I had little else to say to her. I thought of maybe bringing up what I had submitted–my nesting-doll teacups and teapot–but I was clearly outshone. I didn’t mention it. She didn’t either.

When I got back to the hotel, I was hopeful and exhausted. Maybe someday, I’ll design a dress…

Barring the fact that I couldn’t draw or sew, I think it’s possible.

Trying or Not

I’d rather not today. I’m tired and I’m sick. I just wrote a speech on how to fasten a button and make a buttonhole and now I’m nervous for tomorrow because I’m going to be up on the stage, sniffling and stammering as I try to teach people at 7:30 in the morning how to do something that they don’t care about. Yeah. I’m not in the mood.

However, I’m not going to let myself get away with it. I’m writing, with God as my witness, and also my mom, who told me to not forget to Story-a-Day today. I wanted to forget. I really did. I considered. I was sitting in the bathroom, hoping to get my schnoz cleared out by the shower steam, and I thought, “I’m sick. I need to sleep. The Universe will understand if I don’t write today. I mean, I’m sick. Why shouldn’t I try to get better?” But then I thought that the Universe might not actually understand. Because there’s all those people in rural China who don’t get to take sick days because they have to have enough money to put their kids through school, which they have to walk ten miles to get to and sometimes they get mugged along the way and they’re just little kids, why do they put them through this type of thing?

So then I thought that I should not take a sick day and I should write my story. I can assure you, though, it probably won’t be very good…

–

My shadow fell over the desk. I was almost shaking with anxiety.

His eyes pored over the pages–three in total. Far fewer than any of my classmates. Most of them had six or more pages. I had half that. This bode unwell for me.

He read the whole thing, going from single-spaced page to single-spaced page. I predicted what he would say about it: Why isn’t this in MLA format? Why, for the love of God, would you justify your header to the left on your final project? Do you want to take this class again?

He didn’t say anything of the sort. Instead, he said, “Good. I like it. Who knew how cool red pandas could be?”

I just stared, kind of dumbstruck. He had taken my bullshit final–a research report on red pandas–read it, and liked it? And now he was taking it to the front of the class… getting everyone’s attention… holding up my essay…

–What the hell was he doing?

“This,” he said, shaking the unstapled sheaf of paper in an authoritative way, “is what is known as brevity. Three pages, ladies and gentlemen. Today, you are high school students. In two days, you will be adults. You’ll be going to college–or the workforce, or the military, or whatever it is that you decided to do after high school–in just three months. Do you really think your professors, bosses, or sergeants are going to want to hear you gab for pages and pages?

“No. Brevity, my dear children. Three pages of succinct, brilliant information. Three pages of real meat. This is a real research paper.”

Everyone looked at me, stunned. They all knew that it was a last-minute slapdash made solely out of adrenaline and caffeine at two in the morning. They knew this because they saw it on Facebook before they all had gone to bed at a normal hour; at eleven, I had posted the status, “English final is killing me. Anybody know anything about (or even care about) red pandas? Jesus Christo, this is not my day.”

I had gotten comments like, “You know if you fail English, you’re doomed right?” and “Why the hell haven’t you already started this?” (that was from my mother)

No one could have expected this. It might have been the single greatest thing that ever happened to me in my entire senior year of high school.

I was succinct. That was my niche.

Less Lazy

I’ve been really slacking for the past few days. I’m awfully sorry about that. Let me go see what I “wrote”…

Wow. Drum major essay. Very short anecdote. Awkward story about drinking. Very long anecdote. Medium-length anecdote.

Who’s letting me get away with this crap? Hey, One-Person-Who-Reads-My-Blog! Keep me on track, would you?

–Oh, dear. Facebook is like a trap of endless pain for me. A girl posted on my friend’s wall and Everything She Wrote Had A Capital Letter Because It Was That Important. See how annoying that is to look at? There’s a thing called proofreading, ladies. Give it a shot.

Well, my friend instant-message’d me last night to tell me that she had a new book by our favorite author and thankfully, this one–unlike the last one she lent me–doesn’t contain any completely unexpected soft-core porn. So hey, why don’t I read it?

She gave me the book today, and I knew as soon as I looked at it that our beloved authoress, Meg Cabot–who endearingly resembles a younger version of my eighth grade English teacher–was getting sucked onto the bandwagon of contemporary fiction.

I knew about her “adult vampire romance novel”, and I would have none of it. Mostly because the last time I read one of her “adult romance novels”, my childhood wanted to have its metaphorical-stomach pumped after reading her little smut-scene. Seriously, she’s been one of my favorite authors since I read All American Girl in fourth grade. The book was way too mature for me, which I realized when I read it again in eighth grade and saw all the blatant sexuality woven throughout.

Anyway, I continued to love her as I devoured The Princess Diaries and Mediator series’, as well as the “Airhead” trilogy and Avalon High and Teen Idol, two of her slightly older young adult books. I managed to find the sequel to All American Girl, which is Ready Or Not, and I loved it to death. I tried to start reading the “Boy Book” series, but I couldn’t stand the email-format, so I dropped it. I nearly read her bizarre historical fiction, Ransom My Heart, but I never got around to checking it out. I borrowed Queen of Babble–the one with the smut in it–and loved it, and I plan on reading the rest of the sequels to it.

This new one, though… I was shocked to see that she would–so soon after her foyer into the super-mainstream world of vampires–jump into the Greek mythology craze, too. But she did. Abandon is “the myth of Persephone… darkly reimagined.” Also, “Meg Cabot is the master of her genre,” raves Publishers Weekly.

I won’t say that I don’t like it, though. On the contrary, I find it quite engaging. And Meg! If, somehow, you’re reading this! I love you! Forever and always, Meg Cabot! My faith in you is not one easily shaken, and besides, I like this book anyways.

Okay, that’s done. Well, I was planning on doing a little modernly-twisted-Greek-myth thing for my story of the day, but then I thought it was cheesy. I realized, however, that no matter how cheesy, it was still very late at night and I’d like to get some sleep, so I’ll do it anyways.

(Forgive me, it WILL be marching-band-related; it’s what’s on the mind right now)

–

The buds of my iPod came out of my ears as it dawned on me just exactly what was going on. My oversize drum-harness glinted in the light so I could barely see what was happening in front of me, but I knew. Everyone knew.

The rat-a-tat-tat of the snare drummer beside me subsided as he, too, took note of the situation. He leaned over to me as much as he could without tipping over and whispered, “Is this–”

“We have a challenge!” the band director bellowed, interrupting the freshman next to me and surprising him to the point that he nearly lost his balance. “Isabella Ontivero–second clarinet, tenth grade–has challenged Natasha Maxwell–first clarinet, twelfth grade–on the song ‘Sunrise, Sunset’. Natasha, if you decline, you lose by forfeit. Do you accept?”

We weren’t supposed to talk when this happened–there was a lot of formality to it–but the field became awash with murmuring. “I thought Natasha was the best… Why would somebody challenge her?”

“I accept,” Natasha said.

“The challenge will be held after school, then! Good luck, guys.”

~

After school came sooner than anyone expected and before we knew it, we were back at the band room, listening to the challenge.

“Please play the challenged piece,” our director instructed.

The song was sprinkled with tricky trills and tremolos, and we listened contentedly as each little note was played with precision. We all clapped politely when the girl finished, trailing off of a long-sustained note. The performer was skilled, I noted, though not remarkable.

“Second player, please play the challenged piece.”

By the first little sixteenth-note triplet, I believe, everyone could tell who was the more outstanding player. She payed attention to the written notations, but she always followed natural dynamics, rising in volume as she was rising in pitch, and falling in the same way. I felt each note trickle out of the bell of her instrument. Even though she was behind a door in the back of the class, hidden from our view, I could see her long, graceful fingers as they danced across the keys and holes.

When she reached that last, powerful chord, I felt the hot lines on my cheeks and realized in shock that I was crying. And I wasn’t the only one. In fact, by the end of her song, there was hardly a dry eye in the room.

The most shocking thing of all, though, were the next words that came out of the director’s mouth: “No need for the sight reading piece. You can come out now.”

The two girls left the room: Natasha stood, as always, tall and proud, her face stony, her eyes stormy, and her posture statuesque.

Isabella, I saw, was red-eyed and pink-faced. She sunk into her chair in the second tier while Natasha slid into hers, several seats away.

It wasn’t a contest. By the look on Natasha’s face, it wasn’t even a challenge. She had reduced poor Isabella to nothing but a spider.

–

If you couldn’t tell, or if you’ve never read the myth, that was the story of Athene and Arachne, redone in modern setting, and “reimagined” (though not darkly, like Abandon) in the viewpoint of a spectator.

I’m actually not too disappointed in that story, so I leave here a satisfied Sami, saying, Goodnight, chickedies!

All Polka, All the Time

…that is my neighborhood in a nutshell. Nonstop polka music. I live next to a park, and the locals are party animals. I guess I should have figured that out, what, seven years ago, when we moved here? Well, better late than never.

So, I think that since I spent most of today writing a story that I’ve been working on for a while, I should be exempt from Story a Day. However, since I’m making the rules for myself–because when you think about it, no one’s really going to punish me for not going through with it–I might as well try that “self-discipline” thing people were telling me about. I’m going to need that if I ever think I can be a drum major…

I’ve been working on-off with my drum major essay all day… I don’t know why I’m actually getting stressed about it. The worst thing that could happen would be that I don’t become a drum major and then–oh no—I have to march and play next season. I really have nothing at all to lose.

~

Okay, the essay is done. That took me, what, all day? Hm. That’s actually some high-quality writing.

You know what? I know it isn’t a story. But I did write some of a story today, and that’s all the assignment was. I don’t have to share with you every day. However, since I’m generous and don’t want you all–well, all one of you, anyway–to have nothing to read! So here it is: my essay for drum major tryouts.

–

The original purpose of a military drum major was to defend the drum and bugle corps in battle, because they were necessary for communication. While the [marching band] don’t necessarily battle any military adversary, the drum major still exists to lead the band and represent what it means to be a marching [band member].

The drum major should be someone who people want to follow. She should be trustworthy and reliable, someone who the band can depend on. She needs to have consistency, a trait that I find in myself. I can maintain a positive attitude and I am always enthusiastic about improving the band as a whole. I want the best possible performance and I won’t settle for anything less.

Although I don’t have as much musical experience as some other candidates, I’ve always been a quick study and I will put all of my energy and focus into improving myself so that I can help the band perform at our full potential. I know that we can be a really terrific band and I know that if I apply myself, I can help get us there.

The leader of the band has the broadest view of the show from the podium, and that means that she has a big responsibility to the band: she needs to quickly spot any discrepancies and correct them, before they become habitual. I have always been able to tell when something is off and pinpoint the problem. If something needs to be fixed, I can fix it, and I’m willing to work hard for the perfection of the group. I want the band and guard to shine and I know that we can.

I fancy myself a friendly and approachable person, and I can get along with anybody in color guard and band. I am confident that if people need help–whether it be in regard to marching or music or anything else–they will not be afraid to ask me. I realize that I might not always have the answer, but I think that I have gotten to know the group well enough by now that I can, if necessary, direct questions to someone who will be able to answer them, so that we never have to stop improving.

I believe that one of the most important parts of leading the band and color guard is inspiring confidence in the group, and I know that I have that ability. I always try to make the environment around me as comfortable for everyone as possible, so that no one is afraid of asking questions or making mistakes. I want the end result to be the best possible show with the most satisfied band, and there is no way to reach that goal if we don’t allow ourselves to come out with our mistakes and uncertainties so we can fix them.

I realize that leading isn’t all about making everyone happy; the drum majors should be the band’s harshest critics so that everything–right down to the littlest minutiae–will be perfect by time we are put before a judge. As much as I like to be nice, I know that I will not always be able to keep the group in its best condition without a little tough love. Naturally, some people will not be so accepting of that, but I will be resilient in my efforts to make the band better and better with every repetition.

I know that communication is everything, especially in something as specific as music and marching need to be. A lot of people in high school are not the best at communicators, especially when it comes down to speaking in front of a lot of people. However, I have become a very confident and effective communicator due to my experience in public speaking over the last year. I see the importance of getting out clear, accurate information to the huge group of people that the drum major has to address, and that is something that I excel at.

I have been passionate about this group since the minute I stepped onto the field for the first time at band camp last summer, surrounded by a colorful group of strangers in both guard and band. As I got to know everyone better, I found an indescribable family dynamic that I’d never felt with anyone before, and I knew that the band was something I belonged in. Joining band, I know, was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and I am honored to be a part of this group. Whether or not I am chosen as a drum major this year, or next year, or the year after, I will never lose faith in the band. I was never particularly gifted, musically, but I have always had the latent ability to lead, and I am confident that I can help bring this group to brand new heights.

–

I edited a few phrases in the first paragraph so that it wouldn’t say the name of my school, but other than that, this is exactly what I’m turning in. Wish me luck, chickedies!

One Hour to Write?

It’s an hour before I get picked up to go the concert and listen to a band that I’ve never even heard of before. I’m going to look them up on YouTube and see if I can find any of their music that I like…

Oh, wow. Their cover of “A Thousand Miles” is awesome! It’s all… well, it’s all ska–syncopated punk-rock, that is.

Okay, anyways. That leaves me with only an hour to write my story of today, and I can’t think of anything right now. Then again, I’m sitting somewhere that I don’t normally write from, so my mindset should be different, right? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

Yo necesito una histora para escribir por la “Maya de Historia una Dia”.

A ha ha, Spanish time over.

So, today, my sister and I went with some members of our school band to a leadership seminar, and the guy there told us a story. He said that when he was in calculus in high school, he had a really awful teacher who had the most dull voice, and he knew his field so well that he just got frustrated when people didn’t get it, so he wasn’t all that good at teaching.

He was in this class with a lot of his friends who were also in band and AP psychology with him, so they proposed a psychological experiment, which they got the whole class in on. The idea was that they would get the teacher to stop walking to one side of the class room.

The class had a chalkboard that ran the length of the front wall, and right in the middle hung the American flag. When he stood on one side of the flag, the students would look up attentively, take notes, sit up straight, and other behaviors of good learning habits.

When he walked to the other side of the flag, they wouldn’t start talking or anything, but they would sort of slouch, look around the classroom, rustle papers… stuff like that.

The day they knew that their experiment had succeeded was when, two weeks later, they were working on a very long problem, and he had already filled up one side of the chalkboard, and he still needed more space. Instead of crossing over to the other side of the flag, he leaned over on his tippy-toes and stretched his arm really far, so he could finish the problem.

That was their experiment. The leader of the workshop told us that they all got A’s in AP psych, but they all got C’s in calculus.

Hm. I could cop-out and just call that my story… I do have to eat soon, and there’s only about half an hour before I leave…

Okay, it looks like that’s all I’m doing tonight since I still have to get my purse all together for the concert and stuff… So, see y’all later, my chickedies!

Busy Weekend

I become less and less creative with my titles as the evening progresses. It is quarter to ten now and my title states exactly what I’m going to start talking about: how busy my weekend is going to be.

Tonight, I had a date, which was fun. I got a pulled-pork-on-a-bun sandwich, and a really big meringue cookie, which was delicious. We did a lot of walking, which was also fun. I learned how to play Minecraft at my boyfriend’s house.

Tomorrow, I have a leadership workshop for band, and I’m going to a ska concert tomorrow night. During the between time, I’m probably going to go Mother’s Day shopping with my sister and maybe some friends, and hopefully, I’ll get to take a nap and see a movie with my Best Friend. I have no idea when I’ll have time to write tomorrow’s Story A Day.

Sunday is Mother’s Day, and my sister and I are going to visit our friend’s mom–who has served as a mother for all of us band kids all year–and give her a present, and I’m probably going to present a speech that I wrote for her a while ago. I dunno, that’s going to be awkward, huh? Presenting a speech for an audience of one? Ack. That won’t be a party…

Anyway, after that, we’ll of course do whatever Mother’s Day thing we’re going to do with our own mother, and hopefully, I can go to some antique shops in the area and see try to find a typewriter, because they’re… cool.

At some point in all of this, I’ll have to write an essay for my drum major application, and hopefully read some more of The Princess Bride, which I will soon be doing a research report on. That’s going to be a party.

Well, I need today’s story for Story A Day May. I want to go to bed… It’s almost ten already…

–

The red plastic cup was light in my hand. It was empty, and had been empty for most of the night, after the first and only beer I drank at the party.

“It doesn’t taste good,” I admitted to my friends, shrugging.

“That’s not really the point,” said a girl with long black hair. I’d met her once or twice before, but I didn’t know her name. “You don’t drink beer because it’s yummy.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t drink anything unless it’s yummy,” I countered. I was getting a little bit sick of this party. No–I was getting a little bit sick of the beer, which I drank too fast and without any food. That’s why I was sick.

I sneaked away from my friends and into the kitchen, where I ate a bagel from the unfamiliar cupboard. I don’t know when I lost my cup, but it was missing from my hand, so I got a new one and filled it with tap water.

“Oh, so you’re one of those crazy kids who drinks water?”

I looked up from the sink and saw a girl with rust-colored hair and tiny Dixie cup.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Ditto.” She tossed her paper cup in favor of a plastic one, which she also filled with faucet water. “Hey, do you know who this party is for?” she asked.

“Not really… My friends dragged me along. I don’t actually know whose house this is, in fact,” I realized aloud.

“Nice. I know that the house belongs to a guy named Brett, or maybe his parents… I think I met him in Chem one time? He brought a Frappucino to his friend or something like that. That’s about all I know about him.”

“That’s more than I can say,” I reminded her. She laughed.

We talked like this for the rest of the night, conversing about everything from school to home life to why we weren’t drinking.

“As a person who has grown up with a chronic liver disease, I really frown upon people who mistreat their perfectly functional livers at stupid parties like this. And you, Phil?” she asked.

My name isn’t Phil, but she decided that she would call me that, and I would call her Rose, because it wasn’t likely that we’d ever meet again. After all, I was merely visiting friends in the area, while she went to school nearby. We thought it would be funnier if we didn’t know each other’s names.

“I don’t like beer,” I said. “It tastes bad and smells bad and from what I understand, it isn’t all that much fun to be drunk.”

“So I’ve heard…”

We kept talking until the party ended, and I never saw her again after that party, but I’m happy to have met Rose, because she made me feel less alone–if I could connect with a total stranger at a party, surrounded by people whom I’d never met before, I was probably pretty well off.