Did I last post on here in November? That's a shame, because senior year is so memorable and I'm letting all the important things be forgotten because I'm too busy to write them down.
It has been eighty years since I last sat down to write. I miss it. Maybe I'll continue the story about Sparrow and Cas, but if I really had my way, I'd go back and edit the first few parts - change the plot around a little, and make Sparrow less of a victim and Cas more shy.
You know how the text on this blog used to always be purple? I can't seem to do that anymore. I also have problems using the font I want to, since it's not technically available on Blogger.
I'm just going to list some facts that are relevant to life right now. I mean, so much has changed since November.
- I'm officially attending the University of Toronto next year, which I'm really excited about!
- I've been thinking of starting a youtube channel about book reviews. Maybe I'll figure it out when summer comes.
- Remember my zombie novel? I'm trying to finish the first draft (which I'm still working on) by January. Heh, we'll see how that goes.
- I'm seriously not okay with this font. It feels so unfamiliar.
- I've begun writing book reviews and posting them on my tumblr because I want to reach that level where publishers just send me free books to review. That would be super cool.
- There's this band called Twenty One Pilots and I love them so much that it's almost a problem.
- I kinda wanna start collecting vinyls.
So that's life, I guess. I'll keep writing soon - I promise.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Monday, February 9, 2015
anatomy
Hands:
I
am a creator.
My
hands are blades that carve words into wood,
brushes
that splatter color on snow.
I
am a healer.
My
hands are solid, and they are warm, and they are the light
To
take hold of when only darkness fills your grasp,
The
glue that wants to hold together the cracks in your skin.
But
in the seat next to you
They
become alien things and I can't remember
If
I've ever had hands before,
Or
if they go in my pockets or in my lap or...
Eyes:
Windows
to the soul?
Most
seem to want their soul
To
look shuttered, cold. Masked. Hidden.
No
trespassing, stay out.
My
mother always taught me
To
look people in the eye, to find
What
dwells behind. But you.
Your
eyes are so sharp that my gaze glances off.
Too
bright to be looked at directly.
Too
real to fall on a girl who is immaterial.
Too
deep to fall into with any hope of survival.
What
if I want to drown?
Heart:
Excuse
you. How dare you!
That
thing is labeled.
I
wrote my name across it in glitter glue.
And
that scar down the side?
That
happened in high school.
What
makes you think you can just,
I
don't know, swipe
it?
Without
my permission?
And
no,
The
overzealous thrumming it performs whenever you're around
Does
not count as permission.
Even
if I were to give it to you,
Why
should I subject you
To
my awful gift-wrapping skills?
Saturday, November 1, 2014
moving on (november 1)
you
don't even seem sorry as
my
eyes dissolve into two brown napkins,
the
paper rough against my swollen eyelids.
you
watch me, eyes earnest and
whoever
said brown eyes aren't gorgeous was a liar,
because
somehow you have never looked so handsome.
your
hands twist, untwist,
searching
for something to hold onto.
i
keep mine clasped between my knees.
they can no longer be that something.
i tell you everything,
i tell you everything,
my
speech interrupted
by
sporadic pauses for tears and extended, sobby silences.
i
will never forget how much it hurts to tell you
that
i will never forget how much you mean(t) to me.
your
arms around me one last time,
and
i guess I'll be seeing you around,
and
your face is blurry through a veil of tears, and
i
turn away.
they
start spilling down my cheeks like
the
rain against the cafe windows.
there's
this little old lady and she says,
“oh,
you're leaving? can i have your table?”
and
I brush past her in disgust,
which
is not deeply felt because the
sadness
is taking up all the space.
i
sob all the way back to the car.
i
wonder if you watched me leave,
your
face in the window,
or
if you stared down at your hands,
marveling
at what they had taken apart.
you
told me you would have done
anything
to change things,
anything
to make it right.
i
would consider it if i learned
that
you did not give the little old lady our table.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
aardvark poetry
I've been at summer writing camp these past two weeks. One day, my poetry class was trying to write a rondelet, which is a french form poem. One guy came up with our first line: the aardvarks say. And here is the poem we wrote.
The aardvarks say
Your love is smallpox for the tribes.
The aardvarks say
Send the spaniards out to the quay
Carrying whips and sneering knives
To kill the men and steal their brides
The aardvarks say.
From here, we went a little crazy with the aardvark themes, and now there's this running aardvark joke in my class. I am really going to miss this camp.
Here's a poem another group in my class wrote. It had to be written to a certain meter pattern:
The
rain, it falls upon aardvarks
so
deep with dark of night. I watch
them
run in fear through the trees. Aardvarks
Saturday, June 21, 2014
two deaths and a reunion
(tfois fanfic)
It's gotten to the point where he can't remember much. But he can see Hazel Grace. He doesn't know if she's a dream. A memory. A hallucination.
There she is, slouched in her chair in the literal heart of Jesus - fiddling with the cannula that's keeping her alive. She looks radiant, despite everything. Despite the drugs and the exhaustion and the lack of air. Her eyes are bright as she catches his glance, and her lips curve up into the tiniest smile. She is so beautiful.
There she is as she sits next to him on that lonely swingset, her face solemn and lit by the light of the cloudy sky. Staring down at her lap, she's telling him to stay away, but even as the words leave her mouth, he can feel the magnetic pull between their hearts, and he knows that promising to stay away is a promise he can't make.
There she is when he's dying at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, only a husk of the former great Augustus. Now he is only Gus. The scared little boy with his shirt drenched in vomit. But Hazel is there, and she is only Hazel. She has never been anyone else but herself - unashamedly so. She is the Hazel who wears t-shirts with obscure Magritte references and gets sad about pathetic swing sets and is willing to drive out to recite poetry to him when he's losing himself. He may have tried to be many things, but she has only ever been Hazel, and she is more than enough.
When death finally comes to Augustus, there is one thought - one thought directed at whatever capital S Something is waiting for him.
Give her more time.
She can't breathe.
She hasn't been able to for a while now, but this is different. This isn't like before.
She has always been drowning. Always struggling for air past the liquid that insisted on filling and refilling her tired lungs. She has always felt the weight of an ocean inside her, trying to drag her down into its unknown depths.
But there is no water now.
Now, there is fire.
It licks at her chest and the smoke rises to clog her throat, to turn her screams of pain into muffled, bloody coughs. It burns unreachable places of her. For the first time in her life, she wishes that there was water enough in her lungs to make it stop.
And then it does.
There is light.
Then there is air in her lungs. Sweet, pure, cold, and real - painless. She gulps it in like it's water and she's been dying in a desert. That's what it feels like - like water soothing her cracked, dry, burned-out lungs. She finds herself on her feet and the air keeps filling her and she feels no exhaustion. It's like flying or falling, or like swallowing pure goodness.
She takes a few steps forward and then breaks into a run. She hasn't run since she was thirteen - since before the diagnosis. And now she's racing like her feet have wings. When she stops, she doesn't have to bend over to catch her breath or to still her pounding heart. She doesn't collapse. She just stands there surrounded by whiteness as tears fall down her cheeks and as her lungs don't fail her. She feels reborn. The new and improved -
"Took you long enough, Hazel Grace."
Now her breath catches. She looks up and swipes away her tears, but they only continue to gush as she considers the figure before her. Someone radiant and tall, wearing a crooked smile and tousled hair.
"Augustus," she gasps, and then his arms are around her. She leans her face against his powerful chest and cries. He's laughing, but when she looks up at his face - God, she's missed his face so much - she can see that he's crying, too. She raises a hand and places is it on his cheek. His skin is soft and his tears wet her fingers and she can't get past the fact that he's here, right in front of her. "You're real?"
"I'm real," he tells her.
"This is heaven?"
He grins. "If ever there were a literal heart of Jesus, this would be it."
She laughs. And then she puts a hand on her chest, so overwhelmed with joy that she almost feels lightheaded. "Gus, I can breathe. I can breathe. Look at this!" She steps away from him to spin in circles, her laughter filling the air. Just as she's about to fall over, Gus catches her, and as she's laughing in his arms he pulls up his pantleg. "Check this out, Hazel Grace." His leg is whole.
She can't stop staring at his face. The Augustus she missed, the Augustus who left her behind - she can't believe he's here, real and warm against her skin, and without thinking she stretches up on her toes and kisses him. She doesn't have to stop and gasp for breath.
When she breaks away, he's smiling, and he relinquishes his hold on her to drape an arm across her shoulder. "There are some people you need to meet, Hazel Grace." He looks forward, into the indeterminable whiteness, but then his eyes meet hers, and he smiles. "Okay?"
Smiling back, she takes his hand and holds it to her chest, gazing at his fingers. Nails, skin, muscle and bone, all real and soft and holding her. She says, "Okay."
And they step forward together into an eternity that, this time, is real.
It's gotten to the point where he can't remember much. But he can see Hazel Grace. He doesn't know if she's a dream. A memory. A hallucination.
There she is, slouched in her chair in the literal heart of Jesus - fiddling with the cannula that's keeping her alive. She looks radiant, despite everything. Despite the drugs and the exhaustion and the lack of air. Her eyes are bright as she catches his glance, and her lips curve up into the tiniest smile. She is so beautiful.
There she is as she sits next to him on that lonely swingset, her face solemn and lit by the light of the cloudy sky. Staring down at her lap, she's telling him to stay away, but even as the words leave her mouth, he can feel the magnetic pull between their hearts, and he knows that promising to stay away is a promise he can't make.
There she is when he's dying at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, only a husk of the former great Augustus. Now he is only Gus. The scared little boy with his shirt drenched in vomit. But Hazel is there, and she is only Hazel. She has never been anyone else but herself - unashamedly so. She is the Hazel who wears t-shirts with obscure Magritte references and gets sad about pathetic swing sets and is willing to drive out to recite poetry to him when he's losing himself. He may have tried to be many things, but she has only ever been Hazel, and she is more than enough.
When death finally comes to Augustus, there is one thought - one thought directed at whatever capital S Something is waiting for him.
Give her more time.
She can't breathe.
She hasn't been able to for a while now, but this is different. This isn't like before.
She has always been drowning. Always struggling for air past the liquid that insisted on filling and refilling her tired lungs. She has always felt the weight of an ocean inside her, trying to drag her down into its unknown depths.
But there is no water now.
Now, there is fire.
It licks at her chest and the smoke rises to clog her throat, to turn her screams of pain into muffled, bloody coughs. It burns unreachable places of her. For the first time in her life, she wishes that there was water enough in her lungs to make it stop.
And then it does.
There is light.
Then there is air in her lungs. Sweet, pure, cold, and real - painless. She gulps it in like it's water and she's been dying in a desert. That's what it feels like - like water soothing her cracked, dry, burned-out lungs. She finds herself on her feet and the air keeps filling her and she feels no exhaustion. It's like flying or falling, or like swallowing pure goodness.
She takes a few steps forward and then breaks into a run. She hasn't run since she was thirteen - since before the diagnosis. And now she's racing like her feet have wings. When she stops, she doesn't have to bend over to catch her breath or to still her pounding heart. She doesn't collapse. She just stands there surrounded by whiteness as tears fall down her cheeks and as her lungs don't fail her. She feels reborn. The new and improved -
"Took you long enough, Hazel Grace."
Now her breath catches. She looks up and swipes away her tears, but they only continue to gush as she considers the figure before her. Someone radiant and tall, wearing a crooked smile and tousled hair.
"Augustus," she gasps, and then his arms are around her. She leans her face against his powerful chest and cries. He's laughing, but when she looks up at his face - God, she's missed his face so much - she can see that he's crying, too. She raises a hand and places is it on his cheek. His skin is soft and his tears wet her fingers and she can't get past the fact that he's here, right in front of her. "You're real?"
"I'm real," he tells her.
"This is heaven?"
He grins. "If ever there were a literal heart of Jesus, this would be it."
She laughs. And then she puts a hand on her chest, so overwhelmed with joy that she almost feels lightheaded. "Gus, I can breathe. I can breathe. Look at this!" She steps away from him to spin in circles, her laughter filling the air. Just as she's about to fall over, Gus catches her, and as she's laughing in his arms he pulls up his pantleg. "Check this out, Hazel Grace." His leg is whole.
She can't stop staring at his face. The Augustus she missed, the Augustus who left her behind - she can't believe he's here, real and warm against her skin, and without thinking she stretches up on her toes and kisses him. She doesn't have to stop and gasp for breath.
When she breaks away, he's smiling, and he relinquishes his hold on her to drape an arm across her shoulder. "There are some people you need to meet, Hazel Grace." He looks forward, into the indeterminable whiteness, but then his eyes meet hers, and he smiles. "Okay?"
Smiling back, she takes his hand and holds it to her chest, gazing at his fingers. Nails, skin, muscle and bone, all real and soft and holding her. She says, "Okay."
And they step forward together into an eternity that, this time, is real.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Improbable Goings-On in the Burgess Stop n' Save, part 8
- Sparrow -
Cas had to sit across from me, as if he wanted me to stare at him all evening. (Okay, so maybe I was the one who secured this seat first. But still.) He even took my prized mug. What a jerk. What a perfect jerk.
My mom's asking all the usual questions. "So you work at the grocery store?"
Cas nods and works on swallowing a mouthful of stuffing. "Yeah, I started when I was fifteen."
"And you like it?"
"Yes. A lot, actually." He takes a sip of milk and his eyes stray to mine. When he puts his cup down, he has a milk mustache. I shake my head with a smile.
"Do you live nearby?"
He tilts his head to either side, as if considering this. "Relatively. Over in Burgess."
"I bet your family's nice."
He nods. "Yeah, they are. There's kind of a lot of us, though." He takes a bite of potato before he continues. "I'm the oldest. Then there's my sister - Ari. She's thirteen. And my brother Ben is eight. Plus my mom and dad. So family vacations are a blast."
I shove my stuffing around my plate with my fork, then stab a small chunk of bread.
"Do you know where your going to school?" Wow, didn't see that one coming. That's like the staple adult question nowadays.
"Not yet, but my top school is U of T." I perk up at that. The University of Toronto is one of my top schools as well. I want to major in Music Performance - Violin, specifically. Maybe I'll become a music teacher someday. But I also want to write. And I want to paint. I really have no idea where I'm going in life.
Neither does Cas, apparently - he tells my mom he doesn't know what major he wants to pursue. "Confused young adults unite," I pipe in, and he grins at me, saying, "Let's start a club. We'll meet in the grocery store and strum banjos and pursue world peace." I tell him I'll contribute my violin, and then we're both laughing and before I know it we're clearing away the plates.
I'm sticking some in the dishwasher when my mom's like, "Cas, don't you have to be getting home?" I do not like that idea. He should stay for a while. Possibly forever.
Cas glances at his watch. I hadn't noticed before that he was wearing one. "Uh, I should probably call my mom and let her know where I am," he laughs. "I kind of forgot to do that. Excuse me." He disappears into the living room. I turn back to my dishes, knowing what's coming.
Mom pops up at my side and intones immediately, "Sparrow, he's gorgeous."
Some kind of strangled, embarrassed noise comes from me as I hide my face. "Stop it!" I squeal. I can feel my face flaming. "I know!"
Her signature laugh, loud and smooth, fills the kitchen, and she bumps me lightly aside. "Go show him around. I'll take over the dishes." I look at her, and she gives me a glance and a wink before she turns to the dishes that need to be done.
When I get to the living room, the floor transitioning from hardwood to carpet, Cas is just getting off the phone. "Hey," he smiles, slipping it into his pocket.
"What's happening?" I ask.
"She just wants me stay safe. Basically. I'm sure I'll be fine to drive home in the dark." We both glance at the window - light's fading from the sky, but the snow is ever bright.
I look back at him. He looks back at me.
"Wanna... see my room?" I ask suddenly.
His gaze moves to the stairs, then back at me. And he smiles. "Sure."
- Cas -
The first thing I say is "The walls are purple. I'm not surprised."
She laughs and socks me lightly in the shoulder. I stands in the doorway, looking around reverently, even somewhat afraid I'll break something if I take a step forward.
Sparrow plunks down on the bed, which is near a window that looks out onto the driveway. It's framed by white Christmas lights - in fact, they line the whole room, situated where the ceiling meets the wall. Why do cute girls always have Christmas lights in their rooms? There are posters of things. Harry Potter, Divergent, Homestuck - whatever that is. And surrounding the larger posters are all these smaller pictures - drawings, photographs, and quotes from things. It's like a massive collage taking up one whole side of her room.
She ends up next to me somehow. "So what's the verdict?" she asks, glancing at me with a smile. The fairy lights reflect in her eyes, and they seem darker than ever.
"It's very... you," I reply. I approach the collage and peer at a photo of Sparrow with a group of friends. They're all grinning - looking spiffy in business attire and wearing colored lanyards around their necks.
"Those are my Model UN friends," Sparrow explains. "I was Denmark."
My finger touches the photo-Sparrow. "Your lanyard is purple."
"I'm sorry! I really freaking like purple!"
The next thing in the collage is a quote - "Let's focus on what's important in life: friends, waffles, work." Can't deny that. Another quote: "Stay gold, Ponyboy." There are many quotes, all situated on paper of different colors and shapes and sizes. My eyes land on a few photos in a cluster - a girl in a field wearing a flower crown, lit from behind by a setting sun; two guys laughing together in black and white; a dog whose face takes up the whole frame. "Did you take these?" I ask.
She nods. "I like photography." She says it in a sort of exhalation, like it's no big deal. "Sometimes I take photoshoots with my friends."
"Is there any art form you're not into?" I laugh. I have never been much of an artist myself.
"Dancing. I can't dance."
"You're in luck." In a swift motion, I pull her close to me - my hand is on her waist, and the other clasps her left hand. "I took ballroom dance when I was fourteen."
Resting her other hand lightly on my shoulder, she laughs. "What fourteen-year-old boy takes ballroom dance -"
But I'm already whisking her around the room, which is surprisingly spacious anyways. Her hand tightens around mine, and she laughs again as she stumbles on my feet. She won't meet my eyes - her cheeks are pink. "Just follow my feet," I instruct her gently. We twirl around in the same circuit a few times before she starts to get it, and then we move easily around the room.
"You're pretty good at this," I tell her, slowing us down a little. Finally, her eyes meet mine, and she gives a small shrug. "I love listening to waltz music."
I have a brief vision of her dancing around her room on her own, and it makes me smile. She smiles back, then looks down, her lashes veiling her eyes. For a moment, I let go of her hand, using it to move a strand of blonde hair off her cheek. She freezes.
My phone rings, sharp and loud. I dig into my pocket, and Sparrow takes a step back from me, her hands leaving mine. I can already feel the absence of her warmth. My mom's picture is flashing on the screen as the phone vibrates wildly in my hand. I've always thought the whole vibrating-noise-flashing thing that cell phones do is slightly overwhelming. Exasperated, I answer the call.
"Hello?"
"Caspian, are you still at dinner?"
My eyes stray to Sparrow. She's admiring her collage silently, hands clasped. "Yes?"
"Can you come home? I know I told you you could stay a while, but your dad isn't home yet and Ben is screaming that he wants you to build Legos with him." She pauses, and in the background I hear my little brother yelling something unintelligible. "Can you make it?"
"Of course," I reply. "Where's Ari?"
"Ben doesn't want to play with her."
I look around Sparrow's room, feeling disappointed. "Okay. Be right there."
My mom says goodbye, and I hang up the phone. Sometimes I am the only one who can appease my little brother. Sparrow's looking at me expectantly, her elaborate collage forgotten.
"My mom wants me to come home," I say in disappointment.
Her face falls a bit. "Oh." She hesitates, her eyes urgent. "Okay. Well... thanks so much for coming." She steps forward and clasps her arms around my torso, her face hidden in my chest. I drape my arms around her shoulders. She's so tiny.
Eventually she takes a step back and we walk down the stairs. Sparrow's mom comes around to the bottom and smiles at us as we descend. "You leaving, Cas?"
"Yeah," I say. Once I'm at the bottom I give her a light hug. "Thanks for dinner. And for having me."
"Come back whenever you want," she tells me. "Our doors are open." I laugh a little and look over at Sparrow, who's holding up my coat with a grin.
I take it from her and slide my arms in, tucking it in around me, preparing to leave the cozy little foyer. "Okay," I begin, unsure of what else to say. "Goodbye. Thank you."
And now I'm on the other side of the door and walking down the snowy steps, and Sparrow's waving at me, and I smile and wave back. Then it's closed and I'm alone, getting in my car and heading down the snowy roads toward home.
Cas had to sit across from me, as if he wanted me to stare at him all evening. (Okay, so maybe I was the one who secured this seat first. But still.) He even took my prized mug. What a jerk. What a perfect jerk.
My mom's asking all the usual questions. "So you work at the grocery store?"
Cas nods and works on swallowing a mouthful of stuffing. "Yeah, I started when I was fifteen."
"And you like it?"
"Yes. A lot, actually." He takes a sip of milk and his eyes stray to mine. When he puts his cup down, he has a milk mustache. I shake my head with a smile.
"Do you live nearby?"
He tilts his head to either side, as if considering this. "Relatively. Over in Burgess."
"I bet your family's nice."
He nods. "Yeah, they are. There's kind of a lot of us, though." He takes a bite of potato before he continues. "I'm the oldest. Then there's my sister - Ari. She's thirteen. And my brother Ben is eight. Plus my mom and dad. So family vacations are a blast."
I shove my stuffing around my plate with my fork, then stab a small chunk of bread.
"Do you know where your going to school?" Wow, didn't see that one coming. That's like the staple adult question nowadays.
"Not yet, but my top school is U of T." I perk up at that. The University of Toronto is one of my top schools as well. I want to major in Music Performance - Violin, specifically. Maybe I'll become a music teacher someday. But I also want to write. And I want to paint. I really have no idea where I'm going in life.
Neither does Cas, apparently - he tells my mom he doesn't know what major he wants to pursue. "Confused young adults unite," I pipe in, and he grins at me, saying, "Let's start a club. We'll meet in the grocery store and strum banjos and pursue world peace." I tell him I'll contribute my violin, and then we're both laughing and before I know it we're clearing away the plates.
I'm sticking some in the dishwasher when my mom's like, "Cas, don't you have to be getting home?" I do not like that idea. He should stay for a while. Possibly forever.
Cas glances at his watch. I hadn't noticed before that he was wearing one. "Uh, I should probably call my mom and let her know where I am," he laughs. "I kind of forgot to do that. Excuse me." He disappears into the living room. I turn back to my dishes, knowing what's coming.
Mom pops up at my side and intones immediately, "Sparrow, he's gorgeous."
Some kind of strangled, embarrassed noise comes from me as I hide my face. "Stop it!" I squeal. I can feel my face flaming. "I know!"
Her signature laugh, loud and smooth, fills the kitchen, and she bumps me lightly aside. "Go show him around. I'll take over the dishes." I look at her, and she gives me a glance and a wink before she turns to the dishes that need to be done.
When I get to the living room, the floor transitioning from hardwood to carpet, Cas is just getting off the phone. "Hey," he smiles, slipping it into his pocket.
"What's happening?" I ask.
"She just wants me stay safe. Basically. I'm sure I'll be fine to drive home in the dark." We both glance at the window - light's fading from the sky, but the snow is ever bright.
I look back at him. He looks back at me.
"Wanna... see my room?" I ask suddenly.
His gaze moves to the stairs, then back at me. And he smiles. "Sure."
- Cas -
The first thing I say is "The walls are purple. I'm not surprised."
She laughs and socks me lightly in the shoulder. I stands in the doorway, looking around reverently, even somewhat afraid I'll break something if I take a step forward.
Sparrow plunks down on the bed, which is near a window that looks out onto the driveway. It's framed by white Christmas lights - in fact, they line the whole room, situated where the ceiling meets the wall. Why do cute girls always have Christmas lights in their rooms? There are posters of things. Harry Potter, Divergent, Homestuck - whatever that is. And surrounding the larger posters are all these smaller pictures - drawings, photographs, and quotes from things. It's like a massive collage taking up one whole side of her room.
She ends up next to me somehow. "So what's the verdict?" she asks, glancing at me with a smile. The fairy lights reflect in her eyes, and they seem darker than ever.
"It's very... you," I reply. I approach the collage and peer at a photo of Sparrow with a group of friends. They're all grinning - looking spiffy in business attire and wearing colored lanyards around their necks.
"Those are my Model UN friends," Sparrow explains. "I was Denmark."
My finger touches the photo-Sparrow. "Your lanyard is purple."
"I'm sorry! I really freaking like purple!"
The next thing in the collage is a quote - "Let's focus on what's important in life: friends, waffles, work." Can't deny that. Another quote: "Stay gold, Ponyboy." There are many quotes, all situated on paper of different colors and shapes and sizes. My eyes land on a few photos in a cluster - a girl in a field wearing a flower crown, lit from behind by a setting sun; two guys laughing together in black and white; a dog whose face takes up the whole frame. "Did you take these?" I ask.
She nods. "I like photography." She says it in a sort of exhalation, like it's no big deal. "Sometimes I take photoshoots with my friends."
"Is there any art form you're not into?" I laugh. I have never been much of an artist myself.
"Dancing. I can't dance."
"You're in luck." In a swift motion, I pull her close to me - my hand is on her waist, and the other clasps her left hand. "I took ballroom dance when I was fourteen."
Resting her other hand lightly on my shoulder, she laughs. "What fourteen-year-old boy takes ballroom dance -"
But I'm already whisking her around the room, which is surprisingly spacious anyways. Her hand tightens around mine, and she laughs again as she stumbles on my feet. She won't meet my eyes - her cheeks are pink. "Just follow my feet," I instruct her gently. We twirl around in the same circuit a few times before she starts to get it, and then we move easily around the room.
"You're pretty good at this," I tell her, slowing us down a little. Finally, her eyes meet mine, and she gives a small shrug. "I love listening to waltz music."
I have a brief vision of her dancing around her room on her own, and it makes me smile. She smiles back, then looks down, her lashes veiling her eyes. For a moment, I let go of her hand, using it to move a strand of blonde hair off her cheek. She freezes.
My phone rings, sharp and loud. I dig into my pocket, and Sparrow takes a step back from me, her hands leaving mine. I can already feel the absence of her warmth. My mom's picture is flashing on the screen as the phone vibrates wildly in my hand. I've always thought the whole vibrating-noise-flashing thing that cell phones do is slightly overwhelming. Exasperated, I answer the call.
"Hello?"
"Caspian, are you still at dinner?"
My eyes stray to Sparrow. She's admiring her collage silently, hands clasped. "Yes?"
"Can you come home? I know I told you you could stay a while, but your dad isn't home yet and Ben is screaming that he wants you to build Legos with him." She pauses, and in the background I hear my little brother yelling something unintelligible. "Can you make it?"
"Of course," I reply. "Where's Ari?"
"Ben doesn't want to play with her."
I look around Sparrow's room, feeling disappointed. "Okay. Be right there."
My mom says goodbye, and I hang up the phone. Sometimes I am the only one who can appease my little brother. Sparrow's looking at me expectantly, her elaborate collage forgotten.
"My mom wants me to come home," I say in disappointment.
Her face falls a bit. "Oh." She hesitates, her eyes urgent. "Okay. Well... thanks so much for coming." She steps forward and clasps her arms around my torso, her face hidden in my chest. I drape my arms around her shoulders. She's so tiny.
Eventually she takes a step back and we walk down the stairs. Sparrow's mom comes around to the bottom and smiles at us as we descend. "You leaving, Cas?"
"Yeah," I say. Once I'm at the bottom I give her a light hug. "Thanks for dinner. And for having me."
"Come back whenever you want," she tells me. "Our doors are open." I laugh a little and look over at Sparrow, who's holding up my coat with a grin.
I take it from her and slide my arms in, tucking it in around me, preparing to leave the cozy little foyer. "Okay," I begin, unsure of what else to say. "Goodbye. Thank you."
And now I'm on the other side of the door and walking down the snowy steps, and Sparrow's waving at me, and I smile and wave back. Then it's closed and I'm alone, getting in my car and heading down the snowy roads toward home.
- Sparrow -
I forgot to thank him for teaching me how to dance.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Improbable Goings-On in the Burgess Stop n' Save, part 7
- Cas -
The warmth in the house is flawless. I breathe a sigh of relief and unzip my coat, nearly bumping into a side table next to the door. Directly ahead is a white staircase, and next to it is a small hallway lined with photos, leading to a lighted room - the kitchen. Sparrow's mom has already disappeared. I look over at Sparrow, who's hanging her coat on a rack in the nearby living room. She smiles at me and motions to take my coat, and I pass it to her.
I feel like if I had seen this house in photos, or if I had just been here one day, I would have known that it was the house Sparrow lived in. A number of soft-looking scarves are hanging on the coat rack, all of them some shade of purple. The living room has dark curtains that are thrown open to allow the whitish light of winter. In the center of the room is a black podium stacked with thin books, and on the ground, a white violin rests in its case. Have you ever noticed how certain people have these distinct smells? This house is filled with a Sparrow-smell.
Sparrow gazes around the room and then tells me, "When we moved here, I took charge of decorating this room." I can tell. She motions across the way, to a charmingly cluttered room painted light blue. "...and my mom took that one." There looks to be a sewing machine in there, and scattered samples of fabric piled up in order by color. The desk holds a typewriter and chaotically piled papers. Sparrow's mom seems to like piles.
Her voice floats in from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"
Sparrow heads toward the hallway. "Wait," I stop her. "I didn't realize I was staying for dinner."
Her eyebrows rise up with the corners of her mouth. "Aren't you hungry?"
"Yeah, but... I don't want to intrude."
She gives a short burst of laughter. "Oh my God, you dork!" She touches her hand to her forehead for a moment, grinning, then looks up at me. "Stop being so darn polite. You're not intruding at all. We're glad to have you. Really."
The kitchen is lit in warm yellow light, and Sparrow's mom is setting a large bowl out on the table. "Is there anything I can help with?" I ask, eliciting an eye-roll and a smile from Sparrow as she's pulling dishes out of the cabinet.
Her mom turns to me, sliding a few placemats into my arms. "Just put these down, dear," she says, already bustling away to stir a steaming pot on the stove. I unfold the placemats and flatten them out on the round wooden table. Behind it, a bay window with the blinds pulled looks out on the snow-laden backyard. There are four seats at the table, but only three place settings. I lay them out so that the empty seat doesn't feel so conspicuous, wondering who's missing.
"So how do you kids know each other?" Sparrow's mom asks. I head over to take three plates out of her hands before going back to the table, hiding my smile. "I ran into Cas at the grocery store," Sparrow says. I can't see her expression because she's turned away to grab silverware out of a drawer. "And we just... became friends." She shuts the drawer and turns back around. Her eyes are on the silverware in her fists, but then they stray up to meet mine. We both smile.
"What exactly resulted in Cas driving you home today?" Sparrow's mom has pale eyes and long, dark hair - the inverse of Sparrow. Her skin is even a tad darker. When she raises her face to look at me, I can see the similarities - they both have straight noses and nearly identical profiles. But Sparrow's face is petite where her mom's is long.
"I walked to the Stop n' Save from school," Sparrow explains. Her mom seems to begin to protest, but Sparrow cuts her off. "I couldn't get a hold of you, and no one at school was willing to drive me anywhere, so I went out and just started walking and then I saw the Stop n' Save so I stopped there to get warm and Cas was there and he took care of me. And drove me here. So I'm okay and we're all good." She exhales all of this, and I feel like she has done this sort of let-me-explain-before-you-murder-me type of convincing before. She stops and looks at her mom tentatively, unaware of what her reaction will be. But her mom has turned to me fixes me with a gaze that I can't read.
She comes over and puts both hands on my shoulders. My eyes flick to Sparrow's as she looks on in amusement, but then back to her mom's. I find honesty there. And she tells me, "Thank you for driving my daughter home." Then she hugs me. I wrap my arms around her as softly as I can, looking at Sparrow again. She's just smiling. "Uh, you're welcome," I say, then add, "It was... no trouble at all." Sparrow's mom takes a step back, but before she turns away she tells me, "You're a good kid, Cas."
Sparrow gives me a shrug, and I go to help her remove cups from the cabinet. Since I'm taller, I pull them out and pass them to her, and she picks them up, two in each hand. "Aww, look at this!" she's saying as I close the cabinet. Having put down the others, she's gazing at a mug that's sloppily painted pink and blue and white, with raised flowers all over it and a chipped handle. Its polished glaze shines in the light. Sparrow holds it out to me, her expression radiant. "I made this when I was, like, ten. Isn't it lovely?"
I take it from her and examine it for a moment. "Yes, lovely is definitely a word I would use to describe this mug." I laugh at the mock angry expression that comes over her face before I go to set out the rest of the mugs. Sparrow's mom brushes past me to put a pot down in the center of the table, and Sparrow drops the silverware on either side of each plate.
"Is that everything?" Sparrow asks, sitting down across from me and smoothing her skirt. Her mom pulls off her oven mitts and dusts off her hands. "I believe so," she singsongs, taking the chair next to me.
The warmth in the house is flawless. I breathe a sigh of relief and unzip my coat, nearly bumping into a side table next to the door. Directly ahead is a white staircase, and next to it is a small hallway lined with photos, leading to a lighted room - the kitchen. Sparrow's mom has already disappeared. I look over at Sparrow, who's hanging her coat on a rack in the nearby living room. She smiles at me and motions to take my coat, and I pass it to her.
I feel like if I had seen this house in photos, or if I had just been here one day, I would have known that it was the house Sparrow lived in. A number of soft-looking scarves are hanging on the coat rack, all of them some shade of purple. The living room has dark curtains that are thrown open to allow the whitish light of winter. In the center of the room is a black podium stacked with thin books, and on the ground, a white violin rests in its case. Have you ever noticed how certain people have these distinct smells? This house is filled with a Sparrow-smell.
Sparrow gazes around the room and then tells me, "When we moved here, I took charge of decorating this room." I can tell. She motions across the way, to a charmingly cluttered room painted light blue. "...and my mom took that one." There looks to be a sewing machine in there, and scattered samples of fabric piled up in order by color. The desk holds a typewriter and chaotically piled papers. Sparrow's mom seems to like piles.
Her voice floats in from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"
Sparrow heads toward the hallway. "Wait," I stop her. "I didn't realize I was staying for dinner."
Her eyebrows rise up with the corners of her mouth. "Aren't you hungry?"
"Yeah, but... I don't want to intrude."
She gives a short burst of laughter. "Oh my God, you dork!" She touches her hand to her forehead for a moment, grinning, then looks up at me. "Stop being so darn polite. You're not intruding at all. We're glad to have you. Really."
The kitchen is lit in warm yellow light, and Sparrow's mom is setting a large bowl out on the table. "Is there anything I can help with?" I ask, eliciting an eye-roll and a smile from Sparrow as she's pulling dishes out of the cabinet.
Her mom turns to me, sliding a few placemats into my arms. "Just put these down, dear," she says, already bustling away to stir a steaming pot on the stove. I unfold the placemats and flatten them out on the round wooden table. Behind it, a bay window with the blinds pulled looks out on the snow-laden backyard. There are four seats at the table, but only three place settings. I lay them out so that the empty seat doesn't feel so conspicuous, wondering who's missing.
"So how do you kids know each other?" Sparrow's mom asks. I head over to take three plates out of her hands before going back to the table, hiding my smile. "I ran into Cas at the grocery store," Sparrow says. I can't see her expression because she's turned away to grab silverware out of a drawer. "And we just... became friends." She shuts the drawer and turns back around. Her eyes are on the silverware in her fists, but then they stray up to meet mine. We both smile.
"What exactly resulted in Cas driving you home today?" Sparrow's mom has pale eyes and long, dark hair - the inverse of Sparrow. Her skin is even a tad darker. When she raises her face to look at me, I can see the similarities - they both have straight noses and nearly identical profiles. But Sparrow's face is petite where her mom's is long.
"I walked to the Stop n' Save from school," Sparrow explains. Her mom seems to begin to protest, but Sparrow cuts her off. "I couldn't get a hold of you, and no one at school was willing to drive me anywhere, so I went out and just started walking and then I saw the Stop n' Save so I stopped there to get warm and Cas was there and he took care of me. And drove me here. So I'm okay and we're all good." She exhales all of this, and I feel like she has done this sort of let-me-explain-before-you-murder-me type of convincing before. She stops and looks at her mom tentatively, unaware of what her reaction will be. But her mom has turned to me fixes me with a gaze that I can't read.
She comes over and puts both hands on my shoulders. My eyes flick to Sparrow's as she looks on in amusement, but then back to her mom's. I find honesty there. And she tells me, "Thank you for driving my daughter home." Then she hugs me. I wrap my arms around her as softly as I can, looking at Sparrow again. She's just smiling. "Uh, you're welcome," I say, then add, "It was... no trouble at all." Sparrow's mom takes a step back, but before she turns away she tells me, "You're a good kid, Cas."
Sparrow gives me a shrug, and I go to help her remove cups from the cabinet. Since I'm taller, I pull them out and pass them to her, and she picks them up, two in each hand. "Aww, look at this!" she's saying as I close the cabinet. Having put down the others, she's gazing at a mug that's sloppily painted pink and blue and white, with raised flowers all over it and a chipped handle. Its polished glaze shines in the light. Sparrow holds it out to me, her expression radiant. "I made this when I was, like, ten. Isn't it lovely?"
I take it from her and examine it for a moment. "Yes, lovely is definitely a word I would use to describe this mug." I laugh at the mock angry expression that comes over her face before I go to set out the rest of the mugs. Sparrow's mom brushes past me to put a pot down in the center of the table, and Sparrow drops the silverware on either side of each plate.
"Is that everything?" Sparrow asks, sitting down across from me and smoothing her skirt. Her mom pulls off her oven mitts and dusts off her hands. "I believe so," she singsongs, taking the chair next to me.
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