(51) Poetry In Motion

Compared to the darkness of the hallways the classroom is amazingly bright, even with the closed blinds of the window, as I enter timidly. I sit down in the nearest seat, peering around me at the seats already filled with other agonized students. My heart hammers within my crisp white blouse as I run Paul Eluard’s “Liberté” through my troubled mind one last time. Finally, I am here. All of the sleepless nights of anxiety, the free periods of perfecting each word with Madame Rochard, the hours of listening to its tape recording in the shower, in the car, while brushing my teeth. I have actually entered this towering school in East Haven, Connecticut for the annual state foreign poetry contest.

“You know it!” I tell myself angrily, “You can do this!” Lecturing myself of course does nothing for alleviating my rising fears. All that I can possibly do now is pray that my tongue doesn’t twist up involuntarily, and my mind doesn’t suddenly become as blank as my older sister’s face when I first told her I was going to represent French 1 for this contest. All I want to do at the moment is get this over with and never think about shadows of windmills or fat and tender dogs again.

Completely out of the blue, I remember a piece of advice I had been given that day from one of the teachers, “just walk in and talk to everyone!” I raise my anxious eyes to glance around at the other nervous faces staring at their hands, reluctant to look any of their opponents in the eye. All of the tension is just making the situation that much more unbearable, and as I take a quiet inner breath I decide boldly to follow Madame’s advice.

“Oh my goodness, are you guys nervous?” I smile across the small room to let everyone know that I am talking to no one in particular. Soon the solid ice of apprehension shatters and gives way to warm smiles and outgoing personalities. My stomach stops churning, my heart returns to a normal speed, and amazingly enough my nerves have calmed down immensely.

“I think I am going to die.” A tanned brunette shudders two seats behind me. “My teacher told me I was in this contest yesterday afternoon.” A timid, pale girl informs me from where she is perched on the edge of a seat across from me. Gradually we have changed from suspicious contestants to supporting friends.

“So are you guys all straight A students?” I ask sardonically. A rumble of laughter envelops me comfortingly as a select few reply positively, trying to keep a straight face.

Our excited chatter is hushed at the entrance of a heavyset dark haired woman, a blue ribbon labeled “judge” unmistakably attached to her name tag reading Mrs. Conels. “So this is her.” I tell myself, forgetting the other students in the room. No one else really matters anymore, all I need to impress is this character and the gold will be as good as mine.

“Are you French?” A girl with a beaming smile inquires from across my row.

Mrs. Conels laughs deeply, her shoulders shaking from where she stands now towering over us. “I’m from New Haven, hun, you can’t be more French than that now can you?” Her tone was low but warm, and I immediately felt at ease with her. “We’re just waiting for a few more people to find their way into our room, and then we will begin.”

A new wave of nervousness encompasses me at the realization that in a few minutes I am actually going to do it, and everything counts in the final presentation. I sit still and rigid, pleading with myself to remember the “poo” in pouvoir and to emphasize sufficiently the d’un mot.

As Mrs. Conels informs us that we’re about to start, I ask “Can we clap for each other?” It feels terrific being the motivated speaker for the bunch, even though at the same time I know that in the next few hours winning has never meant more in my entire life. I plead with her earnestly, anticipating that the comfort of applause will soften the torturous preparation for the next contestant. She shakes her head with a smile though, and my heart sinks. “Why don’t we all clap for each other now then?” I suggest. Soon a roaring applause surrounds me and everyone is genuinely content for a brief moment - with the exceptions of the girl swathed in black directly in front of me, and the Cro-Magnon of a guy directly behind me who hasn’t let his focus leave his desk for the past fifteen minutes.

“Angela Martin.” Mrs. Conels says slowly after telling us that we can no longer wait for the lost participants. She begins and I follow her every word, even though I can’t understand any of them. Then she finishes with another glowing smile and sits down quickly, relief evident on her face. I tell her that she did an amazing job.

Then the list continues, boys and girls sauntering to the front, breezing through their poems and then rushing right back to the comfort of their seats. There is only one girl that I become increasingly worried about and that is the one in front of me. At the reading of her name, she stands up with unbreakable self-confidence, the cuffs of her wide dark pants brushing the floor before standing in front of us. Her hair is dyed a deep red, cascading in a thick braid down her back. Then she begins as all of us are simply taken in. Her pronunciation is gorgeous, weaving itself through her words like it is her most cherished gift, emotion playing through out every line, her tone becoming angry and loud and then dying down to a soft whisper. My eyes raise as her hands lift themselves in passion and then wring themselves with her anguish. It is as if her whole life has been placed in this one poem and she has exposed her inner soul to us shamelessly. She ends on a quiet note, all of a sudden halting the magic, her dark eyes smirking mercilessly at us before she sits down.

“Daria Knight!” I am shaken into reality, hardly able to prepare for my own chance, but knowing without a doubt that she has destroyed all doubts. That gold medal is as good as hers. Now though, it is my turn.

I take a deep breath, rise out of my seat and stand in front of these complete strangers. Glancing at Mrs. Conels, I close my eyes and begin to tell them a story in smooth and eloquent French phrases. I tell them of writing the name of freedom on the horizon, on the sand and the snow, on the hands that extend themselves to me, and above the silence. I feel each word within my own heart, becoming the writer himself, captured in the heavy chains of slavery and beseeching my listeners for long sought after liberty. My hands have a mind of their own, clutching my heart and letting them reach towards my audience. I end, whispering Liberté under my breath, and then glance around me with satisfaction. At my seat I marvel at what I have just experienced. Though these poems were spoken in a different language, they were still able to convey feelings and emotions that I was able to understand. These students around me were able to take words they had not written and suddenly make them their own. I had just witnessed a power, but smiling to myself I couldn’t help but ponder upon whether that force lay in the writer or the reader.

(50) Falling to Peaces

It’s late Friday afternoon, the sunlight still pouring through the windows of my house with the oncoming spring. The sky is still covered with gray reminds any wishful thinker that winter has not yet lifted its dreary presence from the world. The gloom somehow has crept from the cold air into where I brood in the den, my hand clutching the black computer mouse as I pour out my frustrations offering votes on the Internet for whether men and women are “hot” or “not.” With such a downcast disposition burdening my shoulders, it is hard for any such person to even receive a five from my direction.

In hindsight, my day wasn’t really that dreadful. I had been almost cheery about an hour ago when describing to my mother how I had given up the last fat-free yogurt to the terror-stricken, trembling hands of one of those “apple-a-day” girls. Then suddenly like the gray clouds outside the window, one has taken a hold on my spirits, utterly dampening them so that now a raging tempest burns within my heart and the world is my enemy. What I should be doing right now is diligently slaving over my schoolwork, but my mood is so thoroughly foul that I cannot even bring myself to look at my backpack lying next to the couch bursting at its dark blue seams. All I can succeed at doing for the moment is clicking the bubble under the number two so that the figures who pose confidently on the computer screen in front of my merciless gaze can share this disappointment, this pain eating away at my conscience.

“Dar?” I can see my sister from the reflection of the polished mahogany frame of our family portrait. I ignore her, continuing to stare at the other blonde in my presence on the computer screen, having taken a snapshot of herself while posing with a tennis racket at some ritzy club. I squint at her critically from the perfectly blow-dried hair, the perfect smile, and the to-die-for hips and legs. Then I see it, the poor naive little girl is sporting a laccoste, white pleated skirt and then a clean pink colored Ralph Lauren tee shirt. I bring the white arrow up to the top of the computer window with glee and settle on the number “1.” Everyone knows you don’t mix crocodiles and polo players. I smile evilly, picturing this egotistical princess coming home from that little tennis club and checking her votes for the day expecting to increase her confidence in her attractiveness, only to find her name beside a humbling single digit.

“Daria, answer your sister!” My mother enters the room as well, but I don’t bother to turn around. I am numb to their calls, to their directions, nothing can call me back from this darkened state.

“Daria, it’s your turn to get gas.” I can feel my blood pressure rising. “Why don’t you stop wasting your time on that computer and go get it for once.” She orders.

“Why don’t you shut the heck up for once.” I reply with little enthusiasm, changing the screen to the next photo so that I can bring somebody else down to my gulf of misery and endless woe.

“Daria!” My mother’s voice rises dangerously. I can feel the top of my bottled patience buckling, the pressure building up towards an explosion that I can barely contain.

“FINE!” I scream, my voice sharp with anguish. “I am going shopping, I’ll get your stupid gas then!” I stand up to face my sister, glaring at her with hatred. Suddenly the idea occurs to me that everything will be okay if I go and take out all of my frustrations in life on the shelves of J.Crew.

“Oh no you wont! I have to be at Charlene’s house at six!” My sister is shouting back now, her hands placed angrily on her hips.
“Daria, make sure you are back in time for Olivia to take the car then.” My mother concedes.

“Whatever,” I spit out. I torpedo through the house, entirely annoyed with everybody and everything. Throwing a coat on, I stomp towards the ladies desk only to find the silver dish completely barren of any silver key rings. Already, having less than an hour of shopping time, I am reaching the end of my rope. I search the house with zero patience, now seething while slamming cabinets, kicking chairs, and throwing foreign objects. I am raving mad, unable to control myself and ready to destroy anything in my path. The house is my jail, bars that I cannot escape from because of the overwhelming amount of scholastic responsibilities I am forced to live up to, and now for just one hour of freedom I cannot even find my car keys.

Then, while kneeling on my bedroom carpet, ripping the white ruffles of my bed upward to search beneath its edges, it happens. I lose it. Suddenly the mixture of lack of sleep, a fifty on a math test, no social life, and everyone discussing prom comes hurtling back at me and I crumple to the floor, wracked with pain entering a meltdown. My face contorts itself, and while covering my face with shaking hands, unbidden tears form at my eyelids and come crashing down my cheeks. I sob, moaning like a little child as I am drowned in my sorrow. My head aches, voices screaming inside of it from my friends telling me about their boyfriends, those names seemingly included now in every conversation. Even Charissa is going out tonight with Rick Hastings, the son of her fathers’ coworker who she has been dreaming about for months.

Another wave of agony overcomes my body at the thought of Cameron, whom I had discussed going to prom with for almost a whole year. A couple days ago Charlotte had passed me a note in Algebra 2, a sentence quickly scribbled on the lines of a piece of loose leaf paper reading: “Cameron asked me to prom.” The very message almost burned my hand. I bitterly envision her, though she is my friend, dressed up in a flowing gown with her hand on the shoulder of his tuxedo. I continue to bawl, having tried to make myself not care, to hate the very idea of such a frivolous tradition, but not being able to shake the desires to feel elegant, join all of my friends in a black limousine, and dance the night away. Britney is going with Connor Ferrington, Patsy has already been asked by our friend Josh, Alex is taking some sophomore, Sammy is taking his girlfriend Sophie, Charlotte has to be going with Rick, which leaves me where? Completely in the dark. Plenty of couples are going together that barely know each other, but I will not allow myself to resort to that. The only way I would ever resort to attending our school’s prom is if by some miracle a particular guy that answers to the name of Jeff Waters asks me to be his date, which in itself is highly unlikely, impossible actually. Jeff will probably end up requesting the company of Heather, someone who is everything I am not and do not wish to be. The whole situation is hopeless, a waste of time, money, and stress. It really would be quite bearable to get over, if it weren’t for the fact that this overly-done dance is the topic of every conversation since tickets go on sale in less than two weeks.

Startled, I hear a determined knock on my door, even though it is obviously wide open because I am too much in hysterics to close it. Glancing towards the hallway, I see my father standing in the doorway in a suit, his eyes tired and his yellow striped tie hanging loosely from his unbuttoned collar. I offer him permission, blubbering profusely, to come in which he responds to by closing my door gently and then pulling out the chair from in front of my desk. He sits on it heavily, silent for a moment, his movements deliberate and thoughtful.

“Daria, I am going to try my hardest to be objective and have understanding as you tell me exactly what is so incredibly wrong in your life that would cause you to have only what I have been told was a tantrum downstairs. Is there something you are not telling me? Am I missing something?”

Then I let it all out. I wail as more tears flow about college, about how much school work keeps piling up especially on the weekends when I want to rest, how I have no sleep, no time for anything I want to do, how I want to study for SATs but can’t find opportunities to. Then I begin to howl about how I am stuck at home, again, while Rick is picking up Charissa, and about how all everyone can talk about is prom. He sits there completely quiet, content to wait until I have told him everything I need to. I end my lamenting, continuing to sob, moaning, “I just can’t do it anymore.”

“I am sorry.” He says simply after a few minutes. “I am sorry that you have so much work to do, I am sorry that you have to stay home when all of your friends are engaging in other activities, and I am sorry that you do not have a date to prom.” I watch him ruefully, waiting for some sort of lecture to come about how my problems do not give me an excuse to treat my family poorly. He continues gently though. “I wish you had called me, Daria, you know you can always call me. I had a terrible day at work as well, we lost a bid, and the other deal has decided to delay their response. I would have much rather talked to you. I love you Hunny.” I can see his eyes getting red, indicating that now I am not the only one shedding a tear. My father’s tears never fall though, I have never caught them rolling down his cheeks, they remain only in his eyes, barely recognizable, almost invisible.

He continues to explain his memories of the torture of junior year, and how he isn’t happy about my attitude at home but understands why I have it. He tells me lovingly that I need to communicate when I am frustrated, that I cannot keep it bottled up inside and how our home is supposed to be my refuge, a haven. He suddenly pulls back my fluffy white curtains, uncovering the dark night beneath them. “It might seem awful right now , Daria.” He tells me, glancing over at my computer screen saver, a colorful “Boys are Evil” bouncing and twisting around the screen. “But somewhere out there, there is a young man probably gazing up at the stars wondering the same things you are, having the same problems you are having, who will one day be your life’s companion and is truly worthy of your affection. I watch him closely, doubting in my mind that boys ever look up at the stars and think about girls, but I keep my mouth closed, savoring the moment of love between my father and I. Then he holds me in his arms, so that in my seventeen-year-old body, I feel like a child again, needing his strength and protection. The tears continue to bead up at my eyes but more out of relief than pain as I sit there on my bed, cradled by my dad. With the love of my father finally the seas inside of me are calm, and though it still isn’t going to easy, I know everything is going to turn out all right.

(49) Unseen Hunger

The sky overhead is a lifeless dull gray, only small patches of which are not covered by threatening clouds. Naked trees reach towards this mournful display, stripped of their greenery, their pride scattered in colorful piles across the yard. It is cold outside, the kind of frigid air that causes you to gasp in astonishment at its ferocity, slipping through the tiny openings of your knit sweater so that suddenly you’re shivering like a helpless child on the street. It’s the type of climate that causes your eyes to water involuntarily and your hair to be alive with static cling, even though you lather in conditioner. Sometimes only a scalding fountain of water issuing from the showerhead in your bathroom can halt the chills, causing you to sit desperately in the bottom of the tub, curled up in a small ball as additional puddles form from droplets pouring down your eyelids, nose, and limp strands of hair. It seems that being entirely warm is impossible. When you wake up in the morning it is pure torture to leave your bed and to return to where you can speak and see your breath curl towards the atmosphere, and where your fingers become blue and dry. I can feel my ears already turning pink as I rub my arms fiercely for warmth.
“Cold, Daria?” Patsy laughs, circulating the arms of her Nantucket sweatshirt as she watches me.

“Just a little.” I admit, shivering as I bend town to touch the cold cement by my sneakers.

“You’ll warm up after we start sprinting.” Patsy replies. Then what is to me to be an almost unattainable burst of energy, she dashes down the hill of my driveway. I continue stretching, hardly concerned with catching up to her as I grasp both of my ankles, watching her run past my house, a bolt of lightning burning through nearby driveways and mailboxes. I smile to myself, her enthusiasm and motivation for such a sport undoubtedly well above my own. Running together though has always been Patsy’s and my favorite thing to do together. Ever since she moved down the road from me a couple of years ago, we had often taken a long jog together after school. It is our venting time. We can discuss family issues, boy problems, and school events. Then we usually will run hard and magically they will float away like the leaves brushing across the road. Sprinting down our favorite route is a way to focus but at the same time not focus. My mind always becomes clearer after running my brains out. From the sound of my steady breathing and my feet pounding the pavement I can sort out any problem if I need to, or forget the frustrating trials of everyday life. Patsy puffing along side me sometimes makes all the difference.

After reaching her quick pace, we start our jog in silence, both of our minds elsewhere, than where we are fighting to inhale here on Pine Street. Eventually I break the silence, the absence of conversation making it harder to complete each step. “How come you… weren’t in fifth period today?” I huff, clenching my fists where they hang tensely at my sides.

She stares ahead of her at the open road, her blonde pony tail banging gently against her back in syncopation with the movements of her body. I glance at her, waiting for a response.

“I had…an appointment.” She replies softly, holding her gaze in front of her. My brows furrow immediately at such a terse explanation. Usually Patsy unleashes forbidden dragons of dark secrets and thoughts while scurrying next to me. I wait a few moments, allowing her to collect her thoughts before she lets them tumble out of her mouth, but she continues to restrain any further information.

“A doctor’s appointment?” I prod as we turn onto a side street. It pains me that she is being so vague but more silence continues.

“No.” She murmurs, coughing and then increasing her speed. “If you must know, it was an appointment with a nutritionist.” I glance down at the road at the dust and pebbles that I am trampling, hurt a little at these biting sentences that are being thrown my way, and taken aback by the explanation. I turn my head towards the house we’re passing, the front lawn completely vacant, not even a dog willing to bare this merciful cold to bark at our passing.

“Look, Daria, I’m sorry. It’s just that this is all new to me and my mother is making it all incredibly difficult to deal with.

“What exactly, Pats?” I ask gently.

“They think I’m anorexic!” She shouts carelessly, no longer willing to endure the pain alone. “They say I’m too skinny, I don’t eat enough.” We stop now, clutching our stomachs, the original purpose of running entirely trivial now. I watch her, alarmed but for the first time noticing how thin her arms look, how tiny her wrists appear. How could this have not been apparent to me sooner? Am I that naive? One of my best friends is destroying her health and before now I haven’t had any inclination.

“I guess they are right though, I am not at the average weight for my height. Before these past few weeks I didn’t even know what I was doing, I definitely was not starving myself on purpose. Daria, it’s the girls I eat lunch with. My psychologist says that their choices of unhealthy eating habits have affected mine unconsciously. Daria, half of the girls in our school aren’t eating properly during lunch period, especially the ones that I eat with. I guess after watching them eat less and less, I began to follow their examples.” Patsy continues, explaining things that I never gave a second thought to.

My eyes squint with concentration as I think back to a day when I had a substitute in physics during lunch and ate with Patsy’s lunch bunch, a group of tall, slim figures, some with gaunt-like faces, none of them what I would consider overweight. Looking at Patsy I begin to see it, behind the loud murmurs of laughter and conversation of the cafeteria. The apples clutched with desperation that have been famously said to be a fruit with calories that can be burned with ease, the bottles of water brought back into mouths instead of sandwiches, the light n’ fit yogurt, and fruit salads. That day as I had stepped over backpacks to the table where they all had sat, I was almost sure a gasp would be let out that the container I innocently held in my hand was not fat free! The horror! Though they refuse to bring any food of substance to the table, when a girl appearing full and satisfied holds up a leftover bag of anything, several greedy and frantic hands snatch for the treasure, silver bracelets banging together in their haste. Grapes are a sacred commodity.

“Gosh, you’re right.” My eyes widen with new understanding. I was so oblivious to all of this. “Patsy, why didn’t you tell me? I would have been there for you, you know that.” I wrap my arms around her in love, embracing her in friendship and concern then pull away.

“I do, but it wasn’t something I wanted to admit to. I’m fine though, really. I now have a new eating plan where I write down everything I eat and I have to make sure everything is balanced. I’m just glad now that I realize what danger I was in that I have been able to fix it. Unfortunately most of those girls aren’t so lucky.”

“What can we do?” I ask, sitting down on the frozen curb.

“I guess just make sure they don’t influence our decisions.” She pulls me up with a smile. Then we’re off again, heading back towards home, the sun setting behind us, our bodies making shadows dancing on the pavement. We finish our run, I say a quick goodbye to Patsy at the mouth of her driveway and then walk slowly home. Traipsing immediately upstairs, I collapse on my bed, kicking off my dirty sneakers and staring up at my ceiling. It’s easy to see how this happens. Sickly-thin models on the covers of magazines, half the stars in shows like “Ally McBeal”, “Friends”, “Dawson’s Creek” are all thin, perhaps dangerously so. There is such an emphasis on performance and perfection in society that it seems that weight is just another platform for competition. For girls like Patsy and so many others, the real hunger they feel perhaps is far deeper. Beneath their seemingly perfect exteriors is a real starvation for love, for acceptance and for balance in a world that is sometimes famine-stricken for these precious nutrients. Believe me, my own family is far from perfect, but I have never in my life felt the need to be anyone other than myself. I think that’s because my parents have stressed the importance of being true to myself and to my ideals. Maybe other parents should try that as well as making the effort to tell their child that they love them. With an extra serving of that, maybe this whole unfortunate charade would end, maybe this would finally satisfy this unseen hunger.

(48) Un Trabajo Del Amante

“I did not say that!” Charlotte declares as we exit the school parking lot, an unmistakable smile creeps into the corners of her mouth. She continues to fold her arms from where she sits next to me so that they lay across the thick cable knit lines of her blue cotton sweater. A tiny silver heart gleams from the sun pouring through the window where it hangs, encrusted in the small links draped upon her delicate wrist now resting at her side.

Britney’s pony tail tumbles down the top of her head like silk as she clutches her stomach with waves of uncontrollable laughter. She grasps the back of our seat with both hands for support, perfectly shaped nails painted with her signature color, strawberry parfait starkly contrasting with the agate cloth. I continue to peer out the window in silence, watching the fierce January wind catch the leaves and swirl them around in the sky like soaring robins. Then they scatter in all directions before falling slowly back down to land gracefully on the cold concrete of the road.

Somewhere amidst the confusion, I hear Patsy shout, “Well at least she could put a bowl of fruit back on the kitchen counter!” More howls of laughter soon follow cackles of enjoyment from past acts of stupidity. “You should have been there, Daria!” They tell me, still grasping the depths of their stomachs in pain. I laugh good naturedly, shaking my head and then return to longingly gaze outside. Though I don’t regret my absences at such reoccurring nights of alcoholic indulgence, I can’t help but feel distanced from these girls that have been my closest companions for most of my life. We used to be close, to care for each other, to be there for one another, now though the conversations have changed. No longer are they about things that matter, but have instead become repeated competitions for how foolish one of them was while being drunk the past weekend. It used to not be so bad, but now it’s all they plan for us to do. There’s just too much in life to waste every single weekend on getting smashed. I wish they could understand that.

Charissa presses her foot lightly on the brakes, as an oncoming light turns pale gold and then a fiery red. We pull to a stop next to a rusted red hued truck and are immediately greeted by five deeply tanned faces somehow fit inside the interior of the pickup. With astonishment we watch as they raise and lower thick brows and pucker thin lips in our direction. Soon every member of the car begins to giggle, and with out warning Britney screams, “Dirty Mexicans!” We continue to explode with uncontained howls. My eyes raise at such a label, but I can’t help but feel relief for the change of topic, finally finding a gap where I can squeeze in my own comments and not feel so left in the dark.

“That’s nothing!” I hear my voice cry. “On Saturday, Olivia and I were driving home from the gym and decided to pick up a movie to watch when we got home. So we went in with our workout clothes, and you know how skimpy Liv gets when she’s at the gym.” My friends glance at each other in understanding. “Well, we were in the new releases section, and all of a sudden these Spanish guys came over and start talking to my sister, asking for her number!” I continue my story by imitating their voices, receiving loud responses from the girls as they begin to roar in the car with laughter at my crude English.

“They are everywhere!” Patsy shouts, finally catching her breath and we nod our heads in unison. Just then the light transforms once again to green, and we zoom through the intersection, leaving the somewhat bewildered men in the truck behind. As we continue to coast down private roads, I think about what I have just heard. Dirty Mexicans, the very words make me cringe inside. What has started out as a specific classification has now transformed almost into a whole term of race. Besides, I think to myself, plenty of construction workers can be much worse.

Charissa soon turns onto my street, and begins climb the winding driveway. As the car approaches the house, I can make out the pale green station wagon parked near the garage, the paint peeling from age and continual use. The presence of such a vehicle can only mean one thing; Ramon is here. It must be Thursday. “Thanks for the ride, Char.” I tell her slinging my oversized backpack onto my weak shoulders. “Bye, guys.” I open the door, squeezing past Charlotte to hop down onto the pavement. As my friends zip back down the hill, I make my way into the house, entering to hear the moans of a vacuum cleaner from the upstairs hallway. Heading for the kitchen to satisfy my afternoon appetite, I almost bump into Carlos, Ramon’s aged father wiping down the counters with a damp purple rag.

“Señorita! Como estás?” He immediately stops what he is doing to beam in my direction, the happiness apparent on his leathery face and wrinkled smile of seeing me for another week. He steps lightly in his white sneakers on top of the light wooden floor , a spray bottle half full of glass cleaner hanging from the lip of this back jeans pocket. I watch it slosh against the sides of the container with each dancing move.

“Bien, gracias. Y Ud?” I reach for an apple quickly.

“Bien, bien.” He replies nodding his head. I smile politely and then turn to head up to my room. Before the past month or so, I could always find pleasure in sitting at the table, munching on a bowl of lucky charms while talking to Carlos after a long day of school. Happily I would concoct Spanish sentences from my past five years of learning the language, and in turn trying to piece together his rapid responses. Now though, I find myself brushing him off, replying with short sentences and forced cheerfulness before I hurry out of his company. I wonder if he notices.

Climbing the stairs, I pull my tired body up by the strength of the chestnut railing and stumble down the soft carpet until I find the clothes that had been strewn along the carpet now folded into stacks of neatly placed piles. Vacuum tracks line the off-white floor and my bed has been expertly made, the pillows fluffed and every wrinkle smoothed out of my cloud-patterned bedspread. Thursdays are wonderful, I sigh, sinking onto my bed and kicking off my clogs. Soon the realization of what a burden of homework lies before me enters into my conscience and slowly I raise myself up to begin the tiresome chore.

Opening my CD player, I am alarmed to find it naked, empty, and rid of my favorite mix of all time. “Olivia!” I slip on my favorite leopard print slippers and hurriedly patter toward her room at the opposite end of the hall. The light from the bathroom we share shines brightly, and thinking someone must have left it on from this morning, I turn towards it to click off the lamps. Before I reach for the switch though, I can make out a figure bent down underneath the countertop, next to the toilet. I stop, my hand frozen in midair, as I watch the man continue his task.

His small black shoes are almost hidden beneath him as Ramon kneels close to the white marble of the floor. Dragging a ragged yellow sponge along the tiles in great circular motions his face hovers inches from the surface so he can make sure that every stain, every drop of lost toothpaste or makeup is rubbed out. A steady and unmistakably aged hand rests upon it as well, where tight fingers fan out underneath a strong supporting arm that keeps him in such a position. I watch him intently, as his head bobs, the grey hairs not being few, and he begins to hum an unidentifiable melody in sync with his polishing motions.

I begin to think of the days before Ramon was a part of our lives My sister and I had to split the chores of tidying the house so that somehow they were equal between us. It would never be entirely equal though, because one of us would always have to end up being assigned the dreaded children’s bathroom. Then we would spend hours trying to finish all of the rooms in the house, scrubbing, sweeping, sweating. That was when we were in middle school, when we didn’t have such time-consuming responsibilities like we have now. After weeks of not cleaning the house, my parents decided to hire someone else to do it. Ramon now has become something else, someone else more than just an average maid service. He has become a dearly beloved member of our extended family, someone we all love and respect. He has given carefully chosen Christmas presents and has made us continually fall over with laughter with his stories and imitations of our neighbors. He has helped me with my Spanish homework and has listened to my romantic problems. As I watch the man turn his body towards the tub, and begin to scrub down its sides, I realize that he is a far better person than I am. My mother told me once while scurrying to finish a few errands, that Ramon was a far better housekeeper than she was because he kept not only his house in order but ours as well.

What my friends and I had discussed brought me immense sadness and guilt. Such men who work so hard and with such pride should be labeled Esteemed Mexicans if anything. Some of them are highly educated men, but the language barriers create other difficulties of acquiring a well-paying job. One man who painted our house turned out to be an electrical engineer in his home, Ecuador. Another gentleman from Nicaragua was the son of a successful executive of the Colgate toothpaste company, but when a war broke out the business men were kidnapped and had their homes attacked so that they had to move to the states for peace. These men fight hard and labor long to be able to give their kids a better life than what they have been given themselves. That’s not something to be looked down upon, but something to be admired. It is well known to our entire family of how Ramon gives all he has to his kids, the children here in Connecticut as well as his other children in Chile.

I gaze at the back of Ramon’s neatly pressed button down shirt with admiration and love. “Ramon!” I cry happily, “Que pasa!”

He turns his head in my direction and sends a silly grin my way. With seriousness etched into the lines of his face he asks, “Como está su novio?”

With an equally somber expression I reply, “Mi novio no existe, mi amigo.” I sit on the freshly vacuumed carpet outside the bathroom door and begin to talk to my dear friend of Thursday afternoons, as he washes and brings beauty to every room he passes through. I tell him of school, of my issues with my friends, of how Olivia and I seem to be growing closer since she’s going to college next year, and he listens as he wipes down sink nozzles and removes unsightly hair from clogged drains. I sit, contentedly in front of him, because I can’t afford to waste such precious time with such a glorious being of immense integrity. Continuing to laugh and chatter endlessly, I tell myself proudly, Ramon and Carlos will always be at the top.

(47) Living in the Present

The interior of the suburban is dark where my family sits among the shadows, except for the light played through out it from surrounding street lights and store windows. Mixtures of colors and unfamiliar faces blur past our view, as we coast along FDR drive to Houston Street and down Houston into Soho. In the back, numerous bags full to the brim of carefully wrapped packages bounce against each other, gifts that my mother and I have sat together wrapping hours before while listening to our newest collections of Christmas CDs.

“Okay, I’ve got one.”

After crooning almost every Christmas tune we can think of in various harmonies and my father demonstrating an astounding ability of projecting the melody of “Sleigh bells” through the use of slapping the sides of his cheeks, we resort to the game

“Guess the Commercial Jingle.” My father indicates that his turn is about to commence as he cranes his neck around in the passenger seat to look at my sister and I before he starts.

After a few seconds of staring up at the ceiling in thought, he begins to hum an unrecognizable melody. Olivia and I listen carefully, wrinkling our foreheads with puzzlement at this mysterious selection.

“Doctor Pepper!” My mother suddenly blurts out and my father’s face instantly breaks out into a glowing smile. Gazing at each other they continue the song in unison as my mom continues to grip the steering wheel.

“It’s not a cola, it’s something much much more, it’s not a root beer, there are root beers by the score…”

I glance out the window laughing cheerfully as we whish past the fifth Gap clothing store of the evening and fiftieth something sandwich deli. Crowds of people continue to stir around in the streets with loud music blaring, occasional shouting and raucous laughter. New York truly is the city that never sleeps.

“Now you’re going to take the next right, dear.”

My mother peers at the clumps of oncoming traffic until it clears so that a large enough break is able to let us swing through to the other side of the road and into a quiet parking lot. Passing through rows of cars, we find a vacant space and my mother pulls to a halt. We sit for a few moments, glancing at each other with rising excitement, until my dad cracks open the door and hops out onto the pavement. I glance behind me longingly as he lifts the collections of parcels so that he holds an overstuffed bag in each hand.

“Livy, give me a hand with these will you?” Next to me Olivia slowly clicks open her seat belt and patters in her sneakers along the side of the car to the back. When all bags are being carried in, I hop outside the vehicle to slam shut the back door and then clamber back into the warmth of the car.

My mother and I remain sitting silently in our seats, the only sounds issuing from passing cars whishing along the busy streets. I break the silence. “I wish we could watch them open their presents.” I think with sudden sadness. Visions fill my mind of the nights we strolled the aisles as a family of Toys R Us and Kohl’s, searching among stacks of items happily for the gifts we imagined would bring the most joy when discovered on Christmas Eve. Delicious smells filled the house from the hours of baking my mother had performed in order to bake cookies and other yummy holiday treats.
Then finally, just a few hours ago my mother and I sat cross-legged among shreds of paper and rolls of tape while Christmas tunes serenaded us from the corner stereo. We had folded and covered gift after gift, mine not as perfectly formed as the effortless outcomes of my mother’s graceful hands, but she knew as well as I did that this year more than ever it was the thought that counted. Now all our hard work was finally going to be paid off to a family in need, but unfortunately with our decision to remain anonymous in these acts, we weren’t ever going to be able to be rewarded with the sights of such beaming faces or perhaps a shed tear or two. After handing all of gifts and treats to my dad’s business partner, we could only hope that the receivers would find as much joy accepting our offerings as we did creating them, but we would never truly see the change in their countenances.

Just then footsteps sounded heading towards me, and the doors opened as Olivia and my dad sat back down comfortably in their seats.

“Well, Bill was astounded, he told us that there wasn’t a doubt we would really make this family’s Christmas terrific.” My dad informed us happily. My mother turned the ignition of the key and with a gently rumble the car started and we pulled out of the parking lot.

“Oh, and he gave me this.” A card was slid into my hand and I realized that it was a photograph. “He had this on his desk and thought it would be nice for us to have it.” Holding the picture up to the window I searched the faces of the small family we had adopted this year as our own. A glowing woman with short dark hair and a brilliant smile sits on a light green beaten couch. Next to her, her husband is positioned. His dark eyes appear tired and forlorn but his face is pulled into a beaming smile never the less and two small boys are perched on the edges of both parents’ laps. Suddenly the growing love for this family intensifies with the thought that maybe those eyes would suddenly contain a sparkle come this Christmas morning.

As we once again found our way among the numerous shops and street corners, the satisfaction for what we have just accomplished is evident. We have grown closer to each other through the service of another group of people. As we pull into the lane of the toll to head back to Connecticut, my father speaks.

“Since it’s Christmas tomorrow, how about we go around the car and say one thing nice about everyone.” My father suggests and no one opposes the idea.

We follow with words of love to every family member, mentioning the admirable qualities we find in one another, exceeding well over one thing. My mother is the last to take her turn and begins by commenting on how much she is going to miss Livy when she leaves for college and how much she appreciates the help I gave in wrapping the presents. Then she continues though to vocalize something profound that everyone had felt that evening. Gazing lovingly at my father she added, “And I am grateful to Dad,” she pauses and then continues, “For helping our family see outside of ourselves this Christmas, past our wants and our supposed needs to the importance of improving the holidays of a family in real need.”

Olivia and I both smile warmly at our father, for this year we had truly learned something about Christmas that we would never forget. Sure, tomorrow morning there won’t be as many piles of presents underneath the tree and Britney might just win the contest of who received the best material gifts, but Olivia and I had received a reward far greater than anything purchased. This year we had influenced another set of lives besides our own. We had made a difference and though it might have been a small sacrifice on our parts, the rewards far outweighed the efforts, for nothing can bring more pure and unforgettable joy, than bestowing the gifts of love and charity.

(46) Tis The Season

“Dad, is this going to take long? I have things I have to do tonight!” I gaze through the darkness at Olivia’s perfectly protruded lips now formed into a tight pout. My mother turns the knob of the nearby lamp so that soon the music room is bathed with light and takes her usual perch on the edge of the black piano bench, indicating that a Knight family counsel is about to commence.

“How about we start tonight with a Christmas carol?” My dad replies, sitting slowly down atop the room’s light pink, toile auto Mann after gently yanking the creases of his pants so that he can rest comfortably

“Dad it is only the second of December.” I murmur. We usually begin each family meeting with a hymn from an old book my mother has had ever since she was a child. I am not sure exactly how this tradition of singing came to be or even how the routine of having these “family counsels” got started. Quite possibly they are both results from one of the numerous parenting books my parents have read by random psychologists who profess to have an understanding of basic teenagers.

“How about “Hark the Herald Angels Sing?” My mother offers, flipping her long graceful fingers through the many pages of our family holiday songbook.

“Great.” My dad replies. “Let’s all gather around the piano. With a gleam of my mother’s wedding ring, her hands begin to lightly tap the ivory keys and the familiar melody of the song begins to fill the room. We begin to softly sing along, side by and soon all business presentations, homework, and tennis scores are forgotten as an incredible feeling of love and peace envelopes all of our hearts.

After three verses have been crooned, we return to our various spots of the room and immediately my dad begins to speak. “First, I just want to ask the question of what the true meaning of Christmas is and why we celebrate it.”
“Dad, we know,” Olivia cuts in, “ Mary rode a donkey with Joseph to an inn, had Jesus in a stable, and a bunch of wise men came to see him. So, on December twenty-fifth we celebrate that event and give each other gifts to let each other know how much we care about one another.”

My dad’s brows deeply furrow. “Okay, well maybe that wasn’t the best approach.” He looks along the edges of the floor’s wooden panels and then takes a deep breath. “I’m going to tell you a story that I believe you’ve never heard of before, girls. As you know my mother and father divorced when I was at a young age of about seven years. For an extended period of time my father neglected to send our family any money, forcing my mother to work for her own father during the day and at the sugar refinery at night in order to make ends meet. There was one particular Christmas when I was nine, when the furnace broke. Not being able to afford the expenses of getting it fixed, my mother, brother, sister, and I had to keep ourselves warm from the use of the fireplaces.

I remember on Christmas Eve, my mother and older sister worked through the hours of several nights making little crafts and things so we could have some sort of presents to open the next morning. Simple wrapping paper was too costly, so instead we bundled our homely gifts in tin foil and the Sunday paper’s funnies.” My dad let a few seconds of silence pass pay, appearing to be deep in thought, and then continued.

“At one point during the evening your uncle Joe sang the tune of “Joy to the world because it was my Mother’s favorite. At first when he started singing, I just couldn’t help but feel really bitter. I remember demanding inside my head, What joy? There’s not much joy under this bare, little tree, not in this freezing house. But then, something quite unexpected happened. Something inside of me lit up and I looked at my beautiful mother, her face lit by the hearth, my sisters and brother and somehow I knew that everything was going to be all right. For a brief moment during that frigid winter of 1969, I put aside all my fears, and thoughts of the cold. That moment that rickety little house was heated, warm with a love that lingered among its walls. That Christmas for the first time I realized that my family and the love we felt for one another was worth more to me than all the gift laden Christmas trees in all the grand homes of Chestnut Hill.

We have so much to be thankful for this holiday season, especially with all that has occurred from September 11th. I have a good job, we’re all safe, but I just wouldn’t feel right about continuing to have a Christmas this year with the extravagance that we usually do, there’s just too much loss and sadness in the world right now. “

I immediately shoot my eyes towards my sisters’. Extravagance? What does that entail? Suddenly Britney’s voice echoes through out my mind. “What did you get for Christmas, Daria? Me? Oh I got an MP3 player, a cell phone, this Tiffany bracelet, a couple of sweaters, this new key-chain, and a VCR for my television…”As her list continues swirling around my head my dad continues to talk.

“This year, I want our family to place emphasis on what we gave rather than what we got. A few small gifts are fine, but the majority of the money we spend this year I think should go to someone beside ourselves.
Britney’s tone continues in my brain so that I can no longer hear my father… “Some CDS, money from my grandparents, a bunch of gift certificates, a DVD player…a car, a house, the state of Florida…”

“Does anyone have any ideas?” My sister and I look back at him blankly. Is he serious? A few small gifts? I look down at my hands, twisting them in my lap. “Well if no one has any, I do.” My dad replies. “A man I work with is friends with a couple that live on the southern tip of New York City who could use our help this Christmas. During our lunch hour today we went over to bring them a few items of groceries.” My dad pauses to inspect our reactions, but Olivia and I are only dumbfounded at what we are hearing. He continues. “They’re a lovely couple, Chris and Kate, and they have three small children. Chris though, is unemployed. As I sat in the tiny area of their living room, I couldn’t help but feel an immense sadness for how hard it is going to be for them this December and how much our own family takes for granted. I personally feel inspired that these are the people we can offer ourselves to. ”

I look at my father. I know he’s right. From the clothes we wear, the food we eat, the possessions we have, and the cars we drive, my family has so much. There are many things we take for granted, things we hardly give a second thought.

“The question is, how can we help?” My dad glances at each of our faces, pleadingly, almost begging for us to offer some help in all of this. I tell myself that I cannot remain so self-absorbed, so ungrateful for what I have, and so unwilling to share it.

“We could buy a small Christmas tree and decorate it for them.” I offer. Immediately my father glows with appreciation. My older sister hesitates and then mumbles a suggestion of buying them presents and my mother offers her baking abilities.

“Fantastic.” My dad begins jotting things down on a yellow legal pad as my family begins to chatter with newfound excitement about how we can make another family’s Christmas more meaningful. Suddenly there is this wonderful feeling inside of me at such ideas. No, this new definition of holiday cheer is not going to be easy especially with the typical traditions of society, but I’m almost looking forward to the difference. A different kind of joy will be discovered, way beyond any expensive material purchase. The happiness that will be evident on such young children’s’ faces will out weigh any large package wrapped up elegantly in festive wrapping paper under the tree. The gift of giving will be our reward.

Our family gets up to head for the kitchen, where we partake of the apple pie that was picked up at the bakery for refreshments. As we sit together, the spirit of love and service can still be felt through out the walls of our home and I am determined to not let it die as the rest of the month passes. It is only the first week of December and already the anticipation for the holidays is great with such a profound new focus on giving to others. After all, tis the season.

(45) An Unwelcoming Homecoming

I frown disdainfully at the hopeless girl staring back at me as I apply another touch of blush to the apples of my cheeks. The ends of my blonde strands just won’t stay curled under, my eyes have lost their usual sparkle as they squint into the glass, and my complexion is whiter than a ghost. Though I am three weeks from reaching my seventeenth year, almost a true woman as my mother would say, I have never felt more childish as I scramble to prepare for the dance I have been planning for for weeks. I run a brush once more through my flat, lifeless hair, adjust the light blue dress I had carefully chosen months ago, and then switch off the light with despair, not missing the sight of my digital clock ticking to 7:59 as I do so.

“Daria don’t you have to leave soon?” I can hear my mother shout from her bedroom. I don’t have the patience or time to answer her though as I rush down the stairs and into the front hallway. Snatching my keys from the silver dish underneath the gold-framed mirror, I gaze sadly into the room next to me. The only light that shines among the shadows comes from the kitchen, leaving the day room unusually dark and lifeless. Visions of last year’s Homecoming where all of my friends and I giggled and posed for various shots on the hearth of the fieldstone fireplace flash in my mind, and I hurriedly push them away. Even though today was one of the busiest work days ever at Cosette’s and I had to miss out on the yearly routine preparation party that all of my friends are most likely just leaving from at this very moment, I tell myself confidently that there are going to be other years, other Homecomings. Pulling the door shut behind me, I make my way carefully towards the car. Soon I arrive at the high school.

As I click-clack in my heels towards the brightness across the parking lot, I can already make out the thumps of loud music issuing from the gymnasium. Swinging the glass doors open, I pull the ticket out of my little black purse and hand it to Mrs. Raign which she receives with a warm smile. Then suddenly my hand is shook firmly by a larger hand. Looking up I am shocked to stare into the whites of the eyes of a mysterious police officer! I mumble a hello, snatch back my paw, and rush towards the CPR room where I discard my bag with the keys inside of it in what I hope is a safe place. “What on earth is he doing here?” I ask myself but toss the concern of my school dance suddenly resembling a jail aside, fluffing my hair one last time in desperation to look somewhat presentable as I smack my lips together and enter homecoming 2001.

The gym is the usual mass confusion of moving bodies, lights, and loud music as I peer through the crowds to spot my own friends in the chaos. “Daria!” I spin around to find the cheerful face of Charissa striding through the doors behind me and immediately I feel a wave of relief wash over me. Her long chestnut tresses flow gracefully across the straps of her pale green dress, a stark contrast to the majority of V-neck black bordello attire being fashioned by the other girls surrounding us. “I’m so glad I’m not the only one late! I got home from babysitting literally like fifteen minutes ago even though the Randalls promised me they would be back before seven.” She sighs miserably.

I laugh at her affectionately. “You look perfect anyway.” She rolls her eyes instantly, obviously having no knowledge of the fact that she could sport a black Glad garbage bag with yellow handles and still look stunning with her long black lashes and deeply tanned skin

“Where’s the other girls?” She asks as we peer across the heads of our classmates. Suddenly I recognize a face a few feet in front of me. The crop of blonde I have gotten to know so well hangs in front of his face from where he has his arms draped around another figure. Her long golden hair tumbles down her bare back where it ends just above the top edge of her hot pink halter dress. Though their bodies are intertwined so that they can only awkwardly rock on the dance floor, their forms are unmistakable. I quickly look away, though I know this scene or one like it had been inevitable since Heather had moved here. She finally has gotten what she wanted, or better yet what I have wanted. “Good bye Jeff Waters,” I tell myself softly, “It was great while it lasted.”

“There’s Britney and Charlotte near the speakers!” Charissa squeals with excitement. I am whisked away from my state of loss as Charissa grabs my hand and pulls me through the mob of teenagers and towards the DJ standing in front of his array of CDs on a nearby table. “Hey guys!” Charissa shouts above the loud techno, waving her hand frantically. Two blank faces stare back at us though across the gymnasium, and as we make our way towards our close friends, we both begin to realize that they’re not all there.

Suddenly I feel myself being embraced by strange arms and gazing up I am dumbfounded to find Cameron, one my closest guy friends flashing a dim-witted grin as he lets his hands grasp the sides of my hips. “Daria! Dance with me!” Smelling the strong acrid scents of Scotch, I push my hands against his crisp white button down and striped tie with a large amount of effort. “Daria! I love you!” He wails and I watch him stumble behind me, rolling my eyes with unbelief as I take a few large strides to catch up with Charissa who is already chatting with Britney and Charlotte. “I’m never going to let him live that one down.” I tell myself secretly.

I finally step in front of my long-lost friends. “Britney, Charlotte how was the party?” I instantly inquire. Expecting a novel of a response of the crucial events I had had the unfortunate pain of missing, because I had to “work”, from Brit’s usual authoritative voice, I am taken aback by her dull tone and vacant looks. Somehow a “fine” topples from her lips and examining her closely, I peer into her eyes. “Man, Brit are you drunk? Where’s Patsy?” Britney slumps her shoulders awkwardly just as Connor Ferrington approaches us and then pulls her limp arms up around his neck, not bothering to give Charissa and I even a glimpse as they begin to move against each other with little hesitation. Charlotte soon has found her own guy to grind with and as I snap my glance back at Charissa, she looks at me with the same furrowing of brows. Though we’re both somewhat happy for Britney, knowing full well that ever since they first sat next to each other in U.S. History every waking hour has been dedicated to his interest, we can’t help but be appalled as she lets his hands slide lower and lower down her back. Turning away with disgust, Charissa and I continue the search for Patsy.

I think I see her over there.” Charissa softly utters. We push our way past several tangling bodies as we head back towards the entrance. “At least she’s sober,” Charissa mutters, “I talked to her about half an hour ago and she told me she wasn’t going to drink until after the dance.” As we walk towards her though, she seems to be heading towards the girls’ room with great difficulty. Before pushing the wooden door wide open, she rams herself into a few freshmen exiting to the right. As they pass us they make comments on how “drunk” she must be, and at a complete loss Charissa and I follow Patsy’s inside.
“What are you doing?” I demand instantly as she gazes at her reflection carefully in the mirror.

“Going to the bathroom.” She mutters automatically. She adjusts the bodice of her dress so that the neck isn’t quite so low and then she continues to examine every inch of her face. Charissa quietly remains standing next to me, but unlike her gentle nature, I can no longer hide my frustration.

“Patsy, you just blatantly pretended to be drunk!” I cry out in desperation.

After a few more seconds of primping she shifts her gaze from her hair to my eyes. “Whatever, Daria, maybe I’m exaggerating my condition a little.” I raise my eyebrows at her as she continues. “I totally wish I had drank with Charlotte and Britney because I’m sorry but this dance blows.” She sighs and pouts her lips once more before she briskly brushes past us and out the door without saying another word.

I watch the door swing back into place painfully as suddenly a sick feeling comes over me from this new separation that has just taken place between a group of friends I thought I knew so well.

“Just forget about them for tonight, they don’t know what they’re doing.” Charlotte tells me calmly. “We’ll just go find some other girls to hang out with.” I let her lead me back towards the gym area and eventually we find a group of girls who are somewhat coherent, and begin to dance together in a crowd. I can’t help but dwell on what I have just seen and heard though. “This isn’t a homecoming dance” I tell myself, “This is a free-for-all. I’m standing in a charade where personal insecurities are masked by promiscuity and reservations of enjoyment are drowned by alcohol. This music isn’t even good! I guess the majority of the people here don’t really care though just as long as they can hang on top of each other, even though music really isn’t needed for that. What happened to the dancing part of ‘ a dance?’ These people can’t really move from the way they are positioned.”

Eventually though, I toss these thoughts of irritation aside and make up my mind to make the best of the evening. I begin to dance like never before even though it’s to a rap song I have never even heard of. Charissa immediately begins to laugh at my poor showing of MTV-like dance moves and soon she begins to join along with me. We sway our hips side to side, jolt our heads around, and move our arms up and down in a somewhat relative motion to the beat pounding around us. Soon we completely forget about everything else except the craziness that has overtaken us. The music continues to play, the colored lights still flash, the DJ occasionally shouts some unidentifiable words into the mike behind us and we are enjoying every minute of it. Happily I discover again for myself that I don’t need to be drunk with random guys hanging all over me for me to have a good time at a dance.

“Let’s get a drink.” Charissa lets out breathlessly after several songs. I nod in agreement and we start to head for the refreshment area outside the gym.

“These people totally wish they had half of our dance skills.” I declare with a straight face. We both begin to stumble across the floor ourselves, high only from the waves of laughter and energy that pass over us at the thought of how ridiculous we must look. My smile fades slowly though as we pass Jeff and Heather still grasping onto one another in the middle of a large crowd. As I look carefully at Heather’s face though, she doesn’t seem entirely happy or comfortable for that matter. Her brown eyes are tracing the painted lines of the gym floor, lost of their sparkle and brightness. Her mouth is pulled into a hard, creased line, robbing her of her usually unstoppable beaming expression as she glances up at Jeff’s sly grin. I watch her force a smile back at him, which vanishes as instantly as it appeared when he draws her even closer to him, and she glances away once again. Suddenly her eyes meet mine, and automatically I look away, not able to meet that penetrating gaze.

As we finally reach the large bottles of soda, I start to pour the nearest beverage so that it tumbles into a clear plastic cup. Charissa holds up her freshly poured coke. “A toast to homecoming.” She smiles.

With enthusiasm I bang my cup against hers so that the Sprite begins to slosh down the sides and I have to step back in order for it not to dribble down the front of my dress. We both immediately begin to enter into fits of laughter and as I clutch my stomach to make the bittersweet pains of amusement come to a halt , I make a mental note to actually try and do something about the quality of homecoming for the following year. I decide that I need to give someone some suggestions for making dances better. “A new DJ, better decorations, and of course larger cups.” I remind myself for the future. Tossing the empty plastic into the large garbage can, Charissa and I head back inside for more wild dancing, real dancing. “I guess if you’re forced to stay in your high school gymnasium until eleven o’clock on an autumn Saturday night” I tell myself, “ you might as well make the best of it. And what better way to make it worth your while than to spend time with the people who love you most, your friends – even if they won’t remember if you were there the next day.”

(44) Shear Indulgence

With a mere seventy degrees outside, the sun barely peeks behind masses of alto cumulus puffs of white so that the neighborhood I’m cruising through appears more dull and gray than usual. Though it might be the beginning of autumn, the windows of the Jeep are still rolled down since I just can’t seem to drive comfortably when they are not. Perhaps I have a rare case of car claustrophobia, or maybe it’s just because I got my license last year right when the East Coast was approaching spring. Whatever the reason is that causes my abnormal urge for having excessive winds, it’s beginning to present a problem as I hastily speed towards home.

Clawing strands of hair out from in front my eyes, I realize suddenly that the needle on my speedometer is way past the line where it should be, and reluctantly ease my foot off the pedal. It seems like presently speeding is more of a problem than it has ever been. It’s not even really speeding that is the problem; it’s spare time in general. Which ever adults have calmly told me, seemingly with great wisdom, that my junior year is going to be a “difficult” year have been greatly mistaken. Stating “the junior year of high school is challenging” is an understatement; eleventh grade, as anyone who has experienced it in the last five years can tell you, is just plain hell.

With great frustration I cram my locks down behind my shirt collar, having to quickly adjust the wheel as I begin to drive into the other lane. “Your hair is getting so long, Daria,” everyone tells me. I smile politely at their comments, not needing to be informed of the fact that my mane now hangs limply down my back like a new and improved miracle mop. I feel like telling them that I would cut it if I could. With PSATS around the corner, loads of schoolwork, and college preparation on the horizon, there just isn’t a spare few hours to splurge for a simple cut and blow-dry any more.

As I near the corner for my driveway, once again a gust of wind causes a mass of tresses to entangle itself in front of my eyes. Swiping them away as best I as I can, I eventually regain sight but not before I careen into the nearest dark green trash can. With a loud thump, like dominoes three containers fall over onto the pavement, causing the last one to dump old milk cartons and broken egg shells onto the freshly cut grass.

I have reached my last straw as I angrily zip up the driveway and park abruptly in front of the garage. After glancing at the clock above the dashboard, I make a decision. The day is Wednesday and it’s two forty-seven in the afternoon but somehow in some way I am going to chop off all this baggage now.

Briskly walking through the door and into the kitchen, I don’t even stop to grab an after-school snack as I pull down the heavy yellow pages. Flipping to the page with the heading “barber” I immediately start calling any number in the vicinity of Fairfield County. From Trendy Trims to Cutesy Cuts I receive the same answer to my desperate plea for a last minute appointment; “we’re full.” The very words of rejection stab me in the heart as I continue my cries for help.

“Why don’t you just schedule an appointment for tomorrow, dear.” My mother advises me unmercifully from where she is scribbling in answers to the New York Times crossword puzzle. I stare at her with utter contempt from where I am perched on the edge of a chair at the kitchen table. TOMORROW?! She obviously does not understand my present thirst for instant gratification. Tomorrow just will not do, it is an eternity away, millenniums, eons! This is not just a petty desire now for a simple trim, no this day’s haircut is my destiny!

Hungrily I search the page for a number I have not tried, a place I have not yet cried my woes to. It seems like a lost cause nevertheless, as I let my sight trail across the page. Then, I see it, way at the bottom in small, plain print; Colette’s Fashion Coiffures. My brows instantly wrinkle in puzzlement. “Coiffures? What the heck is that?” I wonder as I gaze at its title. It is under the heading of barbers though so it’s worth a try. Dialing carefully the number that is typed after the short dotted line, I listen desperately as it rings a few times.

“Hello?” A nasally voice screeches into the receiver.

“Hi, I know it’s really late in the afternoon but I was wondering if-”

“MARGE!!! Can you cut the blow-drying for a sec, I have a call!”

“Sorry, Hun, you’re going to have speak louder.”

“Oh, of course.” I raise my voice another notch and shout, “I was just wondering if by any chance I could get my hair cut today. I know it’s short notice, but I’m pretty desperate at this point!” I take a breath and cross my left fingers tightly so that my knuckles turn white as I wait for her fated response.

After a few seconds of hesitation the woman coughs and then throws back at me, “Eh, can you come in at 3:30, dear?” I nearly jump out of my skin! Have I imagined the words that have just fallen from her mouth? The very sentence she has just offered was more beautiful than if the Vienna Boys were standing before me in a chorus of Ave Maria.

“Yes, of course I can come in! The name’s Daria Knight.” I squeal happily, beaming at my mother with pride. “Thanks, I’ll be there soon!” I click the off button on the portable phone and start dancing around the counter like a madwoman.

“You and your charmed life.” My mother mutters as she fills in another few boxes. I barely hear her though as I race upstairs for a couple of twenties in the desk of my room. Before I jump back down to the car, I stop and glance at my reflection in my armoire mirror. Carefully I pull up my tresses so that once again the jungle of my lifeless strands does not hide my high cheekbones, sparkling eyes, and protruding mouth. Tossing it into a ponytail, I snatch my keys and bound to the car.

It isn’t long until I’ve reached Colette’s Fashion Coiffures, and eagerly I push open its glass door to enter into a small room. Though the walls are a pale violet, no customer present is under sixty, there’s no sign of life except for a single pot of fake fern and the only light pouring through the interior is from the fading sunlight outside, the sights of tall chairs, sinks, and blow-dryers bring joy to my very existence.

“Do you want to wash your hair first?” I look up to see a lady about my height with dark hair and eyes standing in front of me.

“Yes, please.” I mumble as I reach to slide my hair elastic down so that my locks tumble down my shoulders. I follow her to a chair in front of a sink and immediately she begins to soak my hair in warm water. Though water seems to splash into my eyes more than it usually does at a regular salon, the feeling of fingers running though my hair brings calm and peace to my senses.

“You want shampoo?” She booms. “It’s seven dollars extra.”

A little bewildered at the need to question the use of a cleaning solution I nod my head emphatically. Soon, a towel is wrapped tightly around my head and I am sitting in front of the mirror, my new hairdresser clutching gleaming, metal scissors.

“I’m not sure what I want, but I know I don’t want it this long.” I tell her indecisively. It is only minutes until we’ve agreed that my tresses would look best at least to my shoulders and soon she begins the risky task of chopping my hair off. At first, I almost squint my eyes shut with fright, terrified of any error. Eventually though I become completely calm, the sound of snipping and slicing easing my troubled mind. As each lock falls to the tiled floor, I seem to let go stress with it. All of the emphasis on colleges, SAT scores, and grades seem to float away as I happily watch a transformation of myself in the mirror in front of me. Soon it is all over, and my damp hair shines healthily, lying perkily just past my shoulders and making me look more mature and confident than before.

“It’s ten dollars extra to blow-dry your hair, but I’m not going to do that to you, Hun, so I’ll just let you dry it yourself.” As my new personal hero hands me a circular brush, I can’t be more exultant. Quickly drying it so that it curls underneath the edge of my shirt collar, she inspects it once more, and whips off the hair-covered black smock. I am so grateful for her service that I almost want to hug her fiercely, but instead just smile at her warmly as I hand her a five dollar tip. The door jingles once again as I step out and head back to the car, my new hairdo bouncing cheerfully as I walk. As I jam my key into the ignition, I glance at my glowing expression in the rearview mirror. Isn’t it funny how certain things just end up working out? With new motivation and hope I pull out of the parking lot, ready to conquer whatever may lay ahead of me during this dreadful year and forever in debt to Colette’s Fashion Coiffures. A haircut has never brought such imperative relief.

(43) The First Day of the Rest of My Life

Thumps of loud music echo across the hall from the door to the Senior caff, as I reach a sea of moving, sweating bodies in the intersection down the hall. The music seems to be bragging that those fortunate enough to be seniors are sitting idly in their own cafeteria, listening to their own kind of music, while everyone else is forced to fight their way through this mob to their next classes. As I mournfully watch what is in front of me, I see a hundred confused faces grouped together, in clumps, all rolling their eyes at each other’s impatience, but continuing to slam each other with backpacks, as they attempt to create a gap in the tangle. I throw myself in, having no other choice than being late to my next class, and immediately I feel hands on the back of my T-shirt, elbows are thrust against my arms, and my face hits several backpacks in front of me. The need for a larger high school has never been so great.

Finally I reach the end of the swarm. I almost seem to stumble out of it, finally able to move freely, and breathe my own air. Quickly finding my American History room, I enter through the door just as the bell rings, and slide instantly into the seat Britney has saved for me. I allow my backpack to easily slide off my shoulders onto the floor next to me and cross my legs in my Jean skirt under my desk, as my new teacher begins to introduce a year of studying America.

“Welcome to American History,” he says with a smile. He’s an older gentleman with pepper-gray hair and small framed glasses that are perched on his rather pink snout. He’s pleasantly plump and seems to sweat immensely under the white button down and tie he’s wearing. He’s the type of person that must take a lot of air out of the environment.
“This year, we will be studying our beloved country, its background, its struggles, its fight for independence.” He drones. As I grip the sides of my desk, I can feel myself trying to go back to sleep, my body not used to waking up at 7 o’clock in the morning. Well actually, 6:30 in the morning, seeing how Charlotte had woken me up before 7, calling to make sure I was going to wear my knee-length Jean skirt today so that she wasn’t going to be the only one. I now glance around the room, my eyes half closed, realizing Jeff Waters and his rather obnoxious friends are my new classmates as well as the fact that a large majority of the girl population in this room and most likely the whole school are all wearing knee-length Jean skirts. Welcome back to Darien High.

And then, he says it. “Class, this is your JUNIOR year. This year is your most IMPORTANT year of high school, and it is NOT GOING TO BE EASY.” I glare at him with hatred, as my palms start to sweat and my heart sinks under my violet T-shirt. He had to say it, every adult has to say it. Every older person I encounter has to ask me what college I want to go to, and finds a need to emphasize how “hard but significant” this upcoming year is going to be. As if I don’t already know that! They don’t realize that this has been what I’ve thought about all summer, every day, and every night. This is the reason why my sister had to practically beat on me to get me out bed this morning, and why for the first year of my entire schooling experience, I didn’t take the time to run to Staples to fill each carefully chosen color coordinated notebook with neat stacks of white lined paper and precisely inscribed dividers. In fact, I was so anti-school this summer, I didn’t even go school shopping for a first day of school outfit! I figured out what I was wearing this EXACT MORNING!

This moment, of lecturing, of note-taking, of sitting still as the morning’s first rays of light are pouring throughout the four walls of this room while most of my summer friends from other towns are still sleeping among the layers of their own beds has been what I have dreaded returning to for the past month, because after this year, my life is never going to be the same.

From this second on, life is no longer fun and games, it’s growing up and being thrown into the harsh world of reality. No longer do I take the classes I enjoy, instead it’s what classes will look good on my applications. Sincere charity is going to be swapped with what community service will look best on my papers. Weekends of partying with friends are now going to transform into eternal nights of studying for SATs. Every test will count, every painstaking note will benefit, and every grade will explain my future. The best way to define this year is plain and simple torture.

Even though these ten months invoke fear through out my whole soul, it’s really not just my junior year of high school that frightens me. No, see after this year, it just all goes downhill. First it’s the applying for colleges, then the getting into college, figuring out a career, hopefully not too soon but nevertheless after that is getting married, then having kids, and then, BAM! I’m going to be a full-fledged, responsibility-filled, PTA meeting-attending adult who finds their joy in their kids and reminisces about the times when they were the age I am now. I can feel the very drops of my youthfulness being sucked right out of me with each second ticking away from the black-rimmed clock on the wall. I’m only sixteen, I’m not ready for all of this!

As Mr. Carnegie continues to go on and on about what is expected for all of us this year, I realize that I can’t hide from these facts anymore. Like it or not, this is my junior year, and if it isn’t this year that forces me to grow up, it will undoubtedly be another year. I can’t be young forever, there isn’t some Never Never Land I can fly to with pixie dust and Peter Pan, and even if they’re was, I would most likely at some point wish to grow up anyway. Though I can’t control the truth about becoming older, I can to some extent control what my future holds. I can work my hardest, give my best to all I do, and plan in advance for what occurs down the road.

As the bell rings once again, signaling that all students are to go to their next class, I sling my bag over my shoulder, wish my teacher a good day, and venture into the halls, more motivated and dedicated to my scholastic achievements than ever before. Once again, as I am thrown into the throng of the intersection, I am determined to never lose focus on my future and make my life all that it can be. I just hope that feeling lasts.

(42) Cinema Verite

The summer mix I made for Patsy hums from the corner of the room as I look up and down at my reflection in her closet door mirror. “You look cute.” She assures me from where she’s perched on the edge of her bed. I sigh unhappily, SURE I look cute. My friend is clothed in brand new chino khakis with a crisp blue button-down that makes her look even tanner, while I’m wearing a simple pair of jeans and a boring violet T-shirt. I had been so into my summer reading that I hadn’t realized what time it was, rushed to Patsy’s house in order to not be late, and hadn’t had one minute of primping time for our big night. I could tell though, that Patsy had spent only all day on her faultless ensemble.

“I don’t feel like it, unfortunately.” I smile at her weakly. This has to be one of the most important nights of my life as a teenager, and I have had absolutely no preparation time. “Do you have any good perfume?” I murmur letting a piece of my hair fall disdainfully down my back. As Pasty hops up to search her bathroom I run through my mind everything that has happened since that fateful night that Kyle had just decided to call me.

I had picked up my phone at like ten o-clock one idle Tuesday night, expecting to hear about Britney’s trip to the Cape, and then it had started. Kyle Madson, a varsity hockey player, the guy who sat next to me in World Studies, and the best friend of Jeff Waters told me he was no longer going out with Hannah and he wanted to get to know me. I had almost fallen off my bed with surprise. Me? Daria Knight? Princess of the plain and royally romantically challenged? As I could hardly breath where I was sprawled on my cloud covered bed spread, he explained that he had just decided to call me from where he was visiting his brother’s college in Virginia and wanted to hang out as soon as he got back. We talked for several hours that night, finding hundreds of things in common and making two weeks seem like a year away.

From that fateful night everything continued like a dream, talking to him every night and exchanging emails daily throughout the two weeks he was gone. It seemed like the perfect budding summer romance until one day he just decided to inform me that he had a problem. “Oh, what is it?” I still can hear myself asking cheerfully, thinking nothing could be such a big deal with our potentially perfect relationship. He had slowly started to explain in his deliciously deep voice,
“Well, I think you should know that I really like you a lot, Daria.” I had smiled like I had never smiled before as I had twirled the phone cord around my finger. “But, I like someone else as well.” My smile instantly faded and I stared at the tiny knots in my carpet with shock. “Before I came out here, I hung out with this girl at my club, and well, she called me the other night, and I guess I like her also.”

I can still make out my weak little voice responding, “Well, Kyle, who is it?” and then he had smacked me in the face with his, “Heather Stone.” I was so apalled, irritated, and bewildered all at the same time, that I had slammed down the phone immediately, and when he had called back I quickly blamed it on the fact that I had accidentally turned it off. He continued to apologize for the situation, to insult himself, and then ask me for advice. What could I possibly say? Forget Heather, she’s a brat and besides, she can get any boy she blinks at? After I had gotten off the phone with him, I pathetically took a shower at like 11:30 at night, allowing my tears to be hidden by the fountain of water pounding on my face from the shower head above me.

After a few days though, I regained my self-confidence and went back into the I-don’t-need-a-guy-to-be-happy mode, although it’s hard when in every sitcom and movie it’s the exact opposite. Then a few nights ago, Kyle called me from his own home and told me he knew a guy that liked Patsy and that we should all hang out. I had reluctantly agreed, not sure whether I could stand to see him when he had hurt me so much. Now though, I am minutes from finally spending time with him face to face, Heather is still vacationing in Florida, and this is what Patsy promises to be my BIG chance. I’m no where near ready though, maybe it’s because I still feel sticky from sitting in the sun all the day, and then again, maybe it’s because it’s not Jeff Waters that is about to sit next to me in the movie theater.

As I hear car doors slam from Patsy’s driveway, I shake all thoughts of Jeff completely out of my mind. My friends are right, Jeff just isn’t meant to be. I believe that now, I’ve completely erased him from my heart, but for some reasons he keeps appearing in my dreams. I can’t dwell on that now though, I tell myself as I shut the closet door, slip my bare feet into my favorite flip flops, and run a brush once more through my hair. “They’re here!” I holler towards the bathroom down the hall.
After a few minutes, Patsy and I laugh cheerfully as we open the front door and greet our guys for the night. We pile into my little red car, the guys crammed into the back with Patsy next to me in the front. As I pull out of the driveway and into the street, we roll all the windows down as well as the sunroof so that the wind tousles our hair as we blast music and dance around to it in our seats. Patsy and I chat about first-day-of-school outfits as I sit comfortably behind the wheel, with the guys discussing the oncoming torture week for soccer and football in the back. The sun is still moving down as every light turns green as we approach it. We can’t ask for a better night. It’s a night for craziness, for laughter, for passion.
It isn’t long until we reach the cinema, and find a parking space on the other side of the world because we’re already fifteen minutes late. We walk quickly to the building, Patsy and Bruce discussing what they’ve heard about the movie we’re about to see, and Kyle and I swapping stories about the summer. As I listen to him describe the exciting things he did in Virginia, I eye him closely. He has a decent build, dark, hair, and deeply tanned skin, a guy certainly worthy of calling a boyfriend and nothing at all like Jeff.

After buying tickets to “The Others” Patsy and I are sent to go find seats while the guys grab some refreshment. As my friend and I enter the designated room though, we are shocked to find almost every seat there filled. Timidly walking down the aisle past men and women, we find the only empty seats located in the first and second rows. Sliding into the second row so that we have to crane our necks to see the screen directly above us, we settle ourselves into two seats together with empty ones on each side. It isn’t long until both guys find themselves on either side of us carrying two large sodas.
As the movie continues to play, I focus on the plot and the characters, conscious though of every move Kyle is making next to me. His elbow is rested on the armrest between us, with is hands resting on the thighs of his dark khaki shorts, and I can tell that he nervously glances at me from time to time. If I actually knew that he was completely interested in me, I would of course consider grabbing his hand if he didn’t make the move himself immediately. Images of Heather though, keep floating through my mind and I can’t bring myself to do anything but smile at him from time to time.

As the frightening music plays in the darkness, my eyes are glued to the screen where Nicole Kidman as the mother of the movie is about to open the door where her daughter insists is a ghost. In the movie, just as she is about to turn the handle, I feel somebody grab my own hand and begin squeezing it. Looking down I realize with amazement that PATSY is the one grasping my hand. As our bodies tense with terror, I can’t help but think that this just isn’t right. We both have guys next to us that hopefully are interested in us, and what are we doing? We’re holding EACH OTHERS’ hands? As the next creepy scene in the movie approaches, I grab quickly for Kyle’s hand in addition to Patsy’s. As I glance at Kyle next to me though, he has his hands over his eyes, almost hiding himself where he is scrunched down in the seat behinds his knees.

My eyes widen with astonishment, Mr. Big and Strong hockey player Kyle is now practically underneath his seat with terror from a simple GHOST. For some reason I have pictured the night to be the typical one with the scary movie and the frightened girl shielding herself from the images of horror in the protective arms of her fearless guy. Now though, Kyle is nearly breaking my hand he is squeezing it so hard from where he is cowering next to me in the darkness.

The movie seems to last an eternity. “This is the scariest part.” Bruce whispers to us from where his is sitting next to Patsy. I start to let my hand drop back to my lap where it is on the armrest next to Kyle, but just as I start to move, he grabs my arm and I can feel his whole body become stiff. As I watch the mother in the movie approach her daughter who is clothed in a clean white dress, Kyle digs his fingers in my arm. The face of the mother’s daughter is shown, and as I gasp with shock I hear a piercing scream around me in addition to the rest of the audience’s cries. It’s a scream I’ve never heard anything like before, one that you would think only dogs could hear. I look over at Patsy expecting her to be the owner of the deafening shriek but then as I hear it again I realize it isn’t a girl after all. Kyle can’t seem to control himself as he let’s out another screech and I begin to shake with laughter in my seat.

As the credits eventually roll, we exit the popcorn strewn aisles of the theater and all four of us chatter on the way outside about what we have just watched. “It’s POURING!” Patsy moans. Rain is pounding onto the cars and soaking our faces and backs as it bounces on the pavement. Bruce and Patsy scatter towards the car, but Kyle and I are content to walk slowly as the drops patter on our arms and legs. “I hope I didn’t break your arm off, Daria.” He grins as I inspect it to make sure it’s still in tact. “I admit it, I’m a wimp when it comes to creepy movies.”

“I didn’t notice.” I say with a straight face, but as he looks at me closely, I burst out laughing. He shoves me gently and I shove him back as we both laugh under the outpour, the drops of moisture visible from the dim glows of the parking lot lights. I realize though, that I feel nothing, my heart doesn’t hammer under my damp T-shirt and I never had a wave of warmth when we were clutching hands in the theater. As we mess around on the way towards my car, I can’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment. Kyle is practically perfect, except for his lack of courage while watching scary films, but there’s just nothing here between us right now. There are just no fireworks, as my dad likes to call them, and I can’t help but feel completely fine with letting this one go to Heather if he really wants to. Maybe it’s that I’m not meant to have a boyfriend until I’m thirty, or it’s just the alignment of the stars tonight, or it could just be that summer love just isn’t what it’s cracked up to be anymore. One thing is for certain though, as we reach our dripping buddies and pile into the car to spend the rest of the night at Bruce’s house, you can never have too many friends, especially when they’re guys, because maybe one day, you’ll actually begin to understand them.