Till Death Do Us Part

I lay on a block of concrete and close my eyes. How can the sky burn my eyes when the sun is buried beneath a veil of white clouds? I feel that piercing brightness like gravity pressing on my eyelids, and it is a pleasant feeling. I smell the railroad tracks from where they rest, collecting dust in their current slumber, which could be interrupted at any given moment by the deafening rumble of the train. They smell like the beach. I feel the cool breeze breaking the tension of humidity and pushing against my bare legs, and I imagine I'm lying in warm sand by the ocean. All that is missing is the cry of the seagulls.

I lower the volume of my music, eerie music about questioning God, and I find myself disturbed by the silence. There are no seagulls. I am completely alone. Here in the middle of nowhere, stretched on a seemingly useless concrete bed, laid at one end of the trail I cycle on every day. I turn up the music again, and listen to the way the music itself somehow sounds troubled. I turn my head to the side, and watch a silver car traveling up a hill in the distance. I think about sitting in the back of my mother's car, outside of a post office, crying quietly as she attempted to make me feel guilty for having pinkeye. (What kind of parent tries to make their child feel guilty for being sick?) The tears seemed to fall even harder than usual, probably urged forward by my bacterial conjunctivitis. I watched cars traveling then to, with my head turned the same way and lying against the window, picturing throwing myself in front of them.

I pictured myself wearing a white dress, a white dress made of lace, with a halo of daisies in my hair and heeled shoes on my feet. I held a handful of flowers like a bride. I threw them in the air as if a hopeful bridesmaid waited for that moment of perfect coordination and that collective jaw drop when it landed in her palms. And I threw envelopes with the flowers, letting them fall like confetti. Envelopes holding letters full of words I never got around to saying, or didn't say enough. And with long, slow strides, I stepped out into the street at just the perfect moment and let the rest of the world stop holding their breath and puff out that sigh of relief. Their bouquets had been caught. Reassured of good things to come, now that their one burden had slid reluctantly off of their shoulders, and tiptoed away to that makeshift aisle of sidewalk and macadam.

The bride began her walk. Her escort was Doubt, the one who had convinced her to make herself this way. And at the end, the one that Doubt had told her would be the only groom she'd ever know: Misery.

She prayed that that unlucky wedding crasher behind the wheel would take them both. Till death do us part.

I shuddered at the clarity of the thought, a clarity that came form repetition. But why? Dying couldn't be the only way to escape from Misery. Could it? And I didn't want to die. I wanted to live forever. Death scared me more than anything. What if I simply stopped existing? What if I was caught in an empty void of blackness, but I didn't even know it, because I wouldn't be capable of knowing anything? What if there is no afterlife? What if death is just death?

It's a terrifying thought to get stuck on. Sometimes, late at night, I try to keep myself awake, because I am afraid of what will happen if I fall into a dreamless slumber. I am petrified of the idea of not being aware of my own existence. I am not sure why, but I need my racing thoughts to remind me that I am alive. Because on every other level, I am left unsure.

Because YOLO

Maybe it isn't my awkward demeanor. Maybe it isn't my low maintenance hair or my laziness with makeup. Maybe it isn't my bigger build. Maybe it isn't the way I dress. Maybe it isn't because I don't say much.

Maybe it's because I think too much. Maybe people aren't attracted to me because I think too much.

I was miserably putting up with a sex-based discussion going on around me over a lunch I was barely touching, seething over the fact that there must be something pathetic or undesirable about me if I don't have the littlest, most innocent thing to contribute in any conversations that take a turn toward romantic and sexual relationships.

And it got me thinking.

If so many different types of people end up in that whirlwind or temporary bliss us teenagers label as "in a relationship" due to Facebook teaching us such terminology, then maybe I haven't stumbled upon romance for a reason other than being undesirable.

To put it bluntly,

maybe I'm a pussy.

I have a tendency to do this thing called "overanalyzing" where I take a situation, and I make a nice, long list of all the possible things that could go wrong. I convince myself that every decision I make, especially dealing with love, should be done in a manner that gracefully avoids pain. I am devoted to my comfort zones. So what if that comfort zone is the warm, welcoming seat of the rocking chair that we call worry, that gives me something to do but never takes me anywhere? At least I'm comfortable, right?

But life shouldn't be about avoiding anything outside of your comfort zone, should it? What exactly does that accomplish? And a better question: why the hell do I do it so much?

Pining away for Floyd is a comfort zone. That whole scenario. The unrequited love thing. It's become home to me. It's the reason why I sometimes avert my eyes when I see him looking at me, the reason why he isn't the only one avoiding conversation.

Maybe Floyd didn't drift away. Maybe I pushed him.

But why? Why would I do that? Because I'm scared? Scared that he'll want me?

That really doesn't make much sense to me either. But there is something about a romantic/sexual relationship that terrifies me. Imagine that! Me, the girl whose mouth is practically a broken record entitled "I Will Die Alone", is afraid to have a boyfriend.

I guess that could be understandable. Maybe. I mean, everyone is afraid of the unknown, and I am no different. I am afraid to go to college, to live on my own. I am afraid to take my SATs next month. I am afraid to speak my mind. I am afraid of getting my license. I am afraid of having children when I'm older. I am afraid to die. And at the root of it all, I am afraid of change. I am the very embodiment of fear, which I'd say stems from that whole "overanalyzing" thing.

And from that also stems my fear of having a boyfriend.

Sure, those fairytale-esque daydreams that often plague my common sense seem pretty appealing. But real relationships aren't something ripped straight out of a rom-com, and perhaps that is what scares me. The possibility of my first relationship falling short of perfect.

But no one's relationships are perfect. The things in our lives that aren't perfect are the things that become mistakes that shape us, and stories to tell, and memories to look back on and laugh or cry. If a person lives their life gracefully avoiding any situation that could cause them discomfort, can that person honestly say that they are living?

I don't think so.

Maybe living with my guard up is what has made me so impervious to love, so reluctant to give it and receive it. And not just love, I have become impervious to everything that my self-inflicted misery cannot feed off of.

Why do I choose to live this way? Forcing myself into the captivity of comfortable and wondering why I have become so cynical, so miserable, so sour, so torn apart by this constant tug-of-war between being happy and being comfortable?

It's like I'm a butterfly who has voluntarily flew into the net of an evil child named Doubt and let them plunk me in a jar, let them forget to poke some air holes in the top. It's like Doubt holds me in his grimy little hands, watching me and waiting for me to die just to feel the thrill of sucking the life out of yet another person. And from the inside of the jar, I watch everyone else hatching from their cocoons and fluttering about with beautiful wings, landing on flowers and sucking out the sweetness until there is none left, then careless flitting to another.

And I am completely capable of sucking the sweetness out of my life.

I've been so convinced that I'm still trapped in my cocoon, bitterly watching as everyone else and everyone else's lives evolve around me and waiting for my own chrysalis to burst open and release me with a one-way ticket to that contentment I envy so greatly.

But perhaps I've already shed my cocoon. Perhaps the only thing holding me back is the tauntingly clear walls of Doubt's jar, the walls I put up around myself.

Maybe I should take the hint from the inanity of pop culture and follow the mantra we've all learned to disdain: the acronym "YOLO."

Because you really do only live once.

Why waste that life letting Doubt hold you back?
 

Perhaps

I stand in front of a smudged full length mirror, silently scrutinizing every part of my body that is accentuated in the Marilyn Monroe gown that I wear.

"I really like that one. It looks so good, girl! And black…it like…it slims you down. Do you know what I mean?"

January babbles on somewhere behind me while I make a mental note to drop a few pounds before prom.

After trying on a few dresses in her bedroom, trying not to mind the zippers not closing all the way on some of them, I curl up on her cushiony bed in sweatpants, scroll through my Facebook on my iPod, and listen to her talk about her latest boyfriend. I feel comfortable. Every negative thought that had crossed my mind about her recently was temporarily forgotten.

"I feel like I'm kinda like, stringing him along, and I guess after I move, I'll just break it off with him. And he keeps asking' me, "Jan, my friend is tellin' me you been cheatin'. I want you to be honest with me, babe. If you wanna break up with me than tell me. If we're gonna break up, I want you to break up with me because I don't wanna hurt you, da-da-da-da-da.' (January's version of "blah blah blah") And I don't know why he keeps accusin' me of somethin' I didn't do."

I take a silver Nikon camera down from where it hangs on the wall, and absentmindedly play with it. A Nikon N55. A 35 mm. A nice one, too.

"If he keeps saying that, it's like he's pushing you to break up with him. And since he keeps claiming that you're 'cheating,' that probably means that he's just trying to switch the blame around because he's probably the one doing something wrong."

I let the words hang between us, half-expecting a disagreement.

"I know, right? That's what I said! But I think I'm just not gonna tell him that I don't have feelings for him until I move. Because he's already said that if I hurt him, he'll go back to his old ways. Like, the drugs and stuff."

"How do you know he ever stopped?" I meet her gaze, and her blue eyes light up at my suggestion, and I know it's never even occurred to her.

"That's so true! I never thought of that!" she raves, and I know that she knows that I'm probably right. But she won't break it off any sooner because of it.

We sit in silence for a few moments, and I listen to our moms talking out on the back porch. I sip on my cherry-pomegranate V8 juice and scratch the top of her dog's head. It feels like summer.

And summer feels like contentment.

Feeling content with January comes as a surprise, and I know it shouldn't.

After going home, I find this incredible sadness nestled inside of me that had stayed out of sight until I had had time to let my brain start going into overdrive again. Let myself wonder how it can be both so easy and so difficult to feel happy. And it's a weird sadness, this feeling of longing. But not longing for another person. Longing for myself.

I've become something hollow, a shell. Perhaps a glass. A vulnerable glass on the countertop, knowing it has no other choice but to feel the chill of other people purring themselves inside. Letting everything inside of them fill up everything inside of me, until they tilt their head back and drink it all back inside. Including pieces of me.

Or perhaps I am the liquid, taking the shape of whatever container I am put inside of. The cynic. The bitch. The good friend. The funny girl. The miserable girl. The life of the party. The wallflower. And underneath those facades that I am poured into at the hands of other people, I am as transparent and tasteless as water. But in all actuality, I haven't always been that way.

I guess some people would tell me I do it to myself. And perhaps I do. But maybe after having so many people take tiny bits of your optimism, of your sanity, of your common sense--simply because they believe that they need it more than you do--maybe that is when you become this way.

When you become empty.

Sometimes, I feel like I should have this Hollywood moment where I meet someone who makes me feel less empty. Like a friend. Or a mentor. Or a lover. Anyone who makes me feel like they and I are two different people, not one person and their involuntary yet obedient little attachment. Their shadow, a ghost of someone who may or may not have existed once, a transparent shape that they find it so easy to pour their own reflection into.

Why must they think that the meaning of a friend is to take the feet of another person and shove them into their own shoes, not even considering that they had interrupted that person's own journey in the process?

Is that what has happened to me?

It seems that the only friend I've come across who was willing to attempt understanding me and fixing up all the broken parts of my mindset is Symphony. And as much as I love her, it seems that instead of making me feel less empty, she just makes me feel like I am empty for a reason. If that makes sense.

Honestly, my friends are good people. They are lost teenagers, and when they look at me, they may not see that empty ghost. Maybe they see the wisdom stored in my brain, the secrets behind surviving adolescence that I somehow can simultaneously know and not apply to my life, and they know that I can help them. And who can blame them? If someone could help me too, I'd want the answers.

So where do I find my own answers?

Perhaps I already know them.

Summer

A New England summer is as unpredictable as my life is not.

One day, it's ninety-eight degrees, and the sun beats down on you so hard that you think God has turned up the pressure of gravity just to watch you squirm. The next day, it's barely seventy and pouring rain.

But the unpredictability of my summer stopped there. Every day was the same. They all blended together, daylight hanging on for dear life, showing up sometime around five in the morning, and finally letting go sometime around eight thirty. The nights were short, warm and breezy.

And it came to the point where I forgot what the world was like beyond the edges of my vast property. I became so accustomed to being miserable and bored that I forgot what it was like to feel otherwise. The simplest things slipped my mind, things I used to know how to do. How to be social. How to put on a disguise of false kindness. How to make an attempt to look and act presentable for the sake of having a social life.

My previous life froze in its tracks, and even the most sweltering of those summer days couldn't melt it back into place. My new life was repetition. Obediently watering flowers that weren't even mine for no reward. Eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and TV dinners. Waking up after eleven and going to bed at two in the morning. Going to grocery store with my mom, which was something that changed my day from boring to eventful. Watching movie after movie on my living room floor. Going for the same walk on the same trail every day. Listening to Nirvana and The All-American Rejects on my Nana's porch swing until dark. Flipping through old Seventeen magazines. Playing the same old songs over and over on my guitar, "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" becoming a daily routine. Dieting. Reading. Going for the occasional swim at my grandmother's house. Surfing the Internet at the same time every night, marveling at how dull my life was compared to the lives of the smiling faces on my Facebook News Feed. Thinking so much that I put myself into a bad mood.

I missed the things I had to replace with memories.

But my "summer life" wasn't all bad. Nowadays, I'd do anything to get that simple existence back. It was complete paradise compared to putting up with the rest of the world, and all of its superficial, idiotic occupants.

But that last statement makes me feel a little troubled, even when I write it, because I hate hypocrites.

In Your Eyes, I Lost My Place.

"Just look at David and laugh. He'll think you're talking about him," Floyd says to me quietly, smiling mischievously. He sits in front of me, turned in his chair, his elbow resting on my desk. David sits beside me, working diligently on his French assignment.

I smile back and nod. Floyd gestures for me to lean closer, so I do, and his lips are right beside my ear. He pauses for a moment, then cracks up a little before whispering, "Just laugh." And we both burst into perfectly staged laughter, staring at David. After a few more minutes of this, David is obviously annoyed with us.

"What?" he snaps, rolling his eyes.

"Nothing," we reply in unison. I want to tell him that it's a joke, and I'm only playing along because I like when Floyd whispers in my ear. But I don't. His annoyance wears off and he simply ignores us. The moment passes, but I still feel Floyd's breath on my ear, giving me chills.

Now, I can still feel it.

I can still feel myself bringing my hands up to my face on the bus home one day and smelling his scent there, and the way I smiled and breathed it in. I can still feel his eyes burning through mine, the way it made me buzz with electricity, the sparks that I hadn't even realized were flying. I can still hear him singing "Away From The Sun" with me in Shop class, and I can still feel our hands brushing together as we built our bridge. I can still remember the way we exchanged a glance after our bridge collapsed, a small smile on both of our faces. Oh well. The teacher had asked us if we worked well together, and he had replied with, "Of course. She did everything I told her to," but flashed me a smile to let me know he was joking. I can still hear the beginning of a song by The Offspring he had played for me in French class. "My friend's got a girlfriend and he hates that bitch, he tells me every day…" I had laughed out loud, then went through more songs he had saved on his Blackberry, pleased to find that many of them matched my own taste in music. I can still hear him rapping his fingers on his laptop to the beat of whatever song he was listening to, the sound sharp and loud like a snare drum. I can still feel his body beside mine, how I would think that only one touch would break an invisible wall between us, the last wall that still stood. One touch. If only it could be intentional.

He sits beside me, talking to Elaine at lunch. Bored while I wait for our row of tables to be called up, I pull out my computer. He watches, a smirk on his face, as I open my Super Mario Bros. game to pass the time. He meets my gaze silently, and he waits. After I begin playing, he hums the Mario theme song dramatically, and presses his fingers on top of mine, making it hard to control what I'm doing in the game. I laugh until there are tears in my eyes, but then he makes me fall into a hole, and with fake anger I growl, "Floyd! I hate you!" He sits back and laughs, and I'm sad to feel the warmth of his hands leave mine.

But now, all of those moments feel far away. I feel like I'm losing them. I feel like they're slipping away from me. I feel like he's slipping away from me, one little piece at a time. His fiery eyes, his breath against my ear, his hands brushing against mine, his brutal honesty always working in my favor. It isn't disappearing. It's just as if the intensity is fading. Now, I feel like we're just friends. Weren't we just friends before I told him how I felt? Nothing had seemed to change. But did it?

Is he drifting away, or am I pushing him away myself, out of the sadness his rejection left ringing in my head? That sadness that made me shake with sobs, as I listened to the same depressing songs on repeat until I had them memorized. The sadness is like a voice in my head, whispering, "You were right.  It's over now. He doesn't love you. He never will. No one will." It stings me when I see him treating other girls the way he had once treated me, and that voice whispers in my head, making it hard to smile back at him when he meets my gaze, making it hard to take his side. Making it hard to want to please him. I don't owe him anything.

I always thought that was all we were the entire time, just friends.

I never even noticed the sparks until they started to burn out.

Is this my fault?

To Doubt Or Not To Doubt?

"Did you know that only two percent of the population have green eyes?" Floyd asks.

"Oh. Wow," I say in response, and I look back down at my lunch, catching sight of the two cups of frozen peaches stacked on top of each other. I grin a little and then I realize he’s still looking at me.

"You have green eyes," I say, and it comes out half like a question and half matter-of-factly. I look up and look right into those eyes.

"Yeah," he says and we both don’t look away. "Well, they change color."

"They look kind of…grayish green," I reply. And I look away because if I look for too long, my brain will drain out until it’s empty. But I don’t look away in time because I turn into an idiot in five seconds flat. I mentally kick myself because something stupid fell out of my mouth instead of something clever, but he still laughs anyway.

Random things flash through my memory. (Why must I think so much?) The bridge. The day we talked aimlessly about so many different things. The peaches he just gave me a few minutes before. The exchanged glances. The proud feeling I get when I make him laugh. The way he never lets out his vicious side to attack me. The way I take his side and he takes mine. He is my Superman, and I am the damsel in distress. And here I am, patiently waiting for him to sweep my off of my feet and fly away.

The girl he was dating broke up with him on Saturday. Saturday…when I had that dream…Anyway, he told me this on Monday, and the whole thing didn’t even seem to affect him, which wasn’t surprising. What can I say? He’s Floyd. If his heart were broken, he would have a hard time showing it. I wish I were more like him sometimes.

It’s only Wednesday, but I’m just dying for him to sweep me off my feet already. We could be a silhouette in the sky. The stereotypical-nonstereotypical (if that makes sense?) happy couple, with a red cape trailing behind them as they fly higher and higher, up to where heartbreak and loneliness aren’t even an afterthought.

But for some reason, I doubt that he will.

To doubt or not to doubt?

That is the question...

It Happens More Than I'd Like To Admit

"Wait—what the hell is that?" he says, an incredulous laugh in his voice.

"It’s a pedal tone chord. It’s like a Cadd9, but you put your…" I trail off. "You know a G, right?" He nods and places his fingers in a G formation. I pull one of his long, pale fingers off of the bottom string and move it down a string. "Now, put your pinky on the last string." He strums the G. "It kind of adds something, doesn’t it?" I ask, and I look up at the wrong time because I’m looking right into his eyes. Look away. He switches back and forth from a G to a Cadd9 and then his fingers start flying up and down the fret board. Those fingers just can’t be trained, confined to simplicity. I smile at the intricate noise and watch his hands. It's like a whole other language, that his hands whisper to my strings, one that my hands don't quite know how to translate yet. My strings seem to like it, because they respond beautifully. They learn quickly, much faster than I. When I look up, our eyes meet again. He asks me something but I don’t even hear it. I blink.

"Do you want your guitar?" he says again.

"No, you can keep playing… Just give it to me when you’re done." He hands it to me immediately and I am honestly a little disappointed.

We’re talking and it’s not as meaningless as I expect and something is happening in me that shouldn’t be happening.

I start playing "Kryptonite" by 3 Doors Down because that song makes me think about Floyd. Floyd. Yeah, him. Damn you Floyd, for getting sick, and leaving me to watch Jordan and realize just how--

What am I thinking?

Logic has failed me and my brain is turning against me.

I spend time with Jordan and it feels like the first day that I met him, which is not good. Something is new and something is different about us today, maybe the fact that I’m "over" him and he’s looking at me and talking to me and I’m trying very, very, very hard to ignore those eyes and that smile and that music and those hands and everything that I fell in love with on the very first day.

"I kind of want to get the other guitar from the band room. Will you come down with me?" he asks and I can’t say no and that bugs me. We go downstairs, and we’re laughing, having some sort of bizarre conversation, the kind I'm only in the mood for when I'm happy. And I am. Why? I laugh harder when I hear him laughing, because his laugh is so amusing. We walk side by side, laid back and comfortable like friends should be and I want to catch one of his hands with one of my swinging arms and hold it. When I realize this, I want to slam my head against the wall repetitively until I realize how incredibly stupid I am being.

I spend the rest of the morning thinking and mentally slapping myself across the face. Snap out of it. I keep shoving Jordan out of my mind until sometime around second period, I let him in. He curls up with my reluctant affection. I let myself want to love him. I let myself want to make him happy.

And you know why I let that happen?

Because "I may be dumb, but I’m not a dweeb, just a sucker with no self-esteem."

Who said anything about a weak point? I am strong enough to want to hold Jordan’s hand without wanting to hold it forever. I'd say that's more of a strong point than a weak point.

Maybe this is just how I get myself through Wednesdays that otherwise suck. May as well make them worth glorifying, right?

And then it is Thursday and I am back to random but meaningful conversation and smiling and laughing with Floyd. I always feel a warm, proud feeling when I make Floyd laugh. Our popsicle stick bridge is actually starting to look like a bridge and we are gluing and clamping and taping and it is all very frustrating but we are talking and standing very close which makes it all better.

"Michelle was thrilled that you weren’t here yesterday," I say. "She was like, "Guess what! Floyd isn’t here! This is great!" and I was like, "Yes, I know."

"'And that makes me very sad,'" Floyd says to finish off my thoughts exactly with a grin on his face. No comment. He totally knows. Or maybe I’m just overreacting. Love, or like, or attraction, or obsession or whatever this is should not be a frustrating guessing game. I’m not chasing him down, I’m simply just walking. I don’t follow him. He doesn’t follow me. We just walk side by side and ponder if we should be holding hands. At least I do.

And Jordan still wanders around in the very back of my mind, but I am focusing all of my daydreamer dreams on the boy who hasn’t let me down yet.

I hate to think about it and say this, but if Floyd was ever to let me down…for some reason…

I know exactly where I would go next.

And that bugs me.

When I get on the bus after school, a song is playing. I hear only a few of the words before it ends. I'm not over you. Even the radio hates me. "Hey," Yuuki says to get my attention. I turn my head toward where she sits across the aisle. "This music sucks." I nod. Yes Yuuki, it does.

Oh well. I guess all good chefs have to pay attention to the things they put on the back burner every once in a while. Right?

With Every Move I Die

The gymnasium is dark, save for the flashing green and white lights that leave the walls decorated with stars, hearts, and disco-esque spots. The room is emptier than I expected, but still peppered with small clumps of people, some dancing and some standing still.

Alexandria decides not to attend the evening's festivities. I could really use her warm heart, upbeat aura, and sound, to-the-point advice on a night like tonight. But instead, I’m surrounded by people who could care less about what I am feeling.

I am still in my awkward stage of not dancing when I see them. She looks pretty, polished, in a gray and black dress, her golden blonde hair straight and perfect. And there is Floyd holding her. I avert my eyes quickly, like I just saw a glimpse of a person covered in blood, or I just saw someone I barely know bawling their eyes out, or I just saw two girls making out, or I just saw someone get hit by a car or have their head chopped off. But all of those things would be undoubtedly better than seeing this. I dared to look again and saw their heads very close. They were seconds away from a kiss. Just in time, I turned my head quickly once more and didn’t make the mistake of looking again. Yuuki tells me that he looks my way a few times, but I don't dare to look at him, not even for a friendly wave or a small smile.

I hope that when he's holding her and seeing me, he takes a moment to think about me. About singing "Away From The Sun" with me or standing so close to me in shop class. About playing cards with David and I at lunch, about talking and talking about all of those little things we have in common, about throwing a frisbee around with me in my backyard when we were young, about how he chose me to work with him on our bridge, Giles Corey: The Bridge Of The Rising Sun, in shop class, about the cookies I buy him and the peaches he gives me at lunch, about the exchanged glances and times we laughed, about our friends that say we'd be cute together. But I know he doesn't. I am the last thing on his mind tonight.

For the rest of the evening, I kept catching glimpses of them. Him holding her while they danced to "Here (In Your Arms)" by Hellogoodbye, a song I’ve always loved. (Not anymore) Her walking as he trailed behind, their hands linked. Him whispering something in her ear and her laughing in response. Slow songs play and I refuse to look at them. I watch Cassidy and her gorgeous boyfriend dance instead, and feel a pang of envy. He's a pretty cool guy. I wish I could find a nice guy that I could show off at school dances like this, a guy that would hold me and push my hair back and kiss me the way he does to her. They make it look so easy. All of those sweet moments. I’ve never even kissed anyone. I'm so fucking lame. Why do I even breathe? I look up at the red numbers on the clock and find myself wishing I were at home watching Juno.

The evening creeps by slowly, and Floyd and his girlfriend eventually leave. I find myself wondering where they went. Maybe to his house. I'd bet they had a jolly-good time, too. Minutes pass slowly, and I become more relaxed about my dancing and simply move. My mind is a million miles away. I stare off into space, eyes and brain unfocused, and move to the beat of the music. Cassidy’s boyfriend reaches out his hand and messes up my hair a little, and the playful gesture yanks me out of my thoughts and I reach up and do the same to him. I can’t help but want to be the girl kissing him instead of Cassidy. Am I thinking like this out of loneliness? Because I'm not even attracted to the guy. But there he was, like some emo Prince Charming, and I’m suddenly, stupidly wishing he came to this dance with me, so I could hold him close and hope that Floyd would see me with this gorgeous guy when he’s not gorgeous and his date isn’t really that pretty either.

And yet I feel something for Floyd that’s beyond thinking he’s gorgeous. We’re like the missing pieces of each other’s jigsaw puzzles. I’m the sweet, quiet part that he lacks, and he is the impulsive, honest, loud, badass part that I lack. We’d be the perfect counterparts for each other.

But he’ll never know that, and I’ll never tell him.

I left the dance a little happier than I had been earlier. Or maybe I was just numb. As I danced, the loud music filling the silence I was locking myself inside of, everything slowly started to fade away. The people around me became just faces, the music became just noise, and my body rocked to the sound, like I was a child being lulled to sleep, or I was rocking back and forth while I cried, because for some reason, that’s usually strangely comforting. Everything was a blur. My eyes that had been wet with tears were dry once more and a little out of focus. At one point, I remember pondering if I was going to pass out, because I felt so detached from the moment. I slowly woke up from my strange slumber, induced by the lullaby of thumping pop music and bumping, spinning, and swaying bodies that crashed like waves. Being at that dance was like sleeping on the beach. After Floyd was gone, the one person that existed in a crowded room had disappeared, leaving everyone else still invisible to me.

On the way out, Cassidy’s boyfriend told me it was nice meeting me and pulled me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around him tightly because I really needed a hug and it felt nice to hold a boy for a change, even if it was my friend’s crazy cross-dresser boyfriend. I told him it was nice meeting him too, even though we had already met twice. But I’d bet he didn’t even remember. I’m not exactly an unforgettable kind of girl. Then, everyone leaves and I'm in my mom's car on my way home to pretending I'm not miserable.

Right now, it’s very, very early Sunday morning, and I’m a little tired. When I got home, I talked to Jordan on Facebook out of boredom and remembered why I didn't like him anymore. A little birdie told me he was single again, and a little part of me cared. But a bigger part of me didn’t. I could say that I hope the girl broke his heart, but I honestly don’t even care. He’s a dolt. I’m glad I forgot about him, but I’ve hit rock bottom once more. And it hurts.

I sit at the kitchen table with my dad. He eats ice cream and Puffin' Corn and works on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper. I’m clicking away at my laptop keys when he says, "I don’t know this one, but I should. ‘A heavy metal band.’ And it has ‘A’, blank, ‘D’, blank." I let a piece of cheesy Puffin Corn melt in my mouth and stop typing. "AC/DC," I say in response. I don’t even like AC/DC too much, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Something hurts inside because it reminds me of Floyd. (What doesn't anymore?) AC/DC is his favorite band.

I start listening to "Away From The Sun" and suddenly I am in the wood shop, touching his hands and singing the song with him. I close my eyes and let myself live in that moment, because I’d rather not be in this one.

I spent the rest of my Sunday sleeping, eating sugary cinnamon pretzels, listening to sad music and writing. I wrote a poem, but it's not any good. But something stood out to me about the poem. Four years ago, on the same night as the dance, February 11, 2008, my heart was broken for the very first time. I was at a middle school Valentine's Day dance, and I had asked the boy I liked to dance with me. He hated me because I chased him like my life depended on it. Even at eleven years old, I was on the never-ending quest for the sweet happiness that usually comes with romance. He had said no to me, and had danced with another girl instead. As soon as I got in the car and we were a block or two from the school, I was bawling like a baby. It continued for hours after. I remember looking down at my Tin Roof Sundae ice cream at home and still crying. It just never stopped.

And it still hasn't. The heartache changes, the reasons for the pain change, but it's always that same pain. I always find myself in the same rut that I was in that night in middle school, when the feeling was still new to me. Now, I'm so used to it, it's scary. It's the one feeling I can never detach from. It's the one that hits me so hard that I just fall down, helpless, and I'm back to being that naïve little girl at the kitchen table with her ice cream. The same one who picked up a pencil and paper and wrote her first poem and hasn't stopped writing since.

I'll always be that girl.

No if only I can be proven wrong.

On My Side

A few days ago, I had been talking to Floyd in French class about how Symphony seems to enjoy treating me like nothing, and still expects me to act like nothing is wrong. Today, she had been flitting around in her usual fashion, following around our young, good-looking history teacher. (Every girl's dream, except when he sings Lady Antebellum in class and burps in your face while checking your work) After his class, I had been leaving with Floyd and David as she had been entering, for whatever reason. She had said hello to me, and I greeted her in return, but all I could think of is how she had ignored me the night before when I had tried to talk about something other than her for a change. I waved and smiled anyway and heard Floyd mumble something behind me. I slowed down and fell into step beside him.

"What was that?" I asked, smirking. I was greeted with that mischievous look he wore so well.

"I said, ‘get the fuck out.’ You know, not to Symphony or anything…" I grinned a little.

"...my thoughts exactly."

"That’s what I do. I say the things that no one else does." We smile at each other. He's right. Always right. He’s like the missing piece of me, the part of me that never has the guts to come out. He’s the edgy, harsh, rude, I-don’t-have-time-for-your-bullshit side of me that I’m too yellow-bellied to reveal.

Then at lunch, he lets another impudent comment about Symphony slip as she leaves for the classroom of the man of her dreams. Brooke and Elaine grumble something about how rude he is, with matching eye rolls. He gestures my way with his eyes and says,

"She doesn’t like her. Therefore, I don’t like her." I look down at my lunch tray to hide the pride showing in my grin.

I take your side and you take mine? Sounds likes a plan.

And now again I’ve found myself so far down, away from the sun that shines into the darkest place, I’m so far down…

We both sing under our breaths as the shop teacher blasts music for us as we work out in the shop, building our Popsicle stick bridge. The teacher has a great taste in music, always playing things Floyd and I find ourselves singing along to. And as "Away From The Sun" plays for us, I glue and tape and measure Popsicle sticks absentmindedly, thinking about how close we’re standing. I hold a stack of sticks together for him to tape, and as he does, his hands are touching mine. Not just a brush here and there. I can feel how warm his hands are, and I wonder if he’s thinking about holding my hands like I’m thinking about never letting go of his.

When I was younger, when we would toss a Frisbee around in my backyard sometimes, passing the time as our dads and moms talked, I would’ve never suspected I would end up wanting to be his girlfriend when I was fifteen.

Life is full of surprises.