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ONE | Every New Beginning Comes from Some Other Beginning's End

Summer is over, officially, when my day-glo alarm clock in neon green-and-pink scatterbrain's me into coherancy at 6:45AM. It's my senior year at Marshall Kessler High School and I had planned all my life to be excited for it. Off to college, freedom from childhood restraints, able to make my own decisions, have a live-in boyfriend and our own apartment together and get a job somewhere other than hostessing at Ruby's Rib Shack and Pool Hall. But to be honest, none of those things matter to me anymore. I've never had a boyfriend, by choice, because I distanced myself from the possibility of getting to know any of them in that way. I made it very clear that I was to be seen as "one of the guys" and that worked for me. It still does, I think. Regardless, if I do date someone, I don't want to have to go hunting for him. I want to be pursued. Not in a sadistic, stalking way where the guy throws pebbles at my window after I turn out the lights for the night, singing me to sleep with his ukelele. I want him to look at me and smile in that way where it makes your stomach turn upside down and make gurgling noises. Like you're going to throw up, in a good way. And that's all. A smile that says everything words cannot will determine the one I find myself pining over. I don't dwell on it though. If it happens, it happens. So when it does, I'll be ready to tackle it.
Then there's college. I think about it a lot. I would ask Kelly about it, but her views on college don't go beyond pursuading me to pledge my sisterhood to Alpha Pi Omega. Marty wants to study Culinary Arts in New York City. It probably has something to do with the fact that she can't even toast a frozen waffle without the toaster bursting into flames. At least she has some direction. I keep telling myself it'll come to me eventually, that I'll find my way to change the world. That it's okay to not know what I want to do for the rest of my oxygenizing days. Of course, I tell myself a lot of crap and don't believe it. Who knows. Maybe I'll change my name to Chiquita and move to Mexico where I won't be obligated to do anything for the sake of mankind.

Tugging at my frizzy, greasy ponytail, I release my hair from it's binder and stare at myself in the mirror. Oh God, Ray, you have to face the world today. Glancing at my vanity, stacks of make-up from my greasy disco-ball of a sister, curling irons and Aqua Net, I make a pass away from them and grab Monroe's leash off of my bedstand. To start the morning off right, I'll spend a half hour with an animal that could care less about my appearance.

It's hard not to love my dog. Monroe, named after Marilyn of course, is two years old and full-grown, able to pull me along on our walks now. She's pretty much memorized the time of day we go on our walks because the second I step down the orange shag carpeted stairs, Monroe is sitting at the bottom with her tongue hanging out and tail wagging. She waits by the front door for me to get home from Marty's at night, her nose stuck underneath in search of the scent of my red Converse sneakers. This morning is no different. Slipping on my red sneakers, I kiss Monroe on the forehead and head out the back door.

"Desiree! You're toast!" My evil mother shouts toward me. I smooth the ends of my long brown hair, tuck in the front of my red Bananarama tank top and add my favorite disheveled black belt to my acid wash jean skirt, all within 20 minutes. With one last glance in the mirror, I sigh heavily and grab my homemade patched backpack. On the way out, I do my best to avoid my mother who is now standing in the living room, ritualistically, with her purple Walt Disney World mug in hand. She sips her coffee every few seconds and stares blankly out the picture window as if she'd never seen our street before. I tiptoe to the toaster, grab my plain toast, slip my red sneakers back on and sneak out the back door. I don't know what it is about that woman. It's almost as if I had moved out already. Even when I am home, we never do the things that we used to do. She taught me to play the piano starting when I was three years old. We used to write songs together and try to learn other ones by ear. Now she doesn't even dust the piano. She's like a zombie. She holds onto that damn mug because I think it reminds her of the last time that my entire family was together and enjoying themselves. And I know she still thinks my father will come home because she never used to stand in a haze in the living room like that. She never used to drink coffee, either.

Part Two >>