"Thanks." Diggins said in a shy manner.
Her shyness made me feel good, like I had something to shoot for. The road to getting her to open up to me and to trust me ultimately, was something for me to work on. And boy do I love challenges!
She grabbed her shirt and put it back over herself.I was putting peroxide on the last cuts on her face, when the door opened. A middle aged women appeared in the doorway, looking confused.
"Ce qui s'est produit, mon bébé (what happened, my baby)" she ran over to Diggins, looking concerned, and examining her. She kind of reminded me of Jill from Home Improvement, only heavier. Also, what the freak was she speaking? I stood there clueless.
"Brenda m'a battu maman.(Brenda beat me mom)" she said looking kind of annoyed by her mom's examining.
"Well she's going to get taken to court, her and her stupid mother Betty! Stupid spicks!" she went on about how stupid They both we're. Okay now's it's confusing me. I was trying to recognize some words it sounded like French.
"qui est ce? (Who's that?)" Diggins Mother suddenly cut herself off from her ramble.
"This is Travis, he broke the fight up." Diggins turned to me, smiling. I blushed; I hate being hailed the hero.
Her mom turned to me, "Thanks for saving my daughter" She took my hand shaking it, warmly.
Diggins leaned near her mothers ear "Arrêtez Embarressing je! (Stop Embarressing me!)"
Her mother laughed and gave her a little push, "Je pas embarressing vous, il est bien si vous avez un petit petit ami. (I'm not Embarressing you, it's okay if you have a little boyfriend.)" Diggins flinched at her mothers push, wounds.
Diggins:
"Il est seulement un ami; et ne dites pas cela, il retentit stupide! (He's only a friend; and don't say that, it sounds stupid!)" I spat back at her. I'm so glad that Travis has that confused look on his face, he has no idea what we're saying.
I was born in France and lived there until I was 6, my father lived there, my mom, me. We moved to America, my father had transferred his job to the U.S. Dear gosh is it different here. But I like it better. My mom still speaks French to me. The language of love, they say. I wish I saw it that way. I see it as the language my mom uses to talk about stuff in front of people who have no idea what we're saying. It makes me sick. Maybe I would see it as the language of love if I could whisper it to a person I loved, romantically. And have them just love it, and whisper back to me: 'it sounds beautiful, keep whispering to me.'
No such luck, until then my mom's evil language escape. Sometimes I really want to go back to France; I miss it almost as much as my father. Maybe I can convince my mom to let me live with my grandmother. But that would mean leaving my band behind and I can't do that. damnez-le!
"au cas où nous l'avoir pour le dîner nuit de tomarrow? (Should we have him for dinner tomorrow night?)" My mom asked me, not intending for me to answer. She goes over board with gratitude sometimes.
"pourquoi pas? (Why not?)" I sigh as she asked him, to dinner tomorrow. Sometimes she can act nice, but other times she's real pety. Makes me sick, like I said.
"I would love to." he glanced at me, smiling for getting invited back.
I motioned for us to step outside, to get away from my mom's evil grasp.
"ne l'embrassez pas à beaucoup! (Don't kiss him to much!)" She yelled after me. That burned me, she had to do that. I don't care if it is just a mom thing. She should shut up. I only like this dude as a friend, NOT ANYMORE! Must keep telling self this! It will all be okay. I have to deny him. But must just be friends.
"VIEILLES FEMMES! (OLD WOMEN!)" I yelled as I closed the door, behind Travis and me. She yelled something about respect. I ignored her and walked down the steps on the lawn, to Travis. What a crazy old women. I bet when she gets really old she'll live somewhere with a million cats, and when someone comes she doesn't like she'll scoop up cats and throw them at the person. She's of course quite mad by this time and thinks everyone is a door to door salesman, trying to kill her through a government conspiracy.
"So...what language were you speaking exactly?" He asked, looking down at the soft grass.
"French, sorry she always does that." I tried to apologize, but he said it was okay.
"This might sound weird, but can you say something to me in French?" He blushed; his color resembled a cherry.
"Like what?" I questioned.
"Anything."
I thought for a minute, it had to be something scandalous, "je pense que vous avez un bout gentil (i think you have a nice butt)" i laughed. I just told him that he had a nice butt, and it was to funny. I felt like I was getting away with something!
"What did you say?!" he questioned eyeing me up and down.
"I said nothing" I retorted quickly.
"PLeas?." he eyed me up.
"Uh...." I needed a cover quickly, maybe I should tell him the truth, why not what do I have to lose? "I said I think you have a nice butt." there I said it plain and simple. Needless to say I blushed.
A huge smile spread across his face. Like someone said 'you're gonna get lucky tonight' Jeeze!
"Can you say a long phrase, like something a lover would say. You know what the French language is known for" he requested, he looked kind of cute standing like that. AHH CA-CA stop it Diggins!
"Okay." I paused for a moment contemplating what to say, "J'aime tout au sujet de vous. Vos yeux brun-foncé. Vos lèvres molles et douces qui me tentent pour vous embrasser. Vous sentez si doux quand jamais je viens près de vous. Je veux toucher votre joue molle et embrasser vos lèvres molles jusqu' au beau lever de soleil." I made sure that I made it sound as beautiful as I could.
"It sounded...like the language of love. What did you say?" He asked anxiously.
"I said, I love everything about you. You're deep brown eyes. Your soft, sweet lips that tempt me to kiss you. You smell so sweet whenever I come near you. I want to touch your soft cheek and kiss your soft lips until the beautiful sunrise." He gave me the weirdest look that kind that makes you want to laugh, because you scared them. I scare people alot.
"peut-être un jour je pourrais dire cela à vous et le signifier (maybe someday i could say that to you and mean it)" i mumbled so he could maybe hear, but how would he know what I meant? Who knows weirder things have happened.
Don't get me wrong, I'm the first person who would admit to wanting a boyfriend. But right now Travis seemed like a friend. Who knows he probably already has a girlfriend. Taking a look at him, he definitely has a girlfriend.
"Well then." he sounded confused, and scared.
"Do you have to go home?" I looked at my watch; "it's uh...like quarter after 10" his eyes looked like they were to bug out at any second.
"I have to go, but I'll be back tomorrow" he started to run, I guess home. Then he stopped and ran back to me, "I need your number."
"Uh hold on." I ran inside and wrote it down on a piece of paper. I raced back outside, and held it out to Travis.
"Thanks, I'll call you tomorrow." he smiled as he took it from my hand, leaving his hand touching mine for a second longer than you actually should when taking something from a hand.
"Goodbye" I replied as I watched him run, out of sight.
What a interesting day.
I don't like him! Damn it!
Hey he saved me from being killed; I owe him some hospitality. I mean he's cute and crap, but I don't have a chance. Because I'm freaking ugly. Who wants anyone who's ugly? The only thing I have going for me is...nothing. I'm French that's all. Well that's a good one. They didn't even give me a French name. paaahh!
I always dress in black. Some guys go for Goths, not many. Most go for Preps! Preps are stupid, and senseless. They're too dumb to feel a punch, or grasp an insult. Mostly guys go for them because they're easy to 'get into the mood' if ya know what I mean. I wouldn't exactly say I'm fat, I mean I think I'm not...5'8" 130 pounds. That's good. I'm just ugly. Maybe I'm too tall for my age too; I'm a sophmore, 15 and 5'8". Who wants a girl too tall, a lot of guys are tall in my school. My mom doesn't help, she always says. "You're not ugly, you just need make-up" I HATE MAKE UP CAUSE PREPS WEAR IT. So I refuse to wear it, at anytime. I HATE PREPS. They're my problem. They must go away. I need self-esteem. Screw self-esteem. I need something else.
I swore I would never do it again. It scared the crap out of me and I swore to never do it again. I swore to stick to the stuff that can't kill you. It's just so nice to be in your own world and in a nice haze. So nothing can get to you, it's all, just good. When you're in your nice little warm bubble, nothing can hurt you. You laugh everything off. But getting hooked is a bad thing. I'm not an addict, now. I mean Acid, is something I do when I have the money. Take one hit, put it under your tongue and let it take you over. Into a world you'll never ever be able to experience, when you're clean. But you know the drill.
I stopped that a year ago. But once in when the cravings become to hard. Just knowing I could get hooked up with it, makes me want it even more. I have little fixes now and then, maybe a hit. But that's rarely. I WAS hooked a year ago. I just looked at my life, and said to myself...Screw this, this is my life and I have to make it good for me. I can't escape my problems; I have to face them. I guess I'm old for my age, most adults can't do that. But I did. I saw what it did to people. I try not to think of it.
A very close person. That's how it scared me. One of my best junkie friends ODed, I saw the blueness in her face. The ambulance was called. We all had to flee, from the "bubble factory" as we called it. My friend, well she died. Just think we were only 13 then. Dying at 13, god, it scares me so bad to this day. She was trying so hard to get off it. But the only difference between her and me was she did Heroine. She was trying to get off it, but the symptoms were to bad for her. She had a hit of it, then another, then another. She was there, for hours, then I came up to get her to leave, she had the blue tint and I knew.
But I'm past that Crap now. I turned my life around, and only my junkie friends knew. My mom and my clean friends didn't know. They had no idea. Instead of weed, speed, and acid as an escape, it's music. But "THEY" took it away. And I want revenge. I'll tell my mom, and she'll get revenge. Oh, when I was going to a anonoyonomus drug support group meetings, I learned violence wasn't an option. I learned alot from them. They told me to keep a journal. I told them I couldn't tell anyone, so when it gets to be too much. I write to my journal, tell it everything. So My mom will sue or something, so I could get a new guitar. But nothing will ever replace my guitar, my Byron. My dad. The cuts on my skin will heal, the bruises will fade. When will the deep slits in my heart heal? The ones that make me scared of loving anyone. The ones that made me do drugs to forget my problems. Most of all the ones that will probably never heal. That will be their forever.
I got to thinking the other day. They said in the support group that you have to be strong yourself, but you have to have someone to help you be strong, for yourself. I wonder if Travis could help me. Nah! I can't trust him. He seems like the type to nark. I'm sure he's a great person and all, cool to hang out with. But I have to live my "new" life, instead of my old with him. Maybe if I grow to love someone, like Travis. He could make my heart whole again.
Who knew it was so hard to get off drugs? I didn't know when I took that first hit it could pull me in. Lead to other stuff, like speed. I never did anything worse than acid and speed. I wasn't that stupid. I just wish I could tell someone. Someone, who loves me, will support me, like a boyfriend, not just anyone. Someone I love too. I have to let it out. But who? When?
I wish I had someone.