by Ruby Tuesday
Ramona knew she was a loser. Her friends tried to tell her she wasn't. But if she wasn't then why did they ditch her? She also knew she was ugly. Guys told her she was pretty. If so then why wouldn't the lying bastards date her? Ramona knew it and believed it. And like her idol, Billy Corgan, who nightly adorned himself a Zero uniform, held her title highly and proudly. Because she knew. She knew only losers made it. Only zeros, geeks, and rejects made anything of themselves. And if she was to achieve all of her aspirations she must remain a loser. She kept having to remind herself of this a lot as she sat alone in her room at five till twelve on Wednesday night, painting her nails black and watching American Graffiti. Thinking of all the kids gallivanting about town, being careless and idiotic, all the kids not worthy of a title as outstanding as Ramona's.
She tried to write in her journal, but had nothing to say. She never had anything to say, and when she did it was so stupid that she would tear out the pages later. She didn't even know why she tried to keep one. Maybe because in the back of her mind she wanted things to write about. Things about going out with guys and friends, fighting with enemies, and all the other excitements of teenage life. But probably not. Probably because a journal is the most personal-impersonal gift, perfect to give and receive from a co-worker that knows nothing about you at a Christmas function in a bowling alley of all places.
It was summer. The summer before her senior year. The most depressing, depressing because of it's significance. It was her last summer. Of course there would be more summers, but not like school summers. All of them thereafter would be just like any other time of the year, only hotter. Just the same old routine, no freedom for the longest time until you retire, but it's just not the same. For no freedom ever feels as good and pure and refreshing and exciting as school summers. No air will ever smell the same as that air. It's not just regular air, it fills your lungs with warmness, and it smells absolutely wonderful. It almost makes you cry to know that one-day you will forget that great school summer air. That how good a plain vanilla ice cream cone tastes while chasing fire flies in grandma's yard, or riding around in your aunt's car at dusk, with your chin pressed up against the vinyl back of the front seat with the radio playing. Playing those songs that are special summer songs. And as stupid and simple they are, they are the best songs you will ever hear, just as the summer air is the best you will ever breathe. That's the kind of thing Ramona thought about.
