A Fresh Look

(01) Sidetracked

2008-07-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

There’s at least one night in every teen’s life when you’re too lazy to go out with friends, only reruns flash on the TV, and the food stocked in the cabinets just isn’t that appealing anymore. Maybe it’s a school night when Mr. Hammond didn’t give you any biology homework, or the night before a huge party that you’re aching to go in order to see that special someone who sits behind you in Algebra.

Perhaps it’s a night when a date canceled, or a best friend is sick. Whatever the night may be, it suddenly hits you in the face and leaves you as bored as a kid watching grass grow.

There isn’t any way to prepare for it, no coping mechanisms. You just have to stare anxiously at the clock in your kitchen, waiting for the hours to pass, another part of an eager teenager’s life. It was such a night for me just last month.

I was sitting on the plaid couch in the family room, flipping from MTV to NBC to ABC to even the Disney Channel. It was just a lazy Saturday night so of course there was nothing. Just as I had clicked to a documentary on camels, my father bounded down the stairs, keys in hand and announced cheerfully that he had an urge to go for a drive in his car. He slipped on his faded brown top siders and asked me, eyeing the TV, if I wanted to join him on his little adventure. Glancing back at the camels, I opted for the drive, even if it was my dad.

As I hopped into the navy BMW, I looked up at the cloudy sky and decided it was a night for wasting time. It was time to go places a person would never admit going or even want to go on a regular time schedule. It was time for my dad and I to hit the town and live life to the fullest.

As my dad and I passed tons of stores, we decided to let the car and the road take us to where we were going. Breathlessly we waited for that certain place to suddenly sock us and cause my dad to slam on the breaks and turn into its parking lot.

Oh, the places we went that night, not a care in the world, no limited time. No place was too tacky and not worth entering. Pointless department stores, simply scary clothing stores that contained hardly clothes, over which we had to bite our lips to stop us from falling over laughing inside. We passed small hangouts for colorful, odd-looking people who smoked and stared at us suspiciously as we tried to make a solemn face.

The night was long and we both felt young, our only stop for reality being when we dropped a large, hot fudge sundae off at the house for my mother. I didn’t want it to end. It was kind of like when you help yourself to a large piece of chocolate cake but then need just one more tiny sliver to satisfy you just a little bit more after you finished the last huge, delicious piece.

My dad insisted on coming up with that last small sliver for the night. As he ran upstairs to give Mom the ice cream, he told me it would be a surprise. Having no faith that my dad would resist the image of his bed at 10:30, I was pleasantly relieved when I heard him say, “Back in a bit, Hon,” as he came back down the carpeted stairway. With my heart still beating with suspense, we jumped back into the Beemer and headed off for more fun.

It seemed like ages as we passed many stores, entered on the highway and suddenly entered a podunk town with peeling painted buildings and some of the street lights dimmed.

It began to rain and the splashes of the drops made the windows blurry. I looked questioningly at my father but he just patted my knee and smiled. Suddenly he turned into a parking lot of a restaurant called Sidetracks.

As we entered the doors he explained that when he and my mom were first married they had gone here to eat almost every day because just down the road was where my mom had worked. I glanced around and saw that the theme of a railroad station was everywhere. Lights flashed from blinking traffic lights and signs. Guys laughed noisily from the nearby bar and the waiters and waitresses sat talking on a stairwell in front of us.

One of the girls showed us to a table with two seats. Glancing at another table, I noticed a blond guy with a slightly oversized nose.

We ordered one of the largest plates of nachos I had ever seen with beans, chili, every kind of gooey cheese, peppers, and salsa with a dollop of sour cream on top.

While trying to make a dent in this monstrous pile of chips and toppings, my dad leaned over and whispered something about the guy in front of us looking at me. I laughed as I picked up a tortilla chip covered in chili. Outside the wind howled and lightening flashed.

“I really want the power to go out in here,” I tell my dad, smiling and thinking about the excitement a power outage would bring to the whole scene.

A couple of minutes later, lightning flashed again and the lights in the restaurant went out.

“Looks like you got everything you wanted out of tonight, Honey,” my dad said.

I smiled at him, thinking to myself that I really had gotten everything I wanted that night.

While sitting there, hearing about my dad’s past and having him tell me a guy is checking me out in the dimmed restaurant, with a pile of nachos that I can’t possibly eat, I realized that sometimes staying home on a weekend isn’t that bad.

Sure maybe the guy sharing the nachos in front of me is my dad, but I realized, there’s always time to look at your busy teenage life and take the sidetracks for a night on the town with the friends who love you best; your parents.

(02) New Possibilities

2008-07-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

So it's the last day of our freshmen year and we're ending it by chilling at Kiki's pool. Literally all of the class is there which isn't hard because it's not very big. No one feels like swimming ironically because it's an overcast day. The chlorinated water is as still as glass and I wait for at least one annoying guy to be pushed in. It doesn't happen.

I sit in my favorite khaki capri pants and hot pink flip flops on a white pool chair smiling as Sophie, the girl sitting next to me talks on and on about her plans for the summer. I'm only half listening as she chatters about biking in France, twisting her brunette hair. I gaze over at the guy I had liked ever since he had shared his animal crackers with me in kindergarten, Lawrence W. Snow.

Lawrence is drunk out of his mind as usual, falling all over the place as he attempts to walk towards where the chips are. Watching him, I get this amazing urge to go spit in his face with disgust - he wouldn't remember it - or push him in the pool and watch him struggle to get out. After ten years, I realize that I'm just not attracted to him anymore and suddenly I have no guy to pine for. It's a miracle.

I glance back at Sophie, who I guess is onto a whole new topic about her brother corning home from college. I nod and smile but then look back to the crowd. Two girls with blonde hair race in front of me on the grass, followed by Andrew Peters carrying with a giant squirt gun. He squirts me but I hardly notice because I'm too bored to care. And then...he hits me. I am searching the crowd for my friends and I notice a guy and girl laughing on the mechanical porch swing. The girl is Tina Daniels, the grade's biggest flirt and the guy is one surprisingly I don’t know. I hadn’t had any classes with him that year and I had been so busy melting over Lawrence, I hardly had looked at him. I watch them now completely entranced, Tina doing her routinely brush of blonde hair to the side.

As the guy said something, Tina burst out laughing and leaned into him even closer. I began to be jealous of my mind for no apparent reason.

Then something unexpected happens. The guy looks straight at me! I sit there staring at him like a lovesick puppy, and for a brief second we make eye contact.
There is this energy I feel coming from him and my heart is hammering and my face gets hot, and I make the awful mistake of quickly looking away. I immediately regret it, and watch as he walks over to the soda table.

For the first time, I can really get a good look at him. His hair is dirty blond, short but long enough so that it hangs in his eyes in an adorable way. I instantly love how he shoves it boyishly out of his face when he talks to someone. He is wearing a shell necklace under his navy polo shirt with crisp khaki shorts. Immediately, Lawrence is completely forgotten.

Interrupting Sophie, I asks quickly, "Soph, you see that guy in the navy polo shirt with blond hair?"

She stops talking and peers closely over by the soda bottles, adjusting her baby blue tank top.

"Oh yeah, that's Jeff Waters. He moved here this year from California."

Oh." I reply. "Sorry I interrupted." I can't stop watching him. Before Sophie can continue about the latest fashion tip she learned from Cosmopolitan magazine, my friends come over.

"Daria, come start the around-the-world ping pong game with us!" I look up at Britney and Charlotte who are, of course, both wearing the same blue flowered shorts from J. Crew. I smile as I follow them to the ping pong table. As it begins to drizzle, Sophie tells everyone else to come follow and play with us. Britney, Charlotte, Patsy, and I start the game and a line begins to snake around us. A huge game forms and I am mostly at the top of it. Hitting the ball here and there and dashing between sides, I am unstoppable. I can't concentrate on anything but the oncoming war.

After a while the line fades as people strike out on their turns and start to cheer us on instead. I'm one of the last people left and as my turn comes up I grab the paddle and look up to see Jeff Waters himself facing me on the opposing court. The guys are patting Jeff on the back and all the girls are screaming for me. I can't make myself look Jeff in the eye. We are the last people left which means I have to play one on one with him. I try not to let the fact that he is Perfectboy intimidate me, but I know if I look just once into his eyes I’ll be taken and lose the whole game. I am a very competitive person, so I can’t lose a game just because of some cute guy. I concentrate on the ball and hit it back at him with everything I’ve got. It seems like hours until finally I watch the ball spike into his court. He misses it.

I hear a thud as his head hits the table and he pounds his fist in agony. The whole grade must be around us because I hear guys yelling and girls screaming at me.
Even Lawrence Snow is there, laughing like an idiot.
Jeff gets up and with a smile from his pearly whites, he looks at me and hands me the ping pong ball.

I can’t help but gaze into those brown eyes, and I think, as my heart beats as I touch his hand to take the ball, that just about anything can happen this summer.

(03) Distant Waters

2008-07-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

So it’s the first week of total freedom. The novelty of not going to school has almost worn off, almost. “There’s still so much to look forward to,” I think as I hear my mom shouting from the family room that my friends are here. Grabbing a towel from the upstairs closet, I jump down the stairs and open the door to find all the girls in the black wrangler with Charlotte’s sister Kelly taping the steering wheel impatiently. Holding up the one-second-finger, I run to the nook in the kitchen and snatch my sunglasses, shouting a goodbye to my mom as I slam the door shut and jump into the jeep, almost all in one motion.

As the overly steamed sister, Kelly, screeches out of my driveway, I hold onto the side of the car tightly, laughing as a neighbor rushes to the side of the road with her dog, annoyed by Kelly’s driving techniques. It feels so good to be in the Wrangler, the warm sun on my legs. Instantly Britney’s long hair whips in my face so that all I can see is bright yellow.

“Can you control it?” I ask her, laughing and pulling it away from my face.

I pull down my shades and feel the wind ripple my yellow tee shirt. My hair is still damp from my shower. I let it down, allowing the sharp breezes from the open car blow it dry until I will put it up in pony tail again. Summer never felt so good.
After Kelly drops us off at the beach, we run toward our favorite sunning spot down by the concession stand. We peel off our shorts and tops and lie down on the warm sand, our towels a cushion underneath us.

We lie there in our suits, talking with our eyes closed, sneaking an occasional glance around the beach to see if there are any attractive lifeguards on duty, or even more unlikely, an attractive guy we know from school. Our towels are in a circle so it's easy to see each other.

Britney and Charlotte are both wearing the same tube top tankinis from J. Crew, Britney with blue, Charlotte in green. They have to adjust their tops every few minutes. Charissa lies flat on her bright pink fish towel, her brunette hair cascading around her on the sand. She insists on tanning this way to allow all of her hair to catch the sun and lighten. Perhaps she feels out of place, being the only brown-haired girl in the bunch, and Patsy is on her stomach, flipping through a Cosmo with headphones on, her legs bent and waving slowly in the air. When she is sure Patsy is completely into her music and can’t hear, Britney begins venting about how annoying she is.

“I can’t believe her! She shows up in the exact same bikini she knows I bought first and then pretends she doesn’t even know! How like Patsy! She doesn’t even look good in it! I just can’t…”

Britney has to stop because Patsy has taken off her earphones and is searching for another magazine. Patsy and Britney kind of have a love-hate relationship. They always complain about each other when they're apart, but they end up acting like best friends when they're together. It's strange, but that's how it has always been.

I dig my feet farther into the hot sand, listening to the squeals of nearby seagulls fighting over apiece of hot dog bun, and also the soothing sounds of the waves lapping against the rocks while kids laugh and splash in the water. I'm tuning out most of what my friends are saying until I hear them mention Jeff Waters.

"So I hear Jeff Waters is going to Maine for the summer. He's the got the nicest house up there!" Charlotte explains, as she adjusts her tube top.

"I wouldn't mind being his girlfriend. I think he is H-O-T hot!" Britney laughs.

"Yeah you and the rest of the free world!" Charissa points out.

The conversation turns to our plans for spending two weeks together at Britney's summer house in Martha's Vineyard. As all of the girls excitedly make plans for movies, dinners on the beach, and hitting all the major shopping areas, I am totally lost in my own thoughts, not focusing on Martha's Vineyard.

As I gaze up at the sky, I think about how I have only a summer to plan my strategy on how to make a certain guy mine. I have two and a half weeks to figure out how to make Jeff Waters, the perfect boyfriend, ask me out. "Good luck!" I think to myself doubtfully.

Operation Boyfriend has just begun and I feel as hopeless as I watch a nearby little girl, building a small sand castle that is constantly washing away into the hands of the outstretched glistening ocean, where the sun dances on the waves and reflects the glorious summer sun.

(04) Fireworks on the Sound

2008-07-21T13:08:00.000-07:00

As the evening sea air whips at my face, I pull my black cardigan more closely around my increasingly suntanned shoulders, and watch the water froth down below me at the edge of the boat. Charissa and I are waiting for the Fourth of July fireworks to start, as we move closer to the middle of the sound in her father's boat.

We are both silent for a moment, taking in the salty air and lost in our own thoughts.
"So how long do you think it's going to take to get him?" I turn around to face Charissa. After a second I figure out what "him" means and I smile.

"Who knows, maybe forever." I hadn't really thought much about Jeff Waters for the past few weeks.

Charissa laughs cheerfully. "1 think you just need to forget about him and enjoy the summer. Maybe you'll meet some other guy while he's away."

"Maybe," I tell her, rather doubtful.

"I think you and Jeff would make a great couple though." She glances up at the sky which is dimming by the second. I watch how her hair lift up on the wind, then fall back gently around her shoulders.

Charissa is one of the most loyal people in my life. So far she is the only person I have told about Jeff Waters and the only person I have never had had a tight with. She
seems always to be the peacemaker in the group, not wanting anyone to be unhappy.

"What about you'?" I ask, nudging her slyly. "Who do you have your eyes on? The guy you sat in front of in Biology?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Oh gosh, no!"

Then she smiles, "There is this one guy who I've talked to a few times." "Charissa! You never told me!"

"He's just the son of one of the guys my dad works with," she says, suddenly shy.

"Good guys are hard to come by," I sigh. "They're either too young, too old, too fat, too skinny, too gay, or too annoying."

Charissa bursts out laughing which starts me going, and soon we are both falling over on the deck of the ship, laughing until our stomachs ache. As we gaze up at the stars, we are clearly in a mood where everything is funny.

"Charissa?" We both sit up to see Charissa's dad standing a few feet from us. His hands are in the pockets of his crisply creased khaki pants.

"Yeah dad?" Charissa stands up.

"You'll never guess who just pulled up next to us! Don Hastings and his son, Rick! Perfect! Hastings and I have some things to talk about and you can entertain his son!" He whistles to himself as he patters downstairs in his faded, old topsiders.
I look at Charissa who is looking at me. For a second we are silent, then burst out laughing. And then, she freaks.

"Oh, my gosh!"

"That's him? Rick?" I ask.

"Do I look all right? Oh my gosh, if I knew he was going to come I would have worn my other pair of khaki shorts! I can't do this, I am soo nervous! Thank goodness you're with me! Oh gosh, that's him in the light blue, button-down shirt!"

"You look fine," I say laughing. But I am growing kind of nervous, too. Three is always a crowd and I am not in the mood to be the odd one out. I watch the boat on the other side of us approach, and the two fathers tie them together side by side.
We don't have too much time to primp and prepare because after two minutes Rick and other figure step onto Charissa's boat.

Charissa kicks me excitedly. We both were still freaking out. I can't tell who the other person is next to Rick until they come closer and then I realize it was another guy - in navy blue shorts and a white button down.

"Hey, Charissa," Rick calls out, flashing his perfect smile. He introduces his friend, Brett Hayes, from Greenwich and before I know it Charissa and Rick have run downstairs to get some soda, leaving me in the awkward position of sitting next to Brett.
But it doesn't take long before Brett and I have exchanged AOL screen names and he has invited me to a party with a bunch of his Brunswick friends next Saturday night at the Belle Haven Club.

Then as Brett and I talked mostly about playing lacrosse and summer possibilities, I study his profile. He is EXTREMELY ATRACTIVE! Blonde and tan of course, with perfect teeth and a boyish sparkle in his eyes that makes his easy to talk to, and very alluring. I can't stop watching those eyes.

Charissa and Rick return with the soda and soon we hear a loud boom and see the sky light up. As the fireworks shoot up displaying large rings of blue and red, we lie down on a blanket so our only view is the colorful flashes in the sky. Brett lays his head on the opposite side of the blanket from me so that when I put my head down it bumps gently into his, which just makes us laugh. His blond hair tickles my cheek and I get a whiff of his cologne which is probably Abercrombie.

I try to concentrate on the fireworks, but my heart seems to beat louder than the gunshot sounds from above. I glance at Charissa and Rick and I sighed happily. As a ring of blue explodes above a burst of purple, and the smaller flashes make a sizzling sound as they fell back towards the water I suddenly feel Brett’s hand over mine. My face is suddenlv hot, and when I look at him next to me, he's staring at the sky, but then glances at me and we both smile. I'm holding hands with a guy I’ve just met, on Charissa's boat watching the fireworks on the Fourth of July. It doesn't get much better than this.

Charissa turns her head to look at me and we both sneak a smile. Charissa is right, I have all summer to worry about Jeff Waters, and right now I just need to be free and have fun. As another explosion of red,blue and green flashes across the sky, I make a mental note. "Operation Jeff Waters officially starts...tomorrow." Back at harbor, I thank Charissa and her dad profusely and walk to my waiting car.

"The fireworks were great!" I call out to Charissa.

"Yeah, and the ones in the sky weren’t bad either!" Charissa shouts back.

(05) An Unexpected Friend

2008-07-21T12:57:00.001-07:00

It's just another lazy Summer afternoon, and the bright sunlight streams through my bedroom window as I lie on my bed, flipping through Seventeen magazine with MTV's TRL blaring in the background. I peer closely at Christina Aguilera pictures, and her strange taste in fashion. The phone rings. Turning over onto my side I grab it, and immediately hear Britney's voice on the receiver. Then I quickly run across the room to my small TV on the table, shut it off, and bounce back onto my bed.

"Hey Brit!" I laugh.

"Oh my gosh! I feel terrible for you. I can't imagine what must' be going on at your house right now!" Britney says excitedly.

I lie down on my back and ease my bare feet against the wall next to me, feeling completely lost, as usual. "Ummm...I’m not sure what you’re...

"How is she taking it?"

"Who?"

"OLIVIA, of course! I can't believe he did it right before she's leaving!"

"Did what?"

"Come on, don't tell me you don't know, you're her own SISTER! Jake dumped Olivia last night when they went out to dinner!”

I can't believe it. Typical of me to the last one to hear the breaking news everyone in Darien must have be talking about, especially when it's about my own sister.

"I gotta go. I have a whole list of people to call about this! Call me later to tell me how she's handling it," Britney says eagerly. With that she clicks off, and I am left to lie there staring blankly up at the ceiling with the receiver still tucked next to my ear. I throw it back on the cradle and then stretch out, completely lost in thought as I trace the outlines of the puffy clouds on my bedspread.

Olivia has always been Miss Perfect. With her long legs, sun bleached hair, and perfect smile, I had always envied her. She had been on the Varsity lacrosse team since she was a freshmen, was a soccer state champion, and every guy's dream.
She had gone through boyfriends like a freshman goes through laundry until she went out with a certain sophomore named Jake. He, like Olivia, was also perfect and loved by everyone. As a varsity football player, member of the homecoming court two years in a row, and voted in his middle school as "most likely to become an Abercrombie and Fitch model, he was just the right boyfriend for my sister. He took her to his junior prom, his summer house in Nantucket, and every single happening party that was planned. Jake and Olivia were inseparable. No one in the entire high school could know one of them without the other one and everyone assumed they would go out until he went away to college, and even then they probably would find a way to still be together.

All of sudden Olivia has been abandoned. It is like when Angel left Buffy. I love it!
I had found out by phoning my mom that Olivia had been at her friend's house since the previous night. 1 waited hours and hours for that moment when my sister would walk through the front door, heartbroken and fully vulnerable. Olivia and I hardly ever talked. She was constantly gone or in her room on the phone so I hardly knew her now, though before high school we had been like best friends. I knew one thing though, there was no telling what Olivia would do in times like these. She is an extremely sensitive person and is known to take things like this very hard.

At about 6:15 she walks in. There are dark circles under her eyes indicating that she hasn't slept, her blonde hair is matted, and smudges of mascara stand out on her cheeks like war paint. Not surprisingly, besides all this, she still looks perfect.
I watch her carefully. She seems to be rather calm. As she walks slowly upstairs, I follow her, which she doesn't even seem to notice. In her room, she sits silently on her bed and gazes weakly over to the pictures of her and Jake on the bedside table. I fully expect her to grab it and smash it, but she doesn't. Everything Jake ever gave her remains where it is, from the jewelry to the stuffed animals he won for her at carnivals to the Nantucket postcards.

"Olivia?"

She looks at me wearily.

"Do you want to maybe go for a drive or something?" I wait for her to scream at me and push me out of her room, but she just smiles. It's scary for me to see her smile like that.

She picks up her keys, the silver key chain with the heart from Tiffanv's that has Jake's and her name engraved on it, and off we go for a drive to the beach. It's dark outside as she veers to the left towards a parking spot right in front of the water. We sit on top of the car roof together, just like when we used to in middle school.
The waves crash against the sand and there is faint laughter from some party down the beach, where everyone is probably drunk.

I gaze up at the sky, where the stars are studded across the black with the small sliver of a moon glowing in the middle of it. Olivia puts her arm around me and we watch the water, quiet for a few minutes. Then she begins to cry as she looks down at the silver ring on her finger that Jake had given to her for her birthday. It is a special moment. We talk about life and each other's problems and of course, Jake. I suddenly feel this long lost love for my older sister, a feeling I hadn't felt for two whole years. I wish with all my heart that Jake and Olivia could have been still together, but perhaps then we couldn't have shared this night together.

We stay there, the car's bright lights underneath us, the water lapping in front of us, the sounds of laughter behind us, and God watching over us. It is a moment for friends. For an hour and a half, a bond between us is sealed, and we both realize there are times only for sisters.

(06) A Girl's Best Friend

2008-07-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

Every girl in the world needs at least one guy in her life with whom there is absolutely no mutual love interest. A guy to hang with and have no cares in the world with, a guy who can always take you to the prom if you don't have a date, a guy who can tell another guy that you think he's cute and not completely sabotage the relationship from jealousy, and most importantly, a guy who you don't have to try to impress at all. Mine right now is Cameron Phillips, and he is absolutely the best guy in the world. I have a few close guy friends, but Cameron is by far the funniest, wildest, and most attractive.

Cameron and I have been friends ever since he moved here in second grade from Massachusetts. He knows everything about me; my crushes, my weaknesses, my dreams, and vice versa. He has been my tango partner for all of the school dances, has planned all of the surprise parties on my birthdays, and most importantly, was the one who I had vented to the night of a certain party at the Belle Haven Club, when I found out from
Charissa that Brett Hayes has a girlfriend.

Even though Cameron is absolutely gorgeous with his sun bleached blonde hair and his dark tan, he has had only a few girlfriends in his lifetime. He is the sort of guy who seems to never want to grow up and will never be ready for a serious relationship, which is a serious disappointment to the hundreds of drooling girls at our high school. I never really figured out what made Cameron want to be good friends with me, perhaps I never will.

I think about all of this as I stare into the water farther down the sand, as Cameron and I eat pizza on a red striped blanket under a nearby tree. It's 6:30 in the evening on an idle Tuesday, and the weather is just right; warm with cool breezes. I am leaning against the trunk of the tree in my khaki shorts and red T-shirt, and Cameron is on his back, chewing and looking up at the darkening sky. The beach is pretty deserted, except for a few small families.

I let out a loud burp, full of cheese pizza and orange soda, which of course makes Cameron challenge it with another echoing one. I laugh hysterically as a white-haired man with his golden retriever turns around to see who just let out that earth shattering belch. Burping contests are things that you can only do with guys, so you have to enjoy them while you can. I throw my remaining crusts into the empty pizza box and take another swig of soda as Cameron sits up and looks at me.

"Let's walk down the beach." He tells me as he slips on his black Reefs and tosses me mine. I swallow my soda and pull my bare feet into them, following him down to the water.

"Hey now!" I shout to a middle-aged guy in a foldout chair, reading his newspaper. Cameron and I run away from him as he pulls off his sunglasses and peers closely at us. Screaming random things to the opposite sex is something Cameron and I have done since we were eighth graders. We fall down the beach laughing until our stomachs hurt from the sight of his confused face, and finally we make it to the water's edge.
The sun is blazing with a bright red color, as it seems to fall slowly to the ocean. Fireflies appear and flicker near the trees, welcoming the oncoming darkening night. I look at Cameron who glances back at me, and then I kick a fountain of water at him. I fall over laughing at his bewildered face and he sends a spray of water at me, soaking my shirt and shorts.

Soon we are standing there on that summer-night, kicking pools of water and throwing wet sand at each other like little kids. We continue getting each other more and more soaked and dirty until I push him into the water face first and he pulls me down with him- Then we sit there immersed, sopping wet in our khaki shorts and our hair stringy with clumps of sand. A little girl who is probably four or five in a hot pink swimsuit laughs as she walks past us, her mother smiling with an amused look as she pulls her daughter farther up the sand. I glance at Cameron who is wringing out his navy polo shirt and I notice he is unusually calm, until he sees a guy about our age walking towards us.

"Hey now, Kiddo, he's a hottie," he says laughingly, as I look up at a muscular guy in navy shorts and a white T -shirt with a surfboard printed on the back. I can already tell what is going through my evil friend's mind.

"Cameron don't you dare!" I cry at him, punching him. The guy walks past us and Cameron is just waiting for the right moment.

"Hey now!" He shouts as the poor guy turns around. "My friend here thinks you're hot," he tells him this matter of factly, as I pinch his arm under the water. But it's too late now, I'm obligated to play along. I give him a sly smile, trying hard not to laugh and he winks at me.

“Hey, can I have your number?" He asks me in a macho voice. Then he looks back at Cameron. "Wait, he's not your boyfriend, right?”

Before I can answer, Cameron is talking. "Oh her? Nah, we went out weeks ago, but then I dumped her. Anyway, if you want her number, I'll give it to you." As the stranger writes down the number, which of course isn't my real phone number, he smiles at me again. "I'll call you later then, hottie," he tells me flexing his muscles, and I smile back at him, biting my lip.

I fall into the water, laughing hysterically again as he walks up the sand and I hit Cameron really hard. "Ow!" he yelps, "you KNOW you wanted him, and he was totally checking you out!"

"I can't believe you did that!!" I shout as I throw a huge fistful of sand at him.

"He's going to come STALK me now!!" I laugh.

"You need a boyfriend anyway, and it might as well be him!" he shouts back and then we are splashing each other until we're sopping wet yet again.

As we trudge up to his car, completely dirty and drenched, we both dread the oncoming lecture his mom is going to give us about riding like that in her Mercedes. I push Cameron lightly and he pushes me back, and I think to myself happily, that at least one special guy should always be a girl's best friend. I watch his mom, talking on her cell phone as usual, and the sea air whips at my hair as the summer sun dies out, the sky becomes one map full of stars, and the dim flashes of the fireflies dance around us like a hundred blinking lights.

(07) Rainy Nights

2008-07-21T12:50:00.000-07:00

It is Friday night, as I toss pairs of boots and gloves out of my hall closet, desperately searching for some sort of water protection, preferably an umbrella.
As I toss another random boot out behind me, I see a red blurry light from the nearby window that comes from the reflection of a car's headlights, mixed with the droplets of summer rain. I decide to ditch the idea of the umbrella and instead grab all the boots and other winter wear and throw them in the closet and slam the door.

Jumping into the back of the waiting Black Jeep Grand Cherokee, I slam the door shut after being dumped on by a shower of water, My hair is stringy and water droplets are scattered across the front of my light blue button-down and khaki pants.

"Hey," Cameron says, with an echo from my other guy friend Josh in the back seat.

"Hey, guys." I reply, running my fingers through my long blonde hair. I'm not really in the most talkative mood as I watch the raindrops run down the windows. This doesn't last long because Cameron and Josh start goofing around and acting out scenes from Saturday Night Live, which of course starts me laughing. Sometimes you just have to appreciate guys.

After a few minutes, we pull into a parking space in front of Blockbuster and all three of us jump out and head for the entrance. Josh and I both run inside to avoid getting soaked, but of course Cameron lags behind, standing in the middle of the parking lot holding his arms up in the rain like a complete idiot. Josh and I run to the back where the latest arrivals for videos are displayed. We run past an older man stacking a pile of videos back on the shelves. He has long stringy dark hair and reeks of cigarette smoke and as I glance at his name tag I realize that he is named Tim. I shudder as I look at him over my shoulder and we make our way closer to the back of the room.

Finally, we see the sign for the latest arrivals and start peering over the selection of videos. I study Josh for a minute as he picks up American Pie and looks at the back of it.

"This the BEST movie!" Josh exclaims, as I roll my eyes and smile. I have only known Josh for, a couple years. He sat next to me in English in eighth grade and we automatically just clicked. He used to keep to himself most of the time, with his kind of shy blue eyes and dark hair. He's not much of a loud person, but Cameron and I have definitely fixed that over the years.

After Josh and I browse for a few minutes, Cameron finally joins us. His hair is wet and plastered to his face and his red Abercrombie shirt and khaki shorts are completely soaked through. I tousle his hair and tell him just how ridiculous he looks as he grabs American Pie from Josh and The Haunting from the shelf as we make our way to the front of the store to the cash register. Josh pulls out some money from the back pocket of his navy shorts and hands it to the lady who is waiting for it. I glance at her.

She looks like she's somewhere in her forties with her dark hair twisted into a tight bun on top of her head. She has a harsh looking face, but smiles at us after we pay for the videos. I grab the bag and then we make our way back to the Jeep.

Josh's older brother, Clarke, is almost eighteen and is our taxi driver for the night. His girlfriend, Erin, whom I only knew a little bit, is next to him in the front seat.
She is leaning on his shoulder and holding his hand with her legs on top of his lap. When he opens the door, she quickly moves back to her side of the seat next to the window, definitely annoyed by her boyfriend having to tow around some freshmen on her date night.

As I sit there in the middle of the car with Josh next to me, I am suddenly deeply interested in Erin and Clarke.

I have always thought Clarke was attractive, even before I knew Josh. He has crystal blue eyes like his younger brother, but also dirty blonde hair and had an amazing tan from being a lifeguard at Greenwich Point. Erin is also gorgeous, with her long blonde hair, emerald green eyes and an amazing tan of her own from life guarding alongside Clarke. They have been together for only a few months, but they act as if they are engaged.

I am now mesmerized with both of them. I watch as Clarke makes fun of Erin and she punches him on the shoulder. Then he tickles her, trying to keep one hand on the wheel. Erin starts giggling uncontrollably. She punches him harder on the shoulder and he puts both hands on the wheel again, focusing more on the road but also looking into her eyes. She takes his hand in hers and they both kind of sit there while he continues to drive.

I take this all in. I think about what it would be like to be in a relationship like that. Sure, some of my friends had gone out with seniors when they were only freshmen, and I have had a few boyfriends before high school. But it's not the same.
Dating a senior as a freshman does not bring complete seriousness to a relationship. The freshmen are always thought of as just annoying freshmen, being dated by senior guys for play. In junior high school, relationships were never that serious either. Girls only went out with guys for a few months max, and they never were really confident around them.

I am thinking about a completely new relationship. One where the partners are mature and are seriously in love. I've never had that. I try to picture what it would be like to be with a guy like that, to be with Jeff Waters or some other guy for that matter. I sit there, completely wanting a boyfriend more than ever before.
“Hey, what the heck are you thinking about? It's like you're gone, man." Cameron says, waving his hand in front of my face.

I sigh. I’m back in the Jeep Grand Cherokee with just my two guy friends sitting there with me. " Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I answer.

Just then, we pull into Josh's driveway and jump out with the videos. Josh's brother screeches out of the driveway, now free of little brothers and their little friends. I walk slowly towards Josh's TV room where Britney, Charissa, Patsy, and Charlotte are already piled on the couch watching Daria on MTV. I think to myself, as I open the sliding glass door that friends are definitely important, but having a boyfriend is even more important. At least right now anyway. Right then and there at that moment. I vow to myself that, as of the upcoming school year, I will never be single for more than a month ever again.

Cameron looks at me strangely, and then opens the door. I sit on the couch with the other girls. The laughter and joking seems to come from another world, as I dream about my boyfriend-to-be.

(08) Sudden Awakenings

2008-07-21T12:40:00.000-07:00

After slowly opening my eyes in the bright, almost afternoon sunlight streaming from the window next to my bed, I directly focus my attention to my bedroom ceiling. Not that there's anything interesting to look at up there, but whenever I wake up and I have no place to go, I stare at my ceiling and try to picture what I had just dreamt the night before.

In the days of the typical girl obsession over Leonardo DiCaprio when "Titanic" came out, I had taped a picture of him up there so that I would have something at least pleasant to look at when I woke up. I had decided it looked weird like that with a picture hanging completely out of place right next to my light, so I took it down and taped it right next to my bed instead.

Now, I have grown completely used to the blank ceiling. Oftentimes, I scrunch my eyes at the smooth white paint and search my brain for some scene, some small clue that I have actually dreamed something, just moments before. Only occasionally do I wake up, stretch, and instantly remember where I have just been. Since I am now a typical teenage girl, filled with thoughts about mostly the opposite sex, the dreams I can remember are usually about guys. This morning is no
exception.

I can still see his face so clearly it's almost like he's in front of me, as I stretch my legs so they fall on top of the wrinkled light blue gingham sheets. Of course it was one of the many categories of Jeff Waters dreams. There are the going-out ones where we're actually a real couple, the weird ones where it's raining glazed donuts or something outside and he's there talking to my Aunt Martha who is walking her ridiculously annoying chiuaua Snooky and then her hair turns into a pile of beef jerky. Then there are the embarrassing ones where I come to school forgetting to put on any underwear that morning and fall down the stairs on the way to the science wing. And then, of course, the bittersweet ones where I actually get up the nerve to tell him I like him, he says the feeling is mutual, and then I wake up. The dream I had just left was a bittersweet one.

It had been sometime during the school year. I'm not sure where exactly I was supposed to be, but I was walking up a fresh green, grassy hill where a fountain was spurting purple. When I finally reached the top, gasping for breath, he was there standing right in front of me.

He was in his lacrosse shorts and a white tee-shirt and his arm was broken. I wasn't hesitant to speak to him at all and instantly said 'hi' and asked him about his arm. He told me he broke it playing in a game. Then, with a smile, he asked me to sign his cast and I grabbed the pen and scribbled my name in an empty space next, to my dad's signature (that was the weird part) and handed him back his red pen. He then craned his neck so he could read it, and glanced at me with a smile and asked: "Why didn't you sign it 'the love of Jeff's life'?" (Leave it to my dreams to be corny.) And when I looked into those clear brown eyes, he said, "because you are the love of my life." Then I woke up.

I sigh into the emptiness of my room. The sweetness of thinking about Jeff Waters is too short when my mom enters.

"You're not up yet? It's almost noon! Go take a shower and hopefully Olivia will still be willing to take you shopping for clothes for Martha's Vineyard."

"Where are you going?" I mumble sleepily, eyeing her tennis skirt.

"I have a tennis match scheduled today with Susan. Speaking of which I need to get going.” She sits on my bed and strokes my hair gently. "I left some money on the table for you, now don't go crazy, all right? Just the necessities.”
please."

I smile slyly. Then she tousles my hair and leaves my room. I lay there for a few more minutes, against my mother's wishes, and look around my room. gambling with how much more time I can waste until my sister comes and yells at me as well. It's just a typical boring summer morning, the first week of August, and only weeks before school starts again. Less than five minutes later, the one and only Olivia comes in.

"What are you doing staring up at the ceiling? You really don't have a life, do you?"
She jumps on top of me and pulls my arms forward to force me to sit up. She's already dressed in navy blue short shorts and a grey tank top which makes her suntanned shoulders look a shade of darker brown.

"Go take a shower you lazy butt. I'm leaving in ten minutes, with or without you." She hands me a towel from off my desk chair. I groan in response.

Things have definitely changed between Olivia and me. For a while, her break-up with her eternal boyfriend, Jake, was a blessing in disguise. I actually began to see my older sister more than once a month and the phone line began to be open occasionally. Heck, on some weekends she actually was sprawled on the couch in flannel pajamas watching T. V. That didn't last long of course. Then, not surprisingly, she met a guy named Trevor from New Caanan while hanging out at Nantucket with her annoying friends Steph and Lisa. Now she's in love allover again not the Jake-type love. That probably won't happen for a while, but the singing-in-the-shower type love. This time though, she is more careful about saving time to laugh and talk about boys with her little sister.

We actually have started acting more like we're related, much to the surprise of our parents and also practically everyone in the whole world. We have gotten so close over the summer, that I finally told her about Jeff Waters. She is starting to be my idol, my example. I hope that when I'm junior, I can be as witty and gorgeous as she is. I also hope that maybe, somehow Jeff and I can be like she was with Jake. I told her this and she told me with a laugh that most guys almost are not worth all the torment girls put themselves through.

“You’re almost there, just a little farther...you can do it," Olivia shouts with mock excitement. My thoughts are back to going shopping in preparation for the trip I have been looking forward to all summer with all of my best friends.

“You aren’t in the SHOWER YET?” I jump at my mom’s booming voice echoing up from the kitchen. I could have sworn I had heard the crunch of her black suburban on the long winding driveway. The morning had just come too quickly.

“I thought you were supposed to be at TENNIS!” I shout back. I think I hear my mom sigh.

“Just go take a shower,” my sister says again.

And before I can resist Olivia’s orders, she slams the door behind my back.

(09) Approaching Autumn

2008-07-21T12:34:00.000-07:00

I wake up to the smell of my Grandma's homemade bread and hear eggs sizzling on a frying pan. I can see the small kitchen from my bed because where Olivia and I are sleeping is a room just below the kitchen, with only the privacy of wrought iron stairs leading up to it.

My grandma comes down the steps and hovers over my bed where she pats my arm and whispers into my ear, even though 1 am already awake, " Are you still coming with me to the pool this morning?" I nod vigorously, only half awake but still positive that at six o clock in the morning in the summer at her house in Newton Mass, 1 want to go with my mom's mom to a public indoor pool down the road so she can go water walking.
She goes back upstairs to fix the rest of breakfast and 1 slowly fall out of bed to put my swimsuit on. I figure that if I am spending a weekend at her house, I might as well not waste one minute, including time to swim in a refreshing pool.

My grandma is one of the nicest ladies I know. She has curly light red, almost blonde, hair and large - glasses. She's pleasantly plump, not fat, just has the small grandmotherly bulge from having five children forty-five years ago. Her skin is fair and creamy white and always smells like Pond's lotion. She is an expert seamstress, cook, Skipo player, and childspoiler. Her only problem is her hearing. I always have to remember to speak louder when I talk to her. And if she doesn't have her hearing aids in, it's almost a lost cause.

After I pull on my suit and put my hair up in a messy bun, I put on a pair of blue lacrosse shorts and my reef flip-flops. Still only half awake, 1 trudge up to the kitchen, down a piece of toast with a dollop of homemade strawberry jam, and a glass of orange juice. Grandma gets me a soft, clean towel and then we head to her car, the ancient old Volvo station wagon that has seen a lifetime of weekends at the Cape, driving my mother to and from college and a million trips to the supermarket -the old brick A&P where my mother worked one summer. It closed before 1 was born, but I have seen pictures of my mother in her checker's apron.

My grandmother and grandfather have never considered themselves rich or even terribly modern, really, for that matter. But they have been married for 52 years, and that in itself, is wealth beyond anything 1 have known in Darien. Everything in their comfortable little house is exactly as it was when my mom was a teenager. The bedrooms are the same, the wallpaper in the living room is the same golden yellow and the lamps have that kind of that 70's look to them. Sometimes I think 1 can feel what it would have been like to be my mom living with her family.

It's only minutes before we enter the driveway of Grandma's friend who comes with her to the pool. My grandma has always been known to make friends easily and I wasn't surprised that she found a good friend to swim with. Her friend is also nice and also has to speak into my grandma's ear. She has short gray hair and is slim.

My grandma tells me while we are waiting, that she has breast cancer and needs to go the pool for exercise. I stare out the window as they talk and brag about their families and their plans for the rest of the summer. Finally we arrive at the pool.
While still in the car, my grandma jokingly tells me that I want to get out of the pool to take my shower, because I not be ready to see a bunch ladies naked in the locker room.

When I actually jump pool, I realize what I have myself into. There are no people there under sixty and I have to remind myself why I have come in the first place - to spend time with my grandma.

As I watch my grandma across the pool in her dark blue swimsuit looking like a large blueberry, with her friend who is in sort of a ruffly pink suit, I feel kind of out of place. I don't want to stand there in the water, but I feel dumb just doing laps by myself. For the first time, I walk the pool.

After we have gotten in, my grandma's friend realizes the water is kind of murky with a slight whitish tint. I think about maybe going up to tell the lifeguard who is a middle-aged, grim looking man. But I don't have to, because as he passes by our side of the pool, grandma's friend tells him about her discovery.
I watch the lifeguard closely not exactly impressed. He seems to treat these old ladies as if they are toddlers, speaking slowly to them and joking that are having a milk bath. I study him with narrowed eyes.

Would it be like this when I get old? Would people treat me as if I am only a little kid, having no knowledge of the real world, even though I have lived in it longer than they have? The thought saddens me.

After about an hour, I grow tired of walking constantly back and forth in the pool and decide to sit up on the bleachers and study the people. I watch the group of about fifteen or so seniors, three walking with my grandma, and others doing laps on the far side of the pool.

I am suddenly brought to the realization, as I watch each old person getting some exercise that each of them represent a sum of a life's experience...a story to tell. I wonder as I watch a delicate white-haired lady in a white and black checked bathing suit, if she was pretty when she was younger. Perhaps she was bombarded with boyfriends and spent her days lying in the sun and now her skin shows the years of sunshine she has lived. Then I look at a plump but handsome older man with a white mustache. Maybe he was class clown in his high school. He seems happy and content to be in the company of the other men. I sit there and immediately am overwhelmed with respect for all these strangers. Perhaps in the eyes of the lifeguards, they are just cantankerous pensioners but to me they are each a fascinating person, each the author of a book of life experiences and memories now approaching the autumn of their years.
One day I will no longer be hip and cool, but faded and lost in change. I hope to myself that I won't be overlooked and hustled like all of these senior swimmers seem to be. I make a mental note to be more aware of the elderly and to also take really good care of my own children someday. Its like a commercial I saw a few years ago that my dad worked on...You owe it to your parents because they brought you into the world, you owe it to your children because you did the same for them, and in either case you're sort of speechless when you look in those eyes, because in either case...you surely see your own, Summer, like the lives of my elderly swim mates, is waning.
Autumn and its changes will be here before I am ready for it.

(10) Revealed on the Vineyard

2008-07-21T12:20:00.000-07:00

"Daria, which tube top should I wear? Britney swears by the hot pink one, but Jackie loves the red one!" Charlotte kind of whines as she holds both up against her chest in the tall mirror on Britney's door.

I think to myself for a few seconds. "Definitely the red one. It looks good with your tan.”

"Oh, you're right!" Satisfied, I lean back on Britney's bed and reach over to crank up the volume on the stereo on her bedside table. "Suicide Machines" immediately blares in the room and I turn it back down.

"Brit, can I put on something else?"

"Yea .... sure.” Britney doesn’t even look up as she focuses all her attention on making the liquid eyeliner on Charissa's left eyelid perfectly straight.
I happily eject "Suicide Machines", replace it with Jennifer Lopez, and close the disk holder. Turning up the volume, I grab a Teen magazine off Britney's bookshelf and start flipping through it, not exactly ready to start primping for that night's party. Instead after a few minutes, I close my eyes and think about everything my friends and I had done that day and how awesome it is to be back in Martha's Vineyard. Running down sandy beaches as the sun sets, visiting charming shops, watching the sailboats dance in the water. All year, I wait for these relaxing days and fun filled nights with my best friends.

"I feel so good, I knew that I would....been taking care of myself like I should!!" My vineyard thoughts are suddenly interrupted completely as Patsy sings with Jennifer at the top of her lungs.

"Daria, don't you think you should be getting ready'? Charlotte asks. "We only have an hour and a half now until we have to go!" Charlotte looks at me expectantly.

"I heard Jeremy Woods is coming tonight!" Charrisa tells me from where she is sitting in front of Britney on the floor. She immediately regrets it though after Britney scolds her for moving while she's trying to do her mascara.

"Wow," I say without enthusiasm. I roll my eyes and smile. Jeremy had been a guy I had met here last year at one of the parties we go to every summer. I grab the bag with the clothes I, have bought in Oak Bluffs trom Take It Easy Baby, the store where we always get new outfits for summer parties.

I head for the bathroom down the hall. It has a beach theme to it with shell-print wallpaper. The window is open and I stick my head out of it, inhaling the cool, Vineyard air. From Britney's bathroom I can still see the water, and I ache to go jump off the dock to cool off.

"Daria? I need to use the bathroom after you so don't take hours, okay?" I hear Charlotte's voice from outside the door.

"Okay, Char!"

"Britney!" Her voice trails as she walks back to her room. I swear I can't tell them apart sometimes! I pull the stretchy black miniskirt and leopard print tube top from the bag. After adjusting each piece of clothing, I am satisfied. The miniskirt shows off my tan legs and the tube top reveals just enough. Attaching a shell necklace to my neck and fluffing up my hair, I open the door to go model for my friends. Their
instant cries of delight make me positive that I have made the right clothes choice.

“Thanks guys!” I reply modestly as I look at my figure once again in a mirror. I do like how the tube top hugs my waist, but I am not exactly sure how I am going to manage with the skirt. I probably won't be bending down too much. "No offense guys, but before I get into primping mode, I think I’ll just take a walk outside."

Britney and Charlotte look at me weirdly, but I just tell them I’ll be back soon and hop down the stairs, forgetting that I'm wearing the miniskirt and tube top. Shutting the front door behind me, I start to walk around Britney's property. I sigh with pleasure as the calm breeze picks up my hair and the bright sun warms my shoulders and back. I find a comfortable spot to sit down and soon, it is so peaceful that my eyes droop and 1 am lost in an afternoon nap.

When I wake up, I immediately glance at my watch and realize that I had slept for a whole hour! Quickly picking the leaves out of my hair and brushing off my skirt, I slip on my flip flops and hurry towards the front of the house.

Just then, Britney's older brother Alex steps out of the door. He's just as gorgeous as his sister and I had a crush on him for years when I first knew Britney. He was wearing khaki shorts and no shirt, which showed off his amazing muscles. I guessed that he had just gotten back from sailing.

"Hey, Alex." I say, fully expecting him to let me pass so I can hurry and finish dressing, but he stands there with a sly smile on his face. Then I feel his eyes look me over from head to toe. Immediately I am hit with the realization of exactly what he's looking at. My hands automatically go to my tube top to adjust it and I pull,down the skirt as best I can. I'm sure my face is beet red.

"Hey, Daria." This is the first time he's ever used my name. I smile and brush past him, more focused on the measly fifteen minutes I have to get ready for the most important party of the summer where just about every teen who stays on the Vineyard is going.

Bounding upstairs and into Britney's room I see that everyone is dressed and making last minute adjustments, adding a bracelet here or body glitter there.

"Daria! We had no idea where you were! Britney sent her brother to come find you! You have to seriously hurry!" Patsy tosses me a brush and I am immediately bombarded by Britney and Charlotte for makeup. Britney adds some eyeliner while Charlotte is on top of her, touching up my mascara. After they are done we all look each other over.
As I look at our tight and short miniskirts and tube tops that we are just going to have to adjust every five minutes, I am immediately hit with a sudden realization.
We all look like complete skanks! Why are we putting ourselves through all this torture? No guy can be worth feeling practically naked. Is being checked out a couple of times by attractive guys really worth not being able to bend over and feeling cheap?? Plus, do I really want every guy at that party acting like Britney's brother? I sit on Britney's bed, torn between being able to get guys and being able to feel good about myself.

I get up and go to my suitcase and pull out my trusty Lily Pulitzer skirt and a white sleeveless shirt. The skirt will still show off legs and at least I will be able to move without feeling self-conscious. Picking up the discarded clothing, I throw the tube top and miniskirt at my reflection in the mirror. I put on the skirt and shirt as my friends watch with gaping mouths.

"But, Daria, you looked so good!!" Britney whines. My friends all have their hands on their hips in their miniskirts and tube tops.

"She still looks good, I think!" Charissa points out

“Thanks, Charissa. At least I feel good and can MOVE!" I shout.

The tension eases as my friends all laugh. They all pull on wholesome looking sweaters and loose pants to wear to get past parental scrutiny and for once I don't have to bother.

Charissa looks at me again with furrowed brows. "Ya know, I kind of agree with Daria. I don't want to have to worry about bending down all night either." I watch her as she peels out of her clothes and puts on her own Lily dress. Charlotte and Britney just roll their eyes and tell us we're crazy. Patsy is kind of quiet.

After getting the nod of approval from Britney's mom and dad, we walk down the street to the party. Halfway down the block everyone except Charissa and I start to strip and carry their other clothes as they walk. The sun is going lower and lower towards the water and the air is getting even cooler.

Finally, we reach the spot and we can already hear music being blasted from the back of the property. "Hey guys! Long time no see!" Rachel shouts to us, the hostess of the party. I watch as my friends toss their discarded clothing in a pile with probably every teenage girl's parent-approved wear on the grass near a tree. Just then I see Jeremy making his way towards us. I see him watch Britney and Charlotte adjusting their tube tops and then he looks at me and smiles that perfect grin that I fall in love with all over again.

“Hey Daria, hey Charissa." He looks into my eyes.

I smile back, “Hey!" I'm surprised that he doesn't say two words to Charlotte, Patsy, and Britney.

“Come with me, you guys." He pulls my hand behind him and Charissa nudges me the whole way. We go towards the crowd of teens, the music getting louder and louder. Strings of lights are hanging all over. As I start to dance with Jeremy, I look back at my other friends who are staring at us from where they are still standing next to the pile of clothes on the grass, adjusting their tube tops, and wondering where it all went wrong.

(11) Heather

2008-07-21T12:04:00.000-07:00

"Oh my gosh, I have the best teacher this year for history!"

"Really?" I ask, lazily letting my eyes close from the bright summer sun.

"Yeah, Alice told me that his hardest question for their midterm last year was 'What year was the War of 1812!' If he's as easy with sophomores as he is freshmen, then I am home free!"

Patsy and I are sprawled on the hammock, comparing our schedules and completely freaking out about this being our last week of total freedom. I'm balancing a plate-of potato salad and the last bit of a hot dog on my lap in the shade of two evergreens, while the other girls are playing badminton.

Cameron, Josh, and Alex are manning the large, smoky grill in front of the deck, and Sammy's putting his finishing pieces of strawberry on a sad looking strawberry shortcake, the whip cream melting into a puddle from the strong rays of sun.
Even in the shade, I am sweating terribly in my light blue gingham shorts and white sleeveless shirt. I sigh with content, though, as this is exactly how I want to spend the last days of the summer. The birds are chirping, the bees are buzzing from the towering sunflowers ten feet away, and the air is filled with the chatter and laughter from all my closet friends. I put my bare foot on the grass and push the hammock a little to create a gentle swing.

"Oh look, it's Heather," I feel the hammock jolt around as Patsy cranes her neck to see who's arriving.

"Who?" I ask, not bothering to open my eyes.

"Hea-ther!" Patsy says it slowly, as if I hadn't heard what she had said.

"Who's Hea-ther?" I ask, laughing a little bit.

"The new girl, of course!" I open my eyes and am wide awake now. "A new girl?" I look to the light wooded deck where a darkly tanned, long blonde-haired girl is standing next to the grill. She is completely flirting with Cameron and Josh. I watch her for a few seconds and for some reason I instantly don't like her as she plays with her tresses and Cameron acts all goofy around her. Britney is standing next to her, introducing her to everyone.

"Where's she from?" I ask, not moving my gaze from those tanned shoulders and legs.

"Florida. She moved here last week, right next to Britney's house. Britney's been parading her around like a prized Gucci handbag!" Patsy scowls. I barely hear her as I hear Heather's charming little voice praise Cameron's roasting hamburgers.

"By the way, oh my gosh," Patsy says, "I didn't tell you, did I? You wouldn't believe what I heard Brit telling her the other day at the club! Daria, Britney can't be trusted!"

I don't act surprised at Patsy's words. I am used to Patsy's insults to Britney, and Britney's complaints about Patsy, and I am constantly stuck in the middle. But, still, Britney has never had anything to say about me.

"What did she say?" I ask, wide eyed.

"Just that you're the group tramp." She said it like it had no meaning whatsoever.

"She said what?!" Patsy is about to repeat herself, but I cut her off.

"I know what you said, Patsy but what did she mean by telling the new girl that?"

"How am I supposed to know. I told you Britney's a brat."

I sit up, knocking my plate onto the grass. Heather is gorgeous. In her hot pink pink halter top and tight black capri pants, she looks like a model, there is no doubt
about that.

I had been referred to as the group "tramp?" What on earth would make Britney say that? I guess maybe it appears that I spend more time with the guys than the other girls do, but whatever, we're just friends! Britney doesn't even know about Brett Mclntire unless Charissa told her, but no, Charissa wouldn't do that.
Patsy gets off the hammock.

"Whatever, Daria, I'm going over to say ‘hi.’”

Just then I watch Cameron take a hot dog off the grill and place it in a bun. Sammy pours on ketchup proudly and they both admire their handiwork in the sunlight- Then they walk toward me and I notice Heather is watching their every step.

"This is one prized dog!" Cameron hands me the plate as if it's sacred.
I pretend not to notice that Heather is still watching us closely.

“Guys, I'm stuffed! I can barely look at that! Cameron, this will be my third".

"C'mon, Daria, one bite won't kill you."

I take a bite and smile- it is pretty good, all the while watching Cameron closely. He keeps glancing over his shoulder at Heather who is still standing next to the grill on the deck.

“So what do you think of the new girl?” I ask, pretending not to know anything about Cameron’s obvious adoration of her.

He looks back at me. “Oh you mean Heather? She’s cool. She already has her driver’s license and is taking me to the beach tomorrow.”

He smiles at her across Sammy’s backyard. This completely annoys me, as she waves so cheerfully back. Then, I can’t be sure, but I think I see Heather smile slyly at me as Cameron turns his head. I jerk my head away from her gaze, pretending not to have noticed that evil but perfect smile.

So Heather wants some competition, does she? I think to myself, burning with hatred for that perky, blond twerp who just decided to take over after moving here from the land of Mickey Mouse. The next year isn’t going to go as smoothly as I thought, with my new identity as the skank, and a new girl who plans on competing with me for any guy that walks on two legs. My thoughts are interrupted as Sammy’s mom comes outside holding an absolutely gorgeous chocolate cake.

“Sweet, cake!” Cameron jumps off the hammock and Sammy and I follow close behind. I sit at the table next to Josh and my eyes narrow as Cameron coincidentally has to sit next to her highness.

Why am I acting like this, I ask myself? I am never like this. I’ve never had such mean thoughts. I push these thoughts aside, taking a bite of the cake I’ve been handed, trying to enjoy the last few delicious moments of summer.

As Heather pulls out her schedule and Cameron drags his crumpled one of his faded, dark green shorts, the fall suddenly doesn’t seem so inviting.

I’m just going to work extra hard at getting Jeff Waters before she does. I dig deeper into my chocolate cake which just doesn’t taste as good as it should. Suddenly the birds stop chirping, the bees quit buzzing, and the yard turns completely black with only Heather sitting across the table-in that pink halter top and those black Capri pants with her hair cascading around her tan shoulders shimmering in the last few rays of summer.

(12) Blinded

2008-07-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

It's fifth period already as I dodge the sea of oncoming freshmen packed through the halls of Darien High School. I can hardly breathe as I suck in my stomach under my knee length red polka dot skirt and white cardigan and squeeze past a teacher trying to direct people to their rooms. I don't see the faces behind this swarm of confusion, but instead focus all my attention on looking ahead, towards C wing for my next class.
"It's my first day of being a sophomore and I am not going to mess anything up this year!" I tell myself confidently as I rearrange my skirt.

Glancing quickly at the crumpled schedule in my left hand, I read C5 and after scanning each door I find the classroom. Completely relieved and, after checking my watch, still on time, I walk inside, surprised that already the whole class is sitting in a horseshoe formation as the older man, who is wearing faded khaki pants and a blue
button-down and who must be Mr. Johnson, is speaking to them. I decide by the bored expression of some girl in the corner, filing her nails, that he's probably telling them all about his expectations for the coming year.

"Name." He immediately flips open his grading book, raising his black, thin rimmed glasses from where they hang on his neck to his nose.

“Uh, Daria…” I feel my face growing hot.

“Miss Daria…”His head is down, but his eyes seem to bore into my forehead. He pulls off his glasses so that they hang once again on the slope of his stomach. “Uh, Daria..” He tries again and stops smiling at me. Suddenly my stomach is on fire. “I don’t suppose you are a junior, are you?” Then he lets out a deep-bellied laugh. “You’re a freshman aren’t you?” I look at him puzzled and begin to disagree but he interrupts me, “Daria, you’re in the wrong class, and I suggest that if you are going to barge into strange classrooms, letting the door slam and interrupting the teacher that you be a bit more quieter about it.” I start towards the door wishing this whole confusion were just a bad dream.

“Oh, and one more thing. Make sure the next teacher isn’t already annoyed because all of us should already be retired by this year." Roars of laughter surround me as I glance uneasily around the rows of guys and girls in my sister's grade pointing at me and calling me a dumb freshman when they all know that I am a sophomore. Britney's brother Alex is sitting in the back in khaki shorts and a red Polo shirt, his deeply tanned legs stretched out under his desk and his hands folded behind his head.
He removes one hand to wave at me with a dumb expression on his face. My heart is pounding and I feel as if I am going to be swallowed up by my embarrassment.

I hold the strap of my backpack and turn once more toward the door, mumbling another word of apology, as I throw myself into the hall, where I finally feel like I can breathe.

"Way not to mess up, Daria!" I tell myself bitterly, as I rush toward the end of the hall towards the entrances to the bathrooms. I'm dreading the embarrassment of a late entrance to another classroom.

"Hey, umm.... Are you…?” a deep voice starts to ask and I am afraid to turn around. Slowly I glance behind me and my heart almost stops. I see a pile of lightened blonde hair, glittering deep brown eyes, and an unmistakable shell necklace. I can't look into those eyes at this overwhelming moment and my whole body is on fire. Suddenly I can't control my feet and I rush towards the bathroom.

“It can’t be, this just can’t be happening…” I think to myself as I almost step into the boys’ room. I realize my absolutely insane mistake and head for the girls’ when I notice he’s still standing there trying not to laugh. He saw the whole thing. Jeff Waters just witnessed me almost going into the boys’ room.

“Whoa,” he laughs, “You didn’t have to like run away, I was just wondering if you were Daria Knight.”

My heart is hammering inside my sweater and I can’t force myself to make eye contact with him. It feels like his eyeballs are tiny blazing suns and if I look too closely, I will be blinded forever. Staring at his tanned neck instead and the shell necklace overlapping his collar, I reply, “Yeah, I’m Daria, and you must be Jeff, right?” I smile my flirty smile and hope for the best, though I am already regretting letting him know that I know his name.

"Yeah. You're the one who was totally beaten by my amazing Ping-Pong skills this summer."

"Actually," I smugly point out, "I believe I beat you by my amazing ping pong skills this summer."

He laughs. "Umm.... Right." He smiles. "So anyway, I’m sitting with your friends I guess at lunch and they were wondering where you were. They'll be glad I found you. Britney told me to search for a girl in a white cardigan and a red polka dot skirt." He looks down at my skirt and I smile back, feeling like I am going to faint any minute.

"Well, thanks a lot. I'm glad you found me also." Then I finally look up into his eyes just in time and we make eye contact so perfectly. I wait for him to think about that one for a little bit. I feel my confidence coming back now that I have figured out the kink in my schedule. " Are you going back to lunch? I just figured out after completely embarrassing myself by going into a juniors' class that I'm supposed to go to be in the Caf right now!"

All of a sudden he's walking me to lunch as I tell him all about the embarrassment I had just experienced. He is not as talkative as other guys are - I instantly notice this. He also at least tries to make eye contact when I talk to him, even though sometimes I have to look away around the hall, for fear that those deep brown eyes will eventually be able to blur my vision completely - but not by the sun. This blinding would actually be from a crazy teenage girl who instantly decides she's in love with this guy without knowing a thing about him. I suppose this is typical of romance sometimes, girls being blinded by a guy's charm and attractiveness, not even knowing if they can trust him until after they devote every waking hour to him only to find out that he doesn't feel the same way about her.

It's all too soon that we've reached the double doors of the Big Caf and he's holding the door for me. My friends instantly squeal from a nearby table and I am immediately swallowed up in their chatter about classes. I look back at Jeff who is standing right next to us watching this whole silly scene. Then I notice he is looking at me. We make eye contact again as I smile back at him and my heart starts hammering again.

"You're going to watch where you're heading this time, Daria," I tell myself slyly. "This time you're going to know exactly what is behind that door before you swing it open." I glance back al him and even though Charlotte is asking me what class I have next it doesn't matter. At that exact moment, I can't focus on anything but that pile of golden blonde hair and those deep brown eyes that seem to see into my soul.
Jeff Waters is as good as mine.

(13) Back into the Whirlpool

2008-07-21T11:54:00.000-07:00

I hear a huge splash behind me in the pool as I walk eagerly towards the huge glass container of my aunt's most famous chocolate mousse. My dad and my uncle Jake are manning the grill with hotdogs, hamburgers, and chicken sizzling underneath the large black barbecue lid and my mom is talking to my father's mother in the corner in the shade.

As I grab the serving spoon and dump a huge delicious pile onto the red paper plate, I turn and watch my Uncle Kevin throwing water balloons at my cousins as if he were a little kid again. His hair is plastered to his thin face and his cargo shorts and plaid button down boxers are soaked. I laugh as he dodges away from an orange colored balloon sent from my Uncle Don, but gets hit directly in the face by Eddie, his eight-year-old son.

It's Labor Day, a bittersweet holiday that tricks you into thinking it's the glorious summer again, just to wake up the next morning to go back to your tiresome second week of high school. Somehow this year Olivia had escaped the traditional extended family Labor Day pool party. For some reason my parents think it is more important for my sister to make sure J. Crew doesn't have anything left from their summer clearance sale than to spend time with her own flesh and blood. I, on the other hand, have begged my parents to let me go to the beach with all of my friends and they act all ashamed of me that I would even ask such a thing.

These kinds of parties really aren't that bad. The food is really good, the pool is refreshing, and it's always fun to watch Uncle Kevin jump in the pool with all of his clothes on. It's just that I'm forever stuck between being an adult and being a kid. The oldest cousin I have for company is twelve.

My thoughts are interrupted as my Aunt Meredith, always the perfect hostess in her signature red polo tee-shirt dress sidles over to a plate of brownies.

"Daria, would you mind running upstairs to make sure the girls haven't drowned yet? I told Lillian she could take her friends up to the Jacuzzi as long as she cleaned up afterwards. I just want to be sure their not under two feet of water up there."
I laugh a "sure," and put down my towering pile of mousse and head into the house. Lillian is known to be quite daring and mischievous, even though she is the most adorable little girl I know. Who knows what she could be doing up there with her other little fan club.

As I climb the steps everything seems to be quiet as I approach my aunt and uncle's bedroom. I put my ear to the door and don't hear a peep. As 1 slowly open their door, I can hear faint laughter coming from the door across the room. I make my way to the bathroom, and now I can definitely hear music and splashing. As I jiggle the doorknob, I realize that of course it's locked. I knock harder.

"Who is it?" I hear Lillian shout above the music. There are unmistakable squeals in the background.

"Daria!" I shout into the door. Then Lillian's reddened face appears as she shouts to her friends that it's me and that I am free to enter.

At first I can't see anything. It's like walking into a cloud in the sky. I am afraid to continue walking, having lost Lillian in the blur and not having any clue where the Jacuzzi is located. Finally the steam dissipates and 1 can see the disaster inside.
Three girls are stretched out in the tub; their swim suited bodies covered in suds as if they are some kind of animals with a coast of bubbles. Another girl is in the shower and all I can see is her bright tankini. Britney Spears, of course, is blasting from a stereo and soapsuds are everywhere. They crown the faucets in the tub and frame all the corners of the floor. White fuzzy piles hang off the counters and drip off the walls. All the mirrors are completely fogged up and all metal surfaces are sweating. It looks like a huge soap bomb exploded. I am speechless.

Lillian jumps back into the hot tub, causing a wave of water and more suds to soak the floor. My first inclination is to start shouting at them like a parent, but then I remember what it was like being twelve and not having any responsibility or, for that matter, a care in the world, My shock must have been obvious, because after a couple of seconds of me surveying the room, Lillian looks at me nervously.

“Don't worry, Daria, we'll clean it up, we promise." I watch three uneasy, soapy faces nod in unison. The fourth is still in the shower. I feel my face ease a little bit and 1 smile back at them.

"I know you guys will." Then I glance in the mirror that is slowly able to give back my reflection and I look at myself in my khaki shorts and blue sleeveless shirt. My skin is tanned and my hair is sun bleached and my teeth are good and straight. I look more and more like a fifteen-and-a half-year-old, when I suddenly want to just be a twelve-year-old, where your worst fear is that Justin Timberlake might just marry Britney Spears and not you, even when you pride yourself on having every poster of him ever made and know every NSync song by heart.

Suddenly I am taking off my shorts and top and remain only in my light blue tankini. I
tell them all to make room and I jump in. I turn up the volume on the stereo to the song "Lucky" and dance around for them as they clap and roar with laughter. Then I dive in, as another wave of bath water falls onto the floor. I don't even think about it because I am lost in the moment of being young and having fun. We sit there as the jets propel bubbles all around us and I listen to them squeal about JC, Joey, and of course Justin and which one will be their husband. They beg me to tell them everything I know about Jeff Waters. We are lost in time. Suddenly I look at my soapy watch and tell them that we had better start cleaning up.

I grab an already soaked green towel and start to mop up the water on the floor. Lillian and her other friends follow suit, polishing the faucets, killing the overpowering soapsuds, and making sure all of the mirrors are sparkling clean.
As I wipe down the bottom of the tub, I think about how easy it must be to be so young and naive. I realize how important it is to still act like a kid and get lost in moments of spontaneity, for it eases the burden of age and brings more simplicity to life. The next day will start a solid month of high school. My soggy epiphany, courtesy of Lillian and her friends, is a powerful reminder that Labor Day has me caught in two worlds; the carefree days of summer and my youth, and the challenges of a new year at DHS as I step back into the whirlpool of life.

(14) Food for Thought-The Freshman

2008-07-21T11:42:00.000-07:00

The clanging of the cafeteria ladies slamming lids onto pots, rings through my ears while the hot oil from the fry basket crackles in the corner. Crowds of tough senior guys push themselves to the front of the line that is forming in front of the counter. The more timid girls and freshmen edge their way behind the mass of starving jocks, but the braver ones push their way into the mess even further. In the cafeteria when the first batch of fries is being handed out, it is every man for himself. You can’t be too polite or generous, unless you want to go through the agony of standing for an hour waiting for the next batch which eats up most of your lunch time anyway so that you might not even be able to eat them once you finally get them. There is definitely a lot on the line when you choose to grab some fries for lunch.

Patsy and I squeeze past the madness towards the sandwich counter. The caf’s fries beat a roast beef sandwich any day, but they aren’t worth losing an eye over.

“I think I feel like eating fruit salad. Watermelon sounds so refreshing,” Patsy says, picking up a container and inspecting it. I grab one also, and my mouth instantly begins to water at the thought of having some kiwi slices that are piled on the top.

“You’re right.” I smile.

“Hey, how come you have like three pieces of kiwi and I only have one?” She asks as she grabs mine. We’re both giggling as I try and grab it back.

Just then I feel a weight hit my shoulder. Ready to yell at whatever stupid guy was pushed into me, I turn around briskly to find two boys that I have never seen before. They are looking at me, obviously embarrassed and trying not to laugh.

“GEEZ, John, you pushed me into a girl!” I look at the guy who said it and suddenly feel my cheeks feel hot and my heart starts hammering just like when I had first talked to Jeff. His hair is darker, the color of chocolate with caramel highlights, and he’s a little bit taller than I am. What hits me most about him, are his eyes. They are the most amazing eyes I have ever seen-a deep brown with tiny flecks that sparkle when he talks. There is something about them that just captures me and we stand there looking into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he grabs his fries and walks away with his friends. I realize though, as he continues walking that he’s heading toward the freshmen caf.

Patsy and I both look at each other and start to freak out. “Who is he?” I ask her wide-eyed.

“I don’t know, but he’s GORGEOUS!” We grab our fruit salads, pay for them, and then walk outside to where the rest of our friends are sitting. The sky is a clear blue with a few sparse clouds, and yellow jackets are buzzing around tables like fighter planes, ready to land on teenagers’ Snapples and sandwiches.

Even from the shade where our table is I am hit with the humidity of the afternoon, and pull off my black cardigan so that I am left wearing only a turquoise shirt and khaki shorts. I take off the lid of the fruit salad, but I can’t concentrate on eating at this moment.

“Where’s Jeff?” Patsy asks as she takes a forkful of watermelon and holds it up to her mouth. I am relieved to see that Jeff isn’t sitting at our table even though, at the same time it makes me a little sad.

Ever since the first day of school when we had talked, there has been some sort of awkwardness present which makes me avoid seeing him in the halls, and forces me to be unbelievably quiet when he sits with my friends and me. We had gotten along so well the first day, and then the spark died completely and we both began to pretend our whole introduction never happened.

"He had to go see his English teacher or something." Cameron says through a mouthful of potato chips.

"During lunch?" Charlotte raises her eyebrows as she bites into a bagel. We're all quiet for a moment as everyone eats.

"Are you going to eat that, Heather?" Sam looks hungrily at the gooey chocolate chip
cookie that is already melting onto the wax paper it's wrapped in. Heather looks at it with disgust and gladly passes it to Sam. I roll my eyes at Charlotte. Heather's lunch usually includes a bottle of water and a peanut. She must go home and eat her whole house when no one's looking because no one could survive on that diet.

Heather looks at the cookie for a minute and then begins to talk.
"Oh my gosh you guys, I met the most amazing guy today in my badminton class, but get this, he's a freshmen! What a total waste! That is just against the rules, isn't it? I mean sophomore girls can't go out with freshman!"

"I don't know," Patsy says slyly, "Daria didn't seem to think so when one bumped into her in the cafeteria." This starts the whole table laughing and I laugh weakly along with them. Suddenly I am completely confused with myself. He's younger than I am, completely off limits and what happened to the burning desire to be with Jeff? Yet somehow, I can't help wishing that I could belong to those eyes. That one day I could look into them and tell them everything including, hey hun, how about braving that line and getting me some fries. . ..

(15) Goals

2008-07-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

The warm sun beats down on my hands and face as I undo my ponytail and rearrange my hair into a tight, messy bun. My forehead is covered in a hundred beads of sweat and my t-shirt sticks to me like glue. After pulling the cotton fabric away from my back so I can breath a little, and adjusting my lacrosse shorts so they don't cling to my legs, I tighten my grip around my field hockey stick to focus my attention on Britney. Bringing my stick back with concentration, I smash it into the white ball lying on the grass.

Satisfied, I watch it fly across the field to her stick. Without even allowing the ball to stop against the side of her stick, she makes direct contact with it and I watch it zoom past me in a blur. It keeps on flying and soon heads straight for the bottom of the hill where the boys JV football team is walking down to their field in all their pads at the other end of the parking lot.

"Britney, go get it." I sigh.

"You go get it, Daria, it isn't my fault that you can't stop such a powerful shot!" She puts her hands on the hips of her bright orange Patagonia shorts and squints at me through the sunshine. I sigh again and slowly walk towards the parade of boys to retrieve my ball where it is slowly rolling all the way down the hill. As I approach the end of the hill, I am relieved to see Cameron walking with a crowd of juniors.

"Hey, Daria!" He adjusts the piece of equipment he's carrying to his other shoulder.

"Hey." I walk with him for a few seconds and head down the hill. “Britney sent our ball flying over here. I wish she would remember to just stop the ball before she sends it back!”

Cameron laughs. “It’s not her fault you can’t play field hockey.”

“HEY!” I punch him in the arm and give him a smile.

“GUYS!” Someone grab Daria’s ball, it’s by the wall over there!” Cameron shouts to his teammates. I watch the guys stop and look at each other in the shade. Jeff waits for someone else to pick it up, but no one does.

“Thanks a lot guys!” I laugh. For a few more seconds, the football players tell each other to go get it and no one does. Then, Jeff Waters sighs and drops the bright blue bag of jerseys he’s carrying and runs over to the wall. I am regretting more than ever that I gave in and ran over to get it myself. Now Jeff has to go get it for me! It is not as if I don’t have a pair of working legs, why didn’t I just get it myself? I wonder why everything with him has to continue to be so awkward. Scenes of the first day of school when we had walked and sat together at lunch flood through my mind. My face definitely must be three shades of darker red as she comes over and without really looking at my face, hands me the ball. I cannot help but enjoy the warmth that shoots through my body when I touch his hand and I curl my fingers around that ball.

Suddenly the familiar piercing whistle coming from the coach fills the air as I watch Jeff trudge with the other guys down the rest of the field. I turn around and run towards the growing crowd of girls around our coach. Leaning on my stick, I listen to her talk about the previous day's game. None of us really want to hear what she has to say. Yesterday we had our first game of the season and had painfully lost to Wilton.

"Girls! I realized by watching you almost faint on that field that I obviously did not prepare you well enough for game time! Today let's concentrate on running hard and well. I think we'll start with three miles around the track. You girls have GOT to realize that you aren't freshmen anymore. Field hockey might have been just fun and games in the past years, but now it's going to he more work and determination! Now let's see some GOALS next game! Did you girls already take a warm up lap?"

We all nod weakly.

"Good! Let’s stretch!" As I sit down angrily on the grass, I let what the coach has just bellowed to us sink in. I don't want to agree with her, but it is true. I have to realize that she's right. This year is going to be a lot different than freshman year. I pull my right leg in and stretch my arm to hold onto the opposite foot and continue thinking to myself. My stick work definitely is a little rusty this year. I definitely am not in shape. I am going to have to force myself to work hard, practice, study, and succeed scholastically and athletically. I am going to find that life really isn't all fun and that I can't waste so much time. Soon I am going to start driving and perhaps I'll be getting a job. I can't mess up this time. I am going to have to learn responsibility and with that, I need to learn how to make goals !
After being fully stretched, I run down the field to my sports bag and change out of my cleats and into my sneakers. Tying the black laces into a tight knot, I get up and run towards the track with a newfound burst of passion for the sport I have played since seventh grade. This year I am really going to hit one in there, and hit it hard!
I sprint down the hill, determination running through my body like blood. My body is as light as a feather, but solid as rock. I am heading for the Startup line of life this year, and this time I am going to definitely win this game.

(17) Drowning in Syrup

2008-07-21T11:22:00.000-07:00

It's Saturday morning and I bounce downstairs to the den, my wet hair slapping my back so that small, damp spots appear on the cotton fabric of my Adidas t-shirt. The time is nine o' six, and I am unbelievably full of energy and in an unusually cheerful mood.

"OOOOlivia!" I sing down the hall. She's talking into the phone, the curled up cord stretched to its limit from where it is attached to the phone's base on the other side of the room. The way my sister can keep a decent conversation on the phone and be on AOL at the same time has always amazed me, not to mention how she can keep track of everything that is being said from both sources.

"Olivia!" I whisper, running my hands through my damp strands so that all I can smell is peaches.

"JUSTA SECOND! Daria, can't you see I’m BUSY AT THE MOMENT?"

I sigh, and flounce onto a chair to wait for a break in both voice and digital conversations.

"No, no I wasn't talking to you, Scott, it was my annoying sister. Yeah, ha ha, sorry." She glares at me and I tap my fingers on an arm of the chair.

"Anyway, he said what? You're joking, right? Ha ha, you can't be serious. Not the girl from our Physics class! She wouldn't be able to tell a Prada jacket from a Target rip-off! Oh wait, Scott? That wasn't meant for you, sorry I meant to type that. Yeah, oh you do? All right, so we're still on for tomorrow night? The Japanese Animation Festival? Oh, of course, I LOVE Japanese animation!" She curls the phone cord around her neck in mock suffocation. "Okay, bye." She hands me the phone with her typical and irritating noblesse oblige and I dutifully run to the other side of the room to hang it up.

"Daria, I've told you like a trillion times, don't interrupt me when I'm talking like that! Did you see how you confused me?" "Olivia? What are you doing today?" The thought of buying warm wool Abercrombie sweaters clicks in my mind and I cross my fingers that Olivia will be willing to play chauffer.

"A hundred things, Daria, a hundred things! Claire and I are going to pick out a new outfit for my date tomorrow night, not to mention the hours of homework I have to do since tomorrow I have to spend my whole day getting ready for Scott. Then to top that all off, I have to go help out the middle school with their field hockey team!"

"A hundred and one counting that you have to finish doing the dishes, Olivia!" My mom pops her head into the room and then hurries downstairs with my dad to go to their morning tennis match.

Olivia screams. It starts as a low moan and then goes to a full, highpitched B-movie shriek. I laugh and try to use this new piece of information to my advantage.

"I'll do the dishes for you, Livy."

"You will?" Olivia gushes, completely taking the bait.

"Well, only if you...uh....let's say take me out to breakfast!" If I can't go shopping, having a pile of hot pancakes drowned in butter pecan syrup will have to suffice.

Olivia stops typing and looks at me. "Breakfast? Where, the IHOP?" I nod slyly in the affirmative.

"All right, you have five minutes to get dressed. If you're not ready, then you'll be the one paying."

I shoot up the stairs two at a time and grin to myself as I get dressed and start brushing my hair. I don't have to make myself look completely perfect because we're just going to the IHOP. That's the nice thing about it. You're not there to impress anyone and they're not there to impress you. You just sit and wolf down pancakes. It's nice.

After I slip on my sneakers, I trot down the stairs, down the hall, and down another flight of stairs to the garage.

It seems like forever until Olivia finally jumps into the driver's seat, keys in hand and backs out of the driveway in a squeal. She speeds down roads until we reach it, the International ouse of Pancakes and it's as if the sign is glowing.
Running inside, we get seated in a booth and start to order. Olivia gets an order of buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast, bacon, and a tall glass of orange juice. I just get an order of buttermilk pancakes and orange juice. The most overwhelmingly annoying thing about Olivia is that she can eat whatever she wants and not get fat. I would probably have the same gift that she does, except that my appetite is half of hers, so I've never been able to try it.

We chew for a few minutes for the sake of time, and then I begin my interrogation.
"Olivia, what can you possibly do all day tomorrow just to get ready for one date? You're out of the shower in like twenty minutes. What else is left?"

Olivia stops chewing and looks up at me in shock and then sympathy. "Oh my poor, naive little sister. I guess we're just going to have to start at lesson number one. You see, preparation for a date takes time, sometimes all day." I put down my fork and focus my attention to her words of "wisdom."

Olivia stabs at another piece of egg. "You're lucky you've asked me for some dating tips, because I am the master. I am the perfect date, and do you want to know my secret? The key, Daria, is definitely preparation and planning. You find out what each guy's obsession is, and then you make yourself the walking authority on it."

She chews for a few seconds and then continues. "For example, the one guy, Billy I think his name was, was a complete hockey fanatic. So what did I do'? The night before our first date, I stayed up until three o' clock in the morning reading Wayne Gretzky's autobiography. For this British guy, I had to learn all of the English Premier league soccer teams by name. I’ll admit that was a tricky one. . . "

I can't believe what I am hearing, I chew my pancakes slowly, still listening. "Daria, what you always have to remember, is that guys are stupid. Here are a few basic rules and you'll be any guy's perfect compaine." I look at her.

"First, you give them a pet name, they love that by the way, always agree with them, always show up for their sports games, and only order the mixed field greens from any restaurant that you go to - if he goes cheap. If there isn't a decent salad, order whatever you want, eat a third of it, and blame it on rapturous attention. It's all about being syrupy sweet."

I look at her, wide eyed, not believing what I have just been told. This can't be the best way of getting a boyfriend! I want the life that I've lived to be the preparation for the date, not the hour before. Then I notice that Olivia is still talking about certain dating rules as I am thinking about all of this, not even noticing that the blueberry syrup pouring from her pitcher has completely drowned her pancakes and has started dripping off the table onto her immaculate khakis.

I interrupt her. "Olivia, I think you use a little too much syrup." "What?" She looks down at her plate aghast, missing the full import of what I have just said about her love life as well as her breakfast.

MEMO TO SELF: NEVER talk to Olivia about boys again.

(18) Un-democratic Party

2008-07-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

Finally, I am finished with the last algebra equation on the homework. Slamming the book shut, I then slip my socked feet into my favorite cow fur patterned slippers. Going through my mental agenda, I make my way downstairs. “Homework done, call Charissa done, pick out outfit for next day done, convince parents to drive me to the store to buy food for the party tomorrow night…..oh.” I grab my mom’s keys off of the ladies desk in the hall and jingle them together cheerfully as I enter the kitchen. Tossing the keys in front of my mother who is drinking a cup of her routine Starbucks Kona (high test), I open the refrigerator and grab the last carton of milk.

“What are these for, Daria?” My mom asks me, referring to her keys that are lying on the page of the newspaper she is reading. She looks up from the arts and leisure section to give me a puzzled glance.

“To buy more milk,” I say brightly as I empty the last few drops into the tall glass in front of me, “and to get a couple of food items for tomorrow night.” Tossing the empty white carton into the metal trashcan, I walk to the pantry and pull out the new package of double stuff Oreos.

“What party, Daria?” My mother glances back down to her paper and sips from her Smith ’77 mug with little interest.

“The one I’ve been telling you about for weeks!” I rip open the plastic covering and slide the black plastic container out onto the counter.

“Daria, Halloween is next week, dear.” She turns another page and shakes it firmly so that it can stay open on its own in the air.

“Mom, I know Halloween is next week! Tomorrow night Charlotte is having a party to celebrate Joey’s decision to go out with Pacey from Dawson’s Creek! I told you last week. You know that I was assigned to bring the chips and onion dip!” I sigh, completely exasperated with my mother who is known to forget the most trivial details at the most crucial times.

“Daria, don’t you think two parties in a row is a little much?”

“No.” I reply simply and dunk a cookie in my glass.

“Well, your father and I do.”

“What is this?” My dad enters the kitchen and grabs a cookie from my pile.

“Trip, we’re talking about Daria’s increasing time spent partying.

“Of course,” my father starts waving his Oreo while he talks, “Daria, you may go to the party.”

“I can?” I look at my dad and then at my mom who is still deep into her newspaper.

“Definitely. Just make sure you come home no later than eleven o’clock.” That is it, the final blow. My parents have just done what every teenager instantly resents, they have implied that they do not trust my better judgment and have taken away my dignity, my pride and joy, and my freedom. My parents have just issued me a curfew.

“Eleven ‘clock? The Dawson’s Creek skit contest doesn’t even start until twelve!”

I watch weakly as my mom puts down her paper, looks up at my father, and gleams. It is one of those evil smiles that a mother tends to have when she has laid down a harsh and merciless law and then realizes that her husband is in fact on her side. I watch this exchange of comradeship and prepare to firmly stand my ground, for the war is just beginning.

“I have a curfew now?” I ask calmly.

“Now that is a great idea, Daria, that wasn’t where I was going…but hey…why not?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” I glare at my father now, the anger increasing. I take a bite of a now completely mangled Oreo and chew with immense frustration.

“Of course, your curfew should change each year…next year you can stay out until midnight.” He told me this with so much enthusiasm it sickened me because it was as if staying at a party until midnight was some huge unexpected privilege. He ignored my gasp of horror though and continued cheerfully.

“Now for college, hmm, that might be a little tricky, but I’m sure we can work something out. Oh, and the evening when you turn twenty one, we’ll add a bonus half hour…that means you can stay up and celebrate drinking until four-thirty in the morning.” Now it is beginning to sound like my dad is advertising a new miracle mop with a bonus magnetic duster, not my life as a teenager on the weekends. My mother begins to giggle with her lips on her coffee mug and I can feel myself beginning to lose it.

The second rule to offering a decent argument to your parent after clarifying the situation is comparing the situation to some other known person. I go immediately to step two. “Dad, Olivia doesn’t have a curfew!”

“Olivia doesn’t need a curfew, Daria.” My mother explains.

You know you’re close to losing the battle when your parents ignore the fact that your own older sister doesn’t have to follow the rule. After all else fails, all you have left are whining, yelling at them, and/or walking away. “I can’t believe you are doing this to me! This is so unfair! You never tell Olivia she can’t go on any dates!”

“Daria, that’s a whole different story.” My dad replies. I feel myself losing control and I instantly begin to lash out at them. My face begins to get hot and my heart rate quickens.

“That is not a whole different story! If I have a curfew Olivia should get one too! Why are you doing this to me? Why does it matter how late I stay out just as long as you know where I am?”

“Because, Daria, this is about learning responsibility. No one needs to continually go to parties and not come home until three o’clock in the morning, it’s just not necessary.” My mother tries to reason with me, but nothing she says is going to make me feel better. They will never understand how awful it is to have to leave a party and miss the events that occur after your curfew. They will never understand that a real party doesn’t start until way past eleven o’clock.

“So that’s it? I don’t even get a choice in the matter!”

“Since when is this a democracy?” my father shoots back at me.

“I can’t stand this! I hate you both! You don’t understand, you don’t know how important this party is to me!” I take the plate in my hand and slam it back onto the counter. “All you do is control my life, why can’t you just stay out of it and let me make my own choices? Is that so hard? Why do you have to be such controlling, manipulative, dense people? Just stay away from me!” I walk over to the pantry and shove the package of Oreos back on the shelf next to the bag of Tostitos angrily.
“All right, Daria, if that’s the way you want it, you don’t have to go the party tomorrow night. You can stay home and read the dictionary all night.” My dad tells
me, his voice calm but stern.

“Fine!” Now nothing matters anymore. I want my parents to feel some amount of the pain they have caused and will cause me from missing my party tomorrow night. I stand in front of the pantry and do something I know my parents hate more than anything else. I grab the edge of one of the pantry doors and slam it as hard as I can against the other closed one. I can see my mom’s face deeply edge into a harsh cringe. I can now almost guarantee that there is some sort of scratch or mar in the nice mahogany wood. Now she is feeling true pain. The loud crack fills the kitchen. .

“That’s it, Daria!” I can tell my dad is really angry now as I watch his bulging eyes, red face, and a clenched fist from his left hand. “You know what? You’re not going to the party tomorrow night, and you’re not going to the party next week or any other week for that matter. Daria, you are not going to go to another party until you’re twenty-one for all I care!” He hollers at me.

“Good!” I shout back and walk quickly towards the stairs. I know not being able to attend any sort of party until I am twenty one years old is not exactly a positive new rule, but I can’t let them think they’ve won, I can’t let them see me crumple.

“Come back here, Daria, we are not done speaking with you!” My mother shouts. I am already stomping up the stairs though and storming down the upstairs hallway. I reach my room, slam it also as hard as I can, and then jump onto my bed in a fit of rage. Immediately I think through drastic actions and ways of dealing with my parents once and for all. Then only thing that sticks out in my mind though is to completely stop acknowledging them as having any part in my life. I would have to start getting rides to places from my friends, and paying for my own clothes and expenses with my savings money from my summer babysitting job, but then that would not be the greatest way to live considering I could only spend about five dollars a day, not counting tax.

I remain sulking in my room, trying to think of ways of revenge on my parents for about an hour and a half. Then the image of me staying at home with them, handing out candy to greedy little kids in Pokemon and princess costumes, while my friends are laughing and dancing around to loud music, comes into my mind. The thought is too much to bear. How can I not be able to go to this party after Cameron and I had already planned to come as Fred Durst and Christina Aguilera and I have already bought a pair of leather pants? Heather might have to take my place!

I make the decision. Letting your parents know who's boss is definitely not worth missing the party of the year. Besides, your parents are always going to be your parents, and even though you might not agree with them on everything, you have to admit they do a decent amount of things for you and you do have fun dancing around in your pajamas with them in the living room to their Beatles trilogy CD. I get off my bed and look around for a tissue box. When you lose a battle, the only thing you can do is offer the best apology you can and tears are essential. You cannot possibly convince your parents that you are sincerely sorry without at least one drop rolling down your cheek. If you do this, admit that you were in the wrong, tell them you love them, offer something in the name of peace, such as never doing “such and such” again, and then calmly talk through the situation once again, unless it’s a serious situation or your parents are true ogres, it won’t be long until your parents will break down and you will resolve the conflict maturely together.

I find a tissue box wedged in a shelf in my closet. Grabbing one soft sheet and sticking it the side pocket of my cloud printed flannel pajama pants as if it were a white flag, I walk slowly down the carpeted stairs, ready to make peace.

(19) The Crown of Friendship

2008-07-21T11:10:00.001-07:00

"But who do you think will win the best Dawson imitation?" I ask Britney as we walk out of the cafeteria doors from lunch.

"Oh. . . well for that category Jeff will totally win, but for the other one, the best Dawson look-a-like, it will definitely be Cameron."

"Jeff is coming?" I am so shocked that I abruptly stop walking. Jeff has never really come to one of our parties. He eats lunch at our table, yes, but he doesn't hang out outside of school. He has different friends he parties with. Now I am more glad than ever that I have resolved the argument with my parents the night before.

"Well, yeah, he's in my bio class, and besides, Heather was the one who invited him."

"She was?" I start walking again.

"Yeah, oh look, let's vote for the homecoming court!" Britney grabs my hand and pulls me with her into the large mob of students that is forming. The hall is filled with loud murmurings of guys and girls trying to decide who to vote for.

"Hey, Daria!” One of my sister's best friends pokes her head above a mass of Freshmen that are crowding in front of the table where she is sitting.

"Hey, Jenna."

"Here, just fill in the blanks." She hands me a blank piece of white paper that has several lines and then disappears again behind the group of girls.
I pull a pencil out of my jeans pocket and immediately chew on the eraser, lost in thought. Deciding on who to vote on for homecoming court is a big decision and I have no idea who to put down. I lose focus on the mass of students and think about how wonderful it would be to be paired up with Jeff on the homecoming court. A picture fills my mind where I am standing in a black Jeep Wrangler next to Jeff, laughing and talking to him in the homecoming parade. And then another one where he and I walk arm in arm across the football field during halftime and smile for a picture that will show up in the yearbook for the whole school to look at for their entire lives. It would be so wonderful if he and I got the most votes and got paired together! Maybe the awkwardness would leave our relationship if we were forced to start talking to each other again.

"Daria!” If you're not going to vote, don't block other people from getting a ballot!" I ‘m thrown out of my wonderful thoughts and am immediately back to where I am standing outside of the senior cafeteria door.

"Who did you vote for?” I sigh and pull down the sleeves of my yellow cable knit wool sweater.

"Oh, I don't know, Susan Drews, Jessica Bartell, Nancy Larsen, and I haven't come with the last girl." I couldn't believe it. Not one of the girls Britney has just named are people she even likes. I don't understand why she hasn't put down any of her actual friends.

"Why didn't you put down Charlotte, or Charissa, or even Patsy?" I ask.

"How could I do that, what if they actually won! Do you have any idea how awful it would be if one of them made it on the homecoming court and I didn't! Nancy Larsen I don't care about, but Charlotte? That would just kill me."

"Oh." I turn away from Britney so that she cannot see my own list. I stare at the names of all my closest friends and I am about to erase them all when a sudden realization hits me. Britney's perspective on who to vote for is all wrong! Her vision on the homecoming court is skewed. Instead of the voting being about the people who should be elected, it has turned into voting for who should not be elected. I am not going to let myself put down names of people that mean nothing to me just because I am too concerned that someone I am close to would make it and I would not. I have more self-confidence than that.

I start to think and reminisce about the past and my friends who were there for me. When I was ten and had strep throat and didn't come to school for two weeks, Britney was the one that risked catching the terrible sickness and came to my house everyday with the homework and a pint of ice cream.

When I sprained my ankle in soccer practice in fifth grade, Patsy was the one who carried my books when I had to go to the library or gym class. When my dog got hit by a car when I was twelve, it was Charissa's shoulder that I cried on. Who have I had the most fun with? My friends. Who have I stayed up all night talking on he phone with? My friends. With the piece of paper hidden in the folds of my pants pocket, and a new goal of being more loyal to all of them in mind to achieve, I leave the murmurs of students still deciding on who not to vote for for homecoming court behind me.

(20) Homecoming-A Chance Encounter

2008-07-12T11:44:00.000-07:00

It is time. The most suspenseful part of any important dance arises. The last drums of one upbeat song fade, and suddenly softer, gentler music floats through the school gym. It is that fateful time to slowly sway with a guy, hopefully that you are head over heels in love with, to a slow dance.

My heart pounds and I look around for some unsuspecting guy I can snatch and move around with so it won’t appear that I actually don’t have a guy to dance with. The music is getting louder now as I watch Heather in what she loves to refer as her “perfect little black dress” grab Cameron and wrap her arms around his neck. Britney and Charlotte start dancing with the Nickelson twins, and Charissa and Patsy head quickly over to the refreshment area. I am abandoned on the dance floor and I start to go ask Jack, the guy I sit next to in English to dance when I feel a hand on my bare shoulder.

“Daria!” I turn around to face the guy that all of my friends and I have named Hottie who is in my floor hockey PE class.
“You want to dance?” I am completely stunned as I nod and smile and he places his hands around my waist. I feel like I am about to start floating through the room like the balloons floating above us. Warmth surrounds my body and I can feel his firm but gentle arms wrapped around me. Homecoming has never been so amazing! As I look into his deep brown eyes and he looks into mine I concentrate on the song so I that I won’t ever forget the moment and will have a story to squeal over with my friends later in my living room.

The song gets louder and I am picturing my friend’s shocked expressions as I inform them that I danced with Clarke Thomas to NSYNC “This I promise you.” I also wished that some news photographer would rush over to us and snap a quick shot so that I could have a picture to cut out of the newspaper to paste in my journal.

“Daria do you--”

His words are interrupted as I turn my head to look at the noisy couple next to us. A freshmen girl with long blonde hair and a periwinkle strapless dress is laughing quite loudly and stumbling as she dances with some other guy. As Clarke and I watch her, I realize she is obviously drunk as she continues to bump into her dancing partner and doesn’t look too focused.

“They are so annoying.” I hear Clarke say and as I turn to smile at him I almost bump into his face because he is so close to me. He smells faintly of cologne and I notice the light freckles across his nose.

“It’s just some drunk freshmen.” I laugh as we get closer.

“Yeah, my sister.”

“Oh.” I feel like crawling under one of the tables. I pray he didn’t take offense from that. I turn my head to look at his sister again. Just then my face burns, my hands sweat, and I realize that the guy she is dancing with is Jeff Waters! I instantly feel awkward and wish more than anything that I didn’t have to be slow dancing with another guy right next to him, even if it is Mr. Hottie.

“She’s probably going to start puking in the bathroom and I will have to leave you to go drive her home so my parents won’t find out and kill us both!”

“I hope not.” I smile and look into his eyes for a brief moment but as I turn my head I see Jeff jerk his gaze away from my direction.

“Me too.” Clarke smiles slyly and he pulls me towards him so that my cheek lies on his shoulder. My body is on fire and I would give anything to pull away from him as I feel Jeff’s eyes on us now. As we turn and I am facing them, I stare at the floor, not daring to look at him.

“Hey? Are you okay Cora? Cora?”

I glance up and realize that Clarke’s sister is pushing her way through the crowd looking incredibly uncomfortable. I feel Clarke pull himself away.

“I guess I’ll talk to you later, Daria.” He holds my hand for a moment reaches inside his breast pocket for one of the cards in his stack with his phone number on it, hands it to me, and then rushes towards his sister. I watch him disappear in the crowd and then, it hits me. Jeff and I are both standing completely partner less on the dance floor. What are the odds? I think of my options; walk away looking like a fool, dance by myself, (which is pretty difficult when it is a slow song), or ask Jeff to dance. I force myself to look at him and realize he is looking at me.

“Hey, ummm, we look kind of weird just standing here, huh?” He laughs I notice pretty nervously.

“Yeah.” I smile weakly and look around at all of the couples. We stand there for a few seconds, completely silent.

“Will you dance with me, Daria?” He puts his left right hand behind his tanned neck awkwardly.

“Sure.” I look down at Clarke’s phone number nervously, not knowing what to do with it.

“Here, I can put in my pocket if you want.” He looks at the card strangely and I instantly regret Clarke ever giving it to me. He shoves it into his pocket and moves closer to me. I am completely breathless as I smile and place my hands on his shoulders and I begin to slow dance with the guy I have been pining for all summer.

The feeling of being in his arms is indescribable, like a dream that I never want to wake up from. I can’t even hear the music anymore as he guides me across the dance floor. Our dancing becomes smooth and graceful so that we are gliding across the surface of a moonlit frozen lake, not merely stepping around the dusty wooden floor of the high school gym. We stop for a split second as he takes my arms in his warm hands and places them around his neck in place of where they were awkwardly resting on his shoulders. I smile dreamily and savor every step so that when the last notes of the music play, I’ll have something to live off for the rest of the weekend.

It is all too soon that the song ends and we stand there looking at each other, as everyone else goes back to dancing with their groups of friends. I wait for Jeff to say something, anything, because I am at a loss for words. I watch him reach into his pocket and pull out that embarrassing card from Clarke. He takes a pen and crosses off Clarke’s neatly typed phone number and name and replaces it with his own name, AOL screen name, and phone number. He hands me the card with a sly smile that will forever remain in my memory.

“Hotwaters17.” I read. I decide to not let him see my astonishment and joy at him finally giving me his screen name and phone number by playing it cool.

“Yeah. That was my nickname in Cali. Seventeen is my football number of course.” He says it like I would already know what exact number was on the back of his football jersey.

I look up at him. “What am I supposed to do with this? I give him a sassy smile and look him up and down in one quick glance.

“Daria, have you ever played monopoly?”

I am not prepared for such a turn around in the response. “Of course!” I laugh.

He looks at me and smiles mysteriously. “Well, just consider it your chance card.”

I look up to give him a puzzled smirk but he is already walking towards his group of guy friends and I can hear the squeals of my approaching girl friends that are talking about how wonderful the guy they just danced with was. As we make our way to the other side of the dance floor we all thoroughly agree that this by far has been the best homecoming ever!

(21) Naming Mames

2008-07-12T11:38:00.000-07:00

I stare at the blank screen in front of me, searching and prodding my mind for something, someone to write about for this week. The cursor blinks, daring me to start, begging me to dive into another world where all I can think about is the characters I am creating, and the sentences pouring out of my hands into the keyboard, but my mind is as empty as my heart after Edward betrayed me. I can hear Olivia’s footsteps rushing up the stairs and down the hall. Then it comes, a brilliant idea, a plot better than any Dawson’s Creek episode!

“Olivia!” She enters my room, gasping for breath. “For this week would it be better to write about a romance that occurs over a boy helping a girl with a math problem, or a couple being divided on partisan issues? Like Dash could be more of a Gore guy while Candy is more of a Bush kind of woman.”

“Daria, I have something to show you!” Olivia jumps up and down like a five year old.

“Not now Olivia, I have to finish this article! I definitely think the relationship being divided because of politics is so much better.” I stretch out my fingers, preparing to start. Olivia reaches in front of me and pushes the button on the side of the computer. Anger rises in my face, even if it is just the monitor, the audacity to do that is shocking.

“For once stop worrying about your stupid articles Daria and look at reality!” She smacks this week’s Darien News Review on my lap. “Look at this! Look at what they wrote!” Her eyes are bulging with anticipation and she is watching my every move. “Go to page A 18, Daria, just go to it!” I flip to my page with “A Fresh Look” at the top and look at her. She’s grinning like a proud puppy.

“Newsflash, Olivia, I wrote it.”

“No, no, no.” She grabs the newspaper and flips back a page. “Here.” I take it and glance at it. I see my pen name written in large, bold black letters. I scan a few lines on the page in amazement. I am not prepared for what I am about to read. Harsh words regarding past articles spin around in my head, long columns of contradictions and challenges for who I am and how I am trying to bring negativity to the school flash at me. It takes me several minutes to carefully study each letter to the editor and then I scan through them again in disbelief of what I am actually looking at. I look up at my sister hovering over me, wondering why the smile on her face is getting larger by the minute.

“Ok, you read all of those right? Now go to the next page!” She claps her hands together and her golden pony tail bounces up and then down.

“There’s another page?” I flip to the next section where three more letters are clumped together, and then I see it. Olivia Knight, typed neatly on the page. My own sister had betrayed me.

“You’re not the only one who has had their writing published in the newspaper now, Daria. Now the whole town will know what I have to say about Daria Knight and her terrible articles. What I absolutely love though, is that now no one believes you’re real, Daria. For all anyone knows, you could be some forty-nine year old man! Some think your a sophomore and some think you’re just plain sophomoric!” Olivia, pleased with this play on words, starts to laugh.

I get up, so full of hatred towards my sister, I have to control myself not to reach out and slap her. “I can’t believe you did this to me, Olivia. I can’t believe that my own sister is trying to bring me down!”

“Face it, Daria, you know, I know, and the whole school knows that what you write about is not reality and you’re making the high school and the students look like a bunch of shallow, materialistic bimbos and jocks as if that’s all there is to DHS.

“How can you say that! You gave me some of the ideas for those articles! You were there with me when I went through those experiences! You told me about experiences you had had with the same things! Sure maybe I exaggerated some things and changed the names and places, but it’s all based on fact, on our lives Olivia and those of our friends, and you know it! Face it, Olivia, you are as much a part of this column as I am!”

“Who do you think you are, Daria? You do not have the authority to represent the entire high school and hardly the talent in my opinion. This is about truth, Daria, and what you write is not true about our high school.”

I clench my fists and bite my lip fiercely. “This isn’t about truth, Olivia, oh no, this about a lot more than truth. You cannot stand the fact that you aren’t in the spotlight in this family anymore. You’ve just begun to realize that maybe being on the varsity soccer and lacrosse team isn’t going to do as much for your future as scholastic achievement will. You hate the fact that finally I am succeeding in something in my life, and you will do anything to stop it, including publishing insults to me and the paper. Why don’t you just announce to the whole high school who I am? Why don’t you just call all of your friends and tell them that Daria Knight is your sister?” I sit back down at my desk angrily and push the monitor’s button with a lot of force to turn it back on. The tiny light beside it turns a light green, and slowly the word processing program comes back into focus.

“I was thinking about that actually, Daria. Maybe I will.” She screams. I know she doesn’t have the guts to actually reveal who I am, not to mention that my parents would give her a severe punishment for taking that upon herself instead of letting me do that when I and the paper are good and ready. I can’t let her think I understand this though, she needs to think that that wouldn’t bring me pain.

“Good, and leave my room while you‘re at it!” I shout at her, typing random words angrily. She turns around and walks out, leaving the copy of the newspaper staring at me on my desk. I grab it with deep frustration and jump on the comfortable softness of my bed. I lie down and begin to read over the letters to the editor a third time. I am lost in thought as I recall first writing for the paper in the beginning of the summer.

At first, being able to write and seeing my column published each week was pure bliss. All though the capacity to be able to write for the town‘s newspaper was incredible, the feeling was bittersweet because of the fact that the column was new and I felt like not a lot of people were reading it, especially teenagers who were still sun tanning on beaches along the coast. I dreamed of the time when students from the middle school and the high school would actually know about my articles and read them with suspense and appreciation each week.

Now that teenagers actually do know about my articles, it has brought mostly anger and resentment. A feeling of deep sadness overwhelms me, as I lean my head against the head of my bed with this week’s newspaper in my left hand. I stare down at the blur of words, yearning for students to start looking at the story line of the column instead of the so called “stereotypes” they continually denigrate me for. I can’t believe that everyone is throwing everything I write about so out of proportion! My articles are supposed to be fun. Do the people of Seattle want to lynch Frasier? Do all the young professionals of the Upper West Side live as depicted on Friends? Of course not. But at the same time, how can anyone deny that a lot of the students at the high school, including my friends and even myself, are blonde, well dressed, socially active girls. (It’s not like my Mom has never stepped foot at Palmers in a tennis skirt) And If I have chosen this particular facet of the student body to poke fun at in my articles, what is the harm in that? I certainly never intended to say that was an accurate total picture of DHS. Please!

A scene comes to mind that I had seen in books, movies, and television sitcoms. It’s that tense moment when one friend confronts the other friend about their obvious drinking problem that they can see clearly has gotten way out of hand. Of course the friend, Coors Light in hand, adamantly denies the fact that they have a problem, because who wants to openly admit to something like that? It isn’t until a day or year later, when they are plastered and have passed out on the bare floor at a party, rushed to the hospital to get their stomach pumped will they actually get the nerve to stomach the stale coffee of an AA step meeting. And that’s us -- Town of Darien, State of Denial. I say to myself laughing at my little joke.

Finally I begin to understand the whole turmoil that’s been created over what I write. I realize that no one would easily own up to their faults, or point out Darien’s collective weaknesses. Through my articles I have gently reminded my readers that like it or not, deny it or not, our little town lives up to a preppy stereotype that is as old as Auntie Mame. Maybe we all need to fess up here. We are a lot alike in Darien, heck our parents wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m not saying even in our alikeness there isn’t diversity but what my weekly articles are about is the silliness of our sameness. Nothing less would be true, nothing more needs to be said. And so I begin to type furiously.

(22) Christmas Lights

2008-07-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

“Bye, Daria.” I mumble a goodbye, hop out of the passenger seat of the wrangler, grab my bag from the back trunk, and slam both doors swiftly. Olivia screeches out of our long winding driveway as quickly as she has entered it. The freezing breath of the outside air surrounds me and as a cold wind blows the leaves around on the cement it sneaks underneath the folds of my jacket and slips between the small stitches in my navy, wool scarf. I shiver uncontrollably.

Slinging the heavy weight of all of the textbooks I have graciously been given this year onto my back, I am extremely thankful that tomorrow is Friday. I stumble to the front door and insert my key into the hole to find it already unlocked. Too numb with the cold and hungry to care I swing it open, drop my bag next to the small antique table with the vase of flowers that is to the right of me, and head for the kitchen at the other end of the hallway. I know I am forbidden to drop my stuff in the doorway like this but I am too tired and cold to care. My parents swear it marks up that priceless piece of furniture. I have never, however, seen one mark on the tall, dark wooden legs

I walk across the kitchen to the refrigerator and notice my mother is sitting at the breakfast table in her tennis skirt, flipping through a Town and Country magazine. “Mom,” I rush down the hall to my jacket and bag, and run them towards the mudroom, “What are you doing home!” I shout from across the hallway and then enter the kitchen again, a little out of breath. If my mother has any inclination of what I have just done, she shows no signs of it.

“My tennis match was canceled today, dear.” She doesn’t look up from her magazine. “It turns out Mrs. Hathaway’s Siamese cat nearly swallowed whole her daughter’s hamster, and she had to rush both of them to the vet. Of course no one bothered to let me and the other ladies know until after we had gotten to the club, so instead I took the opportunity to go buy some new Christmas lights for this year.”

“Oh.” I respond, as I pour a mug of cold milk, add a clump of chocolate powder, and push it into the microwave. “Do you have a PTA meeting today?” I press a couple of buttons, shut the door, and wait for my hot chocolate to heat up.

“No, not today.” She flips another page.

I discover a golden opportunity. “Let’s go put up the lights then! We can put them up before Dad’s business get-together tomorrow night. I don’t have that much homework.” I lie.

“No, no, Daria, I was just planning on paying Martin to do it again for us this year.

“Come on, Mother,” I persist, “Why don’t we do it this year? Did you get the icicle ones?” I am already getting excited as the cold, textbooks, and grumpy sister are all whisked out of my mind..

My mother looks at me. “Yes, Daria and if you think I am going to go out in the freezing cold to put up Christmas lights on our house this afternoon you are completely crazy.” I smile at her slyly and she shakes her head and lets out a large sigh. “Let me go change first then.”

Only fifteen minutes later we are both bundled up in our warmest sweaters and jackets. I look up at the front of our house, a little doubtful of how my mother and I are going to be able to pull this one off. The two pillars will be a piece of cake, but the top of the roof is almost going to be impossible.

“You get the lights ready, Dare, I’ll go get that tall ladder Martin left in our garage.” I sit on the steps and start to open up all of the boxes. A few minutes later she returns with the rusty blue ladder under her arm and leans it against the house. Pulling off her black leather gloves and stuffing them inside the pockets of her navy pea coat, she cranks the ladder so that it extends farther and farther up the height of our home. I have never seen my mother so determined. I think about the previous week’s lunch at Post Corner and the vow we have made together that we will try and have a better relationship.

“Ok, Daria, fill your pockets up with Christmas light hangers and then climb up this while I hold it steady.”

“I’m the one who is going to do this?” I ask and look at my mother with surprise.

“You were the one who was eager to get them up, so you’ll be the one to start the whole project.” My mother laughs. I scowl at her and start making the sides of my jacket bulge with plastic clips.

“Are you sure this ladder is stable?“ I place my foot with great uncertainty on the first rung.

“Start climbing, Dare, I will make sure it doesn’t wobble. Just make sure you keep your weight in the center of the ladder.” She hands me a coil of brand new lights.

I begin to climb. Grasping each rung and pulling myself I get closer and closer to the top of the roof. My mother’s head becomes smaller and smaller and soon I am even with the tops of the trees. It seems like I am higher up than I really am and I have never been one to be afraid of heights but my heart begins to beat quickly.

“Start at the end of the left corner of the house, Daria, and when you have hung as many lights in this area as you can, you can come back down and we’ll move the ladder over a bit.” My mother shouts up at me.

I hold up the strand of icicle lights in front of me and find the end of it. Taking a single clip from my pocket I attempt to attach it to the top of the roof. Pressing it down firmly I wait for it to click on but it doesn’t. I push harder and suddenly it flies out of my gloved hands and sails down towards the ground. “Darn it!” I mutter and then grab another hanger from the same pocket. I peel off the gloves on my hands and drop them down below me as well, realizing that I am going to have to sacrifice warmth for success. I push the clip down on the roof again and this time it clicks into place. Grasping the ladder with my left hand, I reach with my right hand and attach part of the strand of lights onto the clip. I survey my work with satisfaction, making sure to pull down each group of lights so that the icicle shapes they form tonight will look perfect.

It isn’t long until I have finished hanging all the lights I can in this area and I climb gingerly back down the ladder. My hands are numb and blue, my nose is red and running, and I can barely feel my toes in my sneakers but I am more happy and proud than ever.

My mother and I take turns holding and going up and down the ladder. Seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn into hours. It begins to get darker and darker and we go through package after package of lights. As I hang lights during my turn on the ladder, suddenly a bright spotlight appears on my mother and I. I recognize the almost white xenon lights of my father’s BMW.

“Daria, what on earth are you doing up there?” I hear my father call down below.

“Putting up our Christmas lights, dear.” My mother smiles as my dad gazes up at our progress doubtfully. He shakes his head and chuckles as he walks into the house with his briefcase.

I pull the last strand down until it hangs and then realize that I have finished the whole top. “There! DONE!” I breathe out a sigh of relief that forms a cloud in front of me. I almost fall off the ladder with joy as I wave my arms around with exhilaration.

“Daria, come off that ladder before you do a victory dance!” My mother calls up to me. I laugh and climb back down to stable ground. Together we quickly wind the lights around both pillars and attach the ends to the other strands of lights. Finally we are finished for the night.

“Now wait here while I go plug the extension cord into the outside socket.” My mother says with an uncontrolled burst of excitement. I walk down the driveway into the darkness so I can have a perfect view of our masterpiece. Rubbing my hands together for warmth and hopping up and down on my numbed toes, it seems like forever until suddenly there is a burst of light that illuminates the whole house. I look up in awe at the halo of lights trickling down around the top of our house and the two pillars. Of course we have always had this tradition of having Christmas lights, but there is a feeling of happiness and pride that my mother and I never got when Martin and his men climbed up and did it on just an idle Saturday afternoon. Now every night when our family or our friends pull into our driveway, they will be looking up at the handiwork of my mother and I. The satisfaction of looking upon the rewards of work has never been so refreshing. The night seems almost magical.

After my mother and I gaze together up at the bright lights in front of us, we walk together up the steps and into the house where we warm our frozen hands and toes in front of a blazing fire that my father has prepared for us. I look at my mother tenderly, beginning to appreciate and love her more than ever. The season of loving and giving is already just around the corner.

The logs crackle and burn and as I stare into the rising flames, my body is filled with warmth. Though it is only the first week of December, Christmas seems more close to me than ever and I know that this year it is going to be different.

(23) Dressing Down

2008-07-12T11:20:00.000-07:00

Home at last! The warmth of my house’s indoor heating hits me like a comforting embrace. Dropping my bag and navy J Crew pea coat next to the kitchen door I let out a large sigh. The week before Christmas vacation has been traditionally impossible and I am amazed my teacher’s are willing to correct as many exams as I have been given in just a few days. I have just gotten back from working on a huge English project with Charlotte.

Opening the refrigerator door, I stop and pause to listen to what sounds like a heated argument from my parents. As trite as it sounds, I really can’t remember them ever having a serious argument aside from little disagreements over people, places and things. Even more puzzling than why they are arguing is why they both are home when they are supposed to be at our neighbor’s Christmas party. They are past fashionably late. I decide to remain quiet, pour myself a nice big glass of orange juice, and try and figure out what all the fuss is about coming from the den.

“Honey, we can’t continue to live like this!”

“Like what, Trip, what are you talking about?”

“You can’t spend almost thousand bucks on a Vera Wang dress just to wear one time at an office Christmas party! Especially not this Christmas. What….uh…what about last year’s dress?”

I almost choke on my juice! Now I know something is really up. My mother has purchased a new christmasy dress every year to attend the annual holiday party since before I can remember! This is unreal, my parents arguing over money? I listen intently.

“Last year’s dress? Last year’s dress! Are you feeling all right Tripper? Why on earth would I wear something that everyone at this party has already seen? Do you want me to make a fool out of myself?”

…“Look, dear, at this point we’re not even sure if there’s going be a party this year, All right? Ever since market has tanked, it’s just not good form to throw a big splashy party in the face of all this uncertainty. It’ll all pass but for now we’ve got to do a little belt tightening at the office and here too.” I stare at the floor. Silence issues from the den. My father begins to talk with a more soothing tone. “Look, darling let’s just have an enjoyable time tonight ok? We’re already late. Grab the bottle of wine that Swenson gave me and we’ll bring it for the Allen’s, let’s just get there.”

I realize my mother is about to enter the kitchen and I know both of them have no idea that I am home and furthermore probably aren’t ecstatic that some one is listening to a serious argument about our family’s financial state. Bolting into the dining room and up the back of the house’s steps to the hall, I disappear out of sight.

My heart is pounding as I lean my face against the railing and watch my mother snatch the wrapped up wine off the counter top. My face is flushed and I can hardly breathe. I think about the news and the discussions in my history class regarding the plunge in the market and how no one is looking for ways to spend their money in buying stocks during such a dip in the economy. I never thought though that something like this could happen to my father! Sure startups like pets.com have been blown away and tiny pointless internet dotcoms have bellied up but my Dad’s company has been around for years and they’re like famous… I can’t believe it. One thing is for sure, if my dad’s company does end up going down the toilet my life won’t ever be the same. I decide to not let anyone know, maybe my dad’s jumping to conclusions. Maybe I am, I mean going cheap on the party this year is a far cry from party’s over everybody go home, he just has to be careful, prudent as he calls it in his CEO language….Still I can’t help but wonder what the new year is going to bring.

(24) Room in the Inn

2008-07-12T11:15:00.000-07:00

Reaching up with one of my numbed hands, I pull a stray piece of my hair back behind my ear. The winds of the afternoon are merciless as they billow around weary New Yorkers returning to the office after a somewhat diminutive holiday vacation. I pass various shops with the strands of cheery lights still hanging in windows that welcomed customers only a week before. Crowds of people searching for the perfect gift no longer drift into their doors but rather groups of men and women who are returning imperfect ones. Earnest Santa Clauses with rusty bells and large buckets still adorn each street corner and Christmas melodies continue to float through the air from near Rockefeller center, but passerby’s are no longer are as eager to drop their loose change and the happy feeling of laughing skaters is no longer present. I sadly find that the cliché warm and happy holiday city is now back to its cold and monotonous self even when the great Christmas tree is still up and wreaths are still hung on all the lamp posts. The decorations are still there, but something is definitely missing.

As I wrap my warm multicolored scarf more tightly around my neck, I reflect on how diverse the holiday of Christmas is from other special days. What is it about the month of December that causes such a change in society for a short period of time? Why do people find it okay to drink eggnog near Christmas but detest the thought of downing a glass any other day of the year? I mean eggnog? What is that? And why does the month of December promote the same old Christmas carols that have been sung since who knows when and still haven’t lost their pizzazz. Would anyone just smile and join in the chorus of a tune about a made up reindeer that just happens to have a glowing red nose that amazingly is able to cut through fog on a cold winter evening if it didn’t connect to the spirit of Christmas? I mean, come on, “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way” is a far fetch from the chorus of Eminem’s The Way that I am, but yet everyone still traditionally sings it happily.

As my father calls a cab and I place my shopping bags in its trunk, I think about how this change isn’t only in taste but in heart. Warmth somehow encompasses the world in December, which causes a man laden with packages to let a woman with only a few parcels step in front of him in a store line, and a businessman to empty his suit pockets for the purpose of charity. For some reason it’s considered acceptable for one to wish a foreigner on the street a merry Christmas or the cashier checking out one’s groceries a happy holidays. What’s even more amazing is that near this time of gift-giving and receiving this foreigner or cashier will wish the other glad tidings of joy back, when chances are if during any other month a smile or greeting to a complete stranger would seem out of the ordinary and in some cases improper. Now that it is a few days after the climax of the holiday though, everything is back to the way it was before.

I gaze out the window at the mobs of different people and think to myself how Christmas seems to be the last guaranteed source for good in the world. Near the twenty-fifth of December one can almost be positive that there will be a calm and peaceful feeling through out the community. For a few days people try to become more compassionate and think more about their families and how to help a person in need. More people attend mass on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning than any other day. Don’t get me wrong, the way the majority of the people are so kind and sensitive during the holidays is wonderful, but what I don’t understand is, why do people believe they have to be warm hearted and caring only after the first few weeks of December roll by? Why can’t the general public be more giving and understanding citizens the rest of the year?

The desire for positive change is a terrific trait that should not only occur during the holidays, but year round. Who can’t let another person ahead of them in line just because they know they could use the extra time in the month of April? What passenger a board an airplane isn’t able to let a single mother with her screaming infant take his ticket in first class so she can sit down and relax just for once in coach during October? The need for charity should not just come during Christmas, everyone should want to be a better person every day of their lives. The majority of the population, including myself, seem to forget this and perhaps the most important times for a humble heart are not on December 20th or 24th. The naked still need to be clothed during the spring and the hungry still are yearning to be fed in the fall. A person doesn’t need a holiday to take the opportunity to let someone know how much he or she really means to them.

As I step onto the train and sit down I feel great disappointment in myself. If only people could under the great mistake that I have just realized. The metro north lunges forward and I finally find warmth in it’s closed doors as scenes of tall skyscrapers and taxis whir past my eyes. My feet ache from walking down numerous streets taking advantage of the amazing after-Christmas sales and my eyes seem to droop without effort. My father rustles opens up a New York Times and I lay my head back on the cushion of the seat and peer around the car.

It is crowded as usual with various groups of people chatting and silently staring out the windows. The train creaks to a stop as another mob of people burst inside, seeking warmth from the bleak winter air outside. A gentle woman entering particularly catches my eye. She is not too old, probably in her late twenties and she walks awkwardly through the revolving doors, carrying most likely a nine-month old baby in her rounded stomach. Her hair is short and pulled into a pony tail and her skin is fair and smooth. Shopping bags hang from both of her arms and her eyes look tired but have an unmistakable sparkle to them.

Watching her peer nervously around the train car in vain for a vacant seat, I wait for someone to see her need and offer her their spot. A few glance up at her, but continue their conversation with the person next to them or glance back down at their magazine. The woman sadly realizes that no one understands her desire for comfort when she is already full with child, and resorts to wrapping her cold hands around a pole for support.

As the train speeds away from the stop, I suddenly think about the resemblance. “Six thousand years later, and there’s still no room for her in the inn.” I think to myself as I stand up. My feet beg to be relieved of my weight and I have never wanted to sit down as much as I do this moment, but I will have better comfort knowing I have lent a helping hand to someone in great need.

“Excuse me Ma’am, would you like to take my seat?” I ask her cheerfully. I motion behind me and step away from my source of relaxation.

She looks at me with a warm smile. “Oh are you sure dear? I don’t want to…”

“Oh I’m positive. Please sit down.”

I watch her slowly ease herself next to my father and the joy that I feel is indescribable. I hold tightly onto the metal pole as I realize the woman finally is falling asleep. Her face is soft and peaceful as she breathes gently in with her head resting against the cushion and I am grateful that she has given me an opportunity to change.

I resolve to remember this day for the rest of my life. As we reach the train station back in town, I decide that I am going to go against tradition. Even though it is after Christmas, I am going to try to keep this spirit of giving alive for months after. I am going to try to be a better person every day of my life and not on a convenient holiday. “This time there was room at the inn!” I say to myself and step off the train with burst of prolonged holiday happiness.

(25) Resolutions

2008-07-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

My eyes are barely open, my face is paled, my hair is a complete rat’s nest, and I have the headache of the century as I stumble to the pantry to pick up a box of Captain Crunch. As I peek inside the box, noticing it is empty and nobody had the decency to throw it away, I suddenly hear various voices coming in my direction from the living room.

“Daria, sweet hair!” I look up to see a blurry version of Lawrence Nelson laughing at me as he stuffs some chips in his mouth. A bunch of other senior guys start laughing as they make their way into the hall and out the front door. Not awake enough to care, I start to search for another cereal option.

“Thanks, Livy, for telling me you’re having people over at the crack of dawn.

“It’s on the refrigerator, Daria, three o’clock Physics Lab meeting. If you can’t read the notepad it’s not my problem, and three o’clock in the afternoon is not exactly sunrise, Daria.”

I look wearily at the clock and realize that she is right. All of the loud music, talking, and laughing from Josh’s New Year’s Eve party has left me completely exhausted the next day. I stuff the box of Special K back into the cupboard and head back upstairs still in a daze. It’s pointless to have breakfast so late in the afternoon but I am not yet ready for lunch. I realize sleeping in so late really messes up one’s eating schedule.

In my room, I sit on my bed and try to get myself together. Blinking a couple of times I finally have my vision back. Having nothing really to do on the idle date of New Years Day, I grab my journal from out under my bed. Since it’s the New Year, the typical thing to do is to reflect on the past year and make New Year’s resolutions. I decided a long time ago that making New Year’s resolutions only stresses me out and drains my self-esteem because in the end I always end up breaking these newly inspired goals. I decide that looking back on the year won’t hurt me though, so I begin flipping pages, reliving the summer.
I immediately am brought back to the events of the past few months and I am astounded at how much has actually occurred in such a small amount of time. I scan pages about the silly obsession I have had over Jeff Waters all starting from an interesting game of ping-pong.

I realize that the changes I have made in the relationships with my family are astonishing. My dad and I in the very beginning of the summer went out just the two of us one night to a restaurant from his past called Sidetracks and my mother and I just a couple of weeks ago had actually hung Christmas lights together in the freezing cold of December. Olivia and I have also surprisingly grown much closer mainly from the magical night on top of our Jeep Wrangler where I held her as she cried about being dumped by the guy, everyone including me, thought she would marry.

The exciting night of Fourth of July on Charissa’s boat plays through my mind as well, where there were fireworks, and not just in the endless star-studded sky. I am also brought back to the week I had spent with all of my girl friends at Britney’s house in Martha’s Vineyard after countless planning, and how I had learned during that trip about making the right clothing choices as well as who my real friends are. I also instantly remember the countless time and emotion I have wasted on the new girl Heather just because I wasn’t exactly keen on having her moved into my personal circle of friends.

On a more sensitive note, I have also grown closer to my grandmother in Massachusetts just to find out from my mother recently that she is now close to dying of cancer, and I realize now that it is more important than ever to hold onto the memories and time spent with those you love. I think about how amazing it is what reading journal entries from your past can do for a person. Everything seems so much clearer now. I recognize how my focus needs to be on school, my family, and my desires about life, not just petty high school crushes and melodramas. I need to not worry so much about what girls like Heather think, but to concentrate on what I think of myself.

I grab a pencil off my desk and I am about to flip to a blank page to begin to write about Christmas vacation when I come across an entry I had written about a realization during field hockey practice. I stop and begin to read about that afternoon when I had been inspired to make hockey goals but more importantly goals for my life. “I can’t mess up this time, I am going to have to learn responsibility and with that, I need to learn how to make goals.” I read out loud and think again about the importance of this inspiration. Turning to a blank page I start making a list of New Year’s Resolutions, sure it’s so cliché but I definitely need to take the opportunity. I bite the cap off my favorite roller ball and begin to write furiously…This 2nd day of January 2001, I Make a resolution to keep the resolutions I make…. Well, hopefully.

(26) A Wash in Midterms

2008-07-12T11:04:00.001-07:00

“Who can explain exactly what occurred in 1944?" Silence fills the room except for a few coughs and sniffles as my teacher gazes around his students. "D-Day, very good! Can anyone tell me where D-Day took place?" It is the last period of the day and I have never been more exhausted in my life.

"Normandy, France." Marissa croaks from the corner. I stare at my paper, which is blurred from my bloodshot and watery eyes. It seems like the whole room is just one big doctor's office waiting to happen. The inside of my nose itches and I feel a sneeze coming on. The sensation just hangs there though, even as I look up at the bright ceiling light, which in itself is a myth that has never offered me any aid in letting out sneezes. Walking in a daze up to the tissue box on the table in the front of the room, I walk to the trash can, blow my brains out, and then drop the discarded tissue as I walk back to my seat.

My teacher continues to attempt to review for the midterm in a few days, but my eyes are half closed and all I can think about is the night after my last midterm when I can start retiring before midnight.

The bell rings in the middle of Mr. Andrews spewing out information on the Bay of Pigs Invasion and it can't have echoed throughout the halls any sooner. I walk towards my locker, my eyes focused in front of me, the people passing by me resorted to blurry images. Britney calls out my name while I am turning in my combination, but I can't even make out what she is saying. After the lock clicks and I open the door, I throw all of my textbooks into my bag. When I fill up my bag, I shove books and binders into my open arms.

"Daria! I was calling you!" I see a fuzzy image of blonde hair and a black turtleneck. "Oh my gosh, Dare, you look terrible! You should stay home tomorrow!"

"I don't have a choice." I mumble thinking about the millions of things I have to do and be in class for.

"So many people are sick right now! I'm just glad I started taking Accanesia. Oh my gosh, did I tell you what happened today in Health? I was-"

"I have to go now Brit...I managed to get out. I'll call you tonight and we can talk about it then." I start walking down the hall, knowing full well that I will have absolutely no time tonight left to pick up the phone and just chat.

I reach the jeep with Olivia waiting impatiently in it, and throwing my bag in the back, I sink into the passenger seat, close my eyes, and take the opportunity to snatch a couple of minutes of sleep.

I open my eyes slowly as I feel the car stop and Olivia slams her door shut. My eyes still closed, I clutch the side door and fall out of the car, slink my bag on my back and head into the house. Reaching the kitchen, my stomach aches for fulfillment and hungrily I start eating the crusted over macaroni and cheese left in the pot from mine and Olivia's dinner last night. It's cold and rubbery but I am too tired and stressed out to care.

"Daria. How was your Chemistry test today?" I hear my mother ask me pleasantly. I stare down at the macaroni and scrape the fork along the side of it. "That good?" My mother says gently. "What happened?"

My head aches, my eyes itch and water, I feel like I am going to fall over, and my throat is parched. Suddenly it all comes out in one giagantic rolling of tears, exasperated sentences, and a powerful sneeze.

"I failed it....because I couldn't study last night because I was up until midnight studying for my geometry test, finishing my Spanish packet, putting finishing touches on my English presentation, and attempting to start studying for the two midterms I have this week in my worst classes! Today I had no calculator for the geometry test, I lost my Spanish packet, my English presentation was a joke, and I didn't have lunch today because I was making up a test for World Studies. Tonight I have to finish an English paper, write a report on Africa, not to mention type up an article for journalism. I feel like I am going to die but can't take a day to stay home and get better, I am failing my clases...and all the lights are blown in my bed room. Everything is going wrong!" I sob.

"You're just worn out and sick on top of everything else." My mother tells me. "Just do what you can tonight but most importantly get some rest so that you will be able to handle it all tomorrow." More tears splash into the pot as I stab the remaining noodles with my fork.

I throw the pot angrily into the sink and drag my bag upstairs to my room. I should pull out my Chemistry book and start studying electrons, neutrons, and atoms but all I can do is crash onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling. My eyes beg me to let them close and take me to the world of deep slumber, but I hold them open, knowing that if I give in I’ll never wake up. Midterms have once again crept up more mysteriously than ever.

I laugh insanely inside at myself for being so stupid to procrastinate such a large part of my year. I remembered how determined I had been before Christmas vacation to devote atleast one day to doing nothing but studying each particular subject. I had written down “study for midterms” every day in my list of things to do, but some how each time it was crossed off and forgotten. Things kept popping up that demanded my attention and left no room for studying for tests weeks away. Even this weekend I had had no possible time to start my studying. I feel like I am at the end of my rope, a slave to my schedule, and locked up in a world of textbooks, vocabulary words, essay assignments, and grades. I have no time to check my email, neaten up my room, spend time with my family, or even put light bulbs into the sockets of my ceiling lamp. My world has come crashing down all because of five lousy tests.

Suddenly I look over to the open magazine lying on the floor in the corner of my room. Britney Spears gleams back at me with her perfect whitened teeth, high cheekbones, and shiny blonde hair. At the top of the page it reads, “Does this look like a girl who spends her nights at home washing her hair?” A big “YES!” is scrawled under it next to a large bottle of Herbal Essence shampoo.

As I run through everything I have to do for school in my mind, all I can think about is how refreshing a long hot shower would be. Sure, I had taken one several hours ago this morning, but I desire to just enjoy the feeling of just standing there while figuring out my all my problems. The soothing, hot water calls my name, along with the gentle feel of a body puff and rich smells of scented shampoo and soap. I look down at the pile of books, review packets, and index cards. It is all ready four-o’clock and as I calculate the approximate amount of time I have to devote to each subject and assignment, I end up with my new bed time being twelve forty-five if I take time out to wash my hair. I sigh, being torn between meeting the expectations of school and being able to relax and calm myself down with the perfumes of chamomile and passion flower. Midterms are definitely more important, but maybe just half an hour of relaxation and focus will help me with my exams more than just another half hour of studying.

I make my decision and take control. Throwing the textbooks onto the floor, I grab a towel and head for the bathroom. I realize that a large part of life is about scholastic achievement and meeting others’ expectations but another large part is taking care of yourself and meeting your own expectations. I realize that maybe one of the best ways to relieve stress from other situations is to just calm your self down by taking time out just for yourself. Since my life is basically a soap opera right now, the shower seems the logical place to start sorting it out.

(27) Driving Ambition

2008-07-12T10:58:00.000-07:00

It is a frigid Sunday afternoon. The roads are ominously slick and towers of snow are stacked on either side of the streets. It is the kind of day where you stay inside where it is warm, with your hand grasping a mug of scalding hot chocolate as you stare into the blazes of a cozy fireplace and think of what you should be doing, but aren’t doing. My father and I aren’t resting comfortably in front of the fire though, lost in the pages of our usual newspaper and novel because we are out of our safety zone. We have journeyed into the harsh outside world to share the terrifying and life-threatening experience almost all teenagers have to go through with their parents. My dad has finally handed me that radiant silver ring of keys.

We are in the backcountry of Greenwich, dropping off something for my dad’s business. I stare ahead of me with vast determination, gripping the leather of the steering wheel and tenderly pressing down the pedal. It seems that when I just think about making a turn, the car jabs to the left or the right. I bore my eyes into the double yellow line; almost feeling the road’s every twist and turn. My foot is ready to fly to the brake with any sudden threat on the road. My permit is in the glove compartment, my heart is hammering inside my jacket, and my dad’s grip on the edge of the passenger seat constricts with each stop and sharp turn. My fifth driving lesson is going quite smoothly.

"Turn onto John Street." Father tells me. I glide the vehicle to a gentle stop, switch on my signal, check for any coming cars, and turn into the next street. "Perfect, Daria!" My father says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, as I wonder if it really was perfect, or if my dad was just trying to end the intimidating silence that has passed between us. I press my foot with a little more force on the pedal with my newly regained confidence. I let out a sigh of content and ease more comfortably in the driver’s seat. For once I begin to look at my surroundings, noticing a large white house with light blue shutters and a large black bear in the yard? I peer closely at the mound of fur in the back of the house hidden by tall stalks of grass. It has to be one of the largest dogs I have ever seen! It is a wonder how much that beast must eat! I consider what kind of name you would give a dog like that. Big Bertha? Chubbs? Free Willy? Surely you can’t just name that kind of a creature Snookums or Poochy. I turn my head as we pass their property.

"Daria, you’re going WAY to fast, concentrate! Remember what I told you last time; when you find mailboxes are plenty, make SURE you’re going twenty. All right? Now just try and watch what you’re doing more carefully."

"Sorry." I mumble, slowing down to almost a crawl.

"Well you can go a little faster than that, honey." My dad chuckles.

All of a sudden a big Mac truck comes barreling in front of me. My heart starts hammering again and I force myself to focus. The road is too narrow for just one car let a lone one car and huge truck so I quickly pull to the left, tree branches scraping the windows as I pass not one, but two colossal green trucks. I look over at my dad after they pass who is little short of being plastered to the side of the car with his eyes bulging. I immediately start making apologies.

"No, Daria," he interrupts, " that’s uh...all right. Large trucks don’t normally drive down this private street. They must be renovating a house or something." My dad shifts in his chair, and I can feel his burning desire to once again be the master of his machine. I wait for him to tell me that I have driven enough for today, but he doesn’t. Watching every movement in front of me, I begin to coast down the street again, stopping only to glide gently over sudden speed bumps.

"Wait, now stop." My dad searches parts of the dividing streets. I clamp my foot on the brake and wait for further directions. "I can’t remember where we go from here now, do we head on Porchuck or Round Hill..." My dad struggles to remember and finally decides on Round Hill. I signal and turn into the next street and after minutes my dad realizes his mistake.
"Sorry, you know it’s so much different when you’re not driving." My dad laughs uneasily.

"Should I turn around?" I question nervously.

"Yes, just pull into this driveway, SLOWLY."

I creep onto the concrete, petrified of the new challenge of turning around out of someone else’s driveway but wanting the knowledge and experience. "Now, dad, you’re going to have to help me, I’ve never done this before." I utter, trying to sound calm.

"Yes, I know, don’t worry it’s a piece of cake. Just go, and go quickly because there’s a car coming.” I begin to panic as I pull the gear down to reverse. I forget everything I’ve learned and hit the pedal blindly and try my best to make a somewhat successful turn around. "Daria! Dar-ia! DARIA!" My dad hollers and grabs the wheel desperately. I am helpless and rip my foot off the pedal as I let him take over. "Pull back in!" He bellows and I follow his order as a large black suburban rockets behind us. "Daria, let me drive for a little while, all right?" I nod sadly, angry with myself for being able to learn how to parallel park instantly, but not able to do a simple turn around. I put the car into park, step out from behind the wheel and back into the passenger seat.

As soon as my dad and I have closed the doors, he is automatically careening out of the driveway and ripping through streets. I watch the speedometer uneasily, watching the needle go from twenty to forty to sixty. I glance at blurry mailboxes, thinking about reminding my father of his favorite saying worthy of being needle pointed, but I keep my mouth shut as the engine revs. It’s like my dad and the Beemer are loyal companions, and with each throaty groan and sharp turn, my father and the car reminds me gently of who its real master is.

It seems like ages until my dad and the car finally come to a halt on the side of the street. I look at my dad, wondering what the cause is for the sudden stop. My dad looks lovingly back at me. "Do you want to drive the rest of the way, Daria?" I look into my dad’s eyes, and a battle rages inside of me, a war between intimidation, confusion, and anxiety and the amazing feeling of maturity, trust, and freedom. I smile and nod my head. My dad switches places with me, I adjust the position of the steering wheel and seat, and once again take control as we breeze down a world of side roads, winds howling, with random joggers running for cover as the keys jingle in the ignition, reflecting the bright light of the dazzling sun.

(28) More Food For Thought

2008-07-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

“This is disgusting.” Charlotte cries, her silver heart bracelet banging off of the table as she uses her brown paper bag to hit old food items off of the table and onto the floor. I watch pretzel pieces, saran wrappings, and plastic condiments fly in all directions. The room is filled with students laughing loudly and talking with an occasional slam of a cash register every now and then. It’s first shift, and the cafeteria has had its maximum seating arrangements completely filled up. We all resort to sharing seats with one another.

“Why doesn’t someone clean this all up?” Patsy complains from her side of the table as she spreads mustard on her turkey sandwich.

“If you ask me, the custodians should come do this!” Britney takes a large bite out of her chocolate chip cookie with frustration. I sit there quietly though, opening my large, lunch bag and pulling out its contents. My mother had been in such a good mood this morning that she let me stop at Vavalas to pick up my lunch for the day. Hungrily I pull out my chicken parm on a hard roll and cape cod potato chips, not caring for the moment about the seating situation even though I am so close to Patsy who is next to me that I can smell what kind of shampoo she uses.

“Daria, I just love that new turtleneck!” Patsy says between bites. The table nods and smiles at me in agreement

“Oh thanks, it’s actually my sister’s-” I take a large sip of soda and then slam the can back on the table with satisfaction. “I stole it.” I say as I catch my breath, “Anyways, so did anyone watch the inauguration of the new President? I scoot my chair in as a guy from my Geometry class tries to pass our table.

“I did!” Alexandria cries and starts to talk, using her usual hand gestures to explain her views on the new décor of the white house. Her hand hits my coke can as I watch it fall and pour quickly down the table. I immediately feel something wet on my leg, and as I glance down I discover a splash of coke is soaking into my favorite, black pants. I glimpse back at the table, and put my can of Coke back upright as I grab some napkins and start dabbing at the darkening spot.

“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry!” Alexandria flusters around me trying to help me soak up the river of Coke heading off the table and onto my lap.

“It’s all right, really.” I reply through gritted teeth. I have an urge to start yelling about how clumsy she is, because after all, these are my favorite pants, but I come to the understanding as I am wiping it all up, that if we weren’t practically on top of each other while eating in this high school cafeteria, she wouldn’t have been as likely to have attacked me with my own Coke.

“So, you were saying?” Charlotte takes a bite out her balsamic vinaigrette salad impatiently.

“Oh, right, so I think the new off-white rug in the oval office with touches of melon and sage just isn’t as traditional as the regular dark blue carpet from the other Presidents, don’t you think?”

I and the rest of the table nod in unison, not really caring about the new furnishings of the White House, but trying to seem politely interested.

“I thought,” I mumble through bites of chicken, “that the whole tradition of the new President signing his papers with a new blue and gold fountain pen for each document just isn’t necessary. I mean one pen will do the job.” I start to unwrap my package of yodels.

“Maybe they sell those pens that he touched only once to a charity or something.” Charissa starts to peel her banana slowly.

“Doubt it.” I reply detaching the first chocolate layer off of my desert. "They probably give them to museums or something.” I bring my elbow back down onto the table.

“Daria, careful I think I saw a trail of-” I pull up my elbow slowly out of a small puddle of dark, red, ketchup. The most-likely-to-be-eternal stain is seeping through the threads of my sister’s brand new crème turtleneck. “Thanks.” I mumble with a great absence of enthusiasm at Charissa’s somewhat late warning.

“I think we should rebel, Daria. We could start petitions, or something to get the custodians to start taking care of all of this. You should go to the principal and show him what happened to you. It’s just because of the stupid garbage on our tables. Isn’t there some health law or something connected with this?”

I listen to Britney as I sadly examine the sleeve of my shirt. I glance up at her as she continues her list of possible threats to the school while picking up the last crumbs of he coffee cake. “I don’t know, it’s not that big of a deal. I should have watched where I put my elbow.” I reply. Then I see it. Britney smiles at me as she as she unmistakably adds her own plastic wrapper onto the overflowing pile.

“Britney, you’re not just going to-?”

“Oh Charissa, get over it, it’s not like there isn’t trash on our table already.

Then it hits me; the sudden memory of my same friends and I eating at a lunch table in middle school. The usual murmur of crowds of students had surrounded us, and all of our lunches were spread out in front of us. We had all touched our noses to eliminate ourselves from washing the table, and glancing around to see who had been the unlucky forgetful person that would have to wipe down the table with the large, smelly, and wet sponge. Charissa had looked at us with both hands on the table. It seemed like Charissa always had washed our table because she just never put her finger on her nose quick enough.
My heart sinks. Here we are now, sophomores in high school, complaining about just having to throw away our own trash! We are older, more mature, and more capable of picking up after ourselves! Custodians or anyone else shouldn’t have to clean up for us; we should be able to do it on our own! Over-crowded seating arrangements maybe we can’t control, but the garbage on the tables is a basic thing. The trashcan is right next to us, we should be able to reach our hand over to it and drop in our waste.

I stand up, the chair scraping against the tiled floor. I pull up my sleeves with determination and immediately start grabbing all of the trash and stuffing it into the trash can behind me. My friends watch me in shock, their mouths dropping as they stare at what I am doing. My leg is sticky, my arm is covered in ketchup, but I am going to put a stop to the garbage issue once and for all.

“Come on you guys, Daria’s right. “Let’s be part of the solution and not the problem. Charissa pulls up her sleeves as well and soon to my amazement and satisfaction all of my friends and I are dumping old sand wich crusts, dripping yogurt containers, and moldy apples into the container even when we know they’re not ours.

“I bet next shift there will just be an even bigger pile left for us tomorrow.” Charlotte gripes as we walk past the other tables.

“Yeah, but at least we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we are at least capable of doing what others won’t. Britney replies as we exit the cafeteria. The loud laughter and talking is left behind us as the doors close and together we march down the hall towards the bathroom to start cleaning ourselves up.

(29) Wasted Relationships

2008-07-12T10:39:00.001-07:00

“Hey go back, that’s a good show!”Britney whines as she sits her can of Coke on my coffee table. I glance over at Charlotte, sprawled on the couch, who continues to click through a dozen channels, ignoring every one’s requests for their choices of entertainment. I close my eyes with a sigh and enjoy the taste of crust, hot tomato sauce, and tender globs of cheese in my mouth. It’s definitely one of those random Saturday nights where you’ve ended up hanging with your best friends, but you all are too lazy to go out and actually plan something, so you resort to watching pointless sitcoms and stuffing your face with as much pizza as you can manage all night.

“There’s obviously nothing on, you guys. Why don’t we play a game or something?” Charissa grabs this month’s Town and Country and starts flipping through its pages. Charlotte clicks off the television at her response.

“Charissa, it’s not like we’re in second grade. Yeah,let’s all go play a happy game of Candy Land and Mall Madness!”I instantly remember after Charlotte’s remark the known fact that when my friends and I get bored, we start to pick on each other.

“I was merely making a suggestion.”Charissa sighs and tosses the magazine back onto the table.

“Why don’t we just rent a movie?”Patsy adds from where she is sitting cross legged and making tiny braids in her long, blonde tresses.

“There’s no one to drive us.”I reply, coveting more than ever my driver’s license.

“True.”

We sit looking at each other in silence, brooding over the fact that none of us have any brilliant ideas of what to do and not being able to drive even if we did. Charlotte clicks back on the TV again. We all go back to staring at the screen.

“How was the party?”I ask, not looking away from Nick Lachey pelting a football at an arrangement of targets with TRL video titles.

“Fine.”Britney replies with little enthusiasm.

“Come on, Brit, you thought it was more than fine.”Patsy laughs. “We saw you and Jason together in the basement! That sucks that you had to baby-sit, Daria, you should have seen how Brit was all over Jason Lewis! It was hysterical!”

We all turn around at once with renewed interest and Charlotte quickly turns off the TV, not turning her gaze from Britney’s crimson face.

“You guys, it was nothing.”Britney laughs uneasily, running her hand across the white carpet. I was totally wasted. I don’t even really remember that whole thing anyways. Besides, Jason definitely knows that if I hadn’t downed four beers, I would have never even looked at him.” My friends laugh, but I listen sadly. "Anyways, do u really want to hear a tragic story?”As soon as Britney realizes she has everyone’s attention, she continues. “It turns out that Heather finally got together with Jeremy that same night!”

“The Jeremy? Jeremy Woods, the senior she’s been obsessed with since October?” Charissa lays down on the carpet, her chin resting in her hands.

“Yep.”Britney waits for a response, then keeps going. ”The problem is, she doesn’t remember anything about it. I was talking on the phone this afternoon to a girl in my Chemistry class and it turns out she heard a couple of girls telling some things to Heather at the Sugarbowl this morning that I don’t think she was very comfortable with.”

“Oh my gosh,”Charissa says quietly. “I saw them together, but then they disappeared for like forty-five minutes.”

“Well, anyways, it turns out Heather is trying to play it cool and is telling everyone that she and Jeremy are together now. But the problem is when I talked to Jeremy’s friend Andrew a couple of hours ago, he told me a different story. Supposedly he was telling a group of guys about some sophomore he had gotten with at the party who was so plastered that she basically fell on top of him! And when Andrew asked him if he was now going out with Heather, he just laughed and informed him that he all ready had a girlfriend from New Canaan! She totally bagged her chance of that relationship!” Britney starts laughing, but I am getting annoyed by Britney’s rising authority in the latest gossip of our grade.

“I feel bad for Heather. She’s going to lose so much respect because of this.”Charissa looks down at the floor

“Oh, whatever. She totally had it coming anyways. Maybe she’ll be more careful now.”

“You shouldn’t talk Britney.” Patsy murmured. You should be praying that Jason doesn’t tell anyone of your little night together or your reputation will be gone as well.

“No. Jason doesn’t have the guts to do that. Anyways, this thing happens all the time, it will happen to you too, Patsy if it
didn’t all ready. I thought it was interesting that you sat next to Alex all night on the couch. Do you even remember how many beers you drank?” My friends started laughing and Patsy giggled as well.

“I saw this other guy and girl too! You’ll never guess who they were, you would never put them together!” Charlotte starts. I
have had enough though.

“I’m going outside for some air you guys,” I said. Even though it is below freezing outside I saunter out through the game rooms sliders onto the pool deck and sit on the edge of the dark empty hole as I stare into the void. I’m no priss, but I believe that there is more to the physical side of relationships than meaningless hookups. I think to myself of my parents' relationship--neither one had really had any practical experience, if you know I mean, until they met in college and despite ups and downs in the market and their marriage there was a solidity, a trust. I want that. I hug myself tightly for warmth and continue to think about what my friends had just discussed. I want that more than I want the momentary thrill of some senior’s lusty attention. How do I stand by and watch my friends risk their virtue on a bottle of lite and a selfish moment of biological materialism? Where do I draw the lines? How do I avoid these wasted relationships?

(30) Be Mine

2008-07-12T10:27:00.000-07:00

“Dar, what do you want for dinner?

I pause at the top of the stairs and sigh. “A Reuben!” I call out of breath.

“But we don’t have any more white bread!” my mother bellows from the kitchen.

“Then rye bread will work! Or call Olivia before she heads to Audrey’s house and tell her to pick up some more!” I start up the last step.

“I thought Livy had to bake something for French class this afternoon!” Echoes my mom.

Exasperated I reply, “She does, she is just going to pick up some green tea from Starbucks and bring it to Audrey because she stayed home sick.” My mother mumbles something about Olivia never letting her know of her schedule, but I am down the hall and make no effort to listen. Only a few more days until vacation I remind myself wearily.

At last I reach the safety and comfort of my own room, I flip on the radio and let myself fall back into the depths of my covers. As Shaggy loudly chants for probably the tenth time today about showing the nation his appreciation I’m too lazy to switch it to another station. All I have enough energy to do is stare idly up at the ceiling and glance around my clothes invested room. I look over the bookshelf that contains the three postcards I bought in Martha’s Vineyard this summer, the blown up photo of Charissa and I on her dad’s boat hanging on my wall, and then it stares at me. The small desk calendar my Aunt gave me for Christmas that still has January third facing me and I can feel it begging me to rip it to its rightful page.

Stumbling over to it, I begin to hastily tear numerous pages with quotes and pictures until finally I reach the thirteenth of February. Since the day has almost come to a close anyway, I split off one more page and then instantly regret it.
I have always liked this Mary Engelbreit desk calendar with its cheery gingham patterned border and happy pictures, but not this night. I hold it on my lap and a dumb clown with a tea pot that has hearts spilling out of it laughs at me with the words “You suit me to a tea valentine,” written under it. I toss the calendar onto the floor, but though the words were tiny, they were unmistakable, I hadn’t been able to let myself forget that tomorrow was that day of days after all.

In just seven hours it will be that one date out of the entire year when it’s okay to down a whole box of assorted chocolates in one sitting. Soon it will be time when it’s not abnormal to walk around high school with a gigantic heart balloon bobbing behind you, and some random guy can get up enough nerve to hand you a red rose as you hurry to your next class. For me though, one of the few hundred overly stressed and busy girls in the world who just hasn’t gotten around to having a boyfriend yet, it is going to be just one more boring, uneventful day when the guy I’ve liked for what seems like forever will still have no clue I exist. Maybe I’ll wear all black tomorrow I think to myself bitterly.

I pick up a strand of my hair and twirl it around my fingers in thought. My dad of course will show up from work tomorrow night with a large bouquet of flowers and a small heart shaped Whitman’s sampler tucked in the crook of his arm and I will act all surprised and happy like always, but secretly this year I will hate it.

How many more years will my dad have to fork over twenty dollars because I have no real romantic relationship? I bet he’s probably asking himself the very same thing right now. I can see him at his laptop on his desk, thinking to himself, “When is my Daria ever going to get a boyfriend?” Then another image floats through my mind that simply terrifies me. I’m sprawled out on my parents’ couch, pushing sixty five and watching soap opera re runs with a bag of Cheetohs clutched in the hand that isn’t holding the controller. I have two extra chins, my hair is gray and straggly, and I can barely fit into my size 20 and a half jeans. Then a hunched over figure makes his way into the living room, stumbling along the faded carpet from the support of his cane. “Happy Valentines Day, Daria.” He says in a hacking cough and pushes a Whitman’s sampler across the coffee table on top of all my other Cheetoh bags and old issues of Cosmopolitan. “Thanks, Dad! Sweet more chocolate!” I say with my teeth covered in orange gunk. The thought makes me shudder.

But what can a girl do? If a guy desires a relationship, he just has to find the right moment and the right girl and then make it happen. Girls? No, all we can do is try to look pretty and wait until our face turns blue for a certain guy to ask us out. And if that guy we pine for has no guts, then it is just a hopeless situation.

Him! The name tears at my soul. I had walked past him this morning as usual, he on his way to Chemistry, me all ready late for Spanish. My heart had started to thump loudly as it always seems to do when I see him. I had taken in every inch of him from his perfect hair to the dusty feet of his Nike sneakers. I had glanced at his tanned face, daring him to look up at me so I could attempt to say a weak “hi” or smile at him, but he had just stared out in front of him and I ended up passing him, terribly disappointed and unsatisfied.

Maybe if I just taped a sign on my forehead saying in large, bold letters, “Ask me out!” he would get the picture. Even if he did though, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, barely knowing anything about the boy other than his entire schedule, that he has exactly seven freckles across his nose, three on the left side, four on the right, he has a house in Stratton, Vermont, sleeps with three pillows and his faded basketball, and has never gone out with anyone except for Bridget Thomas which was in fourth grade at his old school in California and doesn’t really count. I run my fingers along the edge of the calendar.

Then it comes to me. I’ll print his name in this week’s article, hidden somewhere in one of the paragraphs. He’d die probably of embarrassment and fear of me madly stalking him and publishing his name mysteriously for the whole town to see. Maybe not though, maybe he would realize I’ve had my eyes on him ever since we’d met and perhaps some day, somehow, in some way he will finally be mine!

(31) A Burning Issue

2008-07-12T10:23:00.000-07:00

I tap my index finger impatiently on the smooth surface of my desk, the tiny glint of the pink polish on my thumb reflecting the light off the computer screen in front of me. Glancing at the middle window, I find to my dismay that a whole three minutes and forty-five seconds is left until this particular mix is completed. Sighing I grab another handful of peanut m and ms and glance back at my friends. Charlotte and Charissa are stretched out across the floor, poking through my pile of old Teen and Seventeen magazines trying to find pictures of Britney Spears so that they can accessorize her with goatees and mustaches while Patsy is trying desperately to find a good radio station in the corner. Britney of course is sprawled out on my bed, shouting phrazes into the phone reciever on her ear, while also attempting to give herself a pedicure. The bottle of cranberry mist is balanced on one knee while she tries to coat each toe nail between cotton balls meticulously, making several near misses so that it almosts drips on my bed spread. It’s a regular lady’s night out.

“So do u think he found his name yet in your article?” Charissa mumbles, not looking up from the pig she’s creating that used to resemble Justin Timberlake’s girl friend.

“Doubt it.” I reply stacking some books neatly on my bookshelf. “He probably hasn’t even read it yet.” I shove Gone With the Wind next to a collection of Robert Frost poems and then toss a few more magazines onto the carpet. I look back over at Britney just as a glob of polish falls onto one of my white pillows. “BRITNEY! Watch what you’re doing!” I shout over her conversation with my phone. She doesn’t even look at me as she continues to talk.

“All right…oh me too….okay I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She tosses the phone back onto the hook. “OH my gosh. You wouldn’t BELIEVE what I just heard!” Britney shouts as she twists the cap of the nail polish tightly, still keeping her toes apart from each other.

“What?” We all automatically ask.

“Andrew Fulton is banned from Sam Goody and is forced to do five hours of community service because he was caught trying to shop lift six CDs from their store last Saturday. Can you believe that? And that’s not even the first time he’s done that!”

“Why didn’t he take off the alarm stickers?” Charlotte utters.

“Where did he hide them?” Charissa adds.

“What CDs were they?” I ask with little enthusiasm.

“He wasn’t smart enough, in his backpack, and a collection of The Insane Clown Posse, Ja Rule, OutKast, Dream, and I think some German techno.”

“Weird.” I reply. “Anyway….how stupid can a guy be? Who in their right mind spends their free time stealing music from the artists they are supposedly supportive of just so that they don’t have to dish out thirteen ninety-nine at some CD store in the mall?”

The room is silent for a few moments. “Daria?” Charissa looks at me and then the whole room is filled with laughter. Britney is heaving so much that her once-perfect toe nails are now smeared from the carpet. I on the other hand don’t find the whole thing so amusing.

“Stop it you guys. That so isn’t true.” Just then my computer dings loudly and a freshly burnt CD slides out of the compartment. My friends start to laugh even harder as I compare myself to Andrew Fulton in my head. It is true that ever since the court ruling against Napster I have been devoting all my time in finding and downloading all the music I’ve ever heard and liked in anticipation of when Napster will be shutting down, but am I stealing it?

“You know, it really doesn’t matter about this whole Napster thing.” Patsy manages to explain after catching her breath. “If Sean Fanning’s new creation dies, there are so many other new sites opening up like Gnutella and iMESH that will replace it. Record companies along with Metallica and Dr. Dre are just going to get over it.”

“But Napster is denying certain artists’ money that they deserve from the records they’re making. Certain users like Daria are only downloading music and creating whole CDs instead of buying them normally. Even if well known artists don’t necessarily need that money, there are thousands of independent artists trying to get noticed that could be number one on Napster but make no money in sales of their CDs.” Charissa explains.

“Well, stinks for them.” Britney laughs. “Millions of people are doing that everyday. Besides, Daria, you’re still making me a mix, right?”

I pull the new CD out of the computer, holding it in front of me so that a long rainbow crosses over my reflection. I look at my face carefully. Am I really as bad as a criminal? Andrew probably will have to pick up trash off the streets and sit outside while his buddies check out new music, should that be me also? Can I just continually disregard the law because it’s convenient and I won’t ever get caught or is a real person of integrity someone who chooses to follow basic principles such as not stealing even when they don’t have to? Is using Napster stealing in the first place? Is there any difference between taping songs off the radio, making bootleg copies of movies in the theaters, and just making mixes of songs for friends? All of these questions spin around in my mind as my friends begin to start talking on a different topic. I on the other hand cannot deny my conscience any longer, my friends have a point.

As I quit all applications and choose the shut down command from the start menu, I cannot make the decision myself of how I perceive downloading MP3s and making mixes. I will probably need to take some time to think about all of the components of the world wide argument. Maybe I do not know where I stand personally, but I do know that I am not entirely comfortable with handing out free mixes to all my friends from now on. As for Andrew Fulton, I guess I’ll ask him if he needs some help picking up garbage off the exit 10 on ramp.

(32) The Cold Facts of Life

2008-07-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

As I walk down the long road, trees glisten all round me and a steady sound of "drip drip drip!" is scattered across the neighborhood as layers of snowflakes melt from every surface. The mounds stacked on either side of the streets are no longer pure and pleasing to the eye, but are mixed with pollution and dirt so that the whole block looks soiled and uninviting.

I think to myself as I hop across a large puddle, that snow is only beautiful when it first falls, covering the world in a shield of brilliant white, dancing through the sky and then falling gently on rooftops. There is truly only one moment, when one can look out at it all and see everything clean and full of light, before the flakes mix with the grimy earth and the groaning plows begin to scrape it all away.

I stuff my hands deeper into my khaki pants pockets and continue to stumble through the slush on the street. It is bad enough that my day just didn't seem to want to end and I had left my whole Spanish paper in the printer after I had told myself over and over I was not going to forget it. Now I was forced to take the school bus home because my sister had gone to her friend's house, just to find that my mother had forgotten to leave the back door open and I am now completely locked out of the house!

I silently curse the game of tennis as I reach the next street. My dad has told me to understand that my mother's favorite sport is the source of comfort to her now that she is stressing about Grandma's cancer. My mother, on the other hand, has denied all of this rather openly and has informed all of us she is completely fine about Grandma's condition. What she doesn't know is that I have seen her crumpled on her bed three times already in one month. The sniffling across her bedroom had socked me so hard I could barely breathe, because before this month, I have only seen my mother cry twice; once when we had rented "Love Story" and the other time when she saw one of my sister's particularly horrible report cards. Yes, it is definitely past due for a time to visit Ms. Georgette and it is none too soon because at this moment I reach her door.

I have known Miss Georgette for only a year-and-a-half. Last year her name had been given to me for a project I was doing and when I had met her we instantly became friends. I've kind of grown closer to her, feeling like she helps me cope with the whole situation with my grandma. I suppose I have kind of made a small bargain with God, promising him that I would take care of this gentle soul down the street, if he made sure someone else took care of my grandma in Massachusetts. I'm not sure if he was listening or not, but I know that regardless, Miss Georgette's presence has become a strength in my own life.
I raise the polished, brass knocker slightly and then let it bang gently but loudly onto the surface of the white, wood door. Instantly the door swings open and I am standing in front of one of the most amazing women in the town of Darien.

"Daria! What a pleasant surprise!" She hugs me fiercely and instantly I smell the scent of hand lotion and lilac. Her silver hair is patted into place and she is wearing a red sweater set and a plaid skirt. I am always impressed with how lovely Miss Georgette looks.

"My mother forgot to leave me the key to the house," I reply, smiling weakly.

"Oh, your poor mother must have so much on her mind right now. I'm sure she'll be just devastated to know that she left you out in the cold again! Here, come sit down and I'll go make you a warm cup of hot chocolate."

"Thanks, Miss Georgette." I let myself rest comfortably on the plump cushion of her couch and look around the room at the familiar furniture and small figurines I have grown to love. This quiet, cozy little home has been Miss Georgette's for almost all of her life and even though she has never married, she lives quite comfortably in it. I have often laid in my bed late at night though, wondering if the deadened silence except for the gentle tic of her mantle clock could ever get to her. She assures me it doesn't and most of the time I can believe her, but I make sure I visit her every once in a while just in case.

It isn't long before we both have steaming mugs grasped in our hands and I sip mine slowly. A few moments of silence pass and then Ms. G looks up at me. "I can tell something is bothering you, Daria. Do you want to talk about it?" I glance up with surprise and then smile with embarrassment down into the rich depths of my hot chocolate.

“..It's nothing, really," I reply, forcing a smile. When I look back up though, I can tell she is seeing through my attempt at covering up my emotions. I turn my spoon around in the cup so that it chinks quietly. “It's just that sometimes I feel lost among my family. My sister is never home and always finds excuses why she can't drive me anywhere and my mother is always out playing tennis or going to meetings. This is the fifth time this month that I have had to take the bus home! Miss Georgette, you just don't understand the agony of being a sophomore who is almost old enough to drive, and having to ride home with the freshmen!" I explain to to her.

My words seem to fallout of my mouth and fall on top of each other. “If that isn't bad enough though, my mother never remembers to leave the kitchen door open or to get me a copy of the house key so I have to freeze until she comes home!" I sigh. I just wish my family could be more considerate." I expect Miss Georgette to laugh or roll her eyes at such ridiculous problems, but Instead her forehead wrinkles and she sips her cocoa thoughtfully.

"Well," she starts and then the wisdom comes. Several minutes pass by as I listen intently to the advice of a woman who has basically watched Darien rise from the ground. At one point she pats my knee gently. "I have to admit 1 have never myself had the opportunity to have my own children, but I do remember my own relationship with my mother, and I can tell you now how hard it was for me to say goodbye when it was her turn to pass over to the other side. It must be equally hard for your own mother and also the rest of your family. It is never easy to say a lifelong goodbye. That's not to say that it isn't hard for you as well, but perhaps now a little more patience and understanding is needed. Don't ever take your family for granted though, Daria. They are the people who have known you and loved you the most! Just know that happiness in the home is not an inheritance you just can have. It's something you work tor every day." Miss Georgette smiles at me warmly and I instantly feel better.

"Thank you so much for understanding, Miss Georgette. I don't know what I would d’o with out you and your hot chocolate." I grin and take one last sip.

"I'm glad to help and I am always here, dear." Miss Georgette places her empty mug on the glass table next to her and then crosses her legs gracefully. Just then, a stifled beeping murmurs from my backpack.

"That must be my mother," I say, rolling my eyes, as I walk quickly over to my things and pull out my cell phone. "Hello?"

"Daria! I am so extremely sorry that I forgot to unlock the door! Have you been waiting long? I am on my way now." I have an urge to start expressing my frustration and anger at how careless my mother can be, but I look over at Miss Georgette who is watching with understanding eyes. I immediately remember her words of love and I take a deep breath.

"No, that's all right, Mom, I know how easy it is to forget something like that when you're in a rush to get somewhere. I've just been here visiting with Miss Georgette."

"Oh, I am so glad. I could have sworn that today was the day Olivia was going to drive you to your dentist appointment. I guess that's next week then, right? Well, I'll come pick you up. I'll be there in a second.”

"It's all right, Mom, I can just walk home, it's not far."

“Nonsense, it’s freezing outside. Just wait at the door. We’re going to have to rush to the store to pick up some things for dinner.”

I click off from talking to my mother and pull on my jacket. “Thanks so much for chatting with me, Miss Georgette,” I tell my friend.

“Any time, Daria. You know you can always stop by.”

I hug her one last time and then rush out to the suburban that is slowly crunching on the pebbles of her driveway. I hop in next to my mother, waving enthusiastically to the delicate figure standing at her door. I savor the time I have just spent with that sweet, gentle woman whose wisdom warmed me on this cold winter afternoon.

“Happiness, Daria,” She had murmured to me quietly, “is not an inheritance you just can have, it’s something you work for every day.” I glance at the outline of my mother’s face next to me and then stare out the window. Without even thinking, I begin to trace my grandmother’s name in the frost of the car window and feel my face warmed by the drop of a tear.

(33) Considering the Lilies

2008-07-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

The air is filled with the quiet screeching of metal hangers scraping across racks and ladies chattering to each other across counters as I stand hopelessly in front of the mirror. “What about this one, Allyssa?” A mother calls from not too far away. I can tell from her lack of enthusiasm that she is getting exasperated with a daughter that doesn’t seem to want to make up her mind.

“Mom, what are you thinking! Purple is my worst color! Besides, I’m almost positive he’s getting me a red corsage this year. The two would just not work.” Obviously, Allyssa is obsessing over her prom ensemble; something I am not, well, at least not now. I on the other hand have come for an emergency shopping trip since I conveniently forgot about this week’s sophomore “semi” formal and remembered fortunately, the exact afternoon before it. The lucky partner for this nearly impossible mission, is not my father, my friends, or even my sister. The person stretched out on the chair next to the full-length mirror outside my claustrophobic dressing room, is my mother.

I refuse to invite my father to partake in the fun and excitement of these specific tasks, simply because of two reasons. The first being I feel slightly uncomfortable having him spend almost an hour examining every inch of each dress, making sure everything is “covered” and two, because the poor man will have a heart attack if he inspects the price tag and discovers it to be more than forty dollars. I prefer not to shop with my friends because either I will feel rushed with their impatience, or they might end up buying my favorite choice themselves. The rest should just be a given.

“Well I told you this store wasn’t going to work. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” I stand staring at my reflection in my bright white ankle socks and the not so “perfect” little black dress and begin to work at getting a tiny piece of chicken from my lunch out of my teeth as I listen to the rest of this mother-daughter dialogue. I think to myself that if I was the mother, I would probably be getting to the point of insanity, but from what I can hear, the mother seems to be staying relatively calm.

I glance at my face and find myself looking sallow and pale. I instantly decide that this definitely would be categorized as an ugly mirror, but then rethink the decision and question whether or not mirrors are the ugly ones or it is actually the people they are shining back. It’s definitely the mirrors, I decide and then glance at my watch. It’s almost six o clock already and I still have a whole paper to write, not to mention the fact that I still don’t have a dress. “Mother, is Roberta back yet?” I call towards her direction and then sit down to wait. It seems like the little old lady in the violet skirt, brown polka dotted blouse, and dark green knee-highs has been in search of dresses for almost an eternity. So far, the one choice she did in fact return with didn’t work at all. “Daria, some of us just aren’t as well endowed as other women.” My mother gently had told me. Roberta had promised us that she would find dresses that have no “sag” and so far we haven’t seen her since.

“Daria, it’s getting late, I’ll go find a dress.” She drops her purse over the top of the door and I continue to sulk, experiencing one of the few moments of my life when I actually wish I am a guy. How can guys have it so easy? Girls have to be wearing the perfect dress, their hair has to be just the right style, and usually manicures won’t hurt. They also have to be wearing not too much makeup, but not too little, just enough perfume to create the essence of an aroma, and fresh breath is almost required. I won’t scare the men who might be reading this with the other atrocities women go through just to feel attractive. Guys? They can wear the exact same pair of khakis and blue blazer every single dance of their life, and no one would give their clothes at least, a second glance, unless they forgot to spot-check that obligatory red tie for traces of salsa. Who created this standard for women of having to have a brand new dress for every dance?

Just then a loud knock sounds on the door, and as I open it my mother thrusts the most beautiful dress I have ever seen into my face. “Try this on, quickly now, Daria.” I can tell by the way she says this that her teeth are gritted, but it doesn’t matter because right at this very moment I am in ecstasy. The smooth and shiny fabric easily slides over my head and around my body, and as I pull it down firmly I am in love with the girl smiling back at me. Instantly a vision of Jeff Waters twirling me around across the gym floor with the folds of this dress twisting and turning with the beat makes my own heart’s pace start to quicken. As another mother and daughter walk past my door and enter the door next to mine I turn my body from every angle of the mirror, taking pleasure in the way it shimmers and swishes. “If I walk into that gym looking like this, there is no way Jeff won’t notice me.” I think to myself with delight. Suddenly though, as I pull my hair up so that I can see a representation of how my tresses should look with the whole outfit, I hear the situation in the next stall.

“Mother, is this the only one?” A girl asks weakly.

“Honey, I know it’s not your idea of the perfect prom dress, but unless your father finds another job and I don’t have to work all day to make ends meet, we can’t exactly afford any of the other ones. I know it needs a few adjustments, but we’re lucky this one was at least is on sale. The lady said the only problem it has is that there is a tiny hole in the armpit. We’ll just have to patch that up and pull in the waistline a little bit and maybe if I find time I can sew something on it.”
“But Mother what if I pay half for a dress that I really like?”

“I’m sorry, but with our situation right now, it isn’t logical to risk not being able to buy groceries and other necessities just so you can have a new gown that you’re only going to wear once. Even half of that other dress is just too much than I can spare right now. Oscar will take you to prom no matter what you wear.” The mother’s voice is calm and gentle. The girl doesn’t understand the obvious pain that her mother is also going through of not being able to buy her daughter the dress of her dreams.

“Fine! You know what then, Mother? I won’t even go to prom!” The door slams loudly, echoing through out the store and muffled sniffling fills the hall. I peek out slowly and see the aggrieved expression of the girl’s mother as she sadly stumbles past my stall. I look back at my reflection and can no longer bear to walk out of the room to model for my own mother.
I sit dazed on the floor, trying to sort out my emotions and feelings at this very minute. I have an extremely strong desire to purchase this brand new dress but at the same time what is the point? I know for a fact that this particular garment probably costs twice as much as the girl in the next fitting room would dream of being able to spend herself with even the financial help of her mother, and this is isn’t even for my prom. At the same time, it isn’t really my fault that that girl’s father doesn’t have a job, you win some you lose some. But yet, I can’t possibly walk out of this store with this brand new apparel and be able to dance the night away feeling good about myself when I have four or five other dresses from past dances that are perfectly wearable. Is it really that important that I look that new and perfect if I really want Jeff or any other guy to like me for who I am anyway?

I quickly slide out of the blue dress and into my jeans and sweater. Fingering the almost glowing threads one last time, I slip my dream back onto its hanger and place it on the hook next to the mirror and stare at my reflection. I think to myself that there are much more important things in life right now than a certain dress for a certain dance. And perhaps it was the flowery print on the last dress I waved my hand through on the way out of the fitting room but I was reminded of a favorite saying of Grandmother’s. ”Consider the lilies” she will say when the things of a temporary nature start creeping in. She is referring to a cross-stitch that hangs in her front hallway….it says, “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these.”

(34) A Major Turning Point

2008-07-12T09:47:00.001-07:00

My heart beats like it’s never beaten before as the car pulls into a stream formed on the street, sending a miniature wave of rainwater splashing onto the curb as a light tapping pounds into my ears from the precipitation falling from overhead. As I turn my attention away from one single drop and peer out the window, the scenes outside of busy downtown New Canaan are nothing but blurred images.

“Daria, in case you didn’t realize, we’re here now.” My mother eyes me expectantly and pulls the automatic shift into park, as if she knows we are going to be here for a while. Then she pats my knee, “You’re going to do fine, just remember everything you’ve learned.”

I try to move my feet, but they don’t seem to want to budge. I listen to the quiet pattering for a moment and then let out a sigh. “I’ve never even driven in the rain,” I murmur, but I know I can’t sit here forever, and I will never know if I can pass this test if I don’t at least try. “I’m just going to tell myself that I don’t even care, it doesn’t even matter.” I mumble quietly.

“I guess I’ll just call you when I’m done then.” I slam the door and then walk to the entrance I’ve gotten to know so well, and then slowly stagger up the steep steps. Glancing above me I see a small line of other teenagers and I realize that these are going to be my companions for this dreaded hour and a half.

We receive our papers, are handed clipboards, and then have nothing to do but sit on the cold, metal chairs and wait. I glance around me at the room I have all ready spent thirty hours in; the large red stop sign on the wall, the white board with the other test dates scrawled in blue marker, and the messages and autographs of past participants of the school on all of the backs of the chairs in front of me. No one dares to speak. The only sound is the loud tick of the clock on the wall. I glance down at my clipboard and find the words, “DO NOT FAIL” in large bold letters that someone obviously scribbled on it to keep me feeling optimistic. I put it on the chair next to me and try not to look at it. I think about saying something to cheer everyone up, something funny and witty, but all I can do is breathe. I notice the guy in front of me hasn’t moved an inch since he sat down, and his hands are shaking.

“You guys are scaring me!” The lady that is supposed to watch us until the inspectors arrive glances around at our sullen expressions and laughs. “Here, take the channel changer and find some Jerry Springer to get all of this off your mind.” I watch her smile and hand the boy sitting on the front row the clicker, and with little enthusiasm he turns the television in the front on, and flips around to nothing in particular. This lady just doesn’t understand. How can she pretend that we shouldn’t be feeling any pressure, like this moment just shouldn’t matter. I guess teenagers are the only ones who can relate, who know that failing a driving test cuts into your self esteem when all of your friends who are younger than you are also counting on you and the days until you have your license. Finally after receiving no input from any of us, the kid settles for Queen Latifa.

As the Queen tries to determine if an ex-convict is the father . . . or grandfather of newborn triplets, I feel like a prisoner with an eternity to wait for my death sentence. The minutes spin by and finally we are all brought back to reality from our worlds of doom. Three people walk in laughing. I envy their cheerfulness and find it almost inconsiderate how they can be so joyful when they hold our future in their hands. They try to get a smile from us, but none of us relent. I can’t help but not trust these complete strangers. For the one that is going to be alone with me for fifteen minutes, one bad chili dog can be all it takes to dampen his spirits and result in my utter failure.

We are handed a test, and I circle each of my answers carefully. In only minutes I am finished, the eye-test taker in the front corrects it, tests my vision, and I am halfway there. She tells me I have gotten two wrong, and I panic, wondering if I failed or passed - not knowing how many we are allowed to get wrong. She shows me which ones I had mistakes on and I can’t even force myself to look at them carefully because I just want it to be all over. When she tells me to wait at my seat, a sigh of relief issues from my lungs.

“Daria Knight?” My head shoots up. I walk quickly to the front of the room and face the man that obviously is fated to be my tester. His hair is a pepper gray, his skin is darkly tanned, and he has the appearance and voice of kind of a tough man, one who knows mechanics and Harleys. “Daria, just take these keys and go to the tan car parked in the parking lot and make yourself comfortable.” He smiles some what warmly but as I reach for the keys I am not ready to make a friend. I vow to only smile back at him at the end if he tells me I have passed.

I trudge across the street and towards the only tan car in the parking lot. Unlocking the door I sit down and adjust all of my mirrors, seat, and steering wheel like I’ve been taught. I wait for what seems like another hour, adjusting my seat maybe twenty times and the mirrors maybe more and finally he opens the passenger door and sits down slowly. Since I am the lucky first person to finish the whole written test procedure, I have the pleasure of backing out of the parking space, definitely not one my strengths. I twist the key into the ignition, and feel the gentle purr of the engine. After the inspector turns on the windshield wipers for me, he says kindly, “Now just take your time backing out, there’s no rush.” I nod nervously and pull the automatic shift towards me to reverse and slowly pull out and then turn to the right.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I can feel my foot shaking gently on the pedal. Saying I am nervous is definitely an understatement. We embark on the famous driving test, stopping slowly at stop signs exactly in front of the line, keeping my hands gripped on the wheel in front of traffic lights, and going well under the suggested speed limit even though my weakness is speeding. After one successful back-in-parking job, we head back to the beginning of the test, the brick wall in the first parking lot. “Just pull to the side and park in front of the parking sign, please.” I follow his directions timidly and then put the car in park and have nothing to do but wait for the dreaded or joyous words.

After he continues jotting notes on his silver clipboard, I glance up and weakly smile. “Can you put the right signal on for me, please?” I pull the turn signal stick down. “Now, Daria, I heard that you have had some trouble distinguishing which is the right and left blinkers.”

I realize he is looking at me for a response. Flustered I try and explain what he’s heard. “Well, I had a little trouble in the beginning but I think I got past that now.” I can feel his eyes on me again and I smile weakly.

“Put the right blinker on for me please.” I realize my terrible mistake and shoot out my hand to pull the turn signal up. I look at the man next to me, filled with fear. My embarrassment must be evident on my face as I come to face the fact that I have failed my driving test all because I forgot which signal makes left and which causes right. I can’t help but be forward, I have to know. “Uhhh….I can’t believe I did that. Does this mean that I failed?” I look at him hopefully. I am not prepared for what is going to happen next.

The man looks at me seriously and then bursts out laughing. I look at him with amazement and I am deeply puzzled. Between chuckles he tells me happily, “I just couldn’t resist. Relax, you passed, I was just teasing you!” I can’t believe my ears! It’s over! It’s finally over! “I passed? Oh my gosh, thank you!” I want to leap out of the car I am so excited. He hands me some papers. “Remember though that driving is a huge responsibility, always be safe and smart.”

My face is beaming. I thank him again and dance out of the car, not able to stop smiling. As I head across the parking lot a tall woman with blonde hair in a trench coat and a green umbrella walks towards me. I guess my success is evident on my face because she stops me. “You passed your drive test no?” She has a heavy foreign accent and I smile back at her warmly.
“Yes,” I giggle, “I did!” With the paper clasped in my hand and my heart soaring nothing can bring me down from my cloud. As the rain continues to sprinkle on my head and face I think of all the possibilities, all of the experiences and moments that are now mine to have. I have just passed one of the only tests in my life that truly matter, and my life will never be the same!

(35) Bringing Up Maddy

2008-07-12T09:34:00.000-07:00

The sky is a canvas of the deepest blue as the rays of the majestic sun from its zenith dances across the hood of the car and splashes across my arms. As I coast further down the quiet street it hides from me, finding refuge in the tree tops and only allowing patches of light to poke through the green leaves to tease me. When I finally pull into the long and windy entrance, the sun is no longer concealed in the foliage but bears down on my face with power so that relief washes over me as I am finally bathed in warmth. Such a day has been missed all winter, and now as I both peer up at the brightness through my sunglasses I begin to hope for the blissful days of summer.

As colorful slides, swings, and endless places to play and pretend come into view, I slow the car down and carefully turn into a small parking spot. As I take my key out of the ignition and slip it into my pocket a tiny wave of thrill fills my body. It has been a few weeks since that dream of a day where I passed my dreaded test and received the ticket to freedom but I am still thrilled every time I am able to return to the wheel of my glistening chariot.

I grab my laptop off the passenger seat and step out into the sunshine. Moments before I had been crunched over my computer prodding my mind for some thought or image to start writing about for this week. Like many times, absolutely nothing came to my fingers that were patiently balanced on the keys. This sudden writer’s block came with no warning and no mercy. I had no idea why my mind was so blank, but the fact that there was bright warm, light coming from outside that sent stripes across my desk and the car was simply screaming from its position in the driveway might have had something to do with it. I decided that it was too beautiful of a day to waste inside and what better place for inspiration and relaxation than the town’s park?

As I open the gate, a child races in front of me towards the small playhouse. I saunter over to an empty wooden bench to the side of the junior play area and sit down directly under the sun. Tapping on my sunglasses so that they fall onto my nose, I stretch and prepare to get somewhat of a tan while at work even though it’s April and I’m in Connecticut instead of California or Florida where all my friends are. My mouth nearly dropped months ago when my mother informed me that our family would not be going anywhere this spring so that she could attend a tennis camp. I have enjoyed a whole week of doing absolutely nothing though, and it hasn’t been entirely bad except for the fact that in a few days girls will come back to school with brightly colored beads woven into their hair and skin the color of caramel, and I will still be boring, plain old Daria.

I force myself to clear my mind of any reminiscing about vacations in tropical places and with the machine balanced on my knees, prepare to type something, anything that comes to mind. Instantly a flicker flashes in my mind of a conversation I had with friends at lunch about gun control. I start clicking away, the first paragraph of the article already developing in my mind. Finally, success! As I lean back and read the sentence I have just crafted, another one appears mentally and I begin to bring it to life.

“Hello!” I glance up at a small face now peering at my computer. “What are you doing?” She asks cheerfully reaching her finger towards the “h” key as I stop her just in time.

“I’m typing.” I mumble with little enthusiasm, for the burst of an idea has just vanished as quickly as it has just appeared.

“Look, I found this lady bug in the house! Her name is Lilah!” I study her with a twinge of annoyance as she starts jabbering about how she’s going to keep this small insect, that most likely is going to fly away any second now, as a pet. She trots in her dusty black patten leather shoes with golden buckles to the other side of the bench so she can sit next to me.

“What’s your name?” She asks with a somber expression.

“Daria.” I reply and then soften. “What’s yours?”

“Madison Alicia Albright.” She replies with little hesitation. “Will you play with me, Daria?” Her large blue eyes plead with me for love as a bee buzzes somewhere in the distance.

I look at her and sigh. I have no idea why this little person, even though she’s adorable, thinks she has the right to just interrupt my work and expect me to give all my attention to her. As I glance back the almost blank screen in front of me though, I realize that I’m not coming up with much anyway, and fifteen minutes of playtime won’t hurt anything. “All right, let’s go then.”

She grabs my hand instantly and after I place my computer carefully on the bench, she leads me happily to slides and bouncing bridges where we pretend we’re princesses and run away from imaginary monsters. After I am quiet out of breath from running with her across the sand numerous times, I sit for a quick break.

“Daria! Daria!” I hear my name being screamed across the park. “Push me on the swings!” I race towards that small bundle of joy and grab her in my arms so that she giggles uncontrollably and the smallest dimple on the top of her cheek comes into view. Setting her down on the thick strap of the swing, I bring her back towards me and then send her flying up to sky so that she swings quickly down back to my open arms. I continue to send her forward with bursts of strength as my attention is drawn towards the rest of the park. Except for few fathers who have taken the day off for Good Friday and a couple of mothers, the majority of the adults in the park are paid caretakers for the children, some with thick foreign accents and others with skin like rich chocolate.

“Maddy! It’s time to go home now. Mommy will be home soon.” A woman stands in front of us holding a deflated box of apple juice. I pick up Madison Alicia Allbright and the swing in my arms and bring her back down to the ground. It’s only minutes until she has waved goodbye and solemnly walks across the parking lot with her pigtails drooping just a bit more. My heart aches already from her absence and I immediately appreciate the time I have just spent with a this precious little one. It has only been nearly a half an hour and already I feel like Maddy could have been my own daughter. I have had only a glimpse of the joy and pleasure this little girl has for life, but yet I am enchanted by her.

As I return to my laptop, I think of the wondrous days when I will have my own tiny children. A bee buzzes somewhere behind me and I watch a small boy intently as his nanny silently walks him towards a slide. I wonder where his real parents are, perhaps both swamped with papers at a desk in an office, or maybe off playing tennis like my own mother is. The child toddles along grasping the woman’s hand. I think of how pure children are, how loving and understanding they some times can be. What makes a person who used to be so small and guiltless suddenly form into a character of insecurity and selfishness? Instantly my thoughts sadly go back to the images of teenagers weeping in each others’ arms after a high school shooting. What causes someone to be able to have the capacity to kill their own peers even at such a young age? There are hideous tales of elementary school children carrying weapons into their learning environments. Do these children and youth not feel loved and appreciated? Do they base their value on themselves solely on their lack material possessions or judgments placed on them by others?

I look around at the miniature people racing each other past the swings, completely naive to the evil of the world encompassing them. Would these children grow into lonely but vicious threats to the safety of their schools? Would any of these precious ones feel attacked and misunderstood by their peers so much that they would not value their lives and their own life as well? Pain fills my heart. I wonder where or who they are going to turn to if they feel so angry and alone to such a capacity. Who are they going to go to as a source of love if their parents and family don’t know their own fears, weaknesses, and emotions. Surely, even if that nanny is the most gentlest human being on earth or is as wise as a sage, a person paid to care for a child for most of the day can’t offer them that protection, that parental affection, that continual and undying attention as much as their own mother and father can. Family is the most important part of a person’s life, for those members of the home know each other like no other, they dwell together in an environment with opportunities for growth, love, and security. If a child or teenager can’t turn to their own home for that protection where are they possibly going to find such needed relief.

I make a vow to myself that I am going to be everything I can possibly be to my own offspring for they are the next generation and if my children can’t feel safe in their own schools where are they going to find comfort? It’s like the quote that hangs in my father’s office by David O Mckay, “No success can compensate for failure in the home. That seems kind of amusing considering that my father doesn’t come off the train until nine o clock, family meals seem impossible, and he has been on continuous long business trips from here to Timbuktu, but granted, I know he’s trying.

(36) Experience Preferred

2008-07-12T09:28:00.000-07:00

It is just another typical Saturday morning as I enter the kitchen slowly, eyeing with astonishment each table setting, the light blue table cloth, and the remains of bacon, eggs, and toast crumbs on my father’s nearly empty plate. My mother is busily frying more eggs while my father is examining, of all things, the classified section of the newspaper. Knowing how much my mother detests cooking in the morning, as well as the known fact that my father only reads the newspaper on his way to fifty-seventh and Park and never reads the classifieds, I am beginning to grow a tiny bit suspicious. The sight of the hash browns steaming encompasses my thoughts though, and I dismiss the random scene from the Brady Bunch as just another petty strategy for my parents to “communicate” and “care-n-share” with their teenagers as instructed by one of their many “How to Raise A Difficult Child” books.

“Daria! How nice of you to join us! I knew the smell of food would bring you down here.” My mother laughs innocently as she flips a piece of bacon so that it sizzles and crackles. I sit down cautiously, afraid to touch the fork in front of me. My father doesn’t look up from his paper as he picks up his mug of coffee. For several minutes we remain in silence until he suddenly folds the paper, tosses it onto the table, and looks up at me, ready for light conversation.

I smile weakly as I place my napkin on my lap and my father immediately starts asking me various questions. “Daria, how did you sleep?”

“Fine.” I mumble.

“How’s everything with Olivia?”

“Peachy.” I sigh with frustration. I have just woken up and I don’t understand how my father can just start rapid-firing inane questions. I can tell my dad senses my lack of enthusiasm as he takes a sip from his mug thoughtfully and then carefully brings it back down to the surface of the table. My mother piles food on my plate and I start to make a dent in it ravenously.

“Look, Daria, I’m not going to beat around the bush about this.”

I glance up at him with surprise. “Okay…” I reply slowly with my fork mid air.

“Well, let me just ask you this; do you ever feel like something is missing from your life? Don’t you ever tire of sleeping in until three o’clock and sun bathing all day?” He’s losing me but he doesn’t let me cut in. “Daria, I’ve thought a lot about it and I think at this time in your life it would be extremely beneficial if you, well say you got a job.” He places his crumpled napkin on his plate with satisfaction

I nearly shoot out my mouthful of eggs and buttered toast. I can’t believe what I have just heard! Me getting a job! How long has this idea been floating around in my father’s merciless mind?

“I second the motion.” My mother replies without hesitation. I wager that there has been no lack in preparation for this conspiracy. “You might be wondering why we would consider this for you, Daria.” My mother continues quickly. “Your father and I have always been blessed to be able to provide most everything for you, your needs have always been met, but what are you going to do when you go to college, Daria? And don’t think that you’re going to meet some mysterious, successful man who is going to inherit his father’s multi-million dollar company and is going to whisk you away to his mansion and pamper you with servants and cream puffs! Chances are when you hit the campus you’re going to start eating pizza for every meal, gain twenty-five pounds, and guys will begin to not even look at you.”

“Thanks Mom.” I reply.

“I’m just keeping you humble, dear.” My mother smiles cheerfully.

“The fact that I don’t have a boyfriend keeps me humble enough for now Mom, but thanks.” I glare at her over my plate.

“Now, Daria, your mother is right. It’s time you face reality and take life into your own hands. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Daria. That’s why we’ve discussed it and have come to the conclusion that you need to learn responsibility, discipline, financial skills, and the virtue of good old hard work before you leave the nest. So, considering how much time you have on your hands, I’m willing to bet that you can find yourself a decent job, in say about two weeks.”

“And what if I don’t? What if I wait until the end of the summer to get a stupid job?” Resentment enters into my voice as I feel completely trapped and helpless.

“Well it would be an awful shame if you couldn’t drive until June, Daria. Gas just doesn’t come cheap anymore.” My mother smiles at my father. I look up at my parents with complete and utter hatred. So, they’re just going to announce that they’re no longer going to financially support their children. How like them! Now I know that I have no choice, I have come to the realization that they have left me no other way. Unless I win the lottery in the next few weeks to pay for my entire future, I have been defeated. I stand up abruptly, smash my fork down onto my plate, and stomp upstairs with nothing left to do but sulk.

It’s only about an hour until all of my friends are sitting in my room consoling me, with the exception of Britney who went to get her nails done. With newspapers opened on each of their laps, they search the job listings with me with stoic determination. “Here’s one,” I suddenly hear Charissa cry with forced cheerfulness, “Canine Coiffure” needs a bath and blow-dry assistant, seven-fifty an hour.” My look of total consternation is all she needs as an answer, as if I am going to spend my free time scrubbing down coddled cockapoos. I begin to moan underneath the shelter of my pillow as images float through my mind that make me recoil in horror. I’m standing in Hal’s Hotdog Heaven sporting a weenie beanie as my life passes before my eyes. Love-of-my-life-Jeff Waters has just walked in with three of his friends; Welcome to heaven, Jeff, welcome to your very own private HELL, Daria.

“Hey here’s one!” I snap out of the nightmare at the sound of Charlotte’s outburst. “Listen to this, this is like your dream job!” I grab at the newspaper desperately, anything to escape Hal’s Hotdogs. “Look who’s looking for a sales associate! Oh wait it’s in New Canaan, but well at least you can still retain some element of pride while you say, “let me help you on with that…hey that really looks good on you, and why YES we have a great sweater that matches that.”

My friends start giggling uncontrollably at Charlotte’s imitations but I don’t even care as I begin to dial the number hastily. I quiet them down with a twinge of annoyance as my heart hammers and I realize that for once in all of my sixteen years of living, I am doing something important for my life with out holding my parents’ hands or dipping into their checkbook. As a hoarse voice answers the phone I nearly jump out of my skin. “Yes, hello,” I squeak, “ I am calling in regard to your advertisement for a sales associate. Tuesday afternoon? Well yes, I can come in for an interview, oh yes of course I’ll hold.” I glance at my friends who are gaping at me and flash them a happy smile. I can hear sounds of the snipping of my mother’s apron strings already.

(37) Of Mallards and Men

2008-07-12T09:24:00.000-07:00

Strings of chords and renditions of familiar melodies float through the air as I sit entranced by my father’s hands that glide and tap across the ivory keys. His silver watch gleams from the sunlight streaming through the fluffy white curtains next to us as he taps his foot rhythmically on top of the gold pedal. The expression imprinted on his face is peaceful and subdued as he creates divine beauty through the use of sounds. “Aaaal those loonely niights.” He begins to sing, his deep voice resonating into my very soul so that all is forgotten. I can’t tell completely whether or not he even knows I am there next to him, but I watch him with amazement and immediate love.

I instantly recognize this particular melody, it is one of many that I have grown up listening to. Twenty years ago, my father was a musician and his talent and love for music has influenced me and my sister ever since then. Hundreds of compositions have collected dust over the years though, and as the importance of business and the stock market have taken priority in our family’s life, these familiar tunes have been forgotten and the moments of my dad sitting at his piano lost in his own creations have been scarce. Glancing up at my father’s one record label that hangs on the wall above us, I want nothing more than to remain here all night in my favorite room of the house, listening to my father play. Homework, dishes, sleep means nothing to me as I perch on that bench, entranced by the agility and nimbleness of my dad’s fingers.

Almost has magically as it started, it stops and my dad peers up at me quizzically. “What’s up, Daria?”

I look down at the yellow gingham dish towel laying in my lap, completely filled with shame that I was the reason that this magic was put to an end. “I, I was wondering what to do with the moldy bread in the cabinet.” Minutes before I had put my hand to my mouth in horror at the sight of it, while standing in the midst of threatening plates, glasses, and pots. Now, the bag of overdue slices seems insignificant.

“I’m not sure what to do with it.” He sighs.

“Should I just throw it out then?” I reply, twisting the cloth in my hands.

My father looks up at me in thought. “Why don’t we just go give it to the ducks.”

I gaze up at my dad in astonishment. Clearly he is joking. We haven’t fed the ducks since I was five years old! I realize that he is completely serious though, and so I begin to protest. “Dad, no offense or anything, but don’t you think I’m a little old to be going to the park and feeding ducks?”

“How old are you?” My father turns his body to face me now on the piano bench.

“Sixteen.” I reply automatically, this isn’t the first time my own father has no idea how many years his daughter has been living on the earth.

“Is sixteen too old to show kindness and generosity?” I look at him in shock. Personally I don’t see how anyone can find any connection between tossing some stale pieces of bread to a bunch of lazy ducks and showing kindness, but I know better than to protest. “I’ll grab the keys then, and you snatch the bread, Daria.” My father slides off the bench and walks out of the music room, leaving me to stare after him in complete puzzlement.

It isn’t long before we cruise through the entrance to the park. We take my father’s car even though he lets me drive and soon we are walking side by side down the grassy hill towards the nearby pond. The sun is starting to slowly descend behind the waving trees, robbing us of warm sunlight and whipping cold breezes across our faces and arms. I slip on my father’s fleece with his company logo, and wriggle my arms inside of it so that only the sleeves are hanging at my sides.

“Why are boys so complicated?” I ask as I rip off another chunk of country white and hurl it to an anxious mallard. I am sitting on the edge of the dock, letting my legs dangle so that my feet rest just above the rippling water. I watch the foul skim the surface of the pond, until it reaches the prized piece of food and then it gobbles it up with quick motions of its sharp beak.

“Well why are girls so complicated?” My dad hands me another slice, with a chuckle where he is stretched out next to me. The gazebo stands behind him and out of the corner of my eye I can see a man and his dog approaching it.

I breathe in, preparing to support my statement. “Boys have no guts around here. All they care about is looking manly and giving the impression that no one can influence them in any way” I laugh. They have no understanding, no sensitivity, no loyalty. You can pour out your whole heart to them and they can just completely ignore you.” I thrust another piece of bread closer to where I am perched, wondering how close I can get these ducks to come to me. “Maybe it’s just stupidity.” I finish with a smile.

“Maybe,” My father grins, “or it could just be intimidation. Sometimes it’s difficult for guys, especially when girls are so talented and charming.”

“You forgot stunningly beautiful, dad.” I reply giggling as he tousles my hair. We sit, lost in the peace and serenity of the environment. As a male mallard silently follows the trail of bread I have left for him, he is so close to me that I can almost touch him. His head is of deepest green that shimmers like satin and a perfect ring of white encircles his protruding neck. Suddenly I feel my father’s eyes upon me.

“You know, Daria. I guess it’s just like feeding ducks.”

“What?” I look at him completely lost.

“Well, you can’t expect him to instantly trust you. You start by throwing the bread a ways off, then a little closer, then closer still. Eventually you’ll have him eating out of your hand because, he said smiling a coy little grin, that’s just how us guys are. I am always amazed at how my father knows just what to say and say it in such a way that ordinary moments become life-long lessons. I throw the bread to farthest end of the little pond and the duck follows the ripples, pecks enthusiastically at the water and then swims under the dock, out of eyesight, out of reach.

“I seem to have that effect on guys.” We both laugh as Dad scoops me up in his arms like he was done for as long as I can remember.

“Not all guys Daria. You’ll tame one sooner or later.” And with that we begin our walk back to the car.

(38) Jumbo Shrimp, Great Summer Reading, and Other Oxymorons

2008-07-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

The hammock swings gingerly in the breeze as the rays of sunshine pour through the woven ropes, casting a net of light onto the freshly, cut grass. I glance up at the sky, and the intense power of the sun causes my eyes to squint shut without my consent. I drag the bag of necessities next to me and lightly jump onto the towel I have carefully laid out, stretching my legs so that they are covered in light. I scowl at them distastefully, thinking about the wonder of how you can appear extremely tan in the shade and then when you allow your body to be fully exposed to the sun, you look as white as a beached killer whale. My almost transparent skin could possibly blind any unfortunate passerby who happens to walk down the street. To hide my horror I tap my sunglasses down onto my freckled nose, suddenly seeing delicious brown skin once again.

From the bag next to me, I drag out my choice in educational reading: “People”, “CosmoGirl”, “Seventeen”, and “National Geographic”?? Oh yeah, I remind myself with relief, ideas from tribal body piercing. I quickly run through the traditional list. Designer sunglasses-seven dollars at TJ Maxx….check. CD player with Legally Blonde soundtrack……check. Evian, towel, and chap stick check, check, check…. SPF 1 sacred tanning oil….check, and EZ blonde in a bottle, check. There’s not a cloud in the sky as I sigh with pleasure, a perfect day for tanning. I also remove my snack. I have appropriated nearly half a pound of fresh jumbo shrimp and lemon slices from an appetizer tray my mother has ordered for a tennis team-lunch about to take place at the house. As my little battery-operated fan blows a gentle breeze towards my face, I grab the stack of postcards next to me and pop a shrimp into my mouth savoring the tartness of the lemon. Flipping through the postcards I glance at their breathtaking scenes from last year’s trip to Nantucket; beaches, lighthouses, and more beaches. Ripping the cap off of a JellyRoll pen found at the bottom of my bag, I begin to write acquaintances from school, small notes of summer salutations. “Here as I lie amongst the warm rich sand and bobbing waves, I remember with fondness the fun we had in Algebra.” I continue to scribble furiously, and just as I am about to heart-dot the “i” in Kisses, Daria, I hear the thud of something adding weight to the hammock. I glance up to find my mother pointing to a stack of books and looking disdainfully at my baggy of stolen-shrimp. Pulling off my headphones I squint at her.

“Well, you look like you’re all set for a nice afternoon in the sun! So I thought you’d like me to pick up your summer reading. You’ve got to start sooner or later.”

I pick up the first novel equivalent to the size of a dictionary. My eyes bulge with terror, sweat pours down my back, the hairs on my arms stand on end, and suddenly the sun is zipped into a mass of clouds causing my whole world to consist of darkness. I tear off my shades, and jerk my wrist towards my naked eye. I nearly faint with shock, AUGUST FIFTH!! Where has the summer gone! School starts the TWENTY-FIFTH! As my mom cheerfully returns to the living room, I sit dumbfounded in front of what must be over five hundred pages of literature. How on EARTH am I going to pull this off!

I pick up the book with contempt as I begin the literary journey, similar to the Jihad. Seconds turn into minutes, minutes turn into hours and as I continue to read I even lose track of what tanning side I am on.

After two hours, I lean back with my eyes closed, thinking about the combination of useless knowledge and shellfish I just ingested and find myself even more disgusted. Pages of foul language, crude encounters with prostitutes, and detailed descriptions of disemboweled bodies fill my mind. As I glance down at the text, I am instantly brought back to past years of similar assigned reading. When I was in junior high school, we were required to read a book describing “the black experience” through one man’s eyes. Typical or a-typical, I still don’t know, we never discussed it, which would have been pointless anyway in a white community with a white teacher. Instead of being brought to an understanding of African American history and issues, we were exposed to a stereotypical portrayal of the dregs of society, living with drugs, gangs, death, and blatant and gratuitous sexuality.

In the name of science we were forced to read, for the sake of a quiz, a slim paperback dealing with adultery, under age drinking, and oh yeah, about two pages worth of rescuing an endangered amphibian. I can understand the importance of maintaining a scholastic focus when all there is to think about during the summer months is beach parties, boys, and bronzing, but do the books that are chosen for our benefit really have to be this coarse? And if these books are supposed to be truly instructive, why isn’t more time spent discussing the issues in the classroom?

I take a sip of my Evian, a little distraught. I can’t possibly believe that there aren’t more books out there sitting on shelves that can achieve the desired learning with an author’s use of more eloquent vocabulary and a gentler handling of sensitive issues. What is the point of reading these books anyway? For the majority of the teen population of the local schools, the answer would be to be able to do well on the fall quizzes.

Unfortunately, reading these books don’t always guarantee that. Unless teens procrastinate their reading until the late August weeks, notes are required to keep the ideas in these books fresh in their minds before they are tested on them. Furthermore, the questions contained in these quizzes often only ask names of characters and facts about the setting and plot instead of questioning what we actually learned from reading the novels, the principles taught, or the author’s intent. It seems that too often quizzes and the books that we read become policing tools instead of teaching tools. The board of education is able to remain grasping a firm hand on the direction of teen minds for the summer, but the small amounts of factual information and experiences found in these books are forgotten too easily within the first few months.

Who are the people who make the final judgments that these books are so edifying? And when these people are picked to decide which books we need to read during our summer vacation, shouldn’t we as teens at least know who they are and why they were chosen? Running into the house to clean up, I prepare myself with newfound determination to begin writing a letter to the board of education.

(39) Having a Senior Moment

2008-07-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

The warm air hits my face as I close the glass window door and perch myself on the edge of the porch swing. I breathe in a sigh of pleasure as I contemplate the fact that they’re aren’t any more papers, tests, or projects for at least two and half months. The joy is indescribable. Taking a quick sip of orange soda, I snatch the wireless phone next to me and quickly dial Cameron’s number.

“Hello?” From where I am sitting, it doesn’t exactly sound like my best bud is feeling all that happy.

“Five minutes right? I already set up Bond.” I down another portion of my bottle.

“Uhhh…I don’t know.” I nearly choke on my drink.

“You’re not coming? Cameron, we’ve had our Saturday night James Bond championships every week since you’ve moved here! You’re just going to ditch it now?”

“Well…I was going to ask my dad to drive me but he’s kinda miffed right now because I didn’t do his stupid lawn perfectly. I don’t get the big deal, the lines of the mower were a little crooked, even if it’s wasn’t like Randy’s grade A job, it still trimmed the jungle."

“So what’s the deal then? Just come? Randy can-oh my gosh.”

“Yep, exactly. I don’t know, don’t call me anti social but I don’t exactly feel like coming over tonight. I don’t know…it’s just weird with him gone, the house is so empty.

“Well that’s why you should come.” I say brightly.

“Daria, I can’t. I’ll talk to you later I guess.” I hear the sound of his phone clicking and with great disappointment I drop it next to me. A light goes out in a window across the street and I hug my bare knees to my chin and listen to the peaceful quiet of my backyard with an occasional croak and chirp in the background. With sudden realization I ponder upon the fact that Randy, Cameron’s older brother that has always been around is now gone, maybe forever.

Immediately the image of his face is brought to my mind. Randy always had had dark thick hair that hung in his eyes over the rims of his glasses. When Cameron’s family had moved here three years ago, he had seemed like the complete opposite of his brother. Where Cameron was confident, strong-willed, and bold, Randy had been usually quiet, reserved, and calm. Now though, after getting contacts, working out at the gym a little bit, and getting his Eagle scout award, he had finally found himself. Recently I had begun to realize what an amazingly intelligent, generous, and interesting person he really is. Now though as another window goes dark next door, I realize it’s too late, because he’s left for Princeton and it’s possible that I’ll never see him again.

As I run my finger over the numbers on the phone next to me, I come to the understanding that it’s not even just him. It’s the girl that had been my fourth grade buddy when I was a third grader, the guy that had sat behind me in my Chemistry class, and all of the sisters of my friends who gave me rides in the car when I needed them. All of these seniors are about to leave, to prepare to start the rest of their lives. They are about to find out what their real futures are going to be, and go to an environment that they have chosen for themselves to meet the needs required for them to be able to accomplish their dreams, and I am just stuck here. They have an opportunity to move on while I have to remain where I am, about to start my junior year with the same people I have known for the majority of my life. It’s just doesn’t seem fair.

“Hey loser, why are you sitting out here like a loner?” Olivia slams the door shut and slumps next to me on the porch. I feel her weight next to me but I can’t look up at her.

“Randy left this morning at 4:00.” I say glumly. My sister looks at me quizzically.

“You never cared about him before.” She replies with her perfectly plucked brows furrowed. I can smell her first-date perfume from where I am sitting.

“Where are you going?” I ask with little enthusiasm.

“I was going to go out for a bite with Stockton, but he had to take a rain check because he realized he had a lacrosse banquet tonight. Anyway, look, don’t worry about it, he’ll probably come back for Christmas and Thanksgiving, you know how his parents are.

“It’s not him, Livy, it’s everyone. I hate it how everyone can leave and take over their lives while I have to stay here. They can do anything, go anywhere, and I might never see them again. It’s going to be the same thing next year with you. I have two whole years until I can fly out of the nest.

We’re both quiet, lost in our own thoughts in the still darkness of a summer night. A car occasionally whishes by on the street, and I glance up at the mass of twinkling stars over head.

“That Ursa Major, over there, and there’s Ursa Minor.” I can hear how Randy would point out and describe these particular constellations from their backyard after a family barbeque had died out. Most likely Cameron would roll his eyes at me and I would try not to laugh from where I lie on the freshly cut grass in perfect little rows. Now I yearn to hear those words, to watch Randy shove his glasses up on the bridge of his nose absentmindedly.

“Look!” I hear my sister shout loudly. “It’s the first firefly of the summer that we’ve seen!” I squint into the black surroundings for a few seconds. Suddenly a light green glow appears and then fades out by the white picket fence. I smile. “You’re right.”
“Listen, Dar, I might be leaving for college next summer but we have a whole year to spend together to prepare ourselves. It’s just part of life I guess to watch others leave before you do. I feel my sister put her arm around my shoulders. The warmth brings peace to my troubled mind.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I swing my legs slowly on the porch swing, enjoying the light breeze, the sounds of distant crickets, and the mysterious appearances of flashing fireflies. The change of summer has arrived, and will continue just like I have to. Maybe some of my friendships have dissipated with the coming of college preparations, but my relationship with my sister has not. Next summer, I want to look back on the past year and not regret a lack of appreciation for the evolving men and women who are about to take hold of their lives. I guess the saying is true that you never know how much you’ve loved something until it’s gone. “Goodbye to the class of 2001,” I think to myself as I walk with my sister into the house to play Goldeneye, “I hope you shape your lives into all that they can be.”

(40) Finding a Friend

2008-07-12T09:02:00.000-07:00

“Here’s your change ma’am, have a nice evening!” I flash my last customer a bright smile as I hand her her bag and then glance at the miniature clock next to the cash register. Finally, it reads six o’three and I quickly rip off my tag and toss it into a nearby drawer before any more people snake around the counter and I have to stay a couple minutes later. Before I can escape though, the phone rings.

“Thanks for calling Cosette’s, this is Daria, how can I help you?” I say cheerfully. It’s been only a month since I first got this job at the request of my dearly beloved parents, and now every part of it has just become automatic, just another part of the routine. “Hi, Daria.” I instantly recognize this voice and it isn’t any customer’s.

“Mom, I was just leaving.” I twist the cord of the phone around my fingers.

“I’m glad I caught you then, dear. You need to pick up Heather on the way home, she’s spending the night at our house tonight.” My eyes bulge. I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. A whole night with HEATHER?! I stare outside the glass doors as people pass by in the last few hours of sunlight.

“But Mom I…”

“Listen, Daria, I know you and Heather aren’t the best of friends, but her parents just asked me if she could stay with us on an account of a family emergency, so you’re going to have to try extra hard tonight to get along with her.”

I sigh, fully understanding that there’s no way that I am going to be victorious in this battle. “Fine, I’ll be home in like half an hour then.” I hang up the phone angrily and start slumping towards the back office where I punch out as an employee and walk towards my car.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I dread the next twelve hours. Heather and I haven’t exactly hit it off as best buddies since she moved here from Florida. The way she twists my words, talks about me behind my back, and gets all the people I have been friends with since elementary school to suddenly turn on me doesn’t make me jump at the chance to be nice to her. The horrifying event that both of our mothers served on the PTA together this past year and have become close friends just makes everything worse. Visions of family barbeques still haunt my mind where I have had to endure a little more of Heather Stone than I can stand. I have had more than my share of witnessing her constant need for attention resulting in obnoxious outbursts, her selfish desires to have my best friends all to herself, and the several times she’s had all three of my guy friends gawking at her. I’ve given up on Jeff Waters completely now because even though I boldly told him how I felt about him, he consequently doesn’t know I’m alive. With Heather always flouncing around me, who would?

Several minutes later I reach their house, the white one with the light blue shutters and perfect rows of geraniums leading up to the front door. I climb up the steps and lean my body on her doorbell. I hear shuffling near the hallway and stand impatiently as she opens the door slowly. Neither one of us smiles as I follow her into the kitchen. The last rays of the evening’s sunlight stream through the windows bathing the whole room in comforting light. I flounce myself onto a stool in front of the light marble counter and watch the girl in front of me with disgust. I realize though in contrast to her mother’s cheerful kitchen, she looks unmistakably gloomy. She slowly drops a pillow next to her light blue duffel bag.

“What’s with you?” I ask picking up a large metal spoon and eying my round reflection on its surface. There’s silence for a few seconds and as I glance up I see her shoving her hand around her eyes as she stares at the ridges in the wood floor. I squint my eyes at her carefully. It isn’t like Heather not to be so perky and cheerful. “Seriously, Heather, what’s wrong?” I ask her more gently.

“It’s nothing,” she sniffs as she collapses on top of her bag. She tries to catch some tears beading up in front of her large brown eyes, but fails as they come crashing down her cheeks and make stains on her knees. She looks up at me forlornly and knows that I don’t believe her. She looks down at her hands and twists them together in the lap of her kaki shorts. “My sister has been in some sort of accident. She’s in a coma right now, I mean, she’s going to be okay, but my parents had to go with her and she was airlifted to…” She loses control and begins quietly sobbing. I stare at her, not believing that her sister Erica a perfect miniature of Heather is lying unconscious right now in a hospital bed. I watch more drops roll of Heather’s cheeks and make tiny pools on the floor. I watch her helplessly, not knowing exactly what to do. A best friend would hug her fiercely and tell her everything’s going to be all right, but Heather and I haven’t ever been like that, we’ve hated each other since day one
“Heather, I’m sorry.” I murmur, not sure what to say or do, but knowing the importance of putting any grudges aside for this night, for this moment. I sit down next to her on top of her sleeping bag and put my arm around her slowly.

“I’m fine, really.” She smiles weakly. “I’m really sorry I have to ruin your evening, Daria. My parents were the ones who…”

“Heather, it’s fine, really. Here, I’ll grab your stuff.” Slinging her bag over my shoulder and stuffing her pillow under my arm I walk with her to the driveway. The house is quiet, and almost eerie as we shut the door.

About two hours later, we’re sprawled on the couch in our cotton pajamas with a discarded pizza box open on the coffee table. My mother had thought to rent a movie, and had picked Meet the Parents, a movie Heather and I have both seen almost three times. We still lie in the living room on my green checkered couch laughing hysterically at scenes we’ve practically memorized. I glance at her face glowing with happiness from time to time, understanding that this is what she needs most tonight. She looks back at me, realizing I’m watching her. “Let’s get some ice cream.” I suggest hopping up. We skid in our socks toward the freezer and grab a carton of Neapolitan. I grab bowls from the cabinet as Heather finds the best toppings.

“Oooooh, whip cream!” I squeal and immediately grab the can and spray a large puff into my mouth. I look over at Heather slyly, “Here, want some.” I tip back the can and suddenly a huge pile of white foam forms on her whole face.” We both laugh hysterically as she licks her tongue around the edges of her lips. Then she grabs the can and fires some at me so that it hangs off my nose.

“Daria,” she giggles uncontrollably, “we’re going to miss the best part of the movie.”

“We can always rewind it, smart one.” I reply smearing off the last bit of whipped cream with the back of my hand and then start to scoop some vanilla and chocolate ice cream into each bowl. She grabs the chocolate sauce and starts oozing streams of it across my creation. “I wonder if we have nuts.” I wander around the kitchen searching for peanuts to top our masterpieces. Just then I spot something equally as delicious posed on the glass container next to the toaster. “Wow, my
mom made a cake!”

“She did?” Heather glances over at me.

“I wonder why she did that.” I reply shutting the door to the pantry.

“Maybe it’s because it’s my birthday tomorrow. I guess I’ll have to bring it with me to the hospital.” Heather licks some chocolate sauce off her finger.

I stare at Heather with open respect. After all this, tomorrow is Heather’s sixteenth birthday! I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. “What a way to spend your birthday” I think to myself. “No party, no presents, just a sister lying near death in a hospital bed.”

“Is our ice cream ready then?” Heather asks me as she picks up her bowl.

“Yeah.” I grab mine and numbly walk next to her back to the living room. As we snuggle back into our sleeping bags with our sundaes placed in our laps I think of how wrong I have been and how easily it is to misjudge others I had always considered Heather to be one of the most selfish, fake, annoying girls I have ever known. Now though, I realize that Heather has strength and selflessness beyond anything I have ever known.

“Daria?” I glance up at her next to me. “Thanks for being here for me tonight. I know we haven’t had the best past, but I really appreciate how kind you are being to me tonight.

“No, Heather,” I sigh. “I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t really give you a chance when you first moved here. I guess I just wasn’t used to having someone new enter my circle of friends.” I look at her and we share a smile, one of understanding and peace.

“It’s hard moving and making new friends.” She murmurs. “I guess I just didn’t know exactly how to act and be myself.”

“I understand.” I reply and look back at the screen. “Maybe,” I think to myself, “the past hasn’t been all that good, but I know the future is going to be better.” Digging my spoon into my ice cream I take a large bite, enjoying the taste not only of this perfectly created sundae, but also the feeling of finding a friend in someone I never thought was possible.

(41) Bricks and Cliques

2008-07-12T08:48:00.000-07:00

“Well, Daria, I had no idea you would be up so bright and early this morning!”

I glance up instantly. My mom’s mom is standing in front of me, clutching the folds of her carnation pink terrycloth robe with a blue paisley silk handkerchief wrapped around the crown of her head. She smiles at me warmly. “Well then, Daria, you can help me choose my hair for the day! I’m having trouble deciding between a brunette blunt cut, a ravishing auburn bob, and a lovely blonde shag.”

I laugh happily. The only signs of my grandmother’s advancing cancer is a somewhat more lithe body in the folds of her white eyelet nightgown. Her spirits on the other hand seem to not have been affected at all by the disease. “The shag, Grandmother, definitely the shag.” I try to keep my face serious for a moment and then burst out laughing.
“
Yes, I quite agree, the shag it is then.” She bends down to peer through her glasses at the large book cradled in my lap. “Now what do you have there?”

I put the album down on the carpet next to me and wrap my arms around my knees. “I think it’s one of your old photo albums, Gran.” I pull the sleeves of my gray sweatshirt so that they cover my hands and cross my legs in my pajamas.

“Now, I haven’t looked at these pictures for years.” She sits comfortably down next to me on the fraying couch. Let’s see what this old book has in it, shall we?” She turns the pages carefully reverently touching each picture with a fingertip as if to feel back for bygone days. As I watch her quietly I can see a far-away look transforming her eyes as they wander across the black and white photographs. It is clear she is visiting each scene vividly in her mind almost unaware of my presence next to her. “This is the grocery store your Grandfather started after the war.” She murmurs.

I squint at the faces standing in front of a newly painted building. “Is that you?” I ask pointing with my fingernail at a youthful woman sitting on a bench with a checkered apron tied around her hips.

“Yes, as a matter of fact it is.” She smiles at me warmly, “And don’t I look happy now? It took a long time to take that picture of our grand opening because my uncle was such a perfectionist. All I was concerned about was the impatient customers lining up at the door and maybe not coming back.”

I glance across the page, examining the images of more unfamiliar faces. She turns some leaves backward slowly and immediately I notice a picture where a young girl with my grandmother’s unmistakable dimpled smile beams brightly. “In this one you look happy. Who’s the girl next to you?”

“Ah, now that one is of my very best friend and I. Even though it took a while to take the photo, we kept each other smiling the whole time. Her father took the picture the very first day he purchased his first camera.”

“What was her name?” I ask interested. I peer at two girls with light colored hair, their small arms wrapped around each other’s necks in a loving embrace atop a large stone stoop.

“Mary Anne Stout. She moved onto my street in third grade and after that day we were inseparable and insufferable.” My grandma smiles and flips forward a couple of pages, pointing as she goes. “Here we are much older. This is on the field of our high school when we graduated and this one,” she sticks her finger on the other page, “this is Mary Anne holding your mother the very first week I had her.”

My eyes widen with amazement. “You were friends for that long?”

My grandmother chuckles lightheartedly. “Oh yes, Mary Anne and I were friends for life. She was the maid of honor at my wedding, helped me when I was pregnant with all of your aunts and uncles, nursed me when I was ill, and I’m willing to bet that you would have never guessed that Mary Anne, her Laurence, me and your grandpa were the ones who bricked up the back patio of this very house.

“I was the last person besides her Laurence that was with her, holding her hand for a last time before she passed on. There was no one like my Mary Anne anywhere, she had a heart of gold, that one.
I trace the face of the two girls, trying to visualize a friendship that would last for a lifetime. My grandmother pushes herself up. “Well, I’m going to go make breakfast now. Your grandpa will be up soon enough.”

As my grandma slowly heads for the kitchen I continue to look at the woman holding the small baby in her arms. A friendship that lasts over fifty years? I can’t even conceive the idea. The photo reminds me of the pictures in my DHS yearbook at home, where seniors who were once friends as children put old pictures on a page and then try to reenact what’s occurring in the scene. It’s clear to all students though, that the majority of the teenagers that have to put their arms around each other because they did it in the past hardly talk to each other today. Why is that?

I go over the faces of each of my friends in my mind and try to decide if any of them ever would be a companion of mine through college, into my married life, and even grow old with me. It seems very unlikely. Some of them hardly are loyal friends now. Days from the summer float through my mind to a night that I was supposed to go out with Charlotte. I had called her and she had told me she couldn’t because she had made plans with a group of other people just because an attractive guy was supposed to attend. Heather, the girl I had thought I had succeeded in becoming quite close to after comforting her willingly when her sister had been in a car accident had completely ignored me when I ran into her along the shore of the beach. No wave, no smile, just a look of complete indifference. I was invisible.

We now live in an instant message society where at the touch of the button we can communicate with anyone in the world. We chat behind the alias of a screen name. We can’t see or hear whom it is we’re typing to; interacting with. We have to type things like LOL, or emotions like : ), and my personal favorite, <3 to share our hearts with our friends of the ether. I say friends… in all actuality they’re simply cyber acquaintances who have graduated to buddy lists, which I’m told you can now buy at newsstands in Japan. What a world.

I stare outside the window, completely lost in thought, where the sun now warms the dew on the grass. What is happening to true concept of human intimacy? Where has lasting friendship like the one Grandma and Mary Ann have had gone? What has occurred that has changed the importance in society from quality of friendships to quantity of friendships? Independence is no longer admired; instead what is valued is how large a group you can get to accompany you to the girls’ room.

Glancing back at the photo album, full of self-loathing, I recall how I have chosen and placed valuations on relationships like it was my father looking at an investment. Having access to a hot brother of a girl on my lacrosse team warrants a sleep over. Laughing at all of a girl’s jokes and continually putting up with her unpredictable mood swings earns a bed in her winter house in the Caymans. I glance into the kitchen and look at my grandmother. I glance at my own reflection in the French doors of the dining room and see that same dimpled smile now turned upside down as I consider my generation and our disposable values. As I sit down at the small table I vow to myself and to the memory of Mary Ann Stout to be a true friend, to seek real friends, and to have a really great breakfast just as soon as I have checked for email on my cell phone.

(42) Cinema Verite

2008-07-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

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 pink 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 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.

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

2008-07-12T08:24:00.000-07:00

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.

(44) Stars and Stripes Forever

2008-07-12T08:20:00.000-07:00

The morning’s first rays of sunshine pour throughout the four walls of the music room from where I sit quietly on the couch. Slivers of light are painted on the pale wooden floor and the flowered oriental carpet, while above me a circle of jewels shimmer across the ceiling from a reflection of the gold piano lamp, rested comfortably on the surface of the black baby grand. The area is unbelievably quiet, a setting of peace and tranquility when so often it is a stage for noise and chaos. Savoring the silence and the warmth of sunbeams on my face from the window nearby, I close my eyes slowly and tell myself that is time.

In the next few hours I have to somehow take the images and thoughts floating around my mind like colorful butterflies and place them on paper, somehow bringing understanding to their beauty, and meaning to their fluttering wings. This week though it will be even more difficult, after such horrific events that have transpired since that fateful Tuesday, how can anyone define what emotions and ideas they are feeling at this time? Furthermore, what can I, little Daria Knight possibly add to that of what has already been said by President Bush, Mayor Juliani, the Pope, the British Prime Minister, as well as the hundreds of others that have boldly spoken to the nation to stir up courage and dedication to our country? To not reflect upon this tragedy would be insensitive, unfeeling to those who have been affected, which inevitably is any American, but yet where can I start? Words can’t explain the terror, the nightmarish scenes, and the devastation brought by the terrorist attacks on the United States on September 11, 2001.

And then, like a gift of divine inspiration from above, I see it. Some unanimous member of the family with several pieces of crude, jagged duct tape has fixed a small flag onto the window. With streams of light seeping beneath its fabric, it seems to glow as if its stripes are on fire. Never before as has such a vision of the American flag brought so much beauty to those looking upon it.

I look at it carefully, gazing at the symbol for America that has never brought so much meaning to my country since the days of its birth. As a child in elementary school, I was taught about its simple meaning; the fifty stars for the fifty states, the red stripes for the blood that was shed during the revolution, and the white for purity. Yet at this moment it seems to represent so much more.

The flag before me, no wind to billow its cloth erect has folded almost directly in half, rays of the autumn sun cascading through it into the room causing it to appear almost transparent. The stripes have somehow mixed together now, creating an endless crisscross of thick lines, as if they are woven together tightly. From studying the Puritans so diligently in high school through out the past two weeks, at this amazing sight an excerpt from a famous sermon given by John Winthrop instantly comes to mind. “For this end, we must be knit together in this work as one man. We must entertain each other in brotherly affection.”

Then, it hits me. Just like our forefathers who settled this country almost four hundred years ago, we have begun to strive harder than ever to follow this important principle for the past week. Since the four attacks by unknown terrorists, America presently has once again been knit together in brotherly affection. You see it in the hundreds of flags positioned on houses, the antennas and rearview mirrors of automobiles, offices, and even trees. You see it in the unyielding faces of rescue workers who refuse to rest for fear they might miss someone still able to breathe beneath the wreckage of what once was the World Trade Center. This sense of brotherhood has been found on the determined expressions of those waiting for hours in lines at hospitals to donate blood for the wounded, and the families who through school drives and church organizations have willingly given food, work gloves, and socks to the fireman, doctors, and police officers of New York City.

Families in the area have been bound together in love as well, from the unwavering commuters who walked across the George Washington Bridge to return to their loved ones when transportation was no longer available to fathers now seen in the afternoon at nearby street corners waiting for their sons and daughters to hop off the steps of the school bus, so that they can swoop them up lovingly in their arms and laugh with them as they happily walk home. With thousands of offices condemned or otherwise in ruins, it has been reminded of what is truly important in life.

The hijackers who used our education to receive pilots licenses and our planes as flying bombs meant to bring destruction to not only symbols of our country’s pride, but to our nationalism as well. Though like the flag peacefully laying across the window, America has folded a different way. Instead of being separated into confusion, united we stand. Like the vision of these stripes forever connected together in front of my eyes, our hands have been interlaced in support and devotion. We as a people have become one imperishable mass of love, patriotism, and courage that cannot be conquered. In the additional words of John Winthrop, “God of Israel is among us, when ten of us shall be able to resist a thousand of our enemies.” Place a flag somewhere visible, and consider it sacred, for it is all we are now and all we ever hope to be. God bless America!

(45) Shear Indulgence

2008-07-12T08:16:00.000-07:00

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.

(46) An Unwelcoming Homecoming

2008-07-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

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.”

(47) Tis the Season

2008-07-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

“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. ”

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.

(48) Living in the Present

2008-07-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

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.

(49) Un Trabajo Del Amante

2008-07-12T07:38:00.000-07:00

“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 Usted?” 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.

(50) Unseen Hunger

2008-07-12T07:20:00.000-07:00

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.

(51) Falling To Peaces

2008-07-11T16:57:00.000-07:00

It’s late Friday afternoon, the sunlight still pouring through the windows of my house with the oncoming spring. The sky, 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.

(52) Poetry in Motion

2008-07-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

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.

“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.

(52) I Do

2008-07-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

It is as if some heavenly goddess has let herself float gently into our midst in this humble ladies room of the church. Her hair is spun of gold, crowning a graceful body flowing with layers of the purest silk and satin. The glass beads sewn delicately along the edges of her gown make it so that she could have been a spring fairy, just having passed through a field of fresh dew, her flushed cheeks indicating the rays of morning sunlight. All four of us, Charlotte, Britney, Charissa, and I gaze with the unmistakable awe, basking in her divine radiance, our only desire to be her on this glorious day. Suddenly I feel dreadfully casual in my knee-length black skirt and lilac cardigan.

She looks herself over in the mirrors carefully, fluffing up one of her shoulder-length strands here, straightening a wrinkle of material there, three bridesmaids trying desperately to keep her never-ending train from soiling itself along the pink checkered tile. Her slender hand reaches up to fan out her dark lashes, the breathtakingly elegant diamond, gleaming beneath the ceiling lamps soon will be climaxed with a lovely golden band.

My mind traces back several years, to no night in particular, when Emory would show up at my house with her black back pack, her hair usually thrown up into some sort of pony tail. My parents would tell her to make sure we went to sleep at eight, and then hurry out the door to some cocktail party or other. Then Emory would be ours. She would play endlessly with us, dressing our dolls, finding us almost concealed in the showers when engaging in hide-and-go seek, letting us stay up just a half hour later to watch television. Her high school yearbooks would be piled in a stack on the marble of the coffee table, and while she brushed our hair she would point out pictures at our request of boys she liked, and boys she had gone out with. As children Olivia and I spent hours together, discussing how we were both going to be just like Emory when we were sixteen.

“Was his picture ever shown to us?” I wonder, suddenly forgetting his name.

“Is Press here yet?” “Preston Smith, of course!” I think to myself. She spins around suddenly, wrenching the snow-white folds from her friends clutches as she faces them. I know she is trying to sound uninterested for the response, but I can’t help but notice her voice has a touch of excitement added to it.

Lauren, one of her college room mates, smiles warmly. “I’ll go check.” She snatches her airy, rose hued, shawl, and after hurriedly draping it around her back and down her bronze shoulders, disappears behind the door, her heels click-clacking behind her. Two other women follow, having to attend to other duties, leaving my friends and I alone with Patsy’s sister, the smooth trail of white quickly handed over to us.

“I think you need more lipstick.” Britney immediately starts in, looking the figure before us up and down critically from where she still clutches her share of the silky fabric. Patsy soon appears with a silver tube, turning its edges to reveal a tower of carnation pink. She outlines with precision her older sister’s protruding lips, making them shine with an almost natural brilliance. Then Patsy turns to her own reflection, adjusting her own bridesmaid gown the color of the faintest pink, setting off the deep color of the skin she has been preparing at Totally Tan for weeks.

“I think you look absolutely breathtaking, Em.” Charissa assures her sincerely, leaning slowly against the door of the nearest pale pink stall, her chocolatey brown hair tumbling down the shoulders of her soft scarlet cashmere sweater.
She smiles weakly and then frowns. Throwing her soft hands into the air, she begins to pace so that each of us has to shift our places in the bathroom to keep up with her. “I just want to see him!” She tells us in frustration, her eyes looking up at the ceiling. “I hate all of these formal traditions, half an hour seems like an eternity. I just want to know what he’s thinking, what he’s doing right now. This is the most important day of our lives and I am stuck hiding from him down here for hours.” She folds her arms together, letting her thumb toy with the ring upon her fourth finger. She looks over at Patsy. “Where is Mother”

My friend shrugs her shoulders. “The last time I saw her, she was popping an Alka-Seltzer.” She replies unenthusiastically.
My friends and I glance at each other, our hearts melting at the thought of the intensity of the love she has for him and our minds helpless to know what to say to the bride in distress. The exquisite material brushing against my fingers causes me to ponder about my own wedding day. “Will I look so enchanting? Will I have the ceremony in a small church or in front of the stunning ocean of Martha’s Vineyard where my husband could stand next to me in crisp khakis and a blue blazer? What will my fiancée be like? Will he be blonde and outgoing or dark and mysterious?” I think. It’s hard to even imagine being engaged to a member of the opposite sex when right now most boys seem almost hopelessly evil.

“How did you meet him?” I ask her earnestly, yearning for a flicker of hope to assure me that in the years to come, more guys will somehow learn to make a relationship meaningful. As we gaze intently into her sparkling brown eyes, my best friends and I listen to her recount the past two years of their affinity. She describes the sunny afternoon where they first met, Emory appearing at the door of his dorm at the University, having continually received his mail for Smith since her last name appears so similar as Smythe and vice versa. Time seems to stop entirely as we lose ourselves amid the perfect love story of Emory Smythe and Preston Smith, two individuals destined for each other and in moments about to become man and wife.

The door creaks open with out warning, the face of Patsy’s worried mother appearing in front of its opening. Her light hair is patted into place flawlessly, a salmon hued gown encircling her figure, an elegant collection of pearls adorning her thin neck. “What have you been doing, Emory? You have to enter in five minutes and you don’t even have your veil on yet!” Suddenly the mature woman we have just listened to has become the innocent young daughter once again, as her mother shoos us all out so that she can quickly prepare the finishing touches on her angelic bride.

We slide into a dark wooden pew collectively, all bursting with excitement and happiness. The entire chapel is filled with friends and family of the Smith and Smythe family, candles lit on every side of the room, vibrant flowers decorating every surface. Following the clumsy toddler tossing fistfuls of petals behind her, and the graceful entrances of the four bridesmaids clothed in a light pink, everyone stands in awe to witness the exquisite sight of the bride herself who cannot have appeared more stunning. Arm in arm with her father, she meets up with Preston. Beaming, she holds his firm hands in hers with relief. Together they can not appear to love each other more. I glance across the room briefly at Jeff Water’s face that seems to show no signs of appreciation for the beauty of the ceremony but still gazing intently at the couple in the front of the room. “Maybe some day, that will be me up there,” I think to myself, “Maybe.”

(53) For Whom The Belle Toiles

2008-07-11T16:32:00.000-07:00

“So this is it?” I peer closely through my passenger window at the diminutive dark red building snuggled between two neighborhood houses. It is the kind of edifice that you might just miss while passing by, unless you knew what you were looking for, or if you didn’t perceive at once the crudely painted letters above its entrance. “I don’t know,” I laugh good naturedly, “I guess I was just expecting more of a barn like structure.”

My mother smiles slightly as she swings the car into park on the side of the street, several feet away from a greasy man working on his automobile’s engine. She sits back in her seat for a moment to warn me, “Daria, you think Cloth Corners was confusing, you’re going to be simply overwhelmed in here.” I grin as we both step out on to the hard cement of the sidewalk, the warm, spring sun embracing our shoulders. We stand together for a brief minute before plunging across the street to continue our expedition, and unmistakably through the faint odors of car exhaust, daffodils, and freshness of the air, I can smell undeniable oncoming victory.

We walk the few feet quickly, the sudden heat of the late April afternoon already making us uncomfortable, unbidden sweat threatening to appear on our furrowed brows. A young brunette mother is on the knees of her jeans, her tanned hands lost in a sea of various pre-made valances and assorted table napkins filling a large round metal bin. Mother and I approach an outside rickety card table ourselves, as we finger thoughtfully soft cottons of blue and white striped or light green plaid pillowcases. I carry awkwardly a small dresser drawer I have stolen that morning from my room at my side. Gazing down at it for a second, for the hundredth time I try to contemplate that why out of any design of the furniture I could have picked from as a nine year old, I chose all of my furnishings to be the ones painted with this unruly blue. I look up, suddenly, as my mother tells me knowingly in hushed murmurs that unlike the quick help of Cloth Corners, we’re going to have to be on our own here.

Finally we enter the grand display of rolled up fabrics filling every wall and shelf. Squinting somewhat into the darker atmosphere compared to the blinding sun we’ve left behind us, I am filled with awe at such an astonishing selection. Silently in adoration my mother and I roam among the stacks of plush violet, rich burgundy and delicate carnation taffetas, my imagination painting immediate vibrant images. In my mind’s eye sweeping curtains adorn large and open windows, perhaps fringed with glittering prisms to match the encrusted chandeliers above them that cast drops of rainbows on shiny ballroom floors. Stiff chocolate drapes hold back the sun in romantic dining rooms with bowls of dried Valentines Day roses on the center of the polished dark table with silver candlesticks and carefully picked formal bone china and sterling place settings. We continue on, pointing to certain patterns that catch our view, but nothing striking us with powerful desire.

We head into the next room after we have digested what we have just taken in, walking slowly and deliberately as we scan all around us. Red checks and blue flowers, embroidery and prints, they all quietly call attention to themselves as other mothers around us search for their own future upholstery. Then, I see it. My mother and I are peering across a row of cotton stripes, when it catches my gaze. “This one is pretty.” I tell her. She looks down immediately before assuring me, “Oh, Daria, that one is really cute.” She glances at it for a moment, smiling with agreement of its splendor. Beneath a roll of a solid crème lies an exquisite combination of lively pink and peach stripes and stitched topiaries with green leaves crowning blue and yellow buds. The more I ogle at its charm, the more determined I am that this is the final treasure, that I cannot leave this store with out a carefully excised swatch in my happy fingers. My mother snatches the whole roll out of its crevice and we begin walking with it held to her side like a most cherished possession until we reach a middle aged woman with glasses who shears a small part of it off and therefore grants me my desired wish.

“Let’s go upstairs and start looking for complementary fabrics.” My mother suggests excitedly. We hop lightly up the faded blue carpet, my heart about to burst with joy at the elegant but cozy bedspread that will transform my humble abode. What awaits us at the stairs is equally as breathtaking as the pattern clutched in my interior decorating partner’s graceful paws. Sample chairs already swathed in lime checks with country roosters cause a cry of delight to escape my eager lips. My mother grins brightly, as she watches my apparent portrayal a child in a candy shop. “Perhaps we can make a small pillow for your desk chair.” She tells me wisely, because much to my dismay, handsome roosters in light green simply do not match with my stunning topiaries in pink.

We continue gliding across the wood paneled floor, discovering a dainty, yellow gingham chiffon perfect for window treatments, and then finally reach the climax of the entire journey. Like as if they had been what we had been searching for the entire time, rest the French and country toile. Bright blue, yellow, black, and red scenes of colonial men and women dancing under the trees while their cows and horses graze nearby are arrayed in all their splendor in a dignified corner of the room. After some searching, we salvage a bright blue that somehow brings out the flowers of my dainty shrubbery. Finally we have come to the end our efforts, what needs to be achieved can not simply be done on our own.

Downstairs, my mother astutely picks out an older, but stylish woman at her desk to be our aide in our shared endeavor of the day. Her khaki pants and light white blouse are a mellow, slightly wrinkled linen, and her glasses strung on a strand of bright blue beads hang from her small neck. I judge her to be the kind of at times eccentric woman who writes poetry and drinks from an overly large coffee mug. We stand for a moment patiently beside her cluttered workspace, and finally she looks up with a smile after finishing the last bit of business that was on her mind from a last customer.

“My name is Debra, how can I help you ladies today?” Her voice is thick with a German accent, as she smiles warmly in our direction, winning immediately my trust in her abilities. After telling her of our undertakings, she whisks us back upstairs where we point out our chosen fabrics. “This is gorgeous.” She tells us confidently, holding in the palm of her hand my delightful swatch. It isn’t long until she cuts off a piece of cotton the shade of fresh butter, a large colorful tassel banging against her arm as the scissors fly. Then she finds with out hesitation rich blue, smaller tassels to edge both the soon-to-be toile throw pillow and the valence for my window. We stand together around in a vacant corner of the room, my mother’s steady hand on my shoulder as she tells our new confidant of the excitement I displayed over the simple rooster prints.

“I am going to have that fabric as cushions for my kitchen chairs when I have a family.” I tell her enthusiastically. She laughs asking my mother if it “does not scare her” that I am already thinking about marriage at seventeen. Then she begins to tell of us her own daughters and as she describes her loved ones who are already now in Universities, it hits me as well that soon that will be part of my life. I think about how that in a little more than a year, I will be leaving the continual familiarity of my own bed, of my own parents, and my car. It seems like I am expected to grow up in a blink of an eye, but maybe I smile to myself, that the first major step to my new womanhood is transforming a dull childish space into a striking mature vicinity. I turn my attention once more back to Debra’s sentimental memories, as I wait gleefully for when I can leave in ecstasy with swatches of butter yellow cottons, enchanting topiaries, magnificent toile complete with royal blue tassels, and… maybe a rooster or two.

(54) As The Wings Unfold

2008-07-11T16:17:00.000-07:00

We sit contentedly on the edge of the back porch, musing over the incessant laughter of our parents escaping through the windowpanes of the house behind us and marveling at the vast black sky that has chosen to display its jewels to us this warm May evening. Hugging my bare legs close to me, I pick apart a blade of grass still able to smell the smoldering aftermath of a raging barbeque that has taken place just hours before. The images of Mr. Philips and my own father in their matching “Kiss the Chef” aprons concocting masterpieces of hamburgers and hotdogs still cause a smile to form at my lips at the thought of such warm memories. “It seems like nothing has changed,” I think silently. I glance at the form of Cameron next to me on our porch swing, his dark eyes closed, his gold hair smashed against the cushion behind him. Then I realize I’m wrong.

“Cammy, wake up!” My head immediately jolts upwards to gaze with astonishment into the eyes of Cameron’s older brother Randy. “Hey guys, I brought you some dessert. He puts down a box of Neapolitan ice cream and some white plastic bowls on the ledge of the deck and begins messing up Cameron’s hair. I watch with amusement such an uncharacteristic scene after glancing curiously in the direction of Oliva in front of me.

“Cut it out Rand, I’m not in the mood.” I try to suppress a smile, as Randy continues to be slightly belligerent. He starts slapping his younger brother playfully on his tanned arms. Cameron has gone to sleep at two o’clock for the past week trying to accomplish all our junior year demands, and I can sense his patience ebbing. “Randy, cut it out!” He yells and then they are on the grass, rolling on top of each other in what appears to be a fierce battle, but judging from the mixture of yelping and laughter, I can tell that Cameron and Randy are engaged some distorted way of male bonding.

“Do we have to go run and get the hose?” Olivia hollers as we both can’t help but giggle. She looks at me in shock and I smile and nod my head, my eyes wide. Is this really Cameron’s older brother wrestling across the dirt of my back yard? What happened to the shy, intellectual, silent boy that spent his time memorizing all of the constellations and world capitals? I stare at the college boy across the lawn, his dark and slightly curly hair now crowning his head remembering how short he used to keep it. His bulging shoulder muscles are defined in the moonlight beneath his tee shirt when in high school his figure was less than Greek, and his loud voice replacing the quiet murmurings of the past. I can tell Olivia has noticed the changes as well as she draws her prized lip gloss out of the pocket of her blue shorts to apply liberally. Princeton has definitely served Randy well both mentally and physically.

I watch both of them walk back towards us, both red faced and heaving and suddenly Randy slings his brown arm across Cameron’s shoulders indicating that even though he looks dramatically different, Randy has not yet lost his golden sense of family priority and generosity. They stumble up the steps together, and soon Randy has dished out piles of multi flavored ice cream for all of us.

I dig up a spoonful of chocolate hungrily before jamming it in my mouth. “So tell us about college,” I say between bites looking almost shyly in Randy’s direction. “It must be strange suddenly being home again.” I stretch out my legs so that they touch the wooden panels of the porch, and cross my feet together.

He grins happily, leaning comfortably against the porch’s railings. “It is just amazing,” he sighs, “and fun,” he adds. We all listen intently, as blinded moths hurtle themselves at the illuminated rooms around us. “It is so strange and sometimes frustrating being home, because for months I didn’t have to care about anyone but myself.” He laughs at such honesty. “Everyone is so cool, you know? You meet people every where in your dorms, across campus, in the library.” I smirk at the mention of books, a small part of the old Randy shining through.

“Do you play college lacrosse?” I inquire, my eyes widening after discovering the orange Princeton lacrosse label on the right leg of his black athletic shorts. Randy has never participated in a sport in my entire six years of knowing him.

“Nah,” he shrugs good naturedly, “a bunch of my friends and I play on a Princeton intramural team in the spring, we just wear the shorts to designate our players.” He takes an excited breath, “that’s another thing Dar, the bunch of guys in my dorm and I totally click, we are just crazy sometimes!” I smile, trying to picture Randy being crazy at anything. “I did miss my family though,” Randy tells us tousling Cameron’s hair once again.

“You missed the car!” Cameron retorts smacking his arms again. “You guys wouldn’t believe it.” He informs us with our rapt attention, “He came home and went straight for the Explorer, he sat in it for hours! He didn’t even go drive it, he just SAT in the stupid thing hugging the steering wheel like a grown baby!” We all laugh loudly, finishing the remaining hills of desert still melting in our laps.

Suddenly Cameron’s mother appears in the doorway of the sitting room. “Randy, Brooke is on the phone.” We watch smirking as Randy shoots up onto his feet and snatches the phone eagerly. Olivia and I instantly search the face of Cameron for information as to whether our instincts ring true. He nods, confirming that Brooke is not just some random girl, obviously in just as much shock as we are.

“Do you think we’re going to change that much when we go away to school?” I ask them speculatively. I glance over at the face of my sister, who in just a couple months will be making the broad step into her own future.

“I bet we will.” Cameron murmurs. “We probably won’t think that we’ve changed in any way, but I’m sure others around us will be able to see a difference.” A gentle breeze passes through the trees, causing them to sway slowly beneath the stars. I smile to myself with wonder, trying to imagine a whole new school, a whole new world full of people that in some ways are very similar to myself. The whole college preparation and decision making process is indeed quite a burden. It’s a weight found on every Juniors’ and Seniors’ shoulders that cannot be lifted until one sunny day after running to the mailbox, they find a large envelope addressed to them, bulging with acceptance papers. Its something that cannot be put into words, articulating this stressing is an impossible feat. In the end though, when an eager senior finally does pick what school they want to attend all they can hope for is that that place is going to be simply a perfect fit. As my parents continue chattering inside, and the crickets drone loudly their summer song, I stare up at the sky, contemplating the opportunities of the future, as endless as the shimmering stars.