Seven Minutes Later, I Was Dead

my short story final for my creative writing class

She said she would be here by 7:30. It’s now 8:04. The library closed four minutes ago, and I’ve been waiting for more than half an hour. After sending the sixth text message, asking where she was, I notice the battery on my iPhone is getting low"dangerously low, especially considering that we were going out after she eventually picks me up. But that isn’t important. What is important is that I could not use my phone to pass the time.

            Great. Alone with my thoughts. Who wants that?

            I’m not really alone. There are a couple of younger teenagers waiting around the front with me, and the librarians are still filing out together.

            “Do you have a ride?” some of them ask, as they walk by the bench I’m sitting on.

            “Yes,” I answer, flashing back to when I was thirteen years old, the same question asked, the same answer given. “She’s on her way.” They nod, without really stopping, and continue to their cars, the only ones left in the lot.

            My fingers flip the top corner of the top book in the stack I have on my lap, the thwack as the cover met page slightly comforting in the silence encompassing the three who are left.  This silence is uncomfortable; once the librarians have all gone, there is no swishing shut of the automatic doors that have reduced the need of chivalry, there is no starting of engines as the workers finally return home to their families, there aren’t even any cars, driving by the sometimes busy road.

            There are three of us now, waiting. We look anywhere except at each other or, at least, not when they’re looking. There is a twelve or thirteen year old boy with brown hair, styled almost like Justin Bieber, before he had his hair cut. Judging by the textbook he was carrying, he had spent the day trying to get through the algebra I had long ago conquered. I smile, before having to quickly avert my eyes as his head turns in my direction. The other one remaining is a girl, standing, holding a book whose cover I recognized but, for the life of me, could not remember the title, and nor could I read the words imprinted there. Her hair, light brown, was pulled up and away from her face as she paced nervously back and forth. 

            I look at my watch, before remembering for the hundredth time that it had stopped working. It’s been broken for about two months now, but in the mornings I forget that, and still put it on. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

            Then there were two. The boy with the algebra textbook’s mom arrived in a dusty, red Ford minivan. It’s just me and the nervous girl now, although she has finally stopped pacing and is now biting the green nails on her left hand.

            I decide to just look at my phone for the time, and see only six minute have passed. Where could Donna be? I slide the phone back into my pocket, resisting the temptation to check Facebook.

            To avoid looking at the nervous girl who has started twirling her hair, and who is now making me nervous, I look down at the stack of books in my lap. I had, originally, gone to the library to study for this philosophy test I have next week, but I can never resist browsing the aisles of books, just waiting to be read. Today, I finally found Isherwood’s Good-bye to Berlin, which I was especially anxious to read. I have had a surprisingly difficult time finding any of his books, and since I have the time, I decide to start reading. It was either that, stare at the nervous girl, or study for my philosophy exam and, frankly, I’ve had enough of Jean-Jaques Rousseau.

            Two pages in, I hear the sound of a car driving up. Distracted, I look up, and I’m disappointed to see a compact blue Honda that I don’t recognize. The girl breathes a very audible sigh of relief as she races to the passenger sheet. The shut of the door, the gun of the motor, and I’m left with silence. Knowing there wouldn’t be a pay phone around for me to use, I debate calling my mom for a ride. The sky is dark enough that it’s hard to read the words on the page. Frustrated, I take out my phone and start dialing my mother’s cell phone number. 5 digits dialed, a car pulls up to the library’s entrance.

            “Hey, sorry,” Donna says, lowering the window.

            “Where the HELL have you been?” I ask, grabbing my books.

            “It’s a long story,” she says as I slam the door behind me. “Strap in.”

Author's Note

--this is a rough draft; it is my creative writing final. any suggestions are appreciated.
---the title was at the suggestion of a friend. he suggested it to me, and I couldn't get it out of my head.

Reviews

[absorb21]

This is great because this has happenedto ALL of us but I don't think anyone has ever written aboutit. Your writing voice is easy to read. I like how she fears trapped by her own thought,good touch. Maybe I would introduce, foreshadow, what the conflict will be. Right now I would guess that it will be w/ her mom. I would surely read on.

[Spencer Halliday]

You have a really good writing style. The story was made interesting and engaging by the incredibly intricate details. I was a little confused as to just what is going on in the storyline. Also, are you going to expand on this? I really want to see how it plays out to match the title.