Genre

An old story of mine.

 

I sat in the library, surrounded by my wall of books, engrossed in my copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I had been sitting there in the library for over 5 hours, and even though it was 97 degrees outside, I felt the cold of New York on my skin. Every now and then, my peripheral vision would pick up some small flickering of movement, but I’d ignore it. That was how it had always been; when I read, nothing else mattered. The world would just stop for an hour or two, long enough for me to soak up some particle of fiction. When I would have to stop, or when I finished a particularly good book, I would get unexplainably sad; not because the book was upsetting, but because It was over. I know now that that applied to everything I did that I enjoyed.

            A woman’s voice came over the intercom, telling me that the library was closing in 10 minutes. Of course I ignored it, because I was a close friend to this particular librarian. However, when the 5-minute buzzer rang and an unfamiliar librarian saw that I wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon, she came over and told me to get up and get out. Well, not exactly; hers was more polite, but the gist of it was that. I obeyed, but not with out giving her a reproachful look in response. To make my point more clear, I walked in such a manner that each step made a loud slapping noise on the tile floors. Most people would call it stomping.

            I stomped out the front door and into the Louisiana heat, followed by the woman from the intercom, Malena. She and I made small talk about the books and the library for most of the walk home.

            “So what are you reading now?” she inquired, flipping her Scandinavian blonde hair over her shoulder.

            “ The Catcher in the Rye,” I replied.

            “Oh really? How do you like it?”

            “Well, I am a lot. He amuses me because he can’t get up the balls to call Jane, even though you can tell he definitely wants to.”

 This opened the door for all means of book babble, and we filled up the empty space with tales of everything we’d read and why we liked it or loathed it. Then, Johanna asked how I was doing in school so far, and that took up the rest of the time until we split up in our neighborhood. I continued home quietly, plugged into my iPod.

 

            “Hello?” I called when I walked in the door of my house. It was a restoration duplex in Uptown New Orleans, and we had knocked down the dividing wall to make it one big unit.

            “Hey!” my mother was in the kitchen, browning meat for lasagna, so I went in to help her with it. She wordlessly handed me the spoon, and moved on to prepare the noodles. “How was your day?” she asked, laying out noodles for the first layer. “Good,” I said, stirring the flesh, “All I did was read, so I’m happy. How about you?”

            “Eh, cleaning, and laundry; house stuff. I did go to the grocery, so you have Boca lasagna for tonight.” I was touched by the fact that she went out of her way to make sure I had my special food for tonight, and I told her so. “Oh, it wasn’t a problem.” she said, and turned around to smile at me.

            My older sister, Veronica, walked into the kitchen just then. “Mmm. It smells great!” she gushed, inhaling for emphasis. “Yeah, if you like cooked muscle,” I muttered darkly. Both my mom and Veronica turned a glare on me, and I went quietly back to stirring said muscle.

            Once everything was ready, we all sat down at our tiny bachelorette tablewith our assorted foods. The table was special, because it was wooden and solid with a sheaf of glass on top. To mark our places, we had all placed pictures of men we thought were attractive in out respective squares. My mother’s spot was filled with George Clooney and the main character of her favorite Soap Opera. Veronica’s was a sort of shrine to Chad Michael Murray, and pictures of the lead singers in my favorite bands marked mine. Mother would grill them because they were all sickly looking and wore glasses and sang like girls, but then I’d tell her to go back to listening to Morrissey if she didn’t like it.

            After about a minute of silent chewing, veronica started gabbing about who was going with who to the Homecoming dance next week. I of course, had no tolerance for ignorant schoolgirl crisis while I was chowing down on my eco-friendly lasagna, so I tuned her out. Instead, I chose to reflect on the overall phoniness of human existence. I realize now that even taking that viewpoint on something like that would make ME phony, but back then, well, I thought differently. I thought of how, in high school at least, we care so much about what other people think of us. We change ourselves to fit in, act differently to be liked, and in the long run, it doesn’t matter. We all die. The irrelevance of fretting over Homecoming when the United States very well could be underwater in a few years fueled the activist in me

            “Hey, mom?”

“Yes dear?”

“Why don’t we do something with our lives?” This seemed to catch her off guard, and she blinked at me before replying.

“What do you mean?” In the meantime, Veronica is still talking about some kid named Jeremy White, completely oblivious to the change in topic

“Well, since so many horrible things are happening to our society, why don’t we do something to stop It.” she waited for me to continue, and I did. “This weekend, there is a rally in Audubon Park for global warming. We’re all going to make posters and things -using only recycled paper of course- and then we’re all going to march down Saint Charles to Lee circle.” I looked hopefully at her with widened, eyeliner-laden eyes. She seemed very uncomfortable, judging by the way she shifted around in her chair. “When is it?” she asked quietly.

“From 12 to 3 o’clock.”

“Oh honey. I can’t.” her face was pained, and even Veronica had stopped talking now. “I met this man at work, and he asked me out to lunch with him for 1.”

“You what?” I was having trouble comprehending this. My mother was gorgeous, and I knew it. She had raven black hair and beautiful bone structure and, unlike so many other moms, hadn’t let herself go after having kids. But going out on a date? My mother didn’t date; she wouldn’t do that to us. Or at least, I didn’t think she would. My mom sighed, and began again.

“A man, named Ulysses Andreas asked me out to lunch at Commanders Palace on Saturday. I just had to take him up on it. He really is a nice man.” Now it was my turn to stare stupidly at her. But underneath the confusion, I knew that what my mother was saying was true. And that made me terribly angry.

“Yeah, mom. I’m sure he is.” I said, with biting sarcasm. My voice kept picking up volume as I went along, and they both got the look on their face that meant I should calm the hell down. I didn’t though. “Too bad I’ll never meet him, because I’m going away!” I threw my fork down, and it made a satisfying clatter on the glass of the table. I stormed off to my room, and my mom was calling after me, but I paid her no attention. I grabbed clothes, the bare necessities, and my book, and jumped out of my window into the cool, Louisiana night air. I half hoped that my mother would run out of the house and hit me for acting that way and drag me back inside, but she didn’t.

            I walked down the narrow streets, tripping because it was dark, and my eyes were clouded with tears. Looking back on it now, I realize that I had no reason to get as angry as I did. My parents had gotten divorced not too long ago, and I should have known that a single woman a pretty as my mother would have gotten an offer sooner or later. It was just that, the fact of the matter was, I loved my dad more than my mom, and still do. He shared my sense of humor, and my sense of everything else. He was my best friend, with one exception. My mother…well, you can see how she is. The divorce had been especially hard on me, because my mom got full custody of my sister and I and I hadn’t seen my father in two years. Being an introvert, I hadn’t made an effort to make friends with my mom, or anybody else for that matter. Walking down that lonely street in the dark, I was paying for it.

I whipped out my ever-present cell phone from my pants pocket and called Clara, my only good friend. “Clara?” I sniffled into the phone, hoping to sound as pitiful as possible.

“Yeah? What’s wrong?” Her voice was scratchy because of the reception, but as soon as I heard it, I felt better.

“I need a place to crash.”

One of my favorite things about Clara was that she never asked too many questions over the phone. In fact, she never liked talking on the phone much in the first place. As you can see, that came in handy, especially in situations like that. “Okay. Come on over.”

“Thanks.”

“No Problem. Bye”

I continued on the way to her house, treading quietly down the broken sidewalks; the tears still rolled, but silently. Clara was my rock, the one I could go to when things went wrong, much like they were then. She and I had known each other since 5^th grade, where a mutual love for horses brought us together. Since then, the horses had morphed into hard rock bands and Black clothes, but our friendship stayed strong.

Jeez. That sounds clichéd.

I walked up to the door of her shotgun single and knocked. As always, her mother opened the door. However, she didn’t expect me to have makeup streaming down my face. Rather than ask me questions about it, she just gave me a pitying look and called Clara to the door. Once we were safely in her room with Marilyn Manson blaring from her speakers, the tears started to come again. For a while, she just let me cry, having had to do this once before, when I had first gotten the news that my parents were getting divorced. When I stopped, she came to sit beside me on her bed. “What happened?”

“My mom is going on a date,” I said glumly, I didn’t look at her, because I knew she was giving me the look that meant I was retarded.

“It’s that horrible?” she asked skeptically.

“Well, to me it is.” I sighed. “I guess that…I just liked my father so much, I cant bear to have her replace him.” this was all I could stand to tell her on that subject. Thankfully, she changed it.

“So, I take it that you couldn’t just do the crying jag at home for some reason.” She knew me so well. I laughed dryly. “I made a scene.” Clara shook her head at me. “You always do.”

“Yeah, and it sucks. I’m sure mom’s angry.” 

“What did you do?”

“I yelled at her, then I threw my fork at her, and then I jumped out of my window and came over here.” I still couldn’t see her face, but I heard her snickering. “It’s not funny.” I whined.

“Yes it is,” She leaned her head on my shoulder to show me she didn’t mean anything by it, “In a sick, twisted way.” I sniffled and wiped my eyes before laughing along with her, though I didn’t feel the humor. I had just run out on my mom after telling her, basically, that I’d never like her boyfriend and didn’t want her to be happy. And she had bought me the special lasagna, too.

“Clara, what should I do?” I looked into her emerald eyes, finally, and she smiled.

“Cry for a little bit longer, listen to Manson, and bum a ride from my mom to school tomorrow.” I sniffled once more, and half laughed.

“Well, how about everything but the crying, and breakfast too?” 

“Great.” Clara gave me a brief hug, and pushed me off her bed. “You smell like the library, go take a shower.” she said this in the way one would say, ‘You smell like wet dog.’ We both laughed, and I grabbed my bag and headed into her bathroom.

“Wake up girls, we have to go!” Clara’s mom yelled from the kitchen. Since we had shared her double bed, I rolled over her to get out, waking her up in the process. “Ow,” she mumbled, and I poked her in the ribs. “Come on, get up. Your mom’s calling us.”

“Tell her to shut up,” she said into the pillow.

“Okay.” I paused to draw in a deep breath. “Miss Shelly! Clara wants you to-“

“Shut up, Gen!” Clara sat up straight and covered my mouth with her hand. I screamed, laughing at the same time.

“What’s she want?” miss shelly called.

“Nothing, mom.” Clara released me and playfully slapped me on the shoulder. I laughed and walked into her bathroom to get dressed.

Firstly, I pulled all the knots out of my long hair. It was not quite curly, but not straight either. As far as my complexion goes, brown is the primary color. Brown hair, Tanned skin that never burned; average. Except for my eyes. If you weren’t going to be descriptive, they would be blue. However, I was always a very detailed person. On the outside iris, the very edge is navy, almost black, and it creates a ring around the rest. The inside is cerulean, like the sky on a clear day; right around the pupil, the color becomes a washed out gray. This obviously wasn’t a color you would see every day, like brown, so I learned to get used to the double takes people would give me when we first met: it doesn’t bother me now. I pulled on my clothes- a tee shirt for my favorite band and a pair of old, beat up jeans- and turned to the sink. Once I had finished my morning routine, consisting mostly of caking on the eyeliner, I returned to the breakfast table, and Clara’s company. Also there to greet me was a lump of brownish-yellow food that I think now was supposed to be eggs. It had little confetti pieces of peppers and tomatoes scattered in it, adding to the mystery.

“What is it?” I asked Clara quietly. She looked at me and shrugged, and proceeded to dig in. I wrinkled my nose at her, and picked at the mess until she was finished stuffing her face.

“Well come on then,” she got up and poked my in the arm to get me moving, “you don’t want to be late now do you?” I just glowered at her: there was nothing more I would have liked than to miss as much school as possible. Considering the proximity of Miss Shelly, though, I couldn’t tell her this and was forced to march out of the house with my backpack in hand.

Once we were out of range, I groaned. “You know I hate school.” Clara gave me a devilish look and grinned. “Exactly. But it’ll do you good to go. Otherwise, you’ll have to go for another whole year, and I’d just do my time rather than get another sentence any day.” The vision of school with bars on the windows and barbed wire on the fences made me laugh, because that was exactly how it looked anyway.

Ironically enough, Clara and I went to the best school in one of the worst parts of town, at least, as far as art schools go. The bars were there for two reasons, to keep us in, and to keep the rather undesirable student body out. It didn’t necessarily work though, because they failed to lock the doors. There were plenty of kids who went there that didn’t even want a career in the arts, they just took advantage of the system. I can’t say that I don’t blame them. After all, it was the best school in town.

We caught the bus, considering the neighborhood, and arrived to the great establishment on time, unfortunately. Immediately, I felt the sick feeling in my stomach that meant I was in for it.

“Oh good, the freak’s back.” A high, girl voice sneered behind me. Because I was trying out this “good person” thing at the time, I ignored her. The Buzzard just kept picking though. “She hasn’t changed a bit, has she Jess? Still as odd as ever.” The Buzzard cackled to her friend, and I trembled with anger. “Such a pity. She could be pretty. Oh well.” The girl sighed and turned to walk away. I could feel Clara beside me, and I knew that she was worried about what I would do. Sadly, I was going to disappoint her. I whirled, “It’s a pity that air has been wasted on you, Serena.” Serena turned to stare at me with an incredulous look. “What kind of an insult is that?” She laughed, but I knew she was nervous. Serena wasn’t the kind of person you wouldn’t stand up to; she wasn’t used to this. “That’s the kind of insult people make when they’re about to beat the crap out of someone.” I glided towards her, lowering my voice so that when I got right up to her, no one else could hear what I was saying.

 She blanched, and our seconds, Clara and Jess, looked on nervously. By now, we had gathered a crowd. I realized that I was single handedly giving all the people I hated what they liked to see most: Somebody losing it. At this, I backed off; glaring at everybody whose gaze I met, daring him or her to do something, anything. My eyes helped a lot, because they are particularly unsettling when I’m angry. The crowd thinned until only Clara, Jess, Serena, and I were left. Serena made a big show of rolling her eyes at me, and then pulled Jess with her to class. I turned back to Clara, and the look on her face was very dissatisfied. I walked past her with my head down. “I don’t want to talk about It.” she followed me in silence, letting me think about my lack of self-control.

I prided my self on being a nonconformist, but I, the freak, picking a fight with the captain of the dance squad was terribly clichéd, if I do say so myself.  And the fact that I had been trying to get my temper under control really was the icing on the pity cake.

Author's Note

I Havent review this since last year, but what i saw of it was dissapointing. i can write better, but again, rewiews are welcome.

Reviews

[Heather Solaequi]

I only found a few errors, and mainly they were of not spelling out numbers. All numbers below one hundred should be spelled out.

Also, I suggest you go through and try to find out where there is too much information. The reader gets bored if there is too much information (an information dump, f you will) and we can get detracted from the story.

Also, a few well-placed descriptions would do wonders.

[C.L. Wilson]

uh uh
i'm not usually into just plain fiction to tell you the truth, always needed a little magic here and there but,
i think that this is will be a great story and i hope that you share this on our group page.

hope for more

[Cea Elyse]

Oh, I like this very much so far. The only problems I noticed were some capitalization errors (just names, nothing big - and since I personally hate to capitalize things, I really shouldn't criticize, haha). Other than that, this is a wonderful piece. I look forward to reading more.

[Bmm]

ok ok. You already know i think this is wonderful, but if you're not going to go with the original genre plan I'm going to suggest you take out the catcher in the rye talk @ the beginning. Holden's(that was his name right?) vocabulary drives me nuts.