Lizzy in the Sky with Diamonds

for my Fiction class all rights reserved

     Rain threatened that particular  afternoon—the clouds were pregnant orange in the three o’clock gleam of the half-hidden sun. It was weather like that that I can not stand, when the anticipation of precipitation increases at such a breakneck pace throughout the day that by late afternoon the weight is unbearable. Simply unbearable.
     When I got home that day, sweaty and aching from the long day at school and the fight through the humidity walking home, they had already invaded. They fill our small townhouse with their intellectual prowess, my sister’s friends do, cramming our tiny kitchen with intellectual this and academic that and the cheerful springy bounce of Pop Tarts from the toaster. They bounce ideas off one another, never ceasing in their chatter. Bounce bounce bounce, chat chat chat. They find themselves so deliriously collegiate! They become lightheaded and giddy whenever another novel idea leaps out of their precious heads, and are like toddlers, so very easily pleased by their own brilliance.
     I walked into the kitchen and moved one of their weathered leather messenger bags from the only otherwise unoccupied chair. That’s the downside to living in a college town: while one reaps the benefits of bookstores aplenty and cozy coffee shops, one also has to deal with one’s sister treating one’s house like a dorm common room. She doesn’t live at home, but does come to rape the contents of the pantry at least twice a week. And they all tag along, the eclectic, obnoxious lot of them.
     The characters vary on occasion, but for the most part, she brings home the same general crowd—the fervent socialist from small-town America, the bright-eyed and eager Jewish boy, the young, hip, Che-loving urbanite with a Viva la Revolución tee-shirt, the unexpectedly intelligent jock. Though I can stand them being in the kitchen for small amounts of time, I find that my head begins to throb after three or four, especially when I try to study and instead find my ears buzzing and temples throbbing from their house-filling, boisterous chatter.
      This particular day was no exception. I had a calculus test in the morning, something I could have easily asked one of them for help with. However, in addition to being Lydia’s (dumb) kid sister, I had lately warranted a reputation among my sister’s friends for being too proud for my own good, and even somewhat stuck-up because I don’t speak to them much. So when I went into the kitchen to grab orange juice, I came with a stern determination to not say a single word.
     “I went through a Rwanda phase, too!”
     “I had a Cuba phase. It’s kind’ve not done yet.  And I had a Palestinian phase, but that proved to be somewhat detrimental to my relationship with Ben.” This elicited giggles, for though the urbanite’s long-time boyfriend was the spiritual stoner type, he was an ardent Zionist. Her shirt read “I ♥ CHE” today. It looked like it had been made for fifty cents in a sweatshop in Indonesia before being shipped to Urban Outfitters. What Che would think of that, I have no idea, but I enjoyed the irony all the same.
      “As it should have been!” This proclimation came from the Jewish boy. He was the only one among them who remembered that I wrote and that I had chosen to apply to only small, out-of-state liberal arts schools. A “pity”, he called my distaste for my sister’s prestigious university. A “crying shame” that I’d be so far away from home… though sometimes I like to pretend he meant “so far away from me”.
      I suppose I can (blushingly) admit that his bright blue eyes never failed to make my heart beat at an unthinkable speed and render my knees like runny Jello left out in the sun for too long. I could feel those dazzling eyes following me as I plunked my stuff down in the noisy kitchen and made my way to the refrigerator. His skin was lion’s hide tawny from his summer spent in Israel. Like a mint so strong it makes your eyes water, his eyes are too arctic blue in the brown of his face to bear, and so usually I ignore him. But then he spoke to me.
     “What do you think, Lizzy?” His voice was almost lost among the kitchen labyrinth of energetic cries (“We’re getting a sex keg this weekend!” and “Oh, that’s going to be a disaster!”) but through the bustle of shouting voices in the crowded kitchen half muffled by the cold of my head in the refrigerator, I heard him. I cocked my head to the side and pretended I hadn’t (to avoid stammering like I did whenever I spoke with him), but he motioned for me to come over to him and I did, faintly hearing the orange juice slosh in its carton as my hand shook. 
    “Sorry? Didn’t catch that.”
    “What do you think?” he repeated, his bright eyes piercing me through.
     Jello knees. Jello knees. Jello knees.
     I forced myself to ignore the Jello knees, because here he was, a gorgeous friend of my sister’s, actually asking me what I thought! It was an opportunity that, I realized when the rest of the conversation faded around us, would drive me crazy if I passed it up.
    “I think you guys are full of s**t,” I said quietly, and left with the (by now thoroughly carbonated) orange juice still in shaking hand.
   I had a very quiet afternoon after that, one that became especially peaceful when the clouds broke and it began to rain.

Author's Note

Written for my fiction class at Brown