Chapter Three
2002 - Homecoming
Chase
My head hit the pillow behind me with a thud and the opened notebook plopped on top of my face. I had been staring at the same page for the last ten minutes and nothing, no words were forming in my head. I tried to think back to Erica and the cute skirt she wore with her plain black shirt today. The way her white Converse looked topped it all off. I thought all I needed was to think about her, but the longer it was that I saw her every day, the more I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know how to.
When it came to her, writing all the words was one thing, speaking them aloud to her was something completely different. I knew I could talk to her about school, especially since we had a few classes together; anything more than that, and my brain froze up.
I glanced at the clock, the bright red number showing me the homecoming dance at school was just starting, and I wouldn’t be one of the people attending tonight. The pit of my stomach dropped thinking if Erica would be there tonight. I had thought about asking her, but every time I saw her I kept thinking of every possible reason that she would say no and that stopped me in my tracks.
It would be far worse to have Erica turn me down and actually hear her say the words that she didn’t want to go with me, than have to sit home alone on a Friday night. I picked the notebook up off my face and looked at it again.
Words.
Words.
Words.
I wondered how she would have looked in a homecoming dress. How it would hug her hips and the shine of her smile would outdo the sparkles that might have been on her dress. Would she have chosen glitter, rhinestones, or sequins?
“Chase! Dinner!” my mother shouted up to my room. I rolled over and ignored the call for food, because in that moment, the words were coming out.
“She stood there, a blinding light of love.” I scribbled onto the paper. A smile formed on my face and my fingers couldn’t write fast enough with the words that were coming to mind. “My heart hammered in my chest. Could she really be mine? Was she really mine? Or was it all in my head?”
I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs to my room, and I tried to write quickly the last line that came to mind.
“Or just all in my heart?”
The door to my room swung open and my father stomped into the room. I tossed the notebook away as fast as I could under my pillow, but I wasn’t quick enough. I had kept my writing a secret from my parents, because I wasn’t sure how they would react to it. George Ruthen had a purpose for me, and I wasn’t sure if that was what I wanted to do with my life. I hated watching the news and he thrived on it. Hated reality television, hated reading, hated anything that made him think. He liked facts, not fiction.
He grabbed for the notebook that landed on the edge of my bed, instead of where I wanted it to go.
“What’s this?” He picked it up and flipped through the pages.
“Nothing,” I stammered, worried about what he might say about it. His face scrunched, eyebrows knitting together, and then he looked at me. It was a look I had only seen a few times in my life, but I knew it well enough.
Disappointment.
“This a hobby?” His question was purposeful with each word spoken, enunciating the last word. Hobby. Like it couldn’t be anything else to me.
“Sure.” I shrugged my shoulder. If I didn’t admit it was something I loved to do, maybe he wouldn’t try to crush my hard work so soon.
Half of the notebook was completely filled with poems and the other half with ramblings from late night dreams waking me up from a dead sleep. I always had the notebook under my pillow and a pen on my nightstand, just in case.
“Good. We don’t need anything taking up your time. I want to start you on speech classes this coming summer, and for that I need you to focus on school. We don’t need you having to take summer classes because you are distracted.”
“I’m not distracted.” I tried to rebut, but he held his hand in the air, telling me that my input wasn’t needed right now. He tossed the notebook on the bed in front on me and then pointed to it.
“I don’t want to see that again. Save your words for when they matter. School debates, class papers, things that will get you farther in life.”
“Why couldn’t this get me there?” I dared to question my father.
His eyebrow quirked up and a smirk formed on his face, like he was happy that I was wanting to start this. That he was looking for this kind of fight, where I knew he would try to shove his politics onto me.
“I said dinner is ready!” my mother shouted again and my father looked toward the open door and shook his head. A defeated look crossed his face and for a fraction of a second I felt a victory, until the words came out of his mouth.
“You won’t ever need to form your own words, Chase. When you go into politics, you’ll have someone who writes everything down for you. You’ll need to keep your opinions to yourself, and do what the people need.”
