“Dude, isn't she with Zane?”Zane, I fucking hate that guy. He's the captain of practically every sports team we have at this school. His mom must blow everyone in the head of the athletics department because every coach thinks he's some kind of celebrity.
“Nah, man. They broke up. I mean, I think they did…”Candi and Zane were the most toxic couple in our school. The way they were on and off again was enough to make your head spin. I never understood why she always went back to that cheating asshole. He treats her like absolute garbage.
“Yeah, but for how long?”
“Good point.” I sigh before taking a long drink from my can of Surge and set it back down on his wooden nightstand next to his bed.
“I mean, you do you, but I wouldn't get your hopes up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Girls like Candi don't like guys like us. They're popular and conform to everyone around them. They want to be like all the people they see on TV and have no sense of originality in their blue and red pom poms.”
“I don't know. She seems like… I don't know… different.”You didn't see the way she looked at me today.
“Hey man, if you like her, go for it. Just don't be surprised when she rejects you because your pink and black mohawk clashes with her white Abercrombie sweater. Or when she decides to go back to that fuck ass Zane.” He shrugs as he grabs a pizza roll and pops it into his mouth.
“Yeah, forget I asked… fuck!” I watch my character on my side of the split screen miss his kickflip.
“Dude, if you want to do a kickflip, you have to do an ollie first. Then you have to push left and square at the same time… like this. Fuck yeah! I landed it.”
“Nice.”
After a couple more hours of junk food and video games, I pack my bass and my amp in the back seat of my gold Honda and drive the short five minutes it takes to get to my house from Rayne's. Large snowflakes fall hard on my windshield and stick to the wipers with each loud swipe. I count the few street lamps I pass until I arrive at my house.Ten.Each one casts light on the falling snow. My stomach turns upside down the closer I inch towards my home.
The tread of my tires slides onto the slick driveway of my ranch-style three-bedroom house. Everything inside looks dark, aside from the living room illuminated by the TV. The sigh I let out is routine at this point.I hate it here.
“It's late.” My mother slurs, still holding on to the stem of her crystal wine glass. Smoke from her cigarette travels up to her lips, smeared with dark lipstick.
“It's Friday. I had practice.” My case thuds on the hard floor in front of the storm door. Watching the way her soul nearly leaves her body makes me laugh quietly to myself. She sits up in a panic as it slams shut. Smudged mascara imitates the black coloring from the raccoons in our backyard, and long, corded strands ofher mahogany hair stick to her wet cheeks.She's been crying again, and I don't see any sign of my dad.
“Y-you can't be out dr-driving so late when it's snowing. Y-you could get in a wreck.” Her speech trails off as she sets her glass down on the wooden coffee table. Her skinny body soon follows as she slumps onto the couch.
“It's fine. I was at Rayne's house. He lives in the same neighborhood.”
She goes silent. No motherly rebuttal, and she's already passing out with her head leaning on the red suede headrest. Her waif-like arms are tucked in her body as she lies in somewhat of a fetal position.
“Night, mom.” Her soft snores grow louder under her favorite white throw I threw on top of her slender figure.
My mother doesn't stir when I take the glass to the kitchen and empty the red wine into our full sink. She'll never realize that she didn't drink the remainder of the bottle when I pour the rest of its contents down the drain. Her memories will just be dark, bits and pieces of forgetful thoughts of her son snuffing out her lit smokes and getting rid of her old cigarette butts in her clear ashtray.Another Friday night of mother and son bonding.
The night sky looks almost menacing when I peer out of my kitchen window. Hot, soapy suds cover my hands in a sink full of dirty dishes. Images from today flood my mind as I scrub the stubborn leftover spaghetti still stuck on our white porcelain plates.
“I don't think we've met before…”No, not really, but I've been taking glimpses of you since I noticed you in Mrs. Lyle’s class on the first day of school in the ninth grade.
“Nice to officially meet you, Andrew.”Something about the way she said my name has my hair standing on end. I want to talk to her more.I need to.Her voice is like a song I can't get out of my head.
I replay her smile in my mind, and I memorize the way the corners of her mouth move into her blushing cheeks. I wonder what they would feel like on mine. How would her lip gloss taste after she kissed me, or when I ran my tongue over her sensitive skin?Stop, Andrew. You sound like a fucking creep. You're lucky she talked to you at all. She would never kiss a guy like you.
I shake away the fantasy as the hot water washes away the soapy suds from my forearms. One by one, I dry each dish and piece of silverware, still thinking of the melody of her saying my name.“Nice to meet you, too, Andrew.”Her imaginary voice fades with the sound of the dirty dish water going down the drain.
My bedroom is in the back of the house. The onyx paint covering the walls makes it dim even with the overhead light on. I've pinned and taped posters of old horror movies and flyers from past gigs and bands I continuously play on my iPod in random spots above my full-sized bed. My unmade charcoal grey bedding catches my backpack as it falls off my shoulder. It sits up, open, while tossing my boots into my closet. Now that I'm home with nothing to do, my computer calls my name.
Adrenaline buzzes under my skin as I sit in front of my computer in my bedroom. The bright light from my monitor hits my face, spotlighting me in my dark room. Like a fucking lurker, I scroll through my MySpace feed and search for Candi’s profile. I bounce my knee anxiously as I type her name into the search bar.Candi Hart.
I tried my best at avoiding adding her to my Friends List years ago, back when she caught my eye in class. To put it bluntly, I don't do well with rejection, and let's be honest, I'm not the type of guy she goes for.Or at least that's what I thought before today in history class.
I've always known she had no idea who I was, but a part of me hoped she would look my way, just once. Since then, I'd occasionally stalk her public page as if it would tell me anything about her life. My heart beats like a drum in my chest with every new picture she adds to her profile. Little does she know, I don't need MySpace to tell me what I already know.
