Sophomore Slump Or Comeback Of The Year?
Prologue: Because My Heart Ain't In Chicago
This. Sucks. Major. Eggs.
I hate it here. As much as I love cloud cover and temperatures below 90 degrees, I hate it here. It’s not the same. And it’s definitely not worth leaving the house to see.
I’ve been inside this house for two weeks straight, and it’s really bugging me, but there’s just nothing that really draws me to the outdoors. If I stay in my room, with the same posters and curtains and bedspread and desk I know and love, it’ll be just like Dallas. Even if the window is kind of in the wrong place—who cares?
Oh, who am I kidding?
If this was just like Dallas, I wouldn’t be locked up in my room. I wouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity because I’d lost all of my friends and just about everything else that defined my fifteen years of existence. I would be with said friends. I would still have the places that witnessed the making of many happy memories—the beautiful lake, with its surrounding parks; my best friend’s dad’s pizza place, with the mouth-watering scent of fresh bread and tomato, the afternoons spent studying over saucy slices; my school, even with the demented teachers.
All of that’s gone, though. I think I’m slowly coming to terms with that.
And yet…
If I stay in here, in this room, in my cavern of safety, I can delude myself into thinking that Mr. Moretti just took Sarah to Oklahoma and Wisconsin to visit family, and that my bestest buddy will be back in a couple of weeks, and everything will go back to normal. We can hang out again, and create inside jokes about everything, from ketchup packets to unicorns to General Stonewall Jackson. We’ll talk politics, and soccer, and music…Everything will be absolutely…peachy.
Except for the fact that it’s all pretend. Things won’t ever be the same.
And…
I start school in two weeks.
Unless my dad decides he no longer loves his hometown in the next week or so—fat chance, by the way; he’s always talked about Chicago with this glowing admiration in his voice—I’m screwed. Doomed to live in a house I can’t call home, to live as a shell because most meaningful things are back in Dallas, in that cozy two-bedroom house that has guarded me for most—if not all—of my life.
It’s gonna be a long year.
I hate it here. As much as I love cloud cover and temperatures below 90 degrees, I hate it here. It’s not the same. And it’s definitely not worth leaving the house to see.
I’ve been inside this house for two weeks straight, and it’s really bugging me, but there’s just nothing that really draws me to the outdoors. If I stay in my room, with the same posters and curtains and bedspread and desk I know and love, it’ll be just like Dallas. Even if the window is kind of in the wrong place—who cares?
Oh, who am I kidding?
If this was just like Dallas, I wouldn’t be locked up in my room. I wouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity because I’d lost all of my friends and just about everything else that defined my fifteen years of existence. I would be with said friends. I would still have the places that witnessed the making of many happy memories—the beautiful lake, with its surrounding parks; my best friend’s dad’s pizza place, with the mouth-watering scent of fresh bread and tomato, the afternoons spent studying over saucy slices; my school, even with the demented teachers.
All of that’s gone, though. I think I’m slowly coming to terms with that.
And yet…
If I stay in here, in this room, in my cavern of safety, I can delude myself into thinking that Mr. Moretti just took Sarah to Oklahoma and Wisconsin to visit family, and that my bestest buddy will be back in a couple of weeks, and everything will go back to normal. We can hang out again, and create inside jokes about everything, from ketchup packets to unicorns to General Stonewall Jackson. We’ll talk politics, and soccer, and music…Everything will be absolutely…peachy.
Except for the fact that it’s all pretend. Things won’t ever be the same.
And…
I start school in two weeks.
Unless my dad decides he no longer loves his hometown in the next week or so—fat chance, by the way; he’s always talked about Chicago with this glowing admiration in his voice—I’m screwed. Doomed to live in a house I can’t call home, to live as a shell because most meaningful things are back in Dallas, in that cozy two-bedroom house that has guarded me for most—if not all—of my life.
It’s gonna be a long year.
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Well, this is the first chapter of my first story. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.I've got four other chapters typed up so far; they're all lots longer, I promise. They'll be posted soon.
~Vivi