A Flashing of Eyes
Day
Our sunrise beach visits become frequent, an even pulse in a colorful wash of days. Sometimes, we go before school, racing our bikes there and back, a thermos of hot chocolate sloshing in the basket on Skye’s bike. We fly, sliding into our desks as the last bell rings. On the weekends, we sit for hours, listening to the waves complement the music of the guitar, Skye’s skillful fingers strumming and mine clumsily brushing the strings. Our voices rise and fall with the tide.
*******
Second period is over. Skye and I push through the herd of students filling the hall to its brim. I no longer walk with my rock-like shoulders and hanging head. Instead, I walk like Skye, like queen. I raise my colorless eyes to meet their mud-puddle eyes and feel the rhythm of my feet, strong against the ground, steady, solid, and alive. Skye’s sea glass blue eyes weave us a shelter. No one dares stare.
*******
We sit in my white room after school, letting the autumn sun fall through the shutters and form pinwheels of light on the smooth wood. I am sitting at the corner of the white carpet, plucking out chords on Skye’s guitar, whispering their names in my head so I don’t forget. C, F, G, C, Am, F, G seven, C. They form a steady pattern, bleeding into each other, a moment of tension followed by a beautiful resolution. The dissonance hangs in the air long after the progressions are finished, shadows in the quiet room.
Skye sits under the window, her over-sized sweatshirt crunched up beneath her small body. She is scribbling away on a piece of paper; her movements darting and graceful like a dragonfly. Her eyes flash with mischievous intensity every now and then. I am blinded by blue flame for a split second. All I hear is her scratching pen, then my vision returns and she is sitting there, her hand flying, mumbling and humming to herself.
I set the guitar down on its wooden side, the strings clanging against the hollow wood. In two comic strides, I crawl over to Skye. She doesn’t notice, bending over her precious paper. “Whatcha working on?” I ask casually, flipping a strand of her hair between my fingers. I catch a glimpse of the bodies of notes in their black-barred cages… then they’re gone. Skye slams the page down into the floor, squashing a solitary fly. “Nothing,” she says too quickly. Her voice has and edge I have never heard before, defeated and withdrawn.
Silence.
Sunlight filters through colonies of dust in the air, reflecting off my shiny white walls, my white bed, my white carpet, the glossy wooden floor. The room suddenly seems so small, so suffocating, so plain. As if reading my thoughts, Skye’s mouth folds into its familiar bent-up smile. “Wait!” she commands, “I have an idea.” Skye’s razor-edge tone and our moment of drawn out silence are gone, dissolved into the gentle afternoon light. I groan and laugh, little peals of little silver bells in the lazy air.
*******
Second period is over. Skye and I push through the herd of students filling the hall to its brim. I no longer walk with my rock-like shoulders and hanging head. Instead, I walk like Skye, like queen. I raise my colorless eyes to meet their mud-puddle eyes and feel the rhythm of my feet, strong against the ground, steady, solid, and alive. Skye’s sea glass blue eyes weave us a shelter. No one dares stare.
*******
We sit in my white room after school, letting the autumn sun fall through the shutters and form pinwheels of light on the smooth wood. I am sitting at the corner of the white carpet, plucking out chords on Skye’s guitar, whispering their names in my head so I don’t forget. C, F, G, C, Am, F, G seven, C. They form a steady pattern, bleeding into each other, a moment of tension followed by a beautiful resolution. The dissonance hangs in the air long after the progressions are finished, shadows in the quiet room.
Skye sits under the window, her over-sized sweatshirt crunched up beneath her small body. She is scribbling away on a piece of paper; her movements darting and graceful like a dragonfly. Her eyes flash with mischievous intensity every now and then. I am blinded by blue flame for a split second. All I hear is her scratching pen, then my vision returns and she is sitting there, her hand flying, mumbling and humming to herself.
I set the guitar down on its wooden side, the strings clanging against the hollow wood. In two comic strides, I crawl over to Skye. She doesn’t notice, bending over her precious paper. “Whatcha working on?” I ask casually, flipping a strand of her hair between my fingers. I catch a glimpse of the bodies of notes in their black-barred cages… then they’re gone. Skye slams the page down into the floor, squashing a solitary fly. “Nothing,” she says too quickly. Her voice has and edge I have never heard before, defeated and withdrawn.
Silence.
Sunlight filters through colonies of dust in the air, reflecting off my shiny white walls, my white bed, my white carpet, the glossy wooden floor. The room suddenly seems so small, so suffocating, so plain. As if reading my thoughts, Skye’s mouth folds into its familiar bent-up smile. “Wait!” she commands, “I have an idea.” Skye’s razor-edge tone and our moment of drawn out silence are gone, dissolved into the gentle afternoon light. I groan and laugh, little peals of little silver bells in the lazy air.