The Fear
California girls, we're unforgettable.
You know what the best thing about living in California is? Nothing. Constant threat of earthquakes, indecisive weather, and snobbish people––sounds like freaking paradise to me. Not everyone could pull off being a celebrity––hell, not everyone can pull off being a Californian––but it certainly wasn’t uncommon for someone to try.
I was born and raised in Los Angeles, on––well, on the less fashionable side, as Nick Carraway once said. I wasn’t a celebrity, and I didn’t aspire to be. The only thing I really liked about LA was that it didn’t get as cold as the northern half of California did, and that it was on the map––meaning it wouldn’t be much trouble to visit. Although, it wasn’t like anybody went out of their way to visit me anyway.
“Erica.” I blinked, looking in the direction of the voice. I met Jason’s lively eyes, observing how they greatly resembled my own. He nudged me, nodding towards our mom.
I looked at my mom, raising my eyebrows to signify that I was listening to whatever it was she had to say. “Nick hasn’t called in a while.”
That’s it? I found myself asking incredulously. “He’s in London, I told you that,” I said, annoyed with the fact that I had to repeat myself. “He’s going to be there for ten days.”
She sighed, not noticing that I didn’t want to be talking with her, “Must be nice.”
“It’s a job,” I reminded her. She always got upset when he called anyway; I didn’t know why she suddenly cared so much. “I think he’s flying back in a couple days.”
“When is he coming back to California?” Jason asked me.
I hadn’t seen him in over three months––I was curious, too. “I don’t know. He said over fall break, but let’s be realistic here.” Fall break was quickly approaching, and he hadn’t dropped any hints at the possibility of a visit. But, at the same time, three months didn’t seem to be a long enough separation.
“Well, I hope he comes back soon. Next time you talk to him, tell him I said hello,” she said. I wasn’t going to. My mom, no matter what she said, had something against all of my friends. What that was, however, was unknown. She had something against me, too, but that didn’t bother me.
I could hear the jingling of my dad’s car keys from down the hallway, making my shift my book bag from my lap to my shoulder in one easy movement. I looked at my dad in just enough time to see him turn his hat backwards, “Let’s get going.”
☊☋☊☋
I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to go to school in San Francisco; my second choice was Chicago–– somewhere far away from everyone I’d grown up with. I was good at painting––my favorite paintings, including some of my own, decorated my room. I was also decent at sketching, although I didn’t find that to be the occupant of my time. I was a good artist––there was no denying that––but it wasn’t unusual for me to lack inspiration. I’d thought about painting a scene from my own life, but I wouldn’t know where to start or what to cover. That isn’t an easy decision, you know.
The only thing that made me uneasy was the competition––As much as I loved a challenge, I was afraid of rejection. Why? Well, with rejection, there’s always that dwelling thought that, no matter how good your best is, someone will always be better.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Ellen remarked. I turned my head, watching as Austin made his way over to our table. The rest of our work group had been there since the beginning of the break, making quite a dent in our incomplete poster.
Austin sneered, taking a seat to my left. “Erica, did you draw these?” he asked, shuffling through three drawings of the presidents of the 1920’s––the topic of our poster.
I nodded, but Deegan spoke before I could get any words out. “Where were you?”
Deegan and Austin weren’t necessarily friends of mine––we were merely acquainted outside of the classroom. It reminded me of the last few scenes in Mean Girls, when the main characters are no longer in the same clique, but still associated. But, I digress.
I took a seat and twiddled my thumbs, unable to decide what to do, despite the fact that I was the group leader. My mind was like a beehive––constantly busy and attempting to organize itself. Nick was due back that night, around 9:00, the last I’d heard. In the ten days he’d been gone, he only contacted me once through a brief Twitter conversation. He wouldn’t be going to LA though; he moved to Texas about two years before, before we were as good of friends as we were now. It was funny how our friendship worked out. He said he’d call me when he got home, but I doubted it. It would be later in Dallas than it would be in Los Angeles, and he would have some serious jetlag. Not to mention, I’d learned not to believe the promises he made.
“Erica, should I just write this here?” Deegan asked. His pen depicted which text he was talking about.
I glanced down, nodding. “Yeah, with a black pen… if I still have the right one…”
Nick’s return to The States worried me––I felt as though it was easier to send him long and heartfelt text messages when I knew he wasn’t reading them and I didn’t expect a reply. I didn’t have to deal with falling asleep annoyed with him, or disappointed that he never called me. But, at the same time, I was going crazy without him, as expected. In the ten days he’d been gone, I’d been through more than I could handle alone.
I was born and raised in Los Angeles, on––well, on the less fashionable side, as Nick Carraway once said. I wasn’t a celebrity, and I didn’t aspire to be. The only thing I really liked about LA was that it didn’t get as cold as the northern half of California did, and that it was on the map––meaning it wouldn’t be much trouble to visit. Although, it wasn’t like anybody went out of their way to visit me anyway.
“Erica.” I blinked, looking in the direction of the voice. I met Jason’s lively eyes, observing how they greatly resembled my own. He nudged me, nodding towards our mom.
I looked at my mom, raising my eyebrows to signify that I was listening to whatever it was she had to say. “Nick hasn’t called in a while.”
That’s it? I found myself asking incredulously. “He’s in London, I told you that,” I said, annoyed with the fact that I had to repeat myself. “He’s going to be there for ten days.”
She sighed, not noticing that I didn’t want to be talking with her, “Must be nice.”
“It’s a job,” I reminded her. She always got upset when he called anyway; I didn’t know why she suddenly cared so much. “I think he’s flying back in a couple days.”
“When is he coming back to California?” Jason asked me.
I hadn’t seen him in over three months––I was curious, too. “I don’t know. He said over fall break, but let’s be realistic here.” Fall break was quickly approaching, and he hadn’t dropped any hints at the possibility of a visit. But, at the same time, three months didn’t seem to be a long enough separation.
“Well, I hope he comes back soon. Next time you talk to him, tell him I said hello,” she said. I wasn’t going to. My mom, no matter what she said, had something against all of my friends. What that was, however, was unknown. She had something against me, too, but that didn’t bother me.
I could hear the jingling of my dad’s car keys from down the hallway, making my shift my book bag from my lap to my shoulder in one easy movement. I looked at my dad in just enough time to see him turn his hat backwards, “Let’s get going.”
☊☋☊☋
I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to go to school in San Francisco; my second choice was Chicago–– somewhere far away from everyone I’d grown up with. I was good at painting––my favorite paintings, including some of my own, decorated my room. I was also decent at sketching, although I didn’t find that to be the occupant of my time. I was a good artist––there was no denying that––but it wasn’t unusual for me to lack inspiration. I’d thought about painting a scene from my own life, but I wouldn’t know where to start or what to cover. That isn’t an easy decision, you know.
The only thing that made me uneasy was the competition––As much as I loved a challenge, I was afraid of rejection. Why? Well, with rejection, there’s always that dwelling thought that, no matter how good your best is, someone will always be better.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Ellen remarked. I turned my head, watching as Austin made his way over to our table. The rest of our work group had been there since the beginning of the break, making quite a dent in our incomplete poster.
Austin sneered, taking a seat to my left. “Erica, did you draw these?” he asked, shuffling through three drawings of the presidents of the 1920’s––the topic of our poster.
I nodded, but Deegan spoke before I could get any words out. “Where were you?”
Deegan and Austin weren’t necessarily friends of mine––we were merely acquainted outside of the classroom. It reminded me of the last few scenes in Mean Girls, when the main characters are no longer in the same clique, but still associated. But, I digress.
I took a seat and twiddled my thumbs, unable to decide what to do, despite the fact that I was the group leader. My mind was like a beehive––constantly busy and attempting to organize itself. Nick was due back that night, around 9:00, the last I’d heard. In the ten days he’d been gone, he only contacted me once through a brief Twitter conversation. He wouldn’t be going to LA though; he moved to Texas about two years before, before we were as good of friends as we were now. It was funny how our friendship worked out. He said he’d call me when he got home, but I doubted it. It would be later in Dallas than it would be in Los Angeles, and he would have some serious jetlag. Not to mention, I’d learned not to believe the promises he made.
“Erica, should I just write this here?” Deegan asked. His pen depicted which text he was talking about.
I glanced down, nodding. “Yeah, with a black pen… if I still have the right one…”
Nick’s return to The States worried me––I felt as though it was easier to send him long and heartfelt text messages when I knew he wasn’t reading them and I didn’t expect a reply. I didn’t have to deal with falling asleep annoyed with him, or disappointed that he never called me. But, at the same time, I was going crazy without him, as expected. In the ten days he’d been gone, I’d been through more than I could handle alone.