Status: Will update when I can
Eleven Confessions
Confession #5
Confession #5: Talking isn’t really my thing. My mouth has a habit of working before my brain, and sometimes, things that come out are completely wrong. But, then again, that is sometimes…
“Any ideas?” Tate asked, as he looked at me with those shiny, ocean water-like eyes.
“Well… it’s about the civil war, maybe…” I thought a moment. Our assignment was to make a visual aide that describes the “nation at its knees”. “Maybe we can have two America’s fighting against each other…”
“That’s kind of the whole idea…” he reminded me.
I laughed, “No, like, we take a map, divide the Union from the Confederacy, stick them on two separate sides of a poster board, have them point a gun at each other, and have a caption, “Boom! A nation brought to its knees.”
He cocked his head, mid-thought, “How creative!” And then, remembering Ms. Rye’s comment about my poem from that morning, said, “No! Sorry! Not one bit creative.” He laughed, making his own joke, “I’m impressed Skei! How very uncreative of you!”
I laughed, thinking about how good it felt to do something as simple as laugh at something as mindless as a joke, with a guy that was anything but simple and mindless…
But then, his face got serious, and he looked at me like there wasn’t hair in front of my face. Like he could truly see me. Into me. “You haven’t always been like this. Have you?”
I looked down, shaking my head, “No.”
“And?” He asked, as if it was truly possible that he knew just what it was that I needed to get out.
“McKenzie… she used to be my best friend. We… we did everything together.”
“But…” he urged.
“But then my dad died. Everything changed.” I swallowed back a sob, “He died down at the border. To Mexico… some drug dealer shot him.”
“And you miss him.” He said, matter-of-factly. In his eyes, I could see a pain that I couldn’t seem to understand. The idea of pain in those eyes hurt me. They were too beautiful… but almost vulnerable, like they needed someone to show their pain to.
“I do miss him. Every day. What about your parents. What are they like?”
He shrugged, looking down to hide his face, as his big dork glasses that were starting to seem more cute than dorky slid down his nose. “I live with my mom. My dad, I don’t know my dad.”
“Divorced?” I asked, trying to be cautious, but truly wanting to know and believing that he wanted to tell me. I was no stranger to pain. Surely he could believe that.
“I don’t know. He just… ran away…”
“Well, if my son wore glasses like that, I’d be out of there in no time.”
He turned, and glared at me, but I could see a hint of a smile playing on his lips. As he smiled, he blinked, his long, dark eye lashes framing his beautiful eyes.
He had a cute smile.
“Any ideas?” Tate asked, as he looked at me with those shiny, ocean water-like eyes.
“Well… it’s about the civil war, maybe…” I thought a moment. Our assignment was to make a visual aide that describes the “nation at its knees”. “Maybe we can have two America’s fighting against each other…”
“That’s kind of the whole idea…” he reminded me.
I laughed, “No, like, we take a map, divide the Union from the Confederacy, stick them on two separate sides of a poster board, have them point a gun at each other, and have a caption, “Boom! A nation brought to its knees.”
He cocked his head, mid-thought, “How creative!” And then, remembering Ms. Rye’s comment about my poem from that morning, said, “No! Sorry! Not one bit creative.” He laughed, making his own joke, “I’m impressed Skei! How very uncreative of you!”
I laughed, thinking about how good it felt to do something as simple as laugh at something as mindless as a joke, with a guy that was anything but simple and mindless…
But then, his face got serious, and he looked at me like there wasn’t hair in front of my face. Like he could truly see me. Into me. “You haven’t always been like this. Have you?”
I looked down, shaking my head, “No.”
“And?” He asked, as if it was truly possible that he knew just what it was that I needed to get out.
“McKenzie… she used to be my best friend. We… we did everything together.”
“But…” he urged.
“But then my dad died. Everything changed.” I swallowed back a sob, “He died down at the border. To Mexico… some drug dealer shot him.”
“And you miss him.” He said, matter-of-factly. In his eyes, I could see a pain that I couldn’t seem to understand. The idea of pain in those eyes hurt me. They were too beautiful… but almost vulnerable, like they needed someone to show their pain to.
“I do miss him. Every day. What about your parents. What are they like?”
He shrugged, looking down to hide his face, as his big dork glasses that were starting to seem more cute than dorky slid down his nose. “I live with my mom. My dad, I don’t know my dad.”
“Divorced?” I asked, trying to be cautious, but truly wanting to know and believing that he wanted to tell me. I was no stranger to pain. Surely he could believe that.
“I don’t know. He just… ran away…”
“Well, if my son wore glasses like that, I’d be out of there in no time.”
He turned, and glared at me, but I could see a hint of a smile playing on his lips. As he smiled, he blinked, his long, dark eye lashes framing his beautiful eyes.
He had a cute smile.