The Joneses
1
This moment, the moment I have been so excited for, is bittersweet now. Instead of spending Christmas break with my family this year, I have to go to London. My school's speech team won nationals, and now we're going to the international competition. At first I was excited, but now I'm sort of dreading it. I rattle for warmth in my old, ratty hoodie, but it doesn't do a thing. How will I survive this trip if I can't even stay warm in Texas?
I feel a weight attach itself to my shoulders; I turn around.
All I see is a smiling boy, about a foot taller than me. My face scrunches up in confusion.
"You were shaking." He points to what I'm assuming is HIS hoodie on my back. I don't get it.
"Thanks..." I turn back around, and hand my plane ticket to a woman. "I don't really need it though." I give him back his hoodie, and board the plane.
***
I tuck my single, ugly dread lock behind my ear, and continue gnawing at my hangnails. Then I open up my carry on, filled with nothing but pills. I think they only let me bring them on because they were necessary, and validly mine or over the counter. Plus, should my luggage be lost, I can get new clothes. These little chemical wads are irreplaceable to me. I stare at my slew of little orange bottles. Xanax, Adderall, Lexapro, samples of Prozac, Effexor, an old Zoloft bottle, a bottle of IB profen, caffeine pills, and diet pills. I pop a Xanax to calm me down. My bag is closed and carefully tucked into the extra space in my seat. I lie my head back and feel someone sit down next to me - the smiling boy.
I take some time to really look at his smile. His teeth are crooked. Not in a gross way, more like a really cute, charismatic way. And I think I'd like to take a nap on his big, chapped lips. But I would also settle for just kissing them. Perhaps it was the Xanax talking, but I couldn't stop thinking about how much I'd like to bite his lips, and pull his thick, curly, brown hair, and touch every inch of skin on him...
"I'm Mickey." He says. I think he noticed me starting.
"Hope."
"It's lovely meeting you Hope." I hadn't noticed his accent before. It was distinctly British.
"Where are you from?" I ask, much more interested in him now than I had been at the gate. I try to get my smile to match his frequency, but it's useless.
"London. Yeah, I'm actually flying home. I went to Austin to play some gigs at South by Southwest last spring with a band I'm in, and we ended up staying an few extra days. We loved it so much that we came back last month to record with a producer we met there. The musicians in Austin really are brilliant."
"Wow, what do you play?" I ask - I'm intrigued.
"Guitar. And sometimes I sing if we can't find anyone else to do it. Yeah. I can hold my own on drums and bass, but I much prefer guitar." He squints his eyes and sort of stares off, like he's really thinking hard. He nods a little. "Do you play at all?"
I laugh.
"I attempt to. I can play a few acoustic songs, and the stuff I write, but that's about it." I say.
"You write?" He sounds surprised.
"A little. Not very well. Maybe I could show you some of my stuff sometime." I try my best to smile big, but I'd much rather be exploring the depths of his jeans.
"I'd like that" he smiles. "So why are you on your way to London?"
"Oh. It's this thing for school. For the speech team. We do like, skits and stuff, but only the people who are really good are actually going to compete. The rest of us are just coming to be 'supportive' I guess. I actually don't have to do shit." I laughed again, only because I'm so taken aback by his interest in me. Is he only talking to me because he feels like he has to?
"That's brilliant! I'm sure you ought to be good enough to compete though. You're coming off as quite creative, and you have those lovely eyes actresses have."
I almost choke on the water I had taken a sip of. Ha! Me? Creative? Lovely? It's pure bullshit. He must be some sort of compulsive liar, or maybe he wants to get in my pants. The latter I'm fine with, but otherwise I'm turned off.
"Sureeee." I say sarcastically.
"No really," he laughs, "I would love to just watch you for an hour or so. Up on a stage! With all those lights and such, focused just on you! Yeah, that'd be nice."
"What a line." I laugh, and he laughs too. There's some sort of brilliant tension, or connection between us. I don't know what it is, but it feels so nice. And although I thought it was a lame line, I'd like to watch him up on some pedestal, all day.
"And by the way, the skits are only about ten minutes long."
"Well then I guess I'll just have to watch you some other time. Out of curiosity, where are you staying?"
"I don't know. Some chain hotel, by the performing arts center downtown. Wherever they tell me to go, I suppose."
"Really? Well that's perfect! My mate and I are living in a flat in the area. You'll have to call me, so we can get together again. I really hope today won't be the last time I see you, Hope."
It would definitely not be the last time we saw each other.
I feel a weight attach itself to my shoulders; I turn around.
All I see is a smiling boy, about a foot taller than me. My face scrunches up in confusion.
"You were shaking." He points to what I'm assuming is HIS hoodie on my back. I don't get it.
"Thanks..." I turn back around, and hand my plane ticket to a woman. "I don't really need it though." I give him back his hoodie, and board the plane.
***
I tuck my single, ugly dread lock behind my ear, and continue gnawing at my hangnails. Then I open up my carry on, filled with nothing but pills. I think they only let me bring them on because they were necessary, and validly mine or over the counter. Plus, should my luggage be lost, I can get new clothes. These little chemical wads are irreplaceable to me. I stare at my slew of little orange bottles. Xanax, Adderall, Lexapro, samples of Prozac, Effexor, an old Zoloft bottle, a bottle of IB profen, caffeine pills, and diet pills. I pop a Xanax to calm me down. My bag is closed and carefully tucked into the extra space in my seat. I lie my head back and feel someone sit down next to me - the smiling boy.
I take some time to really look at his smile. His teeth are crooked. Not in a gross way, more like a really cute, charismatic way. And I think I'd like to take a nap on his big, chapped lips. But I would also settle for just kissing them. Perhaps it was the Xanax talking, but I couldn't stop thinking about how much I'd like to bite his lips, and pull his thick, curly, brown hair, and touch every inch of skin on him...
"I'm Mickey." He says. I think he noticed me starting.
"Hope."
"It's lovely meeting you Hope." I hadn't noticed his accent before. It was distinctly British.
"Where are you from?" I ask, much more interested in him now than I had been at the gate. I try to get my smile to match his frequency, but it's useless.
"London. Yeah, I'm actually flying home. I went to Austin to play some gigs at South by Southwest last spring with a band I'm in, and we ended up staying an few extra days. We loved it so much that we came back last month to record with a producer we met there. The musicians in Austin really are brilliant."
"Wow, what do you play?" I ask - I'm intrigued.
"Guitar. And sometimes I sing if we can't find anyone else to do it. Yeah. I can hold my own on drums and bass, but I much prefer guitar." He squints his eyes and sort of stares off, like he's really thinking hard. He nods a little. "Do you play at all?"
I laugh.
"I attempt to. I can play a few acoustic songs, and the stuff I write, but that's about it." I say.
"You write?" He sounds surprised.
"A little. Not very well. Maybe I could show you some of my stuff sometime." I try my best to smile big, but I'd much rather be exploring the depths of his jeans.
"I'd like that" he smiles. "So why are you on your way to London?"
"Oh. It's this thing for school. For the speech team. We do like, skits and stuff, but only the people who are really good are actually going to compete. The rest of us are just coming to be 'supportive' I guess. I actually don't have to do shit." I laughed again, only because I'm so taken aback by his interest in me. Is he only talking to me because he feels like he has to?
"That's brilliant! I'm sure you ought to be good enough to compete though. You're coming off as quite creative, and you have those lovely eyes actresses have."
I almost choke on the water I had taken a sip of. Ha! Me? Creative? Lovely? It's pure bullshit. He must be some sort of compulsive liar, or maybe he wants to get in my pants. The latter I'm fine with, but otherwise I'm turned off.
"Sureeee." I say sarcastically.
"No really," he laughs, "I would love to just watch you for an hour or so. Up on a stage! With all those lights and such, focused just on you! Yeah, that'd be nice."
"What a line." I laugh, and he laughs too. There's some sort of brilliant tension, or connection between us. I don't know what it is, but it feels so nice. And although I thought it was a lame line, I'd like to watch him up on some pedestal, all day.
"And by the way, the skits are only about ten minutes long."
"Well then I guess I'll just have to watch you some other time. Out of curiosity, where are you staying?"
"I don't know. Some chain hotel, by the performing arts center downtown. Wherever they tell me to go, I suppose."
"Really? Well that's perfect! My mate and I are living in a flat in the area. You'll have to call me, so we can get together again. I really hope today won't be the last time I see you, Hope."
It would definitely not be the last time we saw each other.