Woodberry Avenue is a narrow street, lined with clusters of tall buildings made out of darkened brick. It is on the outskirts of the city and is a slight walk to the dirty river that divides the city into two.
Her room is on the fourth floor of number 42. Across a narrow black street, there's another building, built out of the same dingy red bricks. From her window, she can see a solitary street lamp lighting up the narrow almost-alley and the small, sad looking trees that line it.
The view is better during the day, when the brilliant sun streams through her window and the bright blue sky is visible above the gloomy buildings, not a cloud present to mar it. Those perfect, bright days are few and far between, bursting into existence after long stretches of cloud cover and cold. But when they do happen, they are more precious.
At night, the world narrows down to her small room and the street, heavily trodden by far from sober teenagers loudly talking, life flowing through their veins, their future no matter of concern, at least for the night. As they flow in and out of the club, she sits at her desk and whiles away her time. She should be out there with them, drinking a beer (although she prefers wine) and smoking a blunt. She isn't that much older than them; only plagued by infinitely more imaginary responsibilities.
The clock chimes, marking the passage of the hour and she can't take it anymore. Going out to a party isn't really an option –working hung-over is awful – so she escapes to the only place that she can: the river.
She runs on the path by the bank of the muddy river, feet pounding the black asphalt and sweat pouring off of her. She ignores the couples sneaking a quickie in the wooded scrub; she is vaguely amused by the way smoking teens withdraw like birds startled by her presence. She runs, leaving the smell of cigarettes and marijuana behind her, runs until her calves ache and her breathing is erratic, until she is too worn to feel any stress and a sense of peace blooms in her chest and she collapses on the dewy grass underneath the distant stars.
It feels strangely like freedom.
When Scott gets home from school, the first thing he does is check the apartment mail box. It's unusually full today and he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, hard enough to explode, as he opens it.
All tiny envelopes. He rips them open and stares at the contents in dismay, before stuffing them into his backpack. He's shocked and all he knows is that he most certainly does not want to tell his parents. Yet, anyway.
He blindly stumbles out of the apartment complex and lets his feet take him someplace, any place, just away. Somehow, they guide him to the dingy part of town close by the river, the part of town that he is familiar with even though he doesn't frequent it too often.
He has a friend who lives on the third floor of 42 Woodberry Avenue. Eric is a sophomore at the local university and they had met, eventually became friends, through the club.
Today was the end of the longest week of his life. He had spent months on tenterhooks, waiting to hear back from colleges. It had been disappointing and he can't face his friends or family– they had high hopes and he knows that he let them down.
Eric doesn't even ask. Just invites him in, hands him a Coke, and listens. He doesn't offer any of the meaningless platitudes such as "white kids don't get scholarships" or repeat the false sympathy that the admissions committees send out. These acceptances and denials are a judgment of his life, no matter what some lying spineless dick tries to sell.
Somehow, Scott had figured that his life would have added up to more than a half-ride to some decent – but not great – school.
But college doesn't matter now, because Eric is dragging him out the door and down to the club.
The dim lights and pounding music wear down on his already tattered psyche and instead of relaxing him, the alcohol is making him feel warm – too warm for the close press of so many writhing bodies – so he says fuck it and stumbles up the stairs and outside, his brown hair darkened by sweat, and leaves Eric in the capable hands of some cute chick.
His trusty feet guide him back to his own apartment, even if the going is slightly impaired now. He carefully makes his way up the stairs and opens the door, trying not to let it creak too much. His efforts are wasted because his parents stayed up, waiting for him.
Scott can see the disappointment on their faces at seeing their son drunk and he suddenly breaks down and bawls, something he hasn't done since he was ten.
In between the hiccuped bits of the story, he vaguely feels his dad rubbing his back and his mom smoothing his hair, murmuring, "There, there sweetie, it'll be alright."
For the moment, swaddled safely in his mother's arms, he believes her.
In an apartment on the other side of the river, Cara sits on her bed with her friend Mimi and they talk. They haven't really had time to do this because of school and work, but it's May and finals are over, so they catch up.
"How's the book going?" Mimi asks, half mockingly, half sincere.
Cara shrugs. "I don't know. I just can't seem to get anything good written. Maybe I should just give up on it."
"You're an interning at the Times so clearly you can write stuff. How hard can a story be? Just plot it out and write it."
Winding a strand of brown hair around her finger, Cara stares off into space. Maybe she will give up. She can try a couple more times and then if they don't work out, well, she can always get an actual job.
Even though outlines have never worked out for her, she tells Mimi that she will take her advice and switches the topic clumsily.
"Did Tess get into any good colleges?"
Mimi's lips thin. "You know her heart was set on Yale, right?"
Cara nods. Mimi's sister was a smart kid and they all thought that she would have been accepted.
"Yeah, well they rejected her."
"No way!" Cara exclaims. "I thought for sure that she was going to get in!"
"Mmhmm. Me too. It's such bullshit. She was good enough to get into Chicago, why not Yale."
"Chicago's a good school."
"She was absolutely heartbroken about it. You want to know what I think?" Mimi pauses, not really expecting an answer, "I think it's because she isn't the leadership type."
"So?"
"I mean that schools look for applicants that are leaders because those leaders are going to be the ones with power in another generation and with power comes money. Can't have the universities exhausting their supply of donors, now can we?"
"You're so cynical about these things, Mimi. I'm sure that everything will work out for Tess. It worked out well enough for us."
Her friend sighs. "I guess you're right, but I really wanted her to get in."
"I know."
"It just sickens me sometimes. I can't wait to get out of here."
Cara smiles, "Excited for Scotland?"
"Yes! All those guys with freakin' adorable accents!"
"I'll confess that I'm a tiny bit jealous…"
Mimi's eyebrows rise. "Only a tiny bit?" she baits Cara.
Cara throws a pillow at her and together they fight and then talk well into the night until Mimi gets up and yawns. "I'm going to go home. G'night Cara."
She echoes it. "Night."
Mimi leaves and Cara hops into her bed. She opens her laptop and settles comfortably on the pillows. For the first time in a while, she feels the consuming urge to write something. As her fingers hover over the keyboard, Cara thinks about Mimi and Tess. The characters begin to take form: their appearances, their background, their hopes and dreams all swirl like a maelstrom inside of her head.
She wants to write, and this time, she isn't going to think about writing some epic story. She'll stick to people and their hopes and thoughts, all so much more real than anything else in her opinion. For inspiration, she looks across the river, the river that divides the city in two, and takes in the derelict dark brick buildings, so much more forbidding in the dark and begins to type: Woodberry Avenue is a narrow street, lined with clusters of tall buildings made out of darkened brick…
The story will work out.
A/N: Thank you for reading! This is my first piece of original (as original as one can get, considering that there's nothing new under the sun) fiction. As such, criticism of all shapes and sizes is welcome :)