I headed out of my seventh hour class when my phone, Ebeneezer, went off. I'd like to say the ringtone's some sweet downloaded tune (maybe even pirated off of some site, since I like to live on the edge) but it definitely is not. It's like some funky xylophone that's simultaneously trying to be Jamaican and drown itself. I'd change it, but I figure it suits Ebeneezer's personality quite nicely.
(I suitably ignored Steve's irritating little dance to Ebeneezer's theme song, taking long strides away from the vicinity of The Trout and all the weirdness associated with that class)
Like the chill cat I am I whip out the ole phone and click open the new text message in one fluid motion. Sometimes I just feel like a friggin' boss.
From, Bleek, of course: "Can't walk home. Science club." –In case you wondered, my man doesn't like the whole Lts Txt Lyk Dis thing some of my peers seem to fancy.
Here's the thing: though the whole flamingly proud individual thing is my claim to fame, I don't like walking by myself. It's like Brenda with dairy products: something just doesn't sit right in the stomach.
Of course, I resort to texting the only other legitimate tie I have to my peers: Leah.
"Banana Boat?" I dial confidently with my right thumb. Like a boss.
Banana Boat is an awkwardly titled store that is polluted with probably already-opened food and soda, ice cream of all the different flavors under the sun, and—who could forget—orgasmic banana splits for which the store is so lovingly named after.
Oh yeah, and everything's cheap. Dirt cheap. So Leah and I like to go there.
With no Bleek, what else am I going to do with my downtime? I'm not feeling slushy-worthy at the moment. Banana Boat's definitely the next-best option.
"So, what's your schedule like?" I drawl out to Leah, sitting across from me in a sticky store booth, stabbing the banana split between us with a plastic spoon.
Her eyes lit up like Miley Cyrus' must have upon realizing she could be a whore and make Disney millions. Best of both worlds.
"Okay, so I have Mr. Carther, and he…" her words gushed out and she blushed with a fangirl kind of fervor. Almost as bad as when she found out that Justin Beaver kid had come out with a perfume line—"It's like he made it for me, Juno. You don't even understand!"
I wince internally. And externally.
"Leah, what is it with you and the archaic, homely men of the administration?" I sighed. Girl will never learn.
Leah scoffed, mouth stuffed with banana and nuts. "You just have to hear him talk. You haven't had him, dude. He will blow your mind."
"Psh. Sure. Just so long as you don't start blowing his head."
"Shut up!" She tried to hit me from across the table, but I dodged it with a ninja-like agility.
"Anyway…since I can't talk about the friggin' love of my life…how's the ole semester for you? June-bug?"
I rolled my eyes and my face flushed due to the fact Steve's stupid dance popped up in my mind, immediately. Fuck face.
"Oh! Okay, dude—I have The fucking Trout Lady in last hour."
"Oh my Gaga. Are you kidding me?" Leah's eyes sparkled. It felt like we were sharing a weird secret.
"No…the whole place reeks of fish. Friggin' fish hatchery in there. And…" my stomach fluttered with a strange flash of nerves "to top it all off, I sit right next to Steve Rendazo."
"Oooh. That's rough." Leah wasn't even really paying attention, I could see her eyes flutter as she took in another bite of ice cream. "Steve is hot, though…" she said, absentmindedly. "I'd tap that."
"You'd tap anything, Leah."
She cackled. "You are such a bully. Jesus. But that's probably true." She laughed again, and we Chatty Cathy-ed it up about other things.
Leah was driving me home when I saw a group of recognizable nerds from our jail of a school. They were huddled together right outside the bowling alley, like an anxious pack of puppies.
I scanned the faces and—
"Wait a second," I motioned Leah to slow down.
A little bit apart from the group stood two people, hugging awkwardly. Just awkwardly enough to alert me who the male in the situation was—technical male, that is—Bleek.
And Sara. Some sophomore slut who Bleek sometimes talks about.
My hormones are raging. Plus, I just injected myself with a shitload of cheap, banana-filled sugar. Despite these two factors, I see the unmistakable trace of affection in the way Bleek tips his head and slips his arms around her.
They're smiling, they break apart.
"Shiiit." Leah breathes out, glancing at the alley. "Is that Bleeker?"
"Yeah." I said.
"Do you wanna stop over there? Give that child a piece of your mind?"
"It's nothing, Leah. C'mon. It's Bleek. He wouldn't ever cheat or anything."
"She is pretty," Leah mused, her eyes going back to the road. "That's Sara Parker."
"I know who she is," I snapped, as we rounded the last corner it takes to get to my house.
"Geez. PMS, much." Leah grumbled out.
"Hey…Dad?" My voice feels higher than usual, but I don't think it's really detectable. Especially not to old Pops. He's sitting with a beer, easing his mind from a likely grueling day on the job.
"What, Juniper?" I swear to vlog, he comes up with a new nickname for me daily.
"We need anything from the store? I'm itchin' to drive."
Dad paused, absentmindedly mulling over whatever the fridge or cupboards may be lacking.
"We could use some more orange juice," Brenda shuffled in the kitchen, filling up a glass with water and ice.
"Orange juice it is!" I declared, and, jingling my coveted keys, I headed out the door.
At night, while driving, my brain felt clearer.
Seeing Bleek with Sara kind of irritated me. To say the least, it played a Debbie Downer to the rest of my day.
Feeling sour, trudging back to the van with a jug of generic brand juice, an idea struck me—an idea I couldn't quite shake away.
The van moving smoothly, radio off, I drove past Vanessa's enormous house. The lights were off, but the strange psychic within me only needed that sense that…that my…my son was in there.
Don't get me wrong. I love being free, and I wouldn't ever be able to handle the obese responsibility that comes with a kid.
I was just having a weak moment. Really off night. Maybe it was PMS.
I reached the main road to find a red light and a ridiculously blue car right next to me. I leaned over, looking to see what sort of douchebag was driving that thing…
Only to meet the eyes of one Steve Rendazo. Along with two other brainless bros.
They were smiling. All of their eyes read, "Hilarious, a nerd dyke in her mommy van!"
I sneered and abruptly smiled, revving my mommy engine—doesn't that sound strangely naughty—
Steve revved his smooth engine, the three jocks cracking up.
Green light and we race.
I'm smiling, readily pissed, anger just overwhelming any common sense or any other sense other than speedspeedspeed.
I flood that gas.
Of course they win.
I want to laugh, but I just don't know what to think. I feel freer, but I feel the same. That drive felt absolutely fucking unsatisfying. I turn the corner, to our quiet, soft home, and lie in my bed. I switch my CD player on to some mellow Moldy Peaches.