"But if there was one, what would you bring?"
"That could only fit in a backpack?"
I knit my fingers under my chin and give my mother a look of triumph. She bite her lightly 'First Love Blush' painted lips.
"My hairdryer."
I snort. "And how are you going to fend off zombies with a hairdryer-for which you have to electrical power to work it? Are you gonna choke them to death with the cord?" I gave her an expecting look and she scowled.
"Kayla, I think it would be more productive to beat them with it." She didn't hear what I just said. My eyes rolled back so far I almost seized. I shake my head and stand to throw my Arby's bag in the trash. I tuned out the busy weekend food court prattle around us as she droned on how she could effectively kill a zombie apocalypse with just a hairdryer.
"Mom, you have no power source and I get the feeling they can't burn to death."
"I'll bring a battery. I mean I think I'd have time to grab it."
I couldn't have given her a more exasperated look and just turned away.
"The next store is what now? JCPenney or Spencer's?" I ask checking my phone. Nothing.
"I think Spencer's is first then JCPenney after. It's at the very end, right?"
"Mhmm." We take several steps, moving around the crowd of young people my age doing the same thing we were. In a week and a half Reagan High school's first days of classes were beginning yet again. But for me it was the last year of getting up at the crack of dawn, dragging myself out of bed like the dead and forcing myself into those classes. One more year and I was determined to enjoy the most out of it. I knew life for a high school-er was easy. After donning those silver and blue gown then throwing those caps life would get a lot more serious, a hundred times more stressful. I was pulled back to the raving masses and my scatter brained mom when she said,
"Wait, you can't beat zombies to death. They're already dead."
Ah, there we go.
"What about this one?" I offer sarcastically, holding up a pair of pants with artfully expensive rips over the thighs.
"I can see you vagina sticking out from a mile away." She said flatly. I laugh hanging the pants on the rack and continue looking, seriously this time. In truth I actually did enjoy shopping with my mom. I loved my mom, understood that she was only a grown up because the world forced her to be. When we shopped or spent time hanging out she was free to tease and laugh vibrantly. I loved being my mom's point of solace. I watched her pull a mini-skirt a.k.a. thin scrap o' cloth off the rack and twirl around with it against her hips. She grinned imagining what she was never going to wear. She'd probably rock it. My mom was one of the few women who bounced back after having a kid. She rebounded completely and managed to hold the pounds of cake and chocolate at bay.
"I like these; they'd make your legs look awesome." She held up dark jeans that accented wide hips and narrowed the legs, making them look long. I shrugged and she draped it over her arms with the half a dozen things she already had.
"So what look are you going for this year? Isn't it supposed to change every year?" She asks picking through a bunch of clearance shirts. I shifted through the opposite side taking her in. She was tired. She and dad had fought about money the last couple days and no amount of shopping cheer could hide the circles of stress under her eyes. When she zoned out she frowned. Her dark auburn hair was pampered, make-up perfection, clothes artfully prepared but to the trained eye she was worn out.
I shrugged. "I'm going as a Kayla Morgan. It's an impeccable style crossed between homeless person and tomboy. I think I'll try to make it a trend." I say comically tapping my finger to my chin. She smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners. There it was. A real smile. Her lips could deceive but the eye crinkle was a sure sign.
I gasp.
"What? What is it?"
I feign horror as I lift a shirt up. "I think we're flashbacking to the eighties. Mom, don't you remember the good old days? Weren't you like what forty or so?"
She gave an offended squeak before rushing around to catch me. I laughed running away as we began a game of cat and mouse. I was most definitely the quivering mouse as I gasped around my laughing.
Dad and I set the table for dinner the night after shopping as mom finished up the rest of dinner. I watched him fondly as he chattered on about the Dallas Cowboys, baseball and new management at work. He works manual labor construction and genuinely seems to love his job. At forty-two he may have silver running through his thick chocolate hair but he was as fit as any man my age, even more so. That bright smile could light up a room. He was well over six feet but his frame was gentle with me as I was a child, holding me, singing off-key to me so I could sleep.
"Ready for school?" He asked with a small smile, loving, affectionate.
"Yeah, I guess. More happy to have something to do."
"What classes did you end up taking?"
"The generals for math, science, AP English and World History, Spanish three, Music Appreciation, Art three. I have one free block because I've gotten all my other needed classes out of the way already."
"Because you're smart, Kayla and driven. It'll get you far. You make me and your mother so proud." He looks me straight in the eyes to the point my heart pounds for love and gratefulness he approves. I want them to be proud.
"Yeah, plus there was no instrument class I was interested in."
"What, no piano?" That made dad frown. He loved that I'd taken piano. His grandmother used to be a very well-known piano player in Spain where she'd been born. The reason I had taken Spanish, it was my father's heritage. He'd been born in America, in the west while my mother was born and raised right here in North Carolina.
I shrug, "Not enough students. They had guitar and like the general band stuff." I had taken the high school's piano class for two semesters, the second semester of sophomore year and the first one of junior year but other than those two they hadn't managed enough participants. I knew the school wanted to expand it's music repertoire but that didn't seem to be as popular as guitar which has been available all four years I've been there.
"Would someone grab the corn? I've got the turkey and the mash potatoes. Oh, grab the gravy!" We grin at each other. I get my smile and laugh from my mother. I get my hair, blue eyes and bottomless pit stomach from my father.
Once we're all settled in, plates full and they've both taken the first bite I speak.
"You've been fighting over money. Why?" My father coughs abruptly while my mom blinks surprised. They chew slowly, swallow extra carefully.
"It's nothing you need to worry about." Dad says not in a condescending way but I was look solemnly.
"I love my parents and if they're fighting then it is my problem. Are we tight right now?" I slip a fork full of mash potatoes in my mouth after slathering them in gravy. The best part right there.
"It's not a problem right now, we just have to be careful." Mom supplies gently.
"Which is why I put all the clothes you wanted to get back on their racks. That's why I changed my mind at the last moment."
Her hand drifts down to the table and she frowns like she's in pain. "Sweetheart you don't have to. Every teenager should have clothes for the new school year."
"Mom, the only things that will change is that I'm a year older and I only have to deal with these people two more semesters. After that it won't matter what clothes I have. Besides the clothes from last year fit perfectly well. They'll be fine."
I see guilt on their faces and that's how I know we couldn't have afforded those way over priced jeans and shirts.
"Don't." I glare.
"Don't feel bad. I'm not one of those girls who can't wear the same pair of pants more than once. Besides Goodwill has a lot of the exact same things for much cheaper, it only makes sense. Really, please mom, dad it's okay."
We eat in silence for a while after. They simmered in shame and uncertainty while I tried to figure out how to stop it. Finally I went for,
"Thank you. I understand how much you would and do sacrifice for me on daily basis. I appreciate everything y'all do to make me happy but I already am. I'm so grateful to have loving, perfect parents who raised their child with everything. I have everything I want and need now. So please don't hurt because of this because seeing y'all hurt makes me hurt." I murmur as I cut up my turkey and stuff it in my mouth. My dad's hand silently reaches over to squeeze my unused arm. I fight the tears of contentment.
It's pretty insignificant. They say a lot of uplifting things about your last year of high school. I don't know what I expected but frankly I'm disappointed. I analyze the students around me as I eat my lunch. You can see the kids who spent way too much of mommy and daddy's money. The ones trying to reinvent themselves. It all has an air of falsity, fakeness that is intricate and a permanent part of school life. It's a necessity of youth to be vain, egotistical and a bit cynical. I certainly fit that last part if anything.
History is my first class of the new year. It's pretty generic in my opinion. I enjoy history, all the knowledge poured into pages, scrutinizing what I'd learned and what was printed. I'd heard the phrase, History is written by the winners and it was interesting to see America's aspect on our past as opposed to say the Native American people, England or Germany's.
Honestly though I was a bit distracted, like my mind was half here. When we'd been handed the general syllabus my mind began to wonder to the night before.
I'd been sprawled over my bed reading Pride and Prejudice, because I'm a sucker for old school romance novels and smart mouthed heroines. Like any girl my age, and my mother of course, we're in love with the idea of being in love. It's just fact. It comes with the territory of hormonal minds and soft hearts. I've read this classic before but it always hooks me. I love how the plot line isn't cut from the generic romance cloth. It is harsh sometimes, amusing and there is so much whiplash with Elizabeth and Darcy's relationship. Despite him being sour and high on himself you instantly are charmed by Darcy, and Elizabeth's sharp, witty retorts are so refreshing, considering how women are portrayed in that time period. I admired Elizabeth and her stubborn, strong independent mind. I wanted to be like her so much so sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century.
I'd been in my own world, playlist of music shuffling from my phone into my headphones. It's more background noise that sometimes I don't even really hear with exception of beat changes. The tempo changes with a song and Eli Young Band begins quiet and gentle.
Way back on the radio dial,706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaiLpgl3xEY
The fire got lit inside a bright-eyed child.
That's why I heard it, in the soft start. Raised, quick voices. It broke the tempo of the music apart, sounding awful against the almost wondrous awe in the singer's voice. I turn up the volume hoping to drown them out.
Ohhh, I can hear 'em singin',706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0FPnHdRhtA
"Keep on dreamin', even if it breaks your heart."
Some dreams stay with you forever,706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI3YW7q9A2N
Drag you around but bring you back to where you were.706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVBhgEfQuFF
Some dreams keep on gettin' better,706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs9prneFp6q
Gotta keep believin' if you wanna know for sure.
I listen to the chaos for a moment, a jumbled mess around me. The sound of my parents, the sound of the music and my thoughts rereading the same line of my book obsessively trying to focus on that. It's almost like they are fighting with my music for purchase in my head because their voices escalate again. I flinch knowing this beat doesn't get any harder so instead I drop the book on the bed and skim through my music and find something louder, faster and more beautiful. Something that bring me to a better place.
I smile at the up-beat piano in my ear, feet tapping the air.
And I know some day that it'll all turn out706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5HDrttpvdJ
You'll make me work so we can work to work it out706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5YfhLXTuPr
And I promise you kid that I'll give so much more than I get706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPQxZo1EZQK
I just haven't met you yet.
I close my eyes and make a pointless promise to myself. No fighting. No anger. I haven't met you yet but I make this promise to you. I know we'll fight but when I meet that boy for me I promise to never argue, I promise to not scream. I promise not to fight. It sounds stupid and practically impossible. I know couples fight, from when they meet to till the moment they separate and it'll happen but I never want to be the one that hurts him.
I might have to wait, I'll never give up706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpaiWtVZBSX
I guess it's half timing and the other half's luck706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkoGuYHKFNC
Wherever you are, whenever it's right706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiVALJuOIlo
You'll come out of nowhere and into my life
And I know that we can be so amazing706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEMAeiE6ZUO
And baby your love is gonna change me706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZN0HEqM4Tw
And now I can see every possibility.
I'd spent the rest of that evening repeating that Michael Buble song and others like it, putting myself in that high. Lifting my heart until my dad stepped into my room and kissed me on the cheek with an apologetic look. I smiled at him, hugging him tight around the neck. I watch his lips say I'm sorry and I shake my head, taking out my headphones.
"I love you. I love mom too."
He smiled gently, "I love mom too. You as well kiddo. We'll be fine."
"I know." I meant it looking at him. He saw that, kissed my forehead then stepped out and I listened to his and mom's footsteps move together towards their bedroom with a smile. Mom and dad loved each other so much so they never stayed mad, they didn't hold grudges, they may have high tempers but they never slept separate. I wanted a love like theirs. Something that despite the weather they always came through in hand in hand.
The bell signaling the end of History brings me back to the current date.
My second class was a bit better. My first Art class was as to be expected though I had no doubt I was going to love Mr. Koning. He was constantly telling us stories of how his family moved from Holland, growing up on the edge of town and his troublemaker ways as a kid. I could help but laugh along, watching him get this far away look and delve into those wild tales. We didn't do much learning that class and I had a feeling his method of teaching would be of very eccentric tastes.
I munch on a fry during lunch as my eyes catch briefly on a girl half way across the cafe looking rather broken. Shoulders hunched, brows scrunched together as if staving off bad thoughts. She shuddered, her thin frame quivering slightly before she gained control of herself again. She was strong. She'd make it.
I gather up my things and dump my tray as I make my way toward my next class. I search through the plates by the doors for the number corresponding to the one on my paper for Music Appreciation. I turned around the corner, eyes trained on my paper or classes. It should be right here. I look up and am frozen in my tracks. It was like worlds colliding in a flash of blinding light, clashing jars of paint shattering over the blank canvas of life. As they splashed together creating a beautiful disaster, perfect chaos I felt myself free fall for a moment. My breath catches and heart thunders suddenly at the angel in the rolled up sleeves and black jeans. Who was this masterpiece?
No, he couldn't possibly… I checked the number plate by the door. I looked down at my paper. I looked back at the man in his later twenties, early thirties. Chocolate brown hair, soft and warm tones layered perfectly. It was short not even long enough to curl around his ears. His soft tan glowed gently, sensually under even these harsh lights. I fell into those deep dark blue ocean eyes as he spoke to an older paunchy man I didn't recognize and that's when I saw it.
I watched him, head tipped as I analyzed the expression on his face. There was something of a mask over his eyes, something vacant but weary. Mr. Mikkelsen was hiding something painful. There's an expression that people who've gone through hard times wear in their daily lives. It becomes as much part of them as their eyes or smile. It merges until it's synonymous with their personality and a part of the soul is lost because of it. Child-like wonder. Innocence. In exchange weariness. Broken acceptance. I've come to understand through watching the lives of others that life leaves no one untouched in some way. Everyone weeps for lost love, broken hearts, rejected dreams. We all grieve and hurt eventually. Some more than others are cut from bad luck, molded around disappointment and pain. From the shielded cautiousness in blue-gray eyes and the semi-permanent tension around his mouth he got the shortest stick.
I searched his posture trying to define what could make him so closed off. How does no one else see it?
His shoulders are back and relaxed. Stances straight, unguarded. Hands rested. My throat goes dry tracing over the lines of his back in the shirt tight over his shoulder blades. I could stare at this new addition to Reagan High for eternity, just like how the muscle of his thighs seemed to go on. I was suddenly breathless, fighting for composure. I lost the battle when his eyes skimmed around and locked onto mine. The blue of his eyes swallowed the gray. It was like imagining the ocean swallowing the sky, powerful. I watched for only an instant, a delectably teasing second, as those barriers fell in his surprise. His eyes widens a millimeter, lips parted, brow rose. I saw a fracture in that shell around his soul, a peek at the darkness behind his waking smile. Then it was gone and his cool school face was back scrutinizing me.
I turned away, heart pounding at the merest glimpse I received and unsure what had just happened.
I walked the halls for what seemed an eternity. Lights died. Worlds crumbled away. Time faded into memory, dust whispered away by the wind. Then a moment later I free fell again when the bell rang announcing no free loaders in the hallways. Time to sit and be quiet, listen and not be heard. Not really heard. I blinked around the empty, eerie hall. Suddenly everything was unfamiliar. What had just happened? Who was that man? Is he really my teacher?
I looked back and realized that the only way to find out was walk through that door. Why did I want to run in the opposite direction but a sort of curiosity easily addictive pulled me to the Music Appreciation door. It was when I finally reached the door, decided I must move forward was I able to the turn the knob.
I walk in impervious to everything, I am an impenetrable force of rock and ice, cold and unyielding. I won't be affected. I scan my classmates first before finally settling on the one and only Mr. Mikkelsen at the front of the class. He looks even better up close. Damn.
"Come in. Take a seat." He watches me a moment, searching my face then turns back toward the board where he'd begun to spell his name. I chose one of three seats empty, the one closest to the windows. I slide in and look up at the clear blue September sky. I look up at the sky, only those who imagine and live in a world far from ours can stare at the sky for the rest of their lives.
I want to live in the sky. I want to fly.
I turn back to this new teacher apprehensively as he pulled out a stack of the high school infamous syllabus. He hands a counted stack to each row of desks for us to pass back. I skim over mine and find it rather plain, normal, and boring while he stood at the front of the class and explained it. Music Appreciation passes in a blur. After the bell rang I collected my things and filed out after the majority of the other students.
I walk up by the teacher, the man fighting to capture my attention when he didn't even realize it. He looked up from his desk and the papers there as I walked pass. The last student slipped out leaving us alone. Our eyes connected, he ensnared me for a moment. I saw infinity in that oceanic gaze, like how the darkness of underwater seemed to continue on forever.
"Sorry I was late."
His lip twitched. "No you're not."
"You're right, I'm not."
"You must be Kayla."
"Kayla Morgan. Nice to meet you." I search his gaze for the darkness, the closed off look from before. I see cautiousness but curiosity. What a strange combination. I stick out my hand and to my surprise he takes it. His hand is so much larger. I drown in the heat of his skin and the roughness that says he worked manual labor or still does.
"Ethan Mikkelsen, nice to meet you Kayla."
"If you get to call me Kayla, do I get to call you Ethan?"
"No, Mr. Mikkelsen is something I've gained with age."
I arch my brows and give him a small smile. "Yes Sir."
His brows furrow. I pull my hand from his when I realize we are still grasping each other but no longer shaking. He blinks surprised for a moment and the barriers fall. I scrutinize his expression, trying greedily to see the real man here, more than what he wants people to see. Then the moment passes.
"Good day, Kayla."
"Good day, Sir." I turn away containing myself, that elation that I caused that moment of vulnerability. It also fed the curiosity.
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