The Name of the Game

May 16, 2010

Dragons are after me. They want to burn me into a crisp. A human potato chip. My friends are riding the purple dragon. I guess they’re after me too. The want me turned into a thin, crunchy, chip. They want the dragons to eat me. The dragons roar. Roar. Roar. Roar.
It’s my alarm. I wake up. I clutch my blue stuffed dragon to my chest. Its name is Dragon. The light pouring in through my window is a yellowish white. It is morning. Again. I yawn and wrench the covers over my head. Again. It is too early to think about life. Next to me, Lyssa snores. I hate sharing a room. I crawl out of bed. I sit on the floor, not thinking.
Well, almost.
I have practice tonight. He said he wasn’t coming. He’s at the sea. I love the sea. I haven’t been in eight years.


I stand on the cement, looking at my invisible audience. I stand, silently. I feel things on the wind. Heat. Summer. I smell cold water and stiff yellow tickets. I hear songs. I hear a trio. Three best friends. No. Not anymore. I remember promises. No. They were broken. I tell myself. I remember hot July nights. Scalding cement underneath my bare feet, glaring stage lights in my face. I smell roses. Hundreds of roses on the casket. I feel like a part of me is missing. No, I lied. I feel like two parts of me are missing. But what I feel most? I feel sadness. Performances should never end. Stages should never be left alone for more than two days at a time. They get lonely. They miss stage lights and roses and singing. I miss singing. Maybe that’s it. Stages can’t feel anything. Especially not this one. Outside. Cement. Yes. Stages can’t feel emotions. That’s silly…or is it?
Stages can get lonely.


Find the sum or difference.
Math. Algebra. You’d think I’d be smart enough. I’m back with 8th graders.
Math is my enemy.
Or…maybe it hurts just like I do. That X must get tired of being different numbers all the time. Always changing. I would hate it. Oh wait. I do hate it. I hate change. Poor X. When it’s in this equation, it’s representing a five. When it’s in this ordered pair, it represents a seven. Poor, poor X. Always getting bossed around by Y. When graphing in slope intercept form, Y always comes first. I feel bad for the variables. Get out of the way Mr. Y. Mr. X deserves a chance to go first. It’s called an ordered pair!
I tap my pencil on the paper. I started with nine vacation days to do this. Now I’m down to five. Might as well do it now and get it over with.
That is one heck of an equation.
Math hates me.
The phone rings.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
I don’t pick up. Ten seconds pass in silence.
My cell phone vibrates.
Zzzz. Zzzz. Zzzz. Zzzz.
I don’t pick up.
I tap my pencil on the paper. I started with nine vacation days to do this. Now I’m down to five. I will finish this tomorrow.
Math hates me.

Ramen Noodles

I like Ramen Noodles. They taste good. I slurp up a long noodle and it whips around, staining the schedule in front of me. I smile. I have practice tonight.
I miss singing.
I can sing tonight. That’s what tonight is for, after all. Singing and Dancing and Acting.
I sneeze. Something is in the air.
I reach for a tissue, but the box is empty.
Somehow I’m not surprised.


What happened? No, seriously. What happened? I kinda want to scream.
Look at all three of us.
Happy, full of love, full of caring.
That was our story. That was who we were. Three friends who cared about each other very, very much. I want to walk up to him, walk up to her, shove my precious photograph in their faces and yell:
I look at the picture. He is standing in the middle. She is on his left. I am on his right. Our arms are over each other’s shoulders. We are smiling. I now know the definition of love.
We love each other.
Or we did.
What happened?
I want it back. I want it back. I want it back so badly. They don’t get it. All of my pictures now are of only me and him or only me and her.
At least I have one picture with the three of us, I guess.
I hug the picture tight.
One goal: Hold onto the memories.


I have been listening to this song for three hours. There are three hours until practice. There are three pages in the story that I am writing right now. I’ve eaten three cups of Ramen. (That’s probably not good for me.) My fingernails are painted three different colors. Bronze. Blue. Purple. Bronze was her favorite color. Purple was mine. Blue was his. I turn the song off. I delete the three-page story. I stand up and walk into the bathroom.
Wouldn’t you know it…there are three different types of nail polish remover. Purple, blue, and orange. I pick the blue one and start scrubbing at my nails. Three strokes to a nail, three strokes to remove one of the three colors.
I don’t want to think about the number three anymore.

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