All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
7 Things to Do Before I Die:
- C Sea
-publish a poem
-ride yellow taxi
-slap Eva Teal's bloated face
-feel what it's like to be in LOVE
I fold up the paper filled with my messy scribbles. I bend down, and lifting up a broken floorboard, place the note in the space for safekeeping.
The squalid orange sky of an Ohio morning illuminates my room, a reflection of my mud puddle of a brain. Random thoughts are racing through my mind, one topic to another, things that don't fit together.
I drag myself out of bed. I'm exhausted. My entire night was spent writing down a story I just had to get out of my head.
It's June, so I dress in an airy white tank top, pure and light, with so many frills on it I'm surprised it was only four bucks; and shorts and flip-flops. I feel beautiful. I eat breakfast in silence, aware that my Lucky Charms are eyeballing me.
School buzzes with couples making out,
s running up to the Jox, asking if they'll sign their yearbooks. They oblige. I bet there's sweat all over their signatures.
My best friend, Delilah, jumps out in front of me from behind a garbage can. I yelp. I'm very easy to scare. She laughs and follows me to my locker.
There's Marc-w-a-C, flipping his hair in front of a Pop. Oh my gosh, what happened to him? In fourth grade, I went over to his house a bunch of times to swim in his pool, watch Nascar with him, pet his cats. When he talks to me, we act like such a couple. And we were a couple, last year, for 64 days. But then he broke up with me. Started dating an older
, Blondie. She had been in
Scouts with me, I was in fourth grade and she was in fifth. that was my akward stage.
Blondie's in the high school this year, ninth grade. Different building, all the way on the other side of the soccer field. Ha. Marc-w-a-C and she broke up over Spring Break. He was sad, cry cry cry, moan, sob. For about a week. But apparently the distance did him good. Healed his heart.
Marc-w-a-C sees me walking over to my locker (right next to his- alphabetical order) and totally ditches Pop, just leaves her hanging there, and runs over to me. I smile. His hair is blowing in the wind. Gosh, he smells good.
“Vieve”, he sighs. I giggle.
“Hi, Delilah.” Marc-w-a-C raises his hand. Delilah smiles back, then turns to me. She gives me the VieveIknowyou’vebeeninlovewiththisguyforsixyearssoI’llleaveyoualone look.
“I, uh, gotta’ go. See you in a few?” Delilah turns and walks away.
Yah, see you, I think to myself. I rub my hands together. Marc rocks back and forth on his heels.
She left me. With him. My heart is going to explode, burst into little itty-bitty pieces. Big mess. Heart guts on the ceiling, floor, in Pop’s hair. Marc’ll have to mop me up.
“Vieve, I want to ask you something.”
I have my question of preference in mind, but I try not to get my hopes up. No. I already had my chance. Nope. Wouldn’t happen anyway.
“Sure,” I answer, fighting back tears that surprise me. “What’s up?”
“Um, well, I found this, and..,. I think it’s yours?” he holds up a small orange journal. I do recognize it. It’s mine. It’s filled with poems about him.
Marc sees the
in my eyes and holds out the journal. “Here,” he whispers. I didn’t read it. I swear. I nod and take the journal. He smiles, Believe me?
I smile back. Trusted you with my heart, Marc. You broke it. Can I trust you again?