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I Said I Was Independant, Not God
The day was cool, for summer at the very least. July was shifting around the corner as the days of June slowly died out. Summer was slipping through my fingers like grains of sand at the beach, which we have failed to visit yet this year.
“Hey, Harley Davidson.” snorted Kyle, taking another drag of his cigarette.
I gave him a hard glare.
“Lay back down.” he insisted, patting the patch of grass beside him.
I ignore him, staring off into distant down by the woods where a few deer nibbled at the ground.
“Suit yourself, Motorcycle Mama.” he sneered, smashing the bud into the ground.
I sigh. Like he was making my life any better.
I was born to two stupid parents. My father, a high school drop out and a big time druggie. And then my mother, a crazy hippie woman who worshiped sun gods and spirits from the other side. Together, they made me. A completely normal person. How the hell does that work? I, who maintained a 3.8 GPA, a job, and the bills. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some miracle worker. I’m not perfect. I have my scars and flaws. But none of which I’ve inherited from either of my parents. I’m not stupid, irresponsible, or lazy. I’m plenty of other things, but not those.
“You’re uptight.” Kyle began one day in the winter, while studying for our Science exam (which he failed anyway).
“And stingy, and rude, and whiney, and cynical…” he paused.
“And a drama queen.”
He received a bop on the head after said statement.
“I am NOT a drama queen.”
He shrugged, laughing.
“And you’re abusive.”
This lead to several more blows to his little blonde head and me shouting rude rebuttals.
“Yeah, yeah!” he guffawed, pushing me away as I dealt more damage.
“Whatever you say, Harley Davidson.”
That’s another thing that bugs me. My father, being the idiot that he is, was obsessed with motorcycles. If God would’ve made it possible, he would’ve probably bared little motorcycle babies with his red Yamaha. So Isaac Davidson thought it would just be so gosh darn funny to name his daughter Harley. Ha, friggin’ ha, ha. What pride and joy that man would have, bragging to his biker buddies about his daughter.
“I named her after my bike. Ahurhur.”
Not like he would stick around long enough to even watch me grow up. Right when I turned 8, he hit the road with a dirty, grey, duffle bag and half a pound of beef jerky. And probably enough beer to last him a lifetime (his definition of a lifetime being about 2 weeks). Last I heard of the jerk, he crossed the boarder into Mexico. Dad always did like tacos.
This little dilemma left my mother to care for me by herself. And seeing that my mother was a complete moron with no knowledge of parenting whatsoever, this actually lead me to become an independent adult at the age of 8 years old. While she was barfing out her innards to keep her figure and smoking from her custom pipe, I was cleaning the house and making dinner. I took care of her when she was sick and pulled her hair back during the after affects of a hangover. Hell, I did everything a normal parent would do. This soon stopped as I grew old enough to realize that she was an adult and could take care of her damn self. And here I was. 16 year old Harley Davidson with a 3.8 GPA, in two honors classes, working for Cool Beans, and doing just damn fine without anyone. Well Kyle here, he was my complete opposite. A world class fool who refused to do anything useful with his life . He was smart, I knew it, but he was just too lazy to care.
“I don’t want to do anything.” he told me a week before summer.
“I don’t have any goals or dreams.” he said with a smile, lighting another cigarette.
“I’m not going to find a cure for cancer or find life on Jupiter or nothin’…I’m just Kyle.”
I snorted, rolling my eyes at this statement.
“Well Kyle’s a complete loser. You should at least try and find something you’re interested in.” I scolded, shaking my head.
He grinned through the cigarette in his mouth.
I decided not to push the conversation any further after that, the bell rang almost instantly when he said that. Plus, I had to get to Honors English. But yet I still stayed friends with Mister 2.5 GPA. Through all the years, ever since preschool. He shared his cupcake with me, what was I supposed to do?
“Thanks for the snack, crazy boy I don’t know. I’m going to grab my stuffed giraffe and go take my nappy now, okay? BYE.”
Nope, once you shared goodies in preschool you were friggin’ soul mates for LIFE. That is, until you hit puberty and crashed through the hormones stage. But Kyle was always different. Even through everyone’s angst and anger, he managed to stay the same, cool, lazy, Kyle. This, somehow, made me respect him. It made me stand up to him and stay by his side. Help him up when he fell down. And in return, he did the same for me.
“Hey, Harley Davidson.” he muttered, snapping me out of my life long staring contest with the Bambi down by the pine trees.
“You got a minute?”
I sigh, letting my hands run through my pin straight hair.
“It’s summer, Kyle. I have all the time in the damn world.”
Though I didn’t see it, I know he smiled real big at my words.
“Cool.” and with this, he snaked his arms around my waist.
“Hey!” I shout, trying to stand up, break away from him, somehow get out of his grip.
“What are you DOING!?” I shriek as he pulled me down into the grass with him.
“Chillax, Motorcycle Mama.” he chuckled, letting his sharp nose rest in the crook of my neck.
“Why, is that the new Mariah Carey perfume I smell on you?”
I frown. Slightly annoyed, just slightly.
Kyle laughed, loud and proud with his head back and everything.
“You hate Mariah Carey.”
I grin, letting my hands close around his wrists.
“Woman can make some damn good perfume.”
Kyle laughed again, light and care free. He let go, resting his hands on the ground beneath us and leaning back. I remained stationary in his lap, all too comfortable with the placement.
Suddenly, I here a snap of the lighter and the smell of smoke filled my nose. The sixth cigarette for the entire three hours we were out here.
“Are they good?” I question, not bothering to look around at him.
“Your cigarettes.” I say, quieter this time.
“Why do you like them so damn much? Do they taste good or something?”
No reply came, just bitter silence.
“I just want to know…seeing you smoke almost every freaking hour of the day.”
Still no reply. Instead, he gently grabbed my neck with one hand, tipping my head back with the other. He stared down at me with his dull blue eyes that, I noted long ago, did not shine or twinkle like most eyes do. He looked at me, dull blue meeting pale grey. Two boring colors that commented each other rather nicely. His bleach blonde bangs fell into my face, entwining with my dark brown hair. The bright yellow against the dark chocolate locks looked extremely awkward. Seeing something so bright contrast something much darker. Kyle grinned, flicking the cigarette bud away.
“Do they taste good?” he chuckled.
I was speechless, looking up at him stupidly.
“Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
“ I don’t smoke.” I say immediately, robotically.
Kyle didn’t reply in words, but with a kiss. It was brief, his mouth on mine for only a couple of seconds. But those few seconds were freaking bliss. For once, everything melted away. All my troubles and all my problems. All the pressure and all the morons that existed in my life. Everything just disappeared. All that ever mattered was me and Kyle. And it was wonderful and I never felt so happy in my entire hell of a life. I felt like one of those cliché blondes in those ridiculous chick flicks that my mother always bought and watched religiously. And I didn’t mind at all. The kiss ended all too quickly and I saw those blue eyes again.
“Well?” he murmured, his lips curving into a bright beam that made my heart skip a beat.
I smiled with him. I smiled like the biggest idiot ever.
“I can see why you like smoking so much.” I chimed.
He raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth for a witty rebuttal. But I cut him off, bringing him into another kiss. Because Kyle could be witty if he wanted to. He could say things that could make me blush until I resembled a tomato or giggle like a school girl. But I won’t let him do that. Not in public at least. He wouldn’t make a fool out of someone as mature and independent as me. But maybe next Saturday we could go to beach together. There, I could be as stupid and irresponsible as I could ever be.