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Date: Saturday, August 30, 2008 | Time: 11:29 AM
…Caleb pulls the lighter out of his back pocket, leaning against the chipped white rail on his mother’s front porch, hair cutting contrast compared to his nearly clear pale skin, and lights his cigarette.
The grass is dewy, and from his angle, the sun only accentuates the otherwise subtle sparkle. He takes one last drag deep into his lungs, and carelessly, with a quick flick from his thumb and forefinger, sends the butt sailing into the center of the perfectly kept front lawn.
“Where the hell is Crystal?” he wonders, impatiently waiting for the four-door Ford to come flying around the corner.
“One more day of high school hell,” he thinks to himself, contemplating another cigarette.
In the distance, almost as if piggybacked by the late spring wind, the faint, low droning sound of double time drums blares from an average at best car stereo, sweeping over the street as it’s vessel turns the corner. Finally. 20 minutes late.
As usual, she refuses to pull into the driveway. "I refuse to drive backwards,” she always says.
Caleb starts towards the car, skipping all three porch steps as Crystal lays on the horn, beeping out the bpm’s to whatever song she’s obsessing over today.
Crystal barely acknowledges her jettisoned friend, as her off-key, singled out sing-along she feels so empowered to carry on with, continues.
“I can’t believe you actually enjoy listening to this shit,” he says as he sticks one foot up onto the dashboard.
She playfully gives him the finger and smashes the off button on the dial.
“Good morning sunshine. Where the hell did you go last night? Why didn’t you answer your phone? I was worried about you, jerk.” Caleb swallows hard, and accepts the fact that he’ll never be able to tell her where he went last night. Never be able to tell her what his parents have done. So he paints a smirk where his woe should be, and turns the music back on…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The man loves to torture us. Cliff-hangier!!
The grass is dewy, and from his angle, the sun only accentuates the otherwise subtle sparkle. He takes one last drag deep into his lungs, and carelessly, with a quick flick from his thumb and forefinger, sends the butt sailing into the center of the perfectly kept front lawn.
“Where the hell is Crystal?” he wonders, impatiently waiting for the four-door Ford to come flying around the corner.
“One more day of high school hell,” he thinks to himself, contemplating another cigarette.
In the distance, almost as if piggybacked by the late spring wind, the faint, low droning sound of double time drums blares from an average at best car stereo, sweeping over the street as it’s vessel turns the corner. Finally. 20 minutes late.
As usual, she refuses to pull into the driveway. "I refuse to drive backwards,” she always says.
Caleb starts towards the car, skipping all three porch steps as Crystal lays on the horn, beeping out the bpm’s to whatever song she’s obsessing over today.
Crystal barely acknowledges her jettisoned friend, as her off-key, singled out sing-along she feels so empowered to carry on with, continues.
“I can’t believe you actually enjoy listening to this shit,” he says as he sticks one foot up onto the dashboard.
She playfully gives him the finger and smashes the off button on the dial.
“Good morning sunshine. Where the hell did you go last night? Why didn’t you answer your phone? I was worried about you, jerk.” Caleb swallows hard, and accepts the fact that he’ll never be able to tell her where he went last night. Never be able to tell her what his parents have done. So he paints a smirk where his woe should be, and turns the music back on…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The man loves to torture us. Cliff-hangier!!
Labels: the academy is..., william beckett
