Flood

by Maria Quinn

  He hasn’t given up on me yet.

  Smiling, “Sure. This week some time.”

  “Alright, just give me a call.”

  He is all teeth as he sprints away. He has really changed over the past year, he’s…different. He has changed for the better, unlike me; I think I’ve changed for the worst. Maybe it's nature’s way of equalizing us all, keeping us balanced so we’re not too happy or not too sad. I don’t know what I’m saying, it must be my meds talking.

  Ignoring my puzzled thoughts I head for math, my worst subject.

  15

  Half the day has gone, and I’ve managed to talk to no one but Greg and Lea—things aren’t going as planned. Lea’s right, my plans suck. I’m doing something wrong. Smiling isn’t enough. I start many things and never finish them, usually because I have a surplus of ideas I need to get out of my head. This is shaping up to be an unfinished venture as well, but not for lack of ideas, for its plain stupidity—did I actually think grinning was going to change things? Stupid. Idiot. Go to your room.

  Walking to meet up with Greg for lunch I heard someone whisper my name from behind.

  Connie Weston—queen bitch with her sidekicks Jessica and Kristen. Nobody likes them, and they never get sick; even germs don't like them. I could easily take a needle and pop their heads, but I won’t release that hurricane just yet. Its people like her that give me insight as to why most mammals eat their own children.

  “Freak.” She pretends to whisper to her friends.

  Everyone heard it. And everyone probably expects me to retreat away, like always—not this time.

  I stop and turn around, staring at her with indignant eyes, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. She appears flustered, not expecting someone below her to disrespect her tasteful commentary of us.

  “What?” She growls. “You like this shirt?” She tugs on her floral blouse. “You can steal it if you want to; like you did that outfit you got on. Although, I would have sprung for a more high-end store to—“

  I barrel straight towards her with fire in my eyes, looking to pounce on my prey. I get in her face fast, she isn’t prepared, she takes a step back and falls backward into her locker. She looks shocked and betrayed as she glances at her peers and me laughing around her. She stood up in a frenzy and flattens out her shirt. Looking as if she is going to say something, but instead, she pushes through her friends and rapidly walks away, and they follow. Halfway down the hall she looks back to my murderous eyes still piercing holes in her head, now she looks afraid.

  Didn’t take a single word.

  A random girl passing by threw up her hand, “Finally” she says, signaling me to return her high five.

  It wasn’t until our hands connect that I realize we are both laughing. Two total strangers sharing something so deep, its bafflingly exciting. I think I’m starting to do this right, and it feels excellent.

  Turning around to meet up with Greg, I instead face plant into his chest.

  “Oh, geez,” I say stepping back probing the tender bruise on my head.

  “Sorry” he chuckles, “You told her off without saying a word. I’m astounded.”

  “Well, you know how people don’t want to mess with crazies,” I say as we start heading to lunch.

  “Just never know when they’ll snap.” He emphasizes his words.

  That gave me an idea, people always remember “the girl who snapped.”

  I could be that girl.

  16

  Do I want to be that girl?

  I rethink everything I’ve been thinking during chemistry, last class of the day. I think I need to stop thinking so much and just let things happen. If you overthink, your body won’t respond naturally. So I do what I typically do in chemistry and stare at the clock, imagining the hands breaking out of the glass and helicoptering its way through everyone’s throats. Mr. Miller drones on and on about how to apply what we’ve learned this year to our lives, as I watch the remaining minutes slowly shrink away, my mind wanders on my accomplishments at this school.

  Like the word retarded. It was once thrown around and littered our language like popcorn on a movie theatre floor, before it had real meaning, before people gained awareness. That's what I did for the word crazy; now people look both ways before using the word to make sure I'm not around, and when they do dare to utter the word its always in hushed tones. Since I am crazy, I have free reign on use of the word, and the uncomfortable squirms I see when I do makes me feel a little powerful I must admit.

  And it’s true almost everyone is too afraid to speak to me let alone intimidate me—afraid I might explode or something I guess. I always knew what people thought of me, but I never knew they were afraid of me until I overheard a teacher of all people admit it in an overheard conversation. Fear is another power I have but one I would gladly do without, its infected everyone, yet they avoid me like I'm the contagious one.

  I look at the clock, each minute is an hour.

  Looking up I see Mr. Miller discretely staring at me, our eyes lock and we each glance away immediately, embarrassed by the unwanted contact. I hate that.

  I watch other people—the beached whale sleeping in the back, a boy whose parents are most likely siblings next to him, a girl fussily organizing her pencils, the bleeding heart doodling hearts on her notebook, and a jock throwing airplanes with all the range of three inches before it crash lands.

  I spoke too soon; one hits me square in the face. “You did that on purpo—” I start to shout, but the bell cut me off. I was more than willing to not finish my sentence so I could leave. Mondays are just an awful way to spend 1/7th of your life.

  17

  As I mosey into town after school, the sad skies finally began to weep. In the light mist, a subtle glow began reflecting off surroundings. As refreshing as it is, I am wearing a white shirt; the flowers hide most of me though. I eventually make my way to Diana’s Diner. I stand there scouting the place out, I spot the sign “now hiring,” and question how bad I need this money.

  Really bad.

  I take my second real step through another door. Glancing up to the ringing bell I trigger as I push the door open, I’m tense as I walk up to the counter to an overindulged woman with her chocolate graying hair pulled tightly back into a bun. “Still hiring?” I ask.

  “I don’t think Randall has hired any new…Randal!” she calls out while rushing about.

  She goes on to her customers leaving me to fidget with my feet.

  “Job huntin eh?” Randall comes out from the back and holds out his hand.

  He is tall, round, and stained with age. He isn’t one for words, yet they never seem to elude him; often and unwanted, his Tourette's symptoms offered not kind, gentle words but crude, and distasteful shouts at random. Because of this, he has relegated himself to the kitchen to work, but not quite far enough for us not to hear him. The town is very understanding and treats his outbursts as nothing but a sneeze, yet I get ostracized and I only shout when I'm angry.

  I grab his pruning hands and we shake.

  “Hi, I’m April Agrippa, are you still hiring?”

  “Depends on how well you can hold things without dropping them.”

  “I only drop things if I want too, throw them when I’m mad.”

  His throat is rusty with laughter. “When can you start?”

  That was too easy, this is either a really lousy job or he’s desperate. “Depends on what my job is.” I quip.

  “Oh,” he says taken aback yet pleased. “Waitressing, and whatever Joan needs help with I guess.”

  He sounds unsure of himself, maybe he doesn’t care. I wonder if his sister was Diana and if she died, relinquishing her position to Randall. His wrinkles are lined with a sadness only death gives you.

  “Tomorrow then. If that’s alright. This is my last week of school, and I could work full time by next week if you need me too.”

  “Sounds perfect. Just get here when you get here.”

  He is str
ange, we should get along.

  “Thank you so much.” I pour out politeness.

  My hand flew up in a quick wave as I leave the restaurant.

  I did it. I have a job.

  18

  Leaving the Diner, I spot a familiar face from my past loitering outside the mini-mart across the street; Robert. His skin matches the whites of his dead green eyes, and short black beard gives him an air of civil war ghost while his plainly clothed slightly ratty ensemble adds a touch of homelessness to him. His short black hair looks as though it's trying to be a mohawk but gave up, and the scar of his jawline changed a section of his beard white. He just looks like someone you do not want to find yourself alone with and is definitely the kind of person you cross the street to avoid—which everyone does. Everyone has an unfounded fear of him yet when I look at him he just seems tired of life, a kind of sadness I know all too well.

  He definitely fits the description of bad apple, but aren't those the ones that make the best pies? Lucy was adamant I stay away from him, but it's hard to do when he's everywhere I go, as if he's part of the scenery. Living in a trailer park on the outskirts of town, he seems to act as a leader of the assortment of folk who live there. It's truly a whole other world over there with aliens populating it as well. It seems to be a rule where you have to have a motorcycle, a beard, and a lousy attitude to live there. Most of them are actually just neutered sheep in wolf's clothing but not Robert, I know for a fact he's not acting. It was him I saved in that forest all those years back and the part he played in that crime was definitely more than victim.

  Pretending not to see him as he leers at me, I continue my way home to relay the pleasing news and get out of the misty weather.

  19

  He stalks me from a distance like a hunter, careful not to make eye contact or noise. I'm oblivious, just as I will be in the forest, and on the train tracks, and all through town like a Dr. Seuss book. That itch I feel when someone is watching me I will shrug off to my paranoia. But it's not paranoia if it's legitimately happening, and if this is happening, ignoring that itch could spell death.

  20

  Home gave me no respite from the weather as my mom rained on my new job parade.

  “Honey, I just think you’re taking on too much.” She says disapprovingly.

  “It’s the last week of school then I’ll have nothing to do the whole summer. How the hell is that taking on too much?”

  I know she wants to keep me home and protected, under her watchful eye always. She doesn’t think I can handle anything. Even though my past demonstrates otherwise, I’ve grown, I’m better, I can control myself. I wish she would see this.

  “It’s summer break, which means a break from life. It’s a time to relax, I really wish you would just relax.”

  “I’ve been on a break for the past two years, I’ve been in my room, in a social coma for two years. I need anything but a break. I’m keeping the job, it’s a simple give people food job, not a pharmaceutical analyst job.”

  “April…you understand where I’m coming from don’t you?”

  I claw at my face, not wanting to talk any more.

  She took the hint and left my room. I fall back. The bed is cold, it doesn’t want me yet. I sit up and text Greg: I’m coming over.

  ”Give me an hour to get home.” he texts back.

  Falling back into my pillows I ponder what to do until then. Getting up I decide to go outside to blow off steam until I leave.

  * * *

  My favorite flower turns out to be a weed, I never understood why people stomp on the small and weak things, the things that need our help most. I love gardening, helping plants grow, just because nothing can grow inside my barren body doesn't mean the world around me has to the same. And I like to keep busy, it keeps me from overthinking; it’s like the more you enter the outside world, the less you hear your own.

  I peer inside my small and languishing greenhouse. What once was a cornucopia of lush peonies, violets, ferns, and other flowers are now brittle dried carcasses of their former glory. A sadness crept on along my edges, like a spider anticipating the fly. I shake it off and move forward, taking stock of what I will need to do to restore life to such death. This happens often; this cycle of life and death, always dependent upon my moods, and my surroundings suffer. Running my finger along the wooden shelf collecting dust, I stop to gather the pieces of shattered pottery I once created, painted, and destroyed in a fit of anger. The last few minutes of sun for the day peek in through the dirty cobwebbed panes; I will make this place whole again, and I will make it last.

  21

  Stepping outside back into the now heavy mist, I look back to the house debating whether or not to grab an umbrella. Deciding against it; I’ve come too far. When I start to walk again my eyes catch a fleeting glimpse of something in the car. I look back; just trash. No, wait, my mom is a clean freak. Then I remember, its James’s number. I rush to the car in and jump in the back seat grabbing the crumpled ball of paper. Smoothing it out is hard after what I did to it. And I did it for a reason, so why am I doing this?

  Sitting in the back of my mom’s car I stare at his number.

  I've already decided I don’t need him, I should just get rid of it. I tell my hand to throw it away, but it doesn’t listen. I don’t have time for this. I’ll…I’ll just keep it for Lea since she likes him so much. I shove the number in my back pocket and slid out.

  As I slam the door shut I saw the car keys still in the ignition. Leaving the doors unlocked is one thing, but leaving the keys? Either my mom is stupid or severely trusting. Not particularly liking either option I hide the keys underneath the seat.

  Halfway to Greg’s I realize I’m cold. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I cross the street where the clouds are sprinkling sun and slow my pace to enjoy it more. The dirt roads and overgrowth of foliage is a picture from a travel magazine, especially with the skyline painted with mountains. I listen to everything; birds singing, sticks breaking, locusts shrilling, noises I don’t recognize. Nature is so calming; there is no love or hate in it, nature just is. The rain washes over my green bruises, soothing them with cool water. I should stand outside more often.

  I will have to continue my love affair with nature another time; Greg is leaning on a tree not too far ahead. He grins watching me shiver as I approach.

  “What took you so long?” He questions.

  James’s number burns hot in my pocket. Why do I feel like I’m cheating on Greg? We’re not even like that. He’s like my brother, which just filled out in significant ways the past year. “I was playing with some bears on the road.” I joke.

  “I can tell.” He points to the bluing bruises on my arms.

  “I tripped over Pounce on the stairs,” I explain in embarrassment, running my hand over the swellings.

  Seconds tick by.

  “It’s weird, huh?”

  “What is?”

  “You haven’t been to my house for almost a year now.”

  I bit my lip and look down. “I know…I’m sorry. I just…things were…”

  “I know.” He swings his arm around my shoulder for comfort. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

  “Thanks,” I say appreciatively.

  “I hope you stay.” He says as if he’s asking me.

  I hope so too. I arch my head sideways to see heart-wringing emotions in his emerald eyes. I’ve never seen this in him before, I don’t know what to say.

  “So…I hear there are pictures to be seen?”

  “Right this way.” He ushers me in with an open arm.

  22

  His room is the basement, the coldest room of the house, and I’m drenched.

  “Here” He takes off his gray knit sweater and hands it to me. “It’s pre-warmed.”

  Too freezing to refuse the overdone gesture, I throw it on and bask in the warmth.

  “Thanks,” I say chattering.

  I wander over to the other end of his room, his studio, where al
l of his pictures are laid out in scattered piles on his desk. Paging my way through a few on top I find an image of Sage, the barn owl in Lucy’s shed.

  Turning to him, “You got Sage!” I exclaim.

  He comes over. “You mentioned her a few times so I thought I’d check it out.”

  “You said I could take one to paint?”

  “Take as many as you want, I have negatives so I can make as many copies as I need.”

  “I want Sage.” I moreover demand.

  “I thought as much.” He gave a wry grin.

  I set her photo aside as I examine his other images. Many are of me, I've always hated my picture being taken, I don't like seeing myself, I look at the photo and don't recognize myself; I don't know her. How am I supposed to know who I really am when my personality changes at the drop of dime and I have medication meddling with my wants and needs as well? What could I really tell you about that girl? Nothing unchanging, never anything solid; I am fluid.

  A flash catches me off guard, looking over to Greg with a camera in hand I give him a disapproving smirk.

  “Okay okay sorry, no more, I promise.” He concedes throwing his hands up.

  They say photography takes a piece of your soul with every capture. It is why people of some cultures refused to be photographed. I consider using that existential excuse for a brief moment, but upon remembering how crazy people already think I am that thought quickly dissolves.

  Continuing to file through his photos, I notice how some are from deep in the mountains, pictures taken at such high angles he must have climbed high. I can see his tan muscles through the corner of my eye. It’s like he instantly changed. Where have I been?