english206intermediatespring2014.web.unc.eduenglish206intermediatespring2014.web.unc.edu/files/... · Web viewOne of my teachers in high school told the class that the fruit in the

Barsanti, The Real Stories

Renata Barsanti101 Stadium Drive

Chapel Hill, NC, [email protected]

Where the Real Stories Hide

When they read about Adam and Eve in Church, do you ever just want to yell out and tell

Eve not to eat the fruit?

That’s how I feel. I’m sitting in one of those hard benches, trying to be still but shifting

enough that my butt doesn’t fall asleep, and the old lady who’s reading gives every word more

syllables than it needs. And even though her voice is the same kind of soothing as rain plunking

on a roof and the clouds are so thick that the stained glass windows aren’t doing their job of

keeping everyone awake with sunlight, I want to jump up without worrying about hiking my

dress down and yell at Eve for what she did, because who even needs fruit?

I’m one hundred percent sure that if I had been in her position, I would have just eaten

something else, like steak, if there were cows in paradise. Which there had to be, because I eat at

the Paradise Burger all the time, and I figure that’s where they get their inspiration. I would have

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said, “no, you dumb snake, I don’t like fruit nor do I like snakes so you can just keep this apple

all to yourself.”

One of my teachers in high school told the class that the fruit in the Bible was probably a

metaphor for sex, but I don’t believe that. I’m sure Adam was great and all, but I can see

someone sinning for an apple way more than I can see her doing it for some fruitloop guy that’s

naked all the time. Eve must have known that there would be some kind of consequence, but

instead, she went and made us all have sinner genes and then made childbirth awful. My mom

can attest to that, except sometimes I think she’s exaggerating just to get us to stay away from

boys, because how could there ever be that much gunk coming out of your privates?

So all in all, I kind of wish God had made me back when he made them too, so I could

have followed Eve around and smacked her on the hand whenever she tried to pick fruit from the

knowledge tree. I think I would have been really good at that, kind of like a bodyguard to protect

her from sin. I tell you, there aren’t many things that I can do right on this earth, but that would

certainly have been one of them.

My sister Jenny fusses at me after the service about fidgeting, and it drives me nuts,

because I’m the older sister. But this is how it’s always been, just because she’s an honor student

and I barely made it out of high school. What’s really annoying is that she seems to think that I

want to be just like her even though I most definitely do not.

Besides, I finally have a one-up on her, which is money. She complains all the time about

needing scholarships, and sometimes, I can’t help but say “maybe you should get a job like me”

and she gets so mad that she either yells at me “after college, you’ll see!” or she runs and tells

Mom, who then gives me a talking-to. I don’t see why Mom gets mad at me for that, though,

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because Jenny calls me names all the time and picks on me for not being the sharpest tool in the

shed or the brightest crayon in the box. I don’t appreciate being teased for something I can’t fix,

but when I tease her for something she can change, I get in trouble. Sometimes I wonder if she

hates me so much because I got more attention when we were little, because I had tutors and

Mom helped me extra. I would think she’d have gotten over it when she started getting all kinds

of awards for being smart, though, so I guess I just don’t understand her.

Then again, Mom isn’t my biggest fan either. I’m pretty sure she loves me, but she’s

always gotten really frustrated about things that are hard for me, like math and manners. I keep

asking her if I can move out, but she gets all teary-eyed and asks me things like “what are you

going to eat?” and I say “grilled cheese,” because I’m good at making that. And she says “how

are you going to get to work?” and I say “I could try harder to pass the driving test,” and usually

by this point she’s crying. I guess it’s kind of depressing to have your 24-year-old still living in

the house when your 18-year-old is fixing to move out. I know she just worries about me a lot,

but sometimes that gets in the way, and I keep telling her she should redirect it to something like

global warming or the war effort, except there is no war at the moment, so maybe some other

country’s war effort. And then she should help me move out, because I know I can do it.

So today I let Jenny’s words sail right over my head like the birds that used to fly around

the elementary school playground waiting for one of us to drop a Cheeto. Instead, I look around

the churchyard, reading all the graves a bunch of times and watching old people gush at each

other and hoping the clouds don’t burst open. And suddenly, my bored, not-paying-attention eyes

land on this guy who’s talking to the pastor. He’s tall and probably kind of muscley except I

can’t be sure because he’s dressed respectably, which is a good sign in a guy. His shirt is

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checkered and he turns and sees me staring, and boy, let me tell you about that smile. It looks

like moonlight on the lake downtown, all shiny and white.

I notice that I’ve probably been looking too long when off to a corner of my mind I

realize that “why can’t you just sit still for one damn minute” turns into “Samantha” (it’s Sam)

“why aren’t you listening? Is there anything at all going on in that brain of yours?” and so I snap

back and roll my eyes and say “of course there is” and push this man to the back of my thoughts.

I can’t get him to stay there, so when I see him heading for the table with the lemonade and

cookies, I do my best to convince Jenny that I’m dying of hunger and don’t know what to do.

That way, she’ll suggest going there and be okay with it, because she’ll feel smart for coming up

with a solution, even though that’s what I was thinking in the first place.

So I hurry and get there just in time to reach for a flowery paper cup as he’s doing the

same so that our hands touch a teensy bit and I have to apologize to his face. He smiles again and

I get nervous so that I can feel it in my stomach.

“I’m John,” he says and his voice sounds smooth and warm, just like the three-

tablespoons-of-sugar coffee I like to drink.

“Sam.” He reaches for my hand and shakes it all jerky-like. That’s good, I figure, a man

with a firm handshake, but I wonder if any more shaking might crunch my bones.

“Nice to meet you,” he winks, which seems kind of uncalled for but I figure he’s one of

those people who does that all the time and I really like it. I take in breaths that make my lungs

tickle because he’s still looking at me, not looking away uncomfortably, and he seems pretty

sincere, and I try not to be red. Of course, nothing gets past Jenny, so she picks on me the whole

ride home, but my happy tells me to ignore her.

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The moment we get there, I tell Mom I need to go talk to Grandma and hurry over to her

house, which is only a few minutes’ walk from ours. It’s all in good neighborhoods, too, with

pointy fences and houses with porches. I think that’s why Mom lets me go by myself.

She opens the door with her hair loose, gray wispiness all escaping. She gives me a soft,

not-too-squeezy hug. We sit in the shade of her porch and I tell her everything.

Grandma’s always had a soft spot for me, because she was never the best student either.

That means she understands me way more than Mom and Jenny. I learned that one day when I

got upset in school because I was having a hard time reading a book that felt like it had too many

pages and big words that made me trip with my brain. I’d gotten so frustrated in class that my

teacher had sent me out of the classroom, and everyone had laughed, and I came home crying so

hard that not even fresh lemonade could snap me out of it.

I told Grandma what had happened, and she got mad. I’d never seen her like that before,

her wrinkles all bunched together while she muttered things that sounded mean and also possibly

demonic about they think they know what smart is. She pulled a wrinkly Kleenex out of her

purse, blotted my cheeks, and pulled me out of the house.

We drove downtown and went inside a café, but we stopped before we even made it to

the counter. She pointed at the bulletin board next to the door. “You listening, Sam? This is

where the real stories hide,” she said. “You don’t need to be able to read big fat books to get the

real stories, the important ones.”

I followed her finger to a flyer. Lost dog. Responds to Annie. Beloved pet, please call if

you see her! I nodded, but I wasn’t sure if I understood. She pointed to a couple other flyers, but

I kept seeing people out of the corner of my eye sipping coffee and reading books even bigger

than the one in class, so we moved on.

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We did the same thing at the market.

Babysitter needed, four kids ages 5-12.

Ron’s Lawns, keeping yards tidy for five years. Price negotiable.

And then we drove to the hospital, where the boards had papers with studies on them and

phone numbers dangling at the bottom.

Needed for study: Mothers who smoked during pregnancy. Compensation available.

That’s when I finally started to understand, because I’d heard my mom say that maybe

that’s why I am like I am, because she smoked a lot when I was in her belly, even though the

doctors said that there’s no way to know and that plenty of moms do the same thing and have

babies that aren’t like me. I figured that there was a story tucked into the flyer itself, of the

people who wanted to study moms, and a story in each of the slips that had been taken, and

Grandma was right: it didn’t take much to find them. We drove home quieter than usual, but it

was a good quiet.

These days I tell Grandma everything, right down to what kind of Poptart I have for

breakfast and whether or not my room is clean. She listens and nods in all the right places. Now,

I tell her about John from church and how nice he looked, and how he made me feel tingly like

there were sparklers in my belly, the ones they bring to the church picnic on the Fourth of July.

And you know what she tells me? “Go for it, sweet pea.”

My mouth falls open, because I was expecting her to tell me to stay away from boys.

“You’re a grown girl, there’s nothing wrong with that.” She twists her wedding ring

around on her finger, the one she still wears even though Grandpa died when I was ten. “You

deserve a good man. And he would be lucky to have you.”

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I start to plan what I’m going to wear to next Sunday’s church before I even get home,

because I know I need to make a good impression. I practice my smile in the mirror until I’m

convinced that the teeth-to-lip ratio is just right and I put on my highest, pinkest heels to walk

around until I don’t teeter-totter anymore.

But then, later that afternoon, I’m working my evening shift at Walgreens, changing all

of the sale labels to get ready for next week. I’ve just gotten to the point where my “yes ma’am,”

happy-to-be-there motivation starts to fizzle out when I hear that voice, the one like sweet coffee,

from what I guess is the next aisle. I almost drop the stack of tags I’m holding as I fling myself

another aisle down, hoping to postpone seeing him.

I’m not ready for this. I’m wearing my scratchy light blue uniform polo that I didn’t

realize I shouldn’t wash with a new pair of dark jeans, so it’s actually kind of grayish blue now,

and I didn’t feel like doing my laundry this weekend so my khakis have a mustard stain from last

week’s barbecue above the right knee. I am in no shape to see him, and my stomach does

somersaults like I used to do before I dropped out of kiddie gymnastics.

“Sam, is that you?” There he is, right next to me, his basket full of junk food, all Coke

and Lays and M&M’s, even though I know for a fact that none of them are on sale. He is most

definitely my kind of man.

“Oh, hi, I didn’t see you there, how are you, I mean since church and all?” My words

feel bubbly and I’m not sure whether they sound as good to him as they do to me.

“I’ve been fine,” I try not to gawk too much. “This is my friend Jeremy.” He gestures at

the guy next to him who I haven’t even noticed, and he’s even more muscular than John, his skin

just a little dark so that it reminds me of a chocolate milkshake. I recognize him from church, but

I’m pretty sure he’s one of the people that only come on holidays. He nods, not saying anything.

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“Nice to meet you,” I gush.

Kind of suddenly, and still without saying anything to me, Jeremy claps him on the back

and walks away, and John’s eyes get all warm, light moving through them just like it spreads

through glow sticks right after you crack them. “I know this might seem kind of soon,” he says,

rubbing his arm. “but…would you like to go out with me?”

My mouth falls open and my insides squeal. I want to say something, but the sound gets

trapped and bounces around inside me right along with the rest of my organs. I know I’ve smiled

at him a lot, and I wore one of my nicer dresses to church today, and to think these things are

suddenly paying off makes me extra happy.

“You know…just dinner sometime?” His cheeks are dotted with pink and I know it’s

nothing compared to how red I must be. I take deep breaths and I’m so excited that I say yes,

yes, of course, definitely, when, tomorrow at five, that’s perfect, can’t wait.

When I tell my mom she cries tears that turn happy once Jenny assures her that she saw

him at church and he seemed very very nice and I’m not even annoyed that she has a say in the

matter. We decide to go dress shopping the next morning, which is usually not my forte, because

who likes trying on clothes? It makes me mad when Mom wants me to turn around so she can

make sure stuff fits, because I’m capable of knowing that without her help.

This time actually goes well because I like the first dress I see. It’s this pinkish-orangish

color that I love because of a teacher I had in fourth grade who always wore lipstick that was the

same color. Her name was Mrs. Meyer, and at first I hated her, because she always made me stay

after class and sometimes during recess. But she was always nice, and I realized that she was

making me stay just to be sure I understood what we were learning so that I could keep up with

the class. Even better, sometimes she would help me get ahead.

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She was the best teacher I ever had. On the last day of school, she gave me the “most

motivated student” award, and I remember how tightly she hugged me when she handed it to me.

She said, “Sam, I just know you’re going to go places. Thanks for being an amazing student” and

it made me cry, because school was always so hard and no teacher, not even a family member,

had ever said anything like that to me. I still have the certificate. I keep it in my box of special

things, with the pictures of me and grandpa and the yoyo I won at Chuckie Cheese’s and the mini

shampoo bottles I collect from hotels. I haven’t seen Mrs. Meyer since the last day of class, but I

think about her all the time.

And that’s why I think the dress is perfect, because it reminds me so much of her, and I

figure it must be good luck. It even fits nicely, tight around the top but flowy on the bottom so it

poofs out when I spin and hangs all nice and flattering when I don’t.

That night, Jenny does my make-up and hair. She doesn’t clamp my ear with the hair

straightener like last time, thank heavens. Instead, she styles each poof of brown carefully. She

blots my face and paints my lips and uses the eyeliner stick that’s funny because it’s basically a

colored pencil. My grandmother watches and smiles in a way that makes my nervousness fade.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I get a little teary, because I never feel particularly

beautiful, seeing as my hair does whatever it wants which generally involves being a curly mass

of tangles and my face is just an average face so it doesn’t stand out and my eyes hide behind

glasses because the one time I tried to do contacts I hated touching my eyeballs so much that I

just wore my glasses instead and my mom got mad that we’d wasted the money.

But now, my hair is controlled and my eyes pop out, like they’re saying “hey, we’re here,

don’t ‘cha know?” I spin around in my dress and I learn what being gorgeous feels like, and it’s

like jumping into a swimming pool on a hot day except the relief is all on the inside.

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John comes inside like a gentleman and shakes my Mom’s and my sister’s and my

grandma’s hands. Mom and Jenny like him a lot, and Jenny even starts to get a bit of jealous on

her face, which makes me happy. Grandma looks a little more skeptical, looking him up and

down and studying his face with her lips scrunched, even though he’s nothing but charming.

I figure it’s because she’s had a tough time with guys. She’s been married three times: the

first was when she was sixteen and he turned out to be a dud except for giving her my mom, the

second was just plain mean, and the third died way too early. I used to ask her if she was going

to get another husband, and she would always say no, her heart was too broken. So I know she

just wants to protect me from what she’s gone through, and despite her not-so-nice faces, I

appreciate her concern. I figure he understands too, so I smile the whole time and leave with a

floaty heart.

He takes me to a restaurant where we sit outside at a table with a big umbrella and those

black, patterned chairs that make loud scraping noises when you move them. We talk about

family, which is small for him because he’s an only child. He tells me about how he just

graduated college and is staying with his grandparents for a few weeks because they want him to,

and because free room and board is nice, and because he thinks small towns are charming, and

because he wants to be lazy before he starts his real job, which is in a sports equipment company.

We both eat fancy BLT’s on thick, toasted bread with crispy fries on the side, and we

both don’t want dessert, and when the waitress asks how we want to pay the check, he says

“together” at the same time I say “separate” and we laugh and then say the opposite and then he

says he’ll pay and we keep laughing.

And then, when we get to the car, we decide we actually do want dessert, and he says that

there are Oreos at his house, and that sounds perfect to me. So we speed there, and it turns out

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his grandparents don’t live too far from my grandma, only a couple streets over. We hurry into

his kitchen and pour ourselves tall glasses of milk, and I laugh at him because he eats his Oreos

without licking the cream off first. I keep eating cookies until I’m sure I’m going to burst, and

then I feel bursty in another way, because he scoots a little closer to me so that our arms touch.

And then, even though I’m sure my teeth are gross and chocolaty, he touches my cheek

and his hand makes the side of my face feel like it’s melting. He pushes his lips to mine, and it’s

soft and quick but it makes me feel like my whole body is smiling.

He whisper-asks if I want to go to his bedroom, and assures me that it’s movie night at

the senior center so his grandparents will be gone for at least another two hours. I feel a little

jumpy and nervous but once we’re kissing, all of that leaves my system. We tangle together and I

keep hugging him closer to me because he’s so warm and I feel so good, like all of the worries

I’ve ever had are flying away, and all of me feels fizzy and alive, like I’m full of those little soda

bubbles and they’re all floating to the surface.

Before long, he’s shirtless and I’m not wearing my dress anymore, just my bra and

underwear, which are kind of embarrassing because they have cats on them. He doesn’t seem to

notice and his hands are in places where hands have never exactly been, and I breathe kind of

hard because I never knew things could feel so good. And then we just keep going further, and

then we aren’t wearing anything, and I never thought this was ever going to happen because I’m

just plain old me, nothing special. I keep getting all dizzy thinking that I’m really here, and he’s

really here, and even when it gets to hurt just a little, it’s a good kind of uncomfortable, a grown-

up kind. I just keep holding tight to his back, which is warm and smooth like satiny pajamas

when you wake up all toasty under the covers, and letting all my new feelings sprinkle over my

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brain. I keep thinking that I’ve never been this close to someone, and my family didn’t even have

a say in it, and I’m overwhelmed with gladness and freedom so that it pokes behind my eyes.

I keep feeling happy after he’s done and so I cuddle up to his chest and hold onto him

tightly even though we’re kind of sweaty, because I know a good thing when I see it and I don’t

want him or the sparklers in my belly to go away, ever. He rubs my back all gentle, and

everything feels so right that I get the giggles just a bit, and my mind bounces around. Finally, at

one point, he pulls back a bit to look at me, and I laugh and say “you know, that was probably a

sin” because it pops into my head and makes me smile, because why on earth could something so

nice be so bad? I lean in for a kiss, but my lips just hit air, and I see him rolling his eyes.

“You don’t really believe in that bullshit, do you?”

His voice is kind of chuckley, but his words make the goodness stop really fast, like when

Mom almost runs red lights and slams on the breaks. “Of course I believe it,” I say, moving my

hand to rest on his cheek. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because it’s ridiculous,” he shrugs, all matter-of-fact, his voice starting to sound an

awful lot like the kids that used to talk to me like I had no idea what was going on. “There’s no

way half of it could have happened.”

“I didn’t mean that I minded the sinfulness,” I bite my lip, a little nervous and a lot

surprised. “But now I don’t know about this.”

I ease away from him, watching his stunned expression. “Seriously? Just because I don’t

believe in the Bible?”

“More because you’re so mean about it.”

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I see anger push into his face, and I’m almost afraid he’s going to hit me. But then he

does worse. “God, I can’t believe you.” The light is gone from his eyes, which now look full of

disgust. “Jeremy told me you were retarded, but not that retarded.”

My hand flies to my mouth, and I gasp for air, but I can’t get enough. His words start

hurting in my toes, and the shock goes from there to the rest of me. I imagine that I see his face

flicker with a bit of sorry, but before I know if it’s me just making it up or if it’s for real, he

grabs his clothes and storms out of the room.

I sit on his bed in the twisted sheets, more naked than is comfortable, and I’m vulnerable

and alone and the tears are so quick that they’re dripping onto my chest before I even know that

they’re happening. I’m shattered and achey and still surprised, too, in a burning way. Before he

comes back, I pull my dress on so hard and fast that the lacey sleeves tear a little, which makes

me even more embarrassed, and I just pick up my shoes because I can’t run in them, and I don’t

look behind me as I run as fast as I can out of his house and over to Grandma’s.

It’s late enough that the door is locked, so I bang on it, sobbing so loud that I’m scared

that the neighbors will hear, and see how ridiculous I am, dressed up like some guy will ever like

me even though I’m not pretty and I’m even less smart. I try not to look at my reflection, which

is all runny make-up and ugly sadness. Grandma comes to the door in her nightgown that looks

like something from the Victorian paper dolls I had when I was little. She doesn’t even need to

look at me all the way before she leads me inside to the bedroom where I used to spend the night

when I was little.

She tucks me in and sits next to me, rubbing my back, just like she used to when I was

little. It’s soothing but it doesn’t help much, because I just keep crying and hiccupping and

coughing and I can’t believe this happened. I don’t know how much time passes with us there

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together, but I know that it finally gets really dark, not just grey, and grandma doesn’t even get

up to turn on the lights. We sit there in the dark, me shaking and her soothing, my eyes leaking

and her arms pulling me close until finally, somehow, I slip out of reality and into a cottony,

unhappy sleep.

I wake up to the bright colors of the bedroom and the memories that come with it. It has

pink, checkered curtains that match the bedspread and porcelain dolls in flowy dresses on the

shelves. The sun trickles in through gaps in the curtains, and I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars

stuck all over the ceiling until Grandma brings me a cup of coffee and my favorite kind of

PopTarts, the frosted cinnamon ones, toasted to gooiness.

For a long time, she just sits on the edge of my bed while I nibble. But then I start crying,

because what happened last night hits again. My sobs are the kind that make my heart hurt, but I

figure she deserves to know what happened, so my words fight past them.

“He knew I was stupid enough to let him get something out of me,” I moan, swiping at

my tears. “Apparently people even told him I was. So I guess he never thought I was pretty or

nice in the first place.”

“Now, Sam…”

“How am I this stupid, Grandma?” I look up at her with eyes that ache. I search for help

in her wrinkles, and for once, I’m scared that I’m not going to find it. “I can’t do anything right

and I’m never going to.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighs, her eyes big and shiny like she’s going to cry too. “The same

damn thing happened to me, you know that?”

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I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself, trying pull the tears back but only

making them come out faster, because who wants to know that their sweet grandparents have had

awful things happen to them too?

“I’ve told you about my second husband,” she leans her forehead into unsteady hands. “I

thought he was a good man. He was everything I wanted – he had a job that could support me

and your mama, a smile that made him look like someone in a magazine…he knew I wanted

stability and a bit of sweetness, too,” she says, and she reaches for my hand. “He knew that if he

gave me a bit of that, I wouldn’t realize who he really was. And of course I didn’t figure it out

until we were married. He called me horrible names, and he made me feel less than I was, just

like your man did there.”

I look away, focusing on the small chest in the corner that has clothes that fit me when I

was nine, full of little Walmart packs of cotton underwear and t-shirts made with the same

magenta patterns as the shorts that go with them.

“I left when I finally admitted to myself that he was wrong. He was yelling at me for

messing something or other up, and it just clicked. He was wrong. I’m not an idiot. He was the

problem, not me.”

I turn back and latch my blurry eyes on her face. “And even though we had to live in a

motel for a few weeks after we moved out, and it took a while to get back on our feet…I learned

that just because someone calls you names doesn’t mean that’s what you are.”

She actually smiles. “Other people can’t define you.” She rubs my hand, and I breathe a

little easier. “You aren’t stupid at all. You know all the important things, like how to love and

how to be sweet. You know about God’s presence. You’re great at your job. You know more

than you think. And we’re here to help you with what you don’t.”

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I’m not ready to let myself feel better, but I thank her and nod like I’m supposed to, and I

tell her I’m ready to go home. But once she takes me inside, I see Mom all teary and Jenny

uncomfortable, rubbing her upper arms, and I think it means that, for once, she feels really bad

for me. I can’t look at this, so I run upstairs to my room.

I call in sick to work, but my boss tells me that Grandma already called and to feel better.

I lie on my bed, pulling my knees so close to my chest that it’s like I’m trying to absorb them.

My heart keeps feeling tight, like one of those hair ties that don’t stretch far enough to wrap

around a ponytail without strangling my fingers.

I doze a little, but it’s the kind of sleep where I dream that I’m going to get food or a

glass of water and I’m not really sure if I’ve done it or not, so it isn’t really restful. I snap out of

it when I hear the door open and feel someone plop down on my bed. I assume it’s Grandma, but

when I open my sticky eyes, I see Jenny.

She smiles kind of soft. “I’ve got good news.”

I don’t believe her, so I just stare at her freckle-free, make-up covered face, thinking that

if my eyes were the same blue as hers, maybe all this wouldn’t have happened because I would

have been more of a catch.

“He’s left. I talked to Margie, who’s friends with his cousin. And he took off last night.

He feels bad, Sammie.”

My chest starts to feel a little less sore.

“And he’s done stuff like this before,” She smiles with one side of her mouth. “Even his

cousin doesn’t like him that much. So, well…it’s not your fault.”

I feel relief start to swim into my vision with fresh, happier tears.

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“And…I guess I wanted to say that I love you. And I’m sorry.” She looks down and picks

lint off of her stretchy pants. “And…I’m here for you.” She gives me one last look, and her eyes

are a lot less narrow than they usually are. She walks out of the room, and I gaze through the

slots in my shutters, drinking in the light.

Mom and Jenny make all my favorite foods that night – bacon and popcorn and French

fries and peanut butter cookies – and the combination makes me laugh, which makes them look

relieved. We eat on the back porch just as it’s starting to get dusky so that the sky is a bluish gray

that seems to want to wrap its arms around me. We point at fireflies and tell bad jokes, even as

bad as the “orange you glad I didn’t say banana” one, and we laugh so hard. I feel warm and

fuzzy, and also a little thankful.

I think about my family, and how even though they bother me, I’m lucky that they’re

here. I think about John, and I feel kind of bad for him, even after he was so horrible. If you’re

mean enough that your own cousin doesn’t like you, I guess you deserve sympathy. I also think

about Eve a little bit. I guess I can’t really blame her anymore, if things are how my high school

teacher said, because I pretty much did the same thing, and the guy wasn’t even as nice as Adam.

But I’m starting to think that, no offense, God might have come down on her a little too hard,

because if it happened to her, my grandma, and me, it must be pretty normal.

At the same time, I’m kind of glad God was a strict parent, because I figure the world

would be different if He wasn’t. Right now, I kind of like where I am. I’ve got my problems and

I’ve made my mistakes, that’s for sure. But something about this moment, with the sun escaping

and the warm light from our windows washing over us and the crickets having a party with all

their loud chirping – something about it makes me feel like my heart is full, teddy-bear stuffed so

17


that it’s firm but there’s still room for softness and hugs. I stop minding being me for a bit, and I

like it.

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Documents

english206intermediatespring2014.web.unc.eduenglish206intermediatespring2014.web.unc.edu/files/... · Web viewOne of my teachers in high school told the class that the fruit in the