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Writing alongside a tower is always a good idea |
| Written by Dean Sanchez | |
| Saturday, 29 December 2007 | |
‘Would you like to go out with me?’ I asked her, as we walked past by the ancient tree that oversaw through the decades. Decades of adolescent people learning the art of courtship, the grief of rejection, and whatever other high school dramas the tree witnessed. Well that tree is about to witness mine. ‘Uhm… I don’t know’ she replied, followed by a very long pause, it somewhat scared me. Is she going to say no? She’s most likely going to say no. I could see the look on her face as she tries to process what I just told her. It looked like she was constipated, like she cannot seem to digest the image of me with her. Well, I thought it would be a good time to ask her out, as Homecoming is about two weeks away. But like my other tale… this originates from my Chemistry class. That class is a cesspool of the double x chromosome holders, the female to male ratio is alarmingly disproportionate, 2:1 (I dunno if male teenagers are just plain stupid or what but its telling something). Its alarmingly good in a sense that two thirds are single, its not even funny. But, my lack of confidence coupled with my sheltered-self-scared-of- rejection led to acquaintances, but nowhere near friendship nor courtship. Well, it was a terrifying idea, you know, asking someone out just to find out she is not interested. I think its heart-breaking. In that class I pondered of ways to woo this girl. I often left my group to work with her group and do reconnaissance, gather info. This recon mission is sometimes time consuming as I usually end up copying her homework because I spend too much time ranting about the crappy-ness of my neighborhood, of how many registered sex offenders living in the vicinity of my house (it can be seen on the net), of how many times hoboes pass out while partying with their friend, Taaka, and of how loud and annoying my Mexican neighbors that keeps playing mariachi music full blast while …uhmm. It was not a good sight. Recon sucks. So I diverted my attention towards something all girls like and try to use it to my full advantage, chocolates. I tried using this before, but to no avail it worked. But it takes me about four to five times to learn from my mistakes. It took me five destroyed pants to figure out that I should tuck the cuffs of my pants in so the chain won’t eat it when I ride my bike. But back to the point, I tried bribing them chocolates thinking it would spill their heartfelt desires and make them fall for me. But it didn’t work. It never works. For some reason, I thought chocolate is like the pony that led to the downfall of Troy, it opens a girl’s heart. But it doesn’t work that way. I guess girls don’t like to get their hearts to be destroyed either. A week slid by, I found myself doing the same recon/chocolate tactics, I never learn. I had a sudden surge of courage for the next few weeks and successfully able to peer through her. I started talking to her as we both walked together to our history class we had together, the honor’s history class which I never fit in discovered that she loves dancing, I have two left feet. For some reason, I thought she was perfect for me, that she was the smartest girl I know and I like smart girls. The fall is about to pass and the cold is coming, the girls’ apparels are starting to get longer. Homecoming is definitely coming. I had to get myself together. If I don’t ask her now, I’ll never get the chance to take her to the dance. One day, I felt a big surge of courage, pride, and confidence to ask her to Homecoming. I never actually talked to her outside of class except during our daily walk towards our history class. ‘I don’t really feel anything for you,’ she said with a cold tone, ‘I’m sorry.” It kind of matches the weather that day, frigidly chilly with a touch of water falling from the sky to emphasize the shitty-ness of the situation, sarcastically mocking me by throwing water on top of my head. Goddamn sky. ‘That was awfully awkward,’ I told her as we walked towards the only class I look forward to every single day of my sophomore year of high school. We parted our ways towards our seats, which are two rows away from each other. Never again we saw each other as potential mates, as the spark I hoped to be there never existed in the first place. Now fast forward a year later, we all got older by a year, a year wiser as well. Our history teacher moved to Italy, the band teacher got caught for screwing one of his students that sat across me during Spanish class, which I failed. Now, I have to actually shave as my facial hair grows faster. My path towards manhood approaches. Unsurprisingly, she is on my history class again. She sat two desks on my left. The awkwardness of the incident still lingers, she won’t even sit next to me during a review session for an in-class essay we have. And Homecoming is three weeks away. I’m a junior now, and she became a cheerleader. I wondered if being a cheerleader would corrupt her nice sincere smile. Looking from the photos my buddy and I hacked from the school, cheerleaders have the fakest smile but the nicest bodies, and faces. I thought of her being a cheerleader corrupted her soul and turned her into a stereotypical ***** cheerleaders usually portrayed as. But then again, I’m a varsity wrestler. Stereotypes usually don’t apply in this situation. I found myself staring at her, until I get bored and fall asleep during history class. It’s always a take notes day in there, our grades are based on in-class essays, just like college I suppose. I just hope I don’t fail it like usual. I think she felt awkward as our eyes get contact, seeing our inner thoughts. As one quote from a movie, or book, heck, I don’t even remember where I got this quote but it says that the eyes “are windows to our soul.” I can see her warmness, her greatest beauty, through that hazelnut window. But then again, I’m a cold bastard… even my friends call me heartless, how sad. She just looks away as if nothing ever happened. I saw her in the hallways, walking gracefully as everything fades into a blur except her visage that glows as she enters her class. Her hair looked awfully nice. It was creative writing class. The teacher, a woman in her mid-thirties with excessive make-up on, told the class that we all partner up into two as create a collaborative short story that relates to both of the writers in some way. With a stroke of luck, the lady partnered me up with her. “This feels nostalgic and awful awkward,” I said to her as she looks at me with great disgust and bitchiness, “but then again, back to work.” I suggested about writing about the failed attempt of mine to persuade her to the most glamorous dance sophomores can get into. “That sounds like a good story to write,” she said, “we could also make the protagonist fail, but find happiness that he was happy even though he never got what he wanted.” I just agreed to everything she said. “Do you like towers?” I asked with a voice laced with indifference to mask my emotions. “Why’d you ask?” with suspicion in her voice. “I dunno, maybe it’s a nice place to brainstorm because the library sucks and I don’t want to go to your house and you to mine,” I defensively said to make it seem like I don’t care. “All right, bring your laptop and drafts, I’ll bring mine,” she said without a smile, not even a hint of interest. I got to the tower, it’s the Wind Harp Tower, and it emits an ethereal sound as the wind blows through it, resonating within a 30-foot radius. I love that place. It has a view that overlooks the bay, and the Industrial City as well. I started editing my drafts, a car comes, and she comes out, pretty as always, with her laptop and a notebook. She comes over, “So did you actually do work this time?” “I actually did, surprisingly.” She gave me her draft, the story was exactly the same as it happened, but with flowery words and the story ends with the protagonist ending the story by going out with someone else. My ending was different, it continues on, the search for the girl with a heart of silver; unlike gold it tarnishes and loses luster, and the attempt to rebuff that heart into a shiny piece. “Do you like it?” I asked her, as she read my story, “I had to end it like that, but I don’t care if you don’t like it. One of Vonnegut’s rule of writing short story is write it so it pleases at least one person.” She smiles and says, “This is actually pretty cute.” “I’m a hopeless romantic you know, I try yet I never succeed. All of my romantic ideas usually end up in short stories like that.” “Have you ever read Vonnegut’s ‘Long Walk to Forever?’” I asked her as we worked through the project. “No, why?” she asked without looking at me. “It’s about a G.I. who went A.W.O.L. to reach the girl of his dreams and steal her away from her fiancée through a long walk,” I told her as she looks up to me without any disgust or wierded-out face she usually makes and smiles then said, “Well, I shot you down whenever you make a move to me but it seems like your writing reflects you, you’re not bad at all.” “I really like you, you know,” I started muttering my inner-most feelings, “but if you really don’t feel anything for me at all, I would stop and move on. Those sudden yet deep eye contacts we have on occasion, I might be misinterpreting them as affection, but then again I might be wrong because I---“ She cuts me off by putting her warm forefinger on my lips and puts hers on mine. The tower suddenly starts singing a different tune as the direction the wind is blowing towards to changes directions. “Would you like to go to Homecoming with me?” I asked her gleefully as we drove home from the tower. “I would love to, but, I can’t” “I understand,” I told her as my heart pines for her but I have to let go if she doesn’t want to. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Don’t worry,” I said, “it’s just high school, you’ll see soon how the real world works.” How sad, rejected for the second time. But this time the setting was great, a tower that sings a melodious tone and the weather was warm with low blowing winds. As my futile attempts keep failing, I cannot help but wonder if I’ll ever succeed. The rest of the year just slid by, loveless, hopeless. Copyright 2007 Dean Sanchez |
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