The ACT and Surgery

What I'm Listening to: Heaven Forbid (The Fray) After finishing a quiz today, I sat silently at my desk and compared standardized tests and surgery. I found an impressive amount of similarities: Both require that you not drink or eat. Most people find both quite stressful (there's often pain involved, too). Everyone eagerly--or worriedly, in some cases--anticipates the results. Both involve a treeful of paperwork. There's a lot of chance associated with both--the surgery depends on the skill of the doctor and the ACT or SAT depends on the random assortment of questions. But the most significant similarity is the make-it-or-break-it stakes. As you may or may not have figured out, I'm preparing to take a standardized test (the ACT, to be exact). My nerves are more or less fried, so thankfully After the Crash has already been penned. I would just like to point out that this, part eight, is the highly anticipated finale of After the Crash (which means I have to find a new piece of work to publish...) Well, here it is: Liberation My wet lashes flutter. I wonder idly if it's from the snow. And then I remember it's been weeks since I've merely breathed fresh air--let alone been in the snow. I used to be able to count on one hand the times I've cried. Now I need two. I sweep a finger under my eye and the tear comes away clear and unclouded. It's been weeks since I've worn makeup. I might stop altogether. It's kind of nice, not checking for mascara stains. "This is the day you're released," the kitten-clothed scrubs lady says, adjusting my awkward clavicle cast and helping me sit up. "It still hurts," I say in confusion. She tells me it will for a while, sweetie. But I will get better. She sets the clothes I wore the day of the crash on the bed, washed and unstained. I stand up on my own for the first time in weeks and slip out of the horrible hospital gown. It slithers slowly the floor and lands in a blue-and-white heap. The checkered white floor chills my bare feet and I shiver, quickly climbing into my clothes. I am wearing a white T-shirt, a black sweatshirt, and pants. For the snow, I presume. I throw back the curtain on the right and make my way to the bathroom. The sweatshirt hangs loosely on my impossibly smaller-than-usual frame. I'm betting IVs don't include Death by Chocolate. But wouldn't that be ironic? I take off my sweatshirt and knot it around my waist. It clicks distantly in my mind that I'm going to have to walk out of the hospital barefoot. I turn on the icicle-emitting spigot and splash my face with a frigid wake-up call. I then attempt to brush my teeth without a toothbrush. I am ready. My feet pat softly down the clouded-sky hallway. I throw back my curtain and my hand hesitates at the one on the left. Slowly, slowly I pull it back. There is confusion in his eyes. Then comprehension. Then ecstasy. Only then do I notice the elevated cast next to me. The pain on his face that he is so heroically hiding. "I knew you'd come," he whispers, his teeth set in a concealed grimace. Somehow, strangely, I did too. At first I didn't want it, but now it's...different. "I don't--can't--leave you," I say, looking like the sorry state that I am. He grins some more, and then scrawls an address to my new life on a Pepto-Bismol colored pad. And then I do the inevitable. I walk away. David doesn't--can't--know what he's done for me. At least not yet. Several passerbys glance austerely at my bare feet and I stifle a grin. If they'd been through all that I've been through, the last thing they'd be thinking of would be bare feet. But here I am, unshod, and it's snowing again. I am healing, but I'm not well. I am like a manuscript. What was written is written and there's no going back. But I'm open to reading. At least, by people I risk enough to let into my heart. Like David. The cry for a taxi freezes on my white, cloudy breath as I screech to a halt. I fly back, back to the curtain. Somehow I'm going to have to fake sick for a while.

Walking Home

What I'm Listening to: Different Names for the Same Thing (Death Cab for Cutie) Being sixteen and not having your own car is practically murder. Especially when you have a license. I am one of those many unfortunate, carless teenage souls. I draw the line when it comes to riding the bus, though. Parents, if they choose not to invest in their teenagers in this area, should be obligated to drive them to school to save them from the horrors of the bus. The only problem with that is my parents are both frequently late and forgetful. After half an hour of waiting outside the high school in sub-freezing temperatures, I called my mom and told her I was walking home. She met me after I had walked about a mile and apologized for losing track of time. Shivering and shaking, I massaged my frozen legs and nodded. Despite the cold, I have to admit the walk was pretty nice. Maybe it was my feeling of independence; maybe it was my suddenly slowed pace. But either way, it felt good to get outside and breathe the crisp, cool Washington air. If it weren't so cold, maybe I'd walk home from school once in awhile. And now the long-awaited seventh installment of After the Crash: Bronze I am horrified to realize I have drifted off...again. "David!" I croak. "David's in surgery," a voice says from behind the curtain. "Who are you?" "Just the nurse," he replies. A man-nurse? What else is new? I purse my lips together and ask politely what surgery he is having. He tells me David fell out of his bed last night and broke his leg again, and a few bones in his wrist. My eyes open wide. I ask him if he will be all right. He tells me oh, yes. It will just take a while, is all. I let a breath out hesitantly. I am beginning to get a strange sense of déjà vu. I outlined my eyes in a black pencil and stepped into a knee-length boring black dress. I examined my face in the mirror and sighed. Why in the world did I put on eyeliner today? The streaks only added to my sense of melancholy. I let down my hair that I had tied into a bun. The less people that saw my miserable state, the better. My boots were somewhere under the piles of clothes and junk food, but I had no idea where. Somewhat reluctantly, I settled for a simple pair of black flats. A fluid, single note stirred the blood in my veins. The doorbell. I smoothed my skirt and stood up, letting several shirts and shoes fall to the floor. "Coming," I called emotionlessly. The girl at the door had flaxen hair and a blank expression. "You must be the boss," I said almost kindly. "Oh. I guess he told you about me." "Vaguely," I admitted, and shook her cold, lifeless hand. She led me to her car--a white Lexus--and I climbed in. The journey was spent in perfect silence. I stared out the window, watching the cars and pedestrians, thinking they had it so much luckier than I. The girl and I stood next to each other, next to the gaping hole in the ground and the caramel-colored box with a nameplate of bronze. His name. The color I had only so recently associated with his hair, never to grow again. "How did this happen?" I heard myself say in barely a whisper. The boss said someone came into the firm with a gun and shot whoever was in sight. She could never have done anything. She was lucky they got him--and not her. I don't think she understood me. I knew the fundamentals. But why? How? I had not idea. I gazed at his normally tan face, his bloodless lips, his shut brown eyes. He was beautiful even in death. I reached out a hand and touched him softly on the lips only I--and I presumed his manager--had known. They were cold and stiff with fatality. I shuddered and drew away my hand. Forever how I would remember him: cold, lifeless, and dead. Not the vitality and bronze I had come to love.

An Almost-Collision

What I'm listening to: Better Together (Jack Johnson) I almost died on Friday night. Well, more accurately, a skater almost died Friday night. Let me explain: on the car ride home from Safeway, I noticed a faint outline of a person standing in the middle of the road. At first it looked so freaky and ghostlike I thought I only imagined it, but seconds later I was screaming, "Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!" (In my shocked state, I guess I couldn't articulate something like, "Dad, stop the car! There's someone in the road!") Nevertheless, the message translated in just enough time for Dad to slam on the brakes and scream a warning to the retreating form. Adrenaline drizzling away, I leaned back against the seat. I still couldn't get the image of us crashing into that guy out of my head. Thankfully we didn't hit him, but I'm never going to second-guess what I see again. And speaking of car crashes, here's the next portion of After the Crash: (Oh, and just in case you're being a little lazy, the narrator has flashbacks in this one) Many Happy Returns His halo the color of burnished bronze did not hold my attention. Though his intelligent, soft pools of melted chocolate gazed at me, they were not my primary concern. His perfect mouth touched my smaller one, and my frenzied heart threatened to attack. I awake in the same frantic state. A short woman wearing pink kitten scrubs rushes in. "Are you all right?" she asks. I tell her I just had reconstructive surgery three days ago. Her pink mouth sets in a firm line as she fills a needle with clear liquid. My eyes open wide as she injects the medicine into my IV. Maybe they have those clapper lights in here, because there's a popping sound and the lights start to dim. I hold my breath as the nurse unwittingly sends me hurtling back into the past. He smiled again and I felt his hard, muscular arms wind around me. Heaven. I had a feeling that's the closest I would get, but that was just fine with me. "I'll pick you up tomorrow," he whispered into my hair. I would never wash it again. "Okay," I managed finally, pulling myself from his grasp and climbing up the stairs to my house. His sneakers crunched on the gravel as he made his way to his shiny new Echo. I held up my hand tentatively, watching it flutter like an autumn leaf. I stood outside long after he drove off, watching the dust settle and the night fall. Somehow, even though I watched it every night, the velvety black showcase of diamonds, with its large pearl centerpiece, never ceased to amaze me. I awake to the soft glow of morning. Artificial light shines from somewhere, hits the curtain, and glances off pink. Suddenly, I realize what woke me. A small, almost musical moaning drifts toward me from the other side of the curtain. "David!" I cry out in alarm. David doesn't say anything, and suddenly everything gets very quiet. The calm before the storm. Or possibly the devastation after it. I listen disparagingly for David's rich, calm voice. Nothing. All of a sudden, I feel very, very small and silently wish for him many happy returns.