Man this girl is dumb. I wouldn't have read 500 pages if I knew she'd pick the wrong guy. He doesn't respect her. What girl would have her choice of two men and would pick the one who will dump her as soon as her tits and ass start to sag? The other guy respects and loves her! So what, he has a kid, big deal. Kids are cute. Girls can be so dumb sometimes! Ugh!
I slammed the book shut. One more terrible novel to add to the pile. That's the problem with reading all the time, you run out of books that are sure things. I shut my eyes and listened to the quiet evening. My foot hung over the side of the hammock, resting on a low branch I use to rock myself back and forth, pushing off gently every time the hammock slowed. It's a beautiful May. Even as the sun sets, the air is warm.
Isn't this the life?
I think to myself.
The sun warms my skin, the breeze is passing through the treetops, and I can hear the chirps and whistles of forest life. I think of how the forest reminds me of a city. The chirps and whistles are the car horns, the breeze passing through the treetops are like the sounds of traffic passing by, the trees are the skyscrapers, and the sun is the city's bright lights. Then I realize how lame I am for even thinking that.
You're such a boring old lady,
I remind myself.
You've spent too much time in this tree.
Why don't I get out of it and go to the mall or out somewhere you're wondering? I've tried that and since I'm still in this tree obviously that crashed and burned. Isn't this the life? Is it? I don't think so? I'm nineteen. This is lame.
Where are other girls my age right now? By a lake with friends? Parked on some lookout, kissing a guy? Drinking? Partying? Laughing. Flirting. Living. Yeah, probably exactly those things. This is my divided mind, in love with books and writing, yet indescribably curious about the life I'm not living. This forest city and my hammock vantage point fill my every summer weekend. My winter weekends are spent by the fire with hot tea, reading and definitely not kissing anyone, in case you hadn't made that assumption yet.
My aunts and uncles tell me I'll be a great author someday. They see me always reading and think I'm a studious, brilliant young woman. They're certain that someday I'll write a best-selling novel and they'll all be able to tell everyone they know that they're related the author; she's my granddaughter, my niece, my cousin. They'll never get to brag about me though. It's not that I'm not smart. I think I'm pretty sharp. I'm smart enough to realize that my favorite books are about people's interesting lives. My favorite authors fill their books with characters who are full of life and eccentricities that are inspired by people they met. They write about achievements, funny situations, love, adventures gone wrong, sex gone wrong, and this all takes place in some city the author lived in while broke and desperate. None of this reflects my life. No great authors write about hammocks, forest cities, fireside reading, and their conversation-less high school careers. If only my family knew how much time my mind spends in the gutter, thinking of boys, wondering about sex, reading trashy novels, occasionally even watching a porn, and always waking up with the help of my best friend the vibrator.
I hear the screen door slam and glance back towards the house. My mother's setting the table with my father. I throw both legs over the side of the hammock and start climbing down the few branches.
"Vicky, dinner!" my mother yells, as if I weren't already walking toward her.
As I get halfway across the back lawn I get the full view of tonight's outfit.
She's without shame
, I think to myself.
Her bottom is a wrap but it's practically sheer. The woman has more sheer clothing than not. Of course underneath she's only slipped on a g-string for a bathing suit. Typical but still not something I can ignore. Winter after winter goes by and as soon as the warm weather hits she's in tiny bikinis showing off to every Dick and Tom that her body apparently did not age at all this year either. Genes I should be thankful for but her sexy clothing just annoys me.
It's dumb to act so jealous because I have the same wide hips, tiny waist, and big boobs as her. But whereas the world seems to bend to her will, it generally meets my dreams with a big "hell to the no". My hourglass figure will probably be gone by the time I'm 25, 30 at best. I'm just being realistic, my mother is a freak of nature, most curvy, hourglass bodies eventually take on a beach ball shape that wouldn't even get a second look from a sixteen year old kid with no internet to satisfy his "curiosity".
I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you've now realized that I have a hot body and yet am not popular and you're thinking that this doesn't make any sense. Here enters "Frank", my Dad. He's a dork. He's the most lovable dork in the world, which is why my Mom and I put up with his being a giant dork. The poor guy always says the wrong thing, he mumbles when he's nervous, he dances like he's in the 70s, and to top it all off he makes awkward, dorky comments in public. Still, we love him. Point being, I'm not cool because I get my looks from miss teenie-bikini but get my social skills from Frank the wank.
We sat down at the table. My mother's breasts were as on display as her ass.
"What'd you do today Vicky?" A question asked with plenty of attitude without even the courtesy of veiled attitude.
"You know what I did."
"You graduate next month Vicky. I know we've talked about this before but maybe you could put down the books and try to socialize a bit."
"Yeah Vick, your Mom and I think you're really cool, you just need to show everyone how cool you are," my Dad chimes in.
He's such a boob. Can't he tell that she's just on a tear? She wants to convince me to not be an introvert, as if it's a switch I can flick.
"You know Vick, you chose a college with 13,000 students and you start next fall. Don't you think you should practice for college? Maybe this summer could be different."
"I chose colleges based on writing programs, not the size of the student body. I'll be one of them and I can ignore the other 12,999 if I want to. And what do you mean practice? Practice talking? I'm talking right now."
"Talking... and other things."
"Oh, like what Mom? Sex?"
God, everything with her is about having fun, partying, clothes, and sex. I must have been adopted.
"Is it so bad that I want you to have sex Vicky? My god, it's just sex. You're probably the only virgin in your grade and you're about to go to college. You'll be the virgin with no friends, who doesn't go to parties and just reads. I won't be there to push you and soon enough you'll have nothing in your life but books and cats. Is that what you want?"
"Great. Thanks Mom. We're two minutes into dinner and we're diving into the 'Vicky's a prude' comments."
"So what. Sue me! I want you to live a little. Go to a club, a party, something! Jesus, is getting out really so terrible Vicky."
"How about I just skip the foreplay and find some guys on craigslist to gang-bang me?!?! Would that get you to leave me alone about it!"
"Go to a gang-bang for all I care! No ones dies at a gang-bang Vicky. Satan doesn't pop out of someone's ass and damn them all to hell! I wouldn't sign up for a gang-bang on Craigslist but there's safe ways to do it. It's just a bunch of people having sex."
OMG. She's talking like she knows. She's probably speaking from experience! I don't to ask, or even think about it.
An image pops into my head of my Mom in the middle of our living room floor, surrounded by nude men. Gross.
Just ignore it, and move on.
I tell myself.
She keeps going on her rant, "and I'm not saying get gang-banged anyway. You're such a drama queen. I'm saying go out. Get drunk. Make a mistake or two. Don't do anything too dangerous but its a summer night, your classmates are out somewhere having fun and you're here. You're on the verge on being boring Vicky. I don't want my daughter to become the cat lady who at the worst, grows old with her cats and, at best, gets married to some boring accountant who is just as boring."
It was a long pause. I wanted to tell her to shut up and leave me alone about it. The boring thing hit home though. We'd had to answer a yearbook questionnaire last week. It asked to choose just one word I'd use to describe myself. The first word that popped into my head was 'boring'. Negativity wasn't really my style so I didn't write that. I prefer to protect my self-image with witty, sarcastic emotional walls. I wrote 'long winded'. It popped into my head and I found it funny.
