I just plugged my computer in and booted it up for the first time since, oh, October. So I found all this writing that I haven’t touched or even seen in nine months. Here’s an excerpt from a story I was working on a while back about two moderately geeky high school students. Each is told in first person, but from different characters (the first Chance, and the second Sandy).

---

We left the show like dinner guests leaving after a long night of recollecting. The band’s songs were our hellos, the crowd and cigarette smoke were our old stories, and the bustling downtown streets were our long goodbyes. We had laughed. We had danced. We had spent nearly ten dollars on beverages. The cool night air walked with us out to my car and I waved goodbye right before I shut the door and started my car.

As soon as the door to the world closed, we chatted about the night and how it welcomed us. The lines of conversation blurred together.

“Do you remember…?”

“And then I…”

“I’d never noticed…”

“The guy spilled his beer all over me…”

A Counting Crows tape played subtly, just as I had left it. I planned that before the night began—I didn’t want her thinking I listened to happy music. But something—maybe it was the ever-starting conversation, maybe it was the cool night air in contrast to the stifling club, maybe it was the way “Anna Begins” played faintly in the background—something felt different than I’d planned it. It wasn’t happy—it was just new, like a new beginning or a new year filled with resolutions.

“The cops are everywhere tonight,” I said. “We can’t let them know about our secret plans. I’ll have to turn on the radar scrambler.” I turned on the radio.

“You just turned on the radio,” she said.

“Shh! Do you want them to hear you?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem to keep you from talking much.”

“That’s because I have a special voice scrambler.”

She smiled. “And how would I get a special voice scrambler?”

“Well,” I said, “it’s not easy.” I thought hard about what to say next. Oh, what the hell. “You have to kiss me.”

She laughed. We were conveniently stopped at an intersection. I couldn’t believe I just said that—I’d never actually asked someone to kiss me. But then we were kissing. And then, we weren’t kissing—we were just sitting there, smiling at each other like idiots. But that was alright with me. It was perfectly alright.

The rest of the ride was just a series of lame jokes and goofy smiles. If I hadn’t just kissed Sandy, I would have been ashamed of myself. I parked in her driveway, at the end of a long line of cars. We both got out.

“Thank you,” she said. I laughed a bit for no reason. She didn’t break eye contact. “Just, thank you.” She smiled.

“Hold on,” I said, “I want my CD back.”

She flashed one of those you’ll-never-catch-me smiles and dashed for the house. I almost caught her. We paused at the door to catch our breath for a second. A pale light seemed to cast a gray haze over everything, but Sandy’s eyes still shined brightly. The light wind made her dance like a pale candle with an auburn flame.

We went inside. I made polite rounds, saying hello to her younger sister and parents. Her father was quite drunk, and her mother was at least a little tipsy. They must have been celebrating something—bottles and cans were littered everywhere, and they were even more giddy than I had been just a few minutes before.

Sandy came back with the CD and tossed it to me. It flopped into my hands. I pulled her aside.

“You can’t stay here tonight,” I said.

“Chance, it’s okay. It’s not like I’ve never seen my parents drunk before. I don’t need you to play hero for me.”

I sighed. “Alright.”

“You have a savior complex, you know that?”

A savior complex. I didn’t like that.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Well, thanks for the CD,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right. Tomorrow.” She gave me a weak smile before I disappeared. Back into my car, my sanity. The Counting Crows closed their thoughts as I pulled out of her driveway:

Her kindness bangs a gong
It’s moving me along
And Anna begins to fade away
She’s chasing me away
She disappears, and oh,
I’m not ready for this sort of thing

---

And one from Sandy (she’s the emotional one of the two):

“So can we talk?” I asked.

He had already sat down on the dock with his feet dangling over the edge, close enough to the water to get splashed by the tallest waves. The sun was setting directly across the lake in front of us, painting the dock, the lake, the sky, and the trees shades brilliant shades of red and orange. The wind produced a steady stream of trees rustling, waves lapping, leaves blowing off of trees and onto the ground. November sunsets were always amazing.

“We can talk,” he said. I sat down next to him.

“Are you…?” I trailed off.

“I’m okay. I’ve been better, but I’ll survive.”

“What… What happened?” I asked him. “With us, I mean.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why are we both so alone again?”

I hadn’t realized it until then, but that was the feeling I had been carrying—loneliness. I had spent so many days feeling anonymous when people called my name that I forgot what it was like to be around someone who didn’t need to use my name. Familiarity picks up where recognition falters.

“You don’t want me,” he said.

“Chance, I do want you.”

“Please don’t.”

“I had every opportunity in the world to leave you—“

“It’s not about leaving me, or even wanting me. You don’t see it.”

“Don’t see what?”

He drew his knees up close to him and folded his arms on top of them as if the wind had suddenly chilled him.

“I’m not worth it,” he said.

“Not worth what?”

“I’m just not worth it. You don’t see it.”

I scoffed. “There’s not a price to pay.”

“There’s always a price to pay,” he said earnestly. “Startup capital. Opportunity cost. Whatever you want to call it. There’s always a price tag on life. Me. You. School. Life.” He looked at me suddenly. “Sandy, I am pain. I am uncertainty. I hurt people. I wear people out. I wear myself out. I always do.” He looked away again. “I’m not worth the price that life put on me.”

Chance rested his chin on his folded arms and looked out over the lake at the brilliant sunset. The reds, yellows, and in-betweens shined brightly on his face and his eyes reflected the fiery colors and fluid waves. It was beautiful. It was all so beautiful. But at the same time, I knew it was all so wrong. I didn’t say anything for a few long moments and neither did he. We just lingered in the sunset, wind, and waves.

“Was I worth it, then?” I asked at last.

He didn’t move—but he did sigh. It was a tired sigh. He picked his head back up and looked longingly at the waves.

“Was I worth the price that life put on me?” I asked again. “Because I bought you either way. I don’t know what I paid, and I don’t even really know what I bought, but I bought you. I just hope you’ll buy me back.”

I put my head down on his shoulder.

“Then whatever’s left to pay, I’ll pay it,” he said, “because you’re worth every penny.”

We didn’t say anything after that. The sun set, the wind carried on, and I’m sure the water kept moving long after we left. It may have been the wind, but I nearly cried—at one point, a single tear ran down my face and onto his shoulder. It was beautiful. It was all so very beautiful.

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 22nd, 2008 at 7:12 pm and is filed under Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.