The Railroad Tracks.. 2
A new character is introduced...please comment!!:)
Last September.
One day before my fourteenth birthday.
The sun a circle of light. Too bright to look at. Spraying out over the treetops.
"My mom said it doesn't matter if it's your birthday or not, we're still going to Philadelphia tomorrow," Chey tells me.
After School. Sitting cross-legged by the dumpsters behind the apartment building. Chey watching me for a reaction. I don't give her one.
"Willow, don't you care?"
I shrug.
Lately, I haven't cared about anything. Everything bores me. Everyone annoys me.
Chey's mouth is now a tight, thin line. It doesn't look like two lips at all, but like someone took a pencil and made a skinny dash where her mouth should be.
It's quiet except for the fury that seems to be screaming from Chey's gray eyes. She's irritated. It's obvious. And as much as I don't want her angry at me, I cannot do anything to stop what I say next.
"It doesn't matter to me if you're here or not," and after a moment of shocked silence, Chey stands. Turns and walks quickly up the slope. Into the apartment building. Dead, deformed leaves the color of nothing spin into a noisy twister as a breeze sweeps past.
It's gone.
The leaves settle.
Last September.
One day before my fourteenth birthday.
A coffee ring on the kitchen table.
I stare at it. Hoping to find some truth and answers.
"Willow, Grandpa needs your help out back," Grandma tells me. She's been bustling about all afternoon. Now she stands at the opposite end of the table. Hands resting on the back of a chair.
"Willow, honey, are you okay?"
I can't bring my eyes to meet hers. I can't form words to tell her that I'm not okay. I never will be okay.
I stand and leave. Leave Grandma standing there completely confused. Wondering what is wrong with me.
Down the staircase that winds and winds.
Sun filters through the little square windows. Dust floats in the light. Dances all around me.
I walk through the dust, sending it in all directions.
Out the door. Down the slope. Cool air fingering my hair.
Grandpa with his hunched back and corduroy pants. Grandpa. Gregory Love. He struggles to heave a bulging garbage bag into the dumpster.
"Grandpa!"
He looks at me and grunts. Returns to his work. I step closer. Crunch a fallen leaf into the ground.
"Do you need help?"
He says he doesn't. That I should go help Grandma in the kitchen.
I stand and watch. The bag tumbles from Grandpa's hands. Hits the ground. Crumpled napkins and empty cartons. Spill over his feet. All around him. He stands in a sea of trash.
"Grandpa," I say quietly.
He kneels to the ground. Shaky hands sift through the trash.
"Grandpa," I say, "I'll help you."
"Go help your grandma, Willow."
I don't move. Sun is sinking low. A smear of orange behind the tree line. Shadows growing longer. Stretching and blending into darkness.
"Grandpa-"
"JUST GO, WILLOW!" His voice echoing.
Startled, I turn. Run and leave. Leave Grandpa to clean up his mess by himself. Up the slope. In through the door with the brass knocker.
Up the stairs that wind and wind. I trail my hand along the railing. Warm. Unlike Grandpa's voice. Past Chey's apartment door.
205. Ours. I walk in. Face flushed.
"Willow?" Grandma's voice. She says to set the table. That Grandpa will be in soon.
"No, he might take a while," I tell her.
Three plates. One for each of us.
"You were supposed to help him, Willow."
I sat that I tried. He wouldn't let me.
I fold the napkins in half. Slide them under the plates.
Grandma sighs. Her shoulders slump like she's carrying the weight of the world. I watch her with tree forks in my hand. She rubs her face. Then turns and looks out the window. The sky is a heavy orange. Flooded with color. An uneasy sunset.
Grandpa comes in later when dinner is ready and the table is set. We eat in silence.
Not even a word about the Halloween parade.
One day before my fourteenth birthday.
The sun a circle of light. Too bright to look at. Spraying out over the treetops.
"My mom said it doesn't matter if it's your birthday or not, we're still going to Philadelphia tomorrow," Chey tells me.
After School. Sitting cross-legged by the dumpsters behind the apartment building. Chey watching me for a reaction. I don't give her one.
"Willow, don't you care?"
I shrug.
Lately, I haven't cared about anything. Everything bores me. Everyone annoys me.
Chey's mouth is now a tight, thin line. It doesn't look like two lips at all, but like someone took a pencil and made a skinny dash where her mouth should be.
It's quiet except for the fury that seems to be screaming from Chey's gray eyes. She's irritated. It's obvious. And as much as I don't want her angry at me, I cannot do anything to stop what I say next.
"It doesn't matter to me if you're here or not," and after a moment of shocked silence, Chey stands. Turns and walks quickly up the slope. Into the apartment building. Dead, deformed leaves the color of nothing spin into a noisy twister as a breeze sweeps past.
It's gone.
The leaves settle.
Last September.
One day before my fourteenth birthday.
A coffee ring on the kitchen table.
I stare at it. Hoping to find some truth and answers.
"Willow, Grandpa needs your help out back," Grandma tells me. She's been bustling about all afternoon. Now she stands at the opposite end of the table. Hands resting on the back of a chair.
"Willow, honey, are you okay?"
I can't bring my eyes to meet hers. I can't form words to tell her that I'm not okay. I never will be okay.
I stand and leave. Leave Grandma standing there completely confused. Wondering what is wrong with me.
Down the staircase that winds and winds.
Sun filters through the little square windows. Dust floats in the light. Dances all around me.
I walk through the dust, sending it in all directions.
Out the door. Down the slope. Cool air fingering my hair.
Grandpa with his hunched back and corduroy pants. Grandpa. Gregory Love. He struggles to heave a bulging garbage bag into the dumpster.
"Grandpa!"
He looks at me and grunts. Returns to his work. I step closer. Crunch a fallen leaf into the ground.
"Do you need help?"
He says he doesn't. That I should go help Grandma in the kitchen.
I stand and watch. The bag tumbles from Grandpa's hands. Hits the ground. Crumpled napkins and empty cartons. Spill over his feet. All around him. He stands in a sea of trash.
"Grandpa," I say quietly.
He kneels to the ground. Shaky hands sift through the trash.
"Grandpa," I say, "I'll help you."
"Go help your grandma, Willow."
I don't move. Sun is sinking low. A smear of orange behind the tree line. Shadows growing longer. Stretching and blending into darkness.
"Grandpa-"
"JUST GO, WILLOW!" His voice echoing.
Startled, I turn. Run and leave. Leave Grandpa to clean up his mess by himself. Up the slope. In through the door with the brass knocker.
Up the stairs that wind and wind. I trail my hand along the railing. Warm. Unlike Grandpa's voice. Past Chey's apartment door.
205. Ours. I walk in. Face flushed.
"Willow?" Grandma's voice. She says to set the table. That Grandpa will be in soon.
"No, he might take a while," I tell her.
Three plates. One for each of us.
"You were supposed to help him, Willow."
I sat that I tried. He wouldn't let me.
I fold the napkins in half. Slide them under the plates.
Grandma sighs. Her shoulders slump like she's carrying the weight of the world. I watch her with tree forks in my hand. She rubs her face. Then turns and looks out the window. The sky is a heavy orange. Flooded with color. An uneasy sunset.
Grandpa comes in later when dinner is ready and the table is set. We eat in silence.
Not even a word about the Halloween parade.
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