Waiting to Exhale

What is this feeling? The world around me spins as the whiteboard marker I was holding falls to the ground. Cotton muffles my ears and I don’t hear the gasps from my classmates and the carpet rushes up to meet me. The definite integral on the board lays unsolved and we’ll never know the total distance the martian spaceship traveled towards the sun.

Sleep. It’s eluded me for days. I feel each of the muscles in my body relax as I sink into the inner parts of my mind. Grayscale images of my hopes and fears flash as the wrong audio tracks do a horrible job of dubbing the video that plays over and over again…

***

I’m thrown back in time. In the basement of a building I’ve never been in before, it’s the basement of a shady diner in the 1920’s. Revealed by dim lights, the simple and well-kept furniture is draped with the bodies of people dressed lavishly enough to be regulars at the Ritz. And here I am, in my brother’s pants and vest and shirtsleeves. My hair is slicked back, the only thing giving away my true gender being the rather large bun on the back of my head. But otherwise, no one would ever know.

“Caroliena, do you want to sit in the front seat?”

What?

Someone sidles up to me, dressed to the nines. “He’s a manwhore!” the person says as they look me straight in the eye.

I’m sorry?

Someone sits at a piano, the wrong lyrics matching up with the wrong melody.

[Story]Kiss – A Prediction in Story Form

Part One: Too Much Free Time

“The library? Again?”

I nodded, triple checking my bag and staring at my three other class binders, contemplating whether or not I should take them.

“Girl, you are such a stereotypical Asian, always studying. You already have straight A’s, what’s the rush?”

I shrugged.

“Is it because of your parents? In my Sociology class, we got into this discussion about how Asian families are heavily honor based – “

I rolled my eyes. “Diane, you know my parents aren’t like that. They named me River for goodness sakes.”

“I know, but still, it’s unnatural. It’s your freshmen year! It’s easy now, so why are you stressin’?”

I shrugged again.

“Maybe you have too much free time. You know, Tyler has been coming by here a lot. To copy my notes, apparently, but whenver he’s here – “

“Diane, you know that’s because he’s hoping you’d dump your boyfriend for him, right? Or that he just wants to get in your pants, whatever happens first.”

“Well, you didn’t have to say it out loud.”

I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder. “I have my cell phone on me, if you need anything.”

And I was out.

One of the benefits of going to a rather prestigious university is that they always have an extensive library. Any book I could possibly want to read or need for research they have. All coupled with the hushed atmosphere that’s ideal for studying.

I made a beeline for the window seats, one in particular. The one in the corner with windows on two sides and the big oak tree in front, my favorite and my normal seat.

And damn. It was taken.

I settled for the other corner window seat. The one facing the main road. It still had a good view; the road was lined with Mom-and-Pop cafes filled with univeristy students. But still, not as good as the oak tree. Especially in late fall.

The library was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. The window seats were normally filled with students, the main foyer filled with the quiet rustling of study groups and tutors. But today was different. It was nice.

As I passed my usual seat to go to the seat on the far end, I glanced at my seat’s occupant. I didn’t get much from the hunched figure, except that it was a guy who had dark hair and wore glasses. And he was studying organic chemistry, judging by the diagrams in his book.

Which reminds me. I have a quiz in that course Monday on Chapter 4.

I came across a term I didn’t know about halfway through reading the chapter again. I skimmed my notes, finding a bullet point of information on the subject.

Time to peruse the shelves.

I glanced at the guy in my seat. He didn’t seem like the type to steal, plus he was so engrossed in his reading that he probably didn’t even notice that I came in. But still, I took my notebook with me anyway. I had already forgotten what I needed to look up.

I ran my fingers across the spines of the books, pausing on a title that looked promising. I was startled as another hand made to take the same book as I started to take it out.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you.”

I looked up at the other person.

It was the guy who was in my seat. He had the same color hair and glasses.

He looked at me with a curious expression, his eyes full of confusion.

We spoke at the same time.

“You took my window seat.”

“Aren’t you in my organic chem class?”

I blinked. He blinked. We spoke at the same time again.

“Downing’s 10:15?”

“The oak tree one?”

Again, synchronization.

“Yeah.”

He stared at me, his expression still curious.

I picked the book off the shelf, breaking his gaze. “Did you need this?”

He looked at it.

“Oh. Yeah. Unless you need it?”

“No, I can find another book.”

He took the book from me, and I went back to perusing the shelves.

His footsteps were muffled, I heard them now since I wasn’t as engrossed in picking out a book. The slow cadence suddenly stopped as he turned back to face me.

“My name’s Aiden, by the way.”

I picked two promising looking books off the shelf and didn’t answer.

[Story] A Complicated Contradiction

[Part One]

If one person were to write down everything they felt at one given moment, there wouldn’t be enough words or words true enough to capture every dimension of that single point in time. For after all, words are only words; empty until someone acts to fulfill the promise the words offer. To write down the thoughts that pass through a person at one instant would mean to write down what the heart is screaming while the head tries to reason. It would be impossible; words would never be enough.

She filled her world with words. She’s never seen without a pen and something to write on, whether it be a napkin that was placed under her sweating soda at the local diner or on her own skin. Her goal? To be able to write down everything she thinks and feels. Over time, her handwriting had evolved into thin, scrawling letters from rushing to get every word that crosses her mind down onto something before it was too late.

When does someone’s thoughts finally turn into words? Do we think in words, even when we are babies, we just aren’t sure of how to form them with our mouths, dissolving into gibberish the moment it gets past our lips? At what point do our thoughts become solid enough to be able to say them aloud, or write them down?

Her notebooks and skin were filled with thoughts like these. Thoughts filled with questions, with emotion. And sometimes, her thoughts were nothing more than commenting on how the clouds looked as the wind blew them across. Something as simple as noticing the change of colors in the leaves, that she referred to as, “nature’s fireworks.”

It’s difficult for me to explain just how I came to be reading her notebooks. She was always so protective of them, I remember. She was always hunched over one, her arm hiding the page from spying eyes. And she never left them out for people to read. They were always tucked away in her book bag, or shoved in an overstuffed drawer. But they were always hidden. Away from me. Away from my parents. Away from the world.

Reading these notebooks now, I feel like I’m finally accepted by my sister. Yes, my sister. The perfect little goody two-shoes, never gets in trouble, never gets yelled at, never gets punished for anything, even though it is sometimes her fault. My little sister, the fragile little porcelain doll of the family. The one who always has the world at her feet, and then some. My parents dote upon her, I always find myself softened by her sheer cuteness. Everyone at school is always scrambling to help her, to befriend her, to get on her good side.

Despite all this, my sister isn’t spoiled. She always shares her lunch with someone who forgot their money at home. She always lends a pen or pencil to whoever asks for it during class. She offers help in classes when someone is having trouble. She convincingly plays along with whatever alibi I come up with to hide whatever I did to screw up. She always gives, and as a result, she has everything.

You would think, with someone this perfect, they would surely have one thing that was their undoing. One vice that shows that they aren’t perfect. One moment where they screw up their perfect life.

And in this instance, you’re right.

It’s difficult to know where to begin. I guess her fall from grace was gradually building, judging from what is written in her notebooks. Her thoughts grew darker, her handwriting becoming untidier in its hurry to take shape on the thin pages of the simple spiral notebook. I wonder how she kept up her illusion of helpful happiness up when so many demons were threatening to take her over. If it had been me, I would’ve succumbed to the sweet escape these monsters in her mind had offered. I wouldn’t have been as strong as my little sister had been.

At first glance, it’s difficult to find a bad quality in my little sister. But once you find it, it’s difficult to find something in her personality to redeem her. It’s complicated. She’s perfect, but flawed. Such a cliche, I know, but it’s the truth. Trust me, you wouldn’t believe how many cliches and stereotypes are actually true.

It all starts when she started high school.