One: precipitous
I’m normally a very tolerant sort of person. There isn’t much in life that I truly hate, especially when it comes to music. Granted, I do have the occasional pet peeve; music is my passion, but my strong feelings can register themselves at either extreme. The one song I dread above all others is the Spiderman theme song. To me, this horribly catchy tune can only mean one thing
"Oh, God, I’m late for swim practice again!" I cried frantically, as I jumped over my younger brother’s red plastic alarm clock shaped like Spiderman’s head. I hate when this happens. The coach of my high school’s swim team is suspected by the students of coming from the Black Lagoon; she’s been nicknamed Ms. Swamp, and is unforgiving of lateness from her swimmers
“Charlotte, don’t kick my Spiderman clock,” my little brother, Ben, whined at me from the next room. I’ve never understood why seven-year-olds can’t speak at normal frequencies. Apparently their vocal chords were designed to only produce high, whiny, and thoroughly annoying sounds. I, on the other hand, at seventeen, am in possession of a rich, authoritative voice, one which I often use to my advantage
“Ben, please leave, I’m late and I don’t need you to be in my way right now.” Well said, if I do say so myself.
“But Charlotte, you broke my Spiderman alarm clock.”
“No, I didn’t,” I retorted, rolling my eyes in his direction. I pulled on some jeans and a sweater, then tried not to look as foolish as I felt as I hopped on one foot to put on my socks.
“Yes, you did.”
“Ben, come on, you do this every morning. Why don’t you be helpful for a change, and go run upstairs and get my math book for me.”
“No. I’m telling mom you’re being mean.”
I exhaled loudly, thoroughly exasperated. Buttoning up my jacket, I briefly prayed that the all the buttons were in the right holes, but I didn’t bother to check - I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Swinging my backpack over my left shoulder, I winced slightly at the weight of the books inside. Slowly turning to face my nemesis, I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to speak.
Ben saw that I was serious. His eyes widened, and he shook his head, dramatically clapping his hands over his ears. I sighed, a tiny smile tugging at my lips. It was difficult to stay mad at the little guy.
“Ben -” I paused. Then, speaking softly, fondly: “Please don’t give me a hard time today, sweetie, I’m really late.”
Ben suddenly grinned. “Late for what?” he asked impishly.
I stared disbelievingly at him, then bent down to tie my shoes. “Late for swim practice at school. Where else would I be going at seven o-clock in the morning?”
“You’re going to see your boyfriend.” he informed me.
“My boyfriend?” I was incredulous. “Ben, please, don’t start this now, not now.”
Ben watched patiently as I gulped down a glass of orange juice, gathered my things, and prepared to leave the house. “You can’t go,” he said softly.
“And why is that?” I asked absently, searching for my keys. I realized I had to run the whole 5 miles to school carrying all my books if I were to make it there anytime before 7:30.
“You can’t go outside today,” Ben seemed delighted with his proclamation.
“Ben, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grabbed an apple off the counter and made a beeline for the door.
“You can’t go to school today because it’s -”
Ben heard me shriek loudly as soon as I slammed the door shut behind me.
“ - snowing.”
Pausing to give my aching back a rest, I tilted my head up to the sky. I watched the white flakes which seemed to appear out of nowhere swirl and tumble to the ground. I opened my mouth, tasting the sweet wetness, noting how each dissolving flake pricked my tongue and sent a shiver through my body. Sighing, I laid back into the pile I’d just shovelled, feeling the mounds of snow delicately conform to my shape. My mind wandered as I stared up; eventually my eyes became heavy and I drifted off into a rare, yet peaceful, meditative state...
***
Scott found me like that, spread out asleep in the snow. He told me later that my sleeping form looked like some sort of roadkill from a distance; he had stopped the car when he realized that the dark blob was in front of my house. He told me he intended to move the animal away to someone else’s driveway, because he knows how the sight of dead animals disturbs me. Somehow I think that he was making up that last part of the story.
“Scott?” I slurred, trying to focus my eyes on his face as he gently shook me, his hands warm on my shoulders.
“Charlotte, why are you lying in the middle of your driveway?” he asked, battling to keep the smirk off his face.
“Hm? I ... felt like it.” My teeth clenched as feeling began to come back to my fingers and toes, and my brain registered just how cold I was. “Scott -”
“Yes, Charlotte?” He was still bending over me, only mildly concerned now that he saw I was live and awake.
“Scott?” I repeated.
“What?” He was getting irritated.
“I’m cold.” I finished meekly, looking up at him.
Scott rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s get you some hot chocolate or something.”
I smiled as he pulled me to my feet, and leaned on him as we walked to his car. “You’re the bestest,” I beamed at him as he buckled me into the front seat - I had complained that my fingers were too numb to fasten my own seatbelt.
“I know.” I could hear the smile in his voice as he started up the car. “So, why were you sleeping outside, exactly? Trying to get hypothermia right before exams?”
I put my hands over my face and groaned. “No, don’t say the ‘E’ word. Anyway, this is Oklahoma. You couldn’t get hypothermia if you tried.”
Scott laughed. “I guess so. I hope this snow stays, though, it’s really pretty. It makes the trees and the houses look so festive.”
I smiled. I didn’t know any other teenage heterosexual guys who would admit that they thought a snowfall was pretty; some would phrase their opinions in sideway comments about good skiing weather; others would make childish references to snowball fights. Unfortunately, Scott hadn’t escaped from the teasings and jokes from bullies of both genders at school. I thought of him as one of my good friends, never really understanding what it was that other students made fun of him for. Then again, considering how out of place I usually felt in the competitive world of style, attitude, and cliques, it was no wonder that Scott and I had bonded.
“This has got to be the worst snowstorm we’ve ever had down here,” I remarked after passing the third stalled car by the side of the road.
“Yeah, for sure. Tough driving.”
Smiling, I indulged him: “Well, you’re doing an excellent job of it, Mr. Chaffeur.” Scott took every opportunity to bring up the fact that he had his driver’s licence and I, lacking much hand-eye coordination, did not.
“Do you think your gig tonight will be cancelled?”
“Oh, man, I don’t know. That would suck if it is.” Every Tuesday night, I played guitar with a few friends at a little coffee shop on the outskirts of the downtown area. The pay wasn’t much and the audiences weren’t particularly enthusiastic, but Tuesday evenings were still the highlight of my week.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. “Wow, traffic is really bad,” he commented. “Did you have to be home by a certain time...?”
I gasped suddenly and groaned at my own stupidity. “Oh, Scott, I left Ben home alone! How could I have done that?! My mom is going to kill me...plus I didn’t finish shovelling the driveway.”
Scott looked at me, amused. I glared at him, and he shrugged in response.
“Scott, I’m screwed.”
“Yep,” he nodded.
“No, I’m really screwed.”
“Aren’t we all,” he replied.
“Scott. Give me answers. It’s your job to save me from the evil wrath of my mother.”
Scott scratched his head, pretending to think. “I’ve got it,” he said after a moment.
I smiled. “Yeah?”
“I make you walk home from here...you catch hypothermia...you die...you are spared from the evil wrath of your mother.”
I glared at him. “You’re so -”
“Watch it, girlie. Remember, I’ve got inside dirt on you.”
“Yeah? Well you...you...suck at driving!” I couldn’t help but giggle.
“Charlotte, honey, nothing has, does, or will ever beat falling asleep while shovelling snow.”
I sighed. “Scott?”
“Yes, Charlotte?”
“I’m still cold.”
He grinned.
Three: superfluous
With some super-speedy driving on Scott’s part and crossed fingers on mine, we managed to make it back home minutes before my mother. Ben was fine; he had found a screwdriver somewhere in the disaster zone formerly known as the basement, and was happily working in “fixing” his Spiderman alarm clock.
Scott left before my mother came home, but the smile he left on my face stayed for much of the day. As soon as I heard my mother’s key in the lock, I bounded across the room and pounced on her, hugging her, my limbs wrapped around her monkey-style.
“Well, why are you so happy today?” my mother said mildly, dropping too many bags of groceries on to the floor.
I danced around the room. “I love you...and it’s snowing...and the holidays are soon...” I mentioned everything except my little non-escapade with Scott.
“Mm,” my mother agreed absently, taking off her coat. “Honey, would you mind shovelling the driveway? It used to be your dad’s job, but -”
“Right mom, sorry, I was going to do that, I just got a little...sidetracked. Hey, how’s your work coming along?” Anything to keep her from bringing up dad.
“Oh, it’s ...fine,” she murmured, wandering off to the kitchen. I sighed dejectedly, but then made a conscious decision not to let my mother’s tired mood get me down.
“Mom, I’m going to the mall,” I called, grabbing my coat and some bus tokens.
“Okay, have fun dear,” came the feeble response.
I left the house and jogged down the street to the bus stop, watching my breath turn to foggy mist, and trying not to roll my eyes at the thought of my mother’s lack of enthusiasm for her life.
***
The mall was crowded; apparently the fresh snow had put shoppers in the mood for Christmas present buying. I weaved my way through the streams of people, heading toward an exclusive clothing store with much overpriced, and excessively-sequined merchandise. It was where Rita, one of my friends from school, worked sewing on extra sequins for picky customers. Poor girl, she always left a trail of sparkly glitter behind her; everything she touched turned to gold, as they say.
On the way to the dreaded glam ‘n’ glitter haven, I passed a record store. Now, being an avid fan of music, it would come as a surprise to most that I owned few CDs. This was a direct result of the fact that I was distinctly lacking the feminine shop-till-you-drop genes, venturing out only once or twice a month. However, music stores were quite enjoyable, and I took the opportunity to go inside and let my senses soak up a good dose of hypocritically commercialized grunge bands and underage girl strippers not so cleverly disguised as pop stars.
Roaming the aisles, I let my fingers brush over the rows of plastic cases. A new, relaxed mood was suddenly overtaking me, and I felt a little light-headed. Looking around to see if anyone else was looking as dizzy as I felt, I realized that it was the music playing over the loudspeakers at the front of the store that was provoking the unusual reaction in me.
On impulse, I walked up to the cash register. “Excuse me, I’d like to buy whatever that it you’re playing right now...it...I mean...it sounds cool,” I finished lamely, trying to justify my odd behaviour.
The girl behind the counter couldn’t have been much older than me. She popped her gum loudly, chewing in my face as she reached under the desk. “Here, it’s Hanson. $21.99, please.”
I picked up the CD, analysing the cover, before I noticed the clerk forcefully tapping her foot, clearing her throat once, twice. “Oh, sorry. Here,” I scrambled through my purse for a bill.
“Thanks, have a nice day,” she countered. “Next in line?”
I almost laughed out loud then, before turning and quickly walking away. It always confused me why people chose to work at a music store who obviously had no appreciation or interest of any sort in the art; there were so many easier, better paying jobs out there, it didn’t make sense.
As soon as I walked out of the store, leaving behind the carefree atmosphere created by this mysterious “Hanson” band, the anxiousness and tension that always envelops me in shopping malls returned. I headed back outside, all my thoughts of visiting Rita forgotten. I clutched my new CD tightly in both my hands, walking home with purpose in my stride.
Four: ethereal
Upon arriving home, I found my mother lying on the couch in the dark, straining her eyes to make out the words of her latest trashy romance novel. I sighed, and trudged over to her.
“Hey,” I whispered in her ear, wrapping my arms around her shoulders in a semblance of a hug. “How are you doing? You look really tired, maybe you should get some sleep.”
She took a moment before responding. “Oh, thanks a lot. I don’t tell you what to do, sweetie.”
I winced at her biting words. I couldn’t tell if she meant them to be as harsh as they sounded, but on second thought, I didn’t really want to know.
I straightened, and cleared my throat. “Can I get you anything?”
My mom kept reading.
“Mom!” I said, louder. She looked up at me expectantly. “Can I get you anything?” I repeated blandly.
“No, thank you,” she returned to her book.
I sighed, and turned to leave. When I was halfway up the stairs to my room, I heard my mom call out, “Are you playing at the coffeehouse tonight?”
“Yeah,” I called back. “I play there every week.”
“Well, I was just asking, there’s no need to take that tone with me. Be careful, get a man to walk you home.”
“Yes, mother,” I grumbled.
Half hoping she’d hear me slam the door to my room, half wishing I could get along better with my mother, I flopped dramatically on to my bed. Then, remembering my recent purchase, I sat up and turned on my CD player.
Listening to music was always somewhat of a spiritual experience for me. I loved to close my eyes and allow the melodies to send shivers down my spine, goosebumps over my arms; I loved the way the lyrics liberated my imagination, sending rich,colourful images speeding through my head; I loved the way the music seemed to intensify my other senses, making colours seem brighter, smells sharper, and textures rougher; I loved the casual build-up of a song to a simple, yet poignant chorus line; I loved feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through my veins when I heard a particularly wild drum solo; I loved the way a piece of music had the capacity to completely change my mood seconds after I had begun listening; I loved how time seemed to be frozen in place while music was playing, and yet how it moved with a vigour specific to the art; I loved the connection I felt with the musician, the way I could see into his soul, catch a glimpse of the complex workings of his mind, the way I felt completely vulnerable and controlled by his every whim and fantasy. Listening to my new CD, I forgot immediately where I was, my irritable feelings toward my mother, and all my typical teenage insecurities. The music made me realize my passion for life and for music itself, and I couldn’t help but smile as I continued to listen and absorb attentively. When the telephone rang, I was still very much in a daze.
Five: ebullient
“Charlotte? Hi, it’s Rita.”
“Rita! Hey, I almost came and visited you today at work, but then...I didn’t...”
Laughing, “Okay. You sound different, what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing, I was just, you know, listening to some music and stuff.”
“Ahh, I get it. Hey, are you busy right now?”
“Mm...not really, why?”
“Guess what I just got permission to do?” she paused expectantly, waiting for realization to dawn on my still tranquilbrain.
Suddenly, I shrieked. “Rita! Oh my God! No, way!”
She laughed. “Meet me there in twenty minutes."
***
Twenty minutes later, Rita and I were sitting on two of the very hard plastic chairs of the local tatoo and body piercing parlour. Every time we passed it walking home from school, Rita would declare her intentions of getting pierced there. She talked about the parlour as if it were a quaint old cottage she would own one day, calling the employees by name, and praising the decorative layouts of photos around the shop, some of which were not for the faint of heart (or at least under 21) and all of which involved needles of some sort.
“Rita, are you sure you want to do this?” I asked her, noting how tightly she was clutching my hand. I wanted to laugh at her nervousness, but I respected her too much; Rita and I had been friends for several years, and I was always somewhat in awe of her ability to make big decisions about her life so easily. I knew that I would never be able to pierce my bellybutton - I’d worry myself to death thinking about potential and extreme consequences, how I’d feel in ten years, whether my future kids would fell uncomfortable knowing that their mother was pierced somewhere other than her ears. Rita just laughed at me.
”Char, I’ve waited for this moment for four long years. Besides, if I don’t do it, my parents will think they’ve won.” Her eyes lit up. “Why don’t you get yours pierced too! Your mom wouldn’t care -”
“Yes, she would,” I said, my brow creasing. I suddenly felt defensive.
“Well, whatever, you could get something else done. Just get another hole in your ear. Then we can shop for studs together,” she exclaimed, pointing to her own ears which housed a painful-looking number of silver rings. “Heh, actually, Rita, I think I’m going to have to carry you home as it is, we don’t want the both of us fainting from pain - look at the size of that needle!”
***
”Wow, I can’t believe I just did that!” Rita marveled as we walked down the street, away from the parlour. She was looking at her stomach in wonder, her shirt pulled up to her chest.
“Rita, put your shirt down, people are staring,” I giggled. A sharp wind swept through me and I shivered. “Besides, aren’t you cold?”
Rita giggled along with me. “Hey, I’m pierced, no regrets. I have to show it off. Damn snow, I’d wear a bikini top if it weren’t so damn cold!”
We turned a corner. “So, Char, are you playing at that coffeeshop tonight?” Rita asked me. She had come to watch me play a few times before, much to my protest; it was much easier to play in front of strangers without getting embarassed about baring my soul for all to see.
“Yes, you’re not allowed to come, though!” I poked at Rita’s arm. “I’m playing all by myself today, Rachael and Todd are going away with their families for the holidays, but the manager guy was really nice and is letting me play. Even though I’m gonna suck without the others,” I beamed at Rita angelically so she knew I was digging for a compliment.
“No, you won’t suck,” she laughed, indulging me. “Hey, are you letting Scott come?”
I turned to look at her quickly, but she wasn’t meeting my eyes, and I could see her desperately trying to contain a grin. “Why would Scott want to come? No, I wouldn’t let him! Why are you asking? Have you been talking to him? Rita!” I giggled as I stumbled over my words.
Rita laughed at me, then shrugged innocently. “I don’t know, Charlotte, why don’t you tell me why Scott would want to spend any time with you at all?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Gah, you’re so...Ack! I’d punch you in the stomach if you didn’t just get your bellybutton pierced.” I tried to glare at her threateningly.
“Oh, thank you, how kind. I really appreciate the gesture.” Rita craned her neck at me a la Gwyneth Paltrow.
We were quiet for a moment, walking down the street, kicking at the snow now turning to brown mush on the side of the road, stuffing our hands in our pockets to try and keep warm.
Then, “I think Scott would like it if you got your bellybutton pierced.” Rita teased.
“Shut up!” I shrieked, but it was too late, we were already being drowned in the throes of our own hysterical laughter.
