Skip to main content

The End of Summer

Heat waves danced like snakes being charmed from the curvy sidewalk ahead of us. We walked along, two kids following a long chain link fence that kept us away from the shortcut to our left of our school’s crab grass soccer field. The cuffs of our jeans dragged on the pavement, as we talked about nothing in that painful awkward way that only happened when you were sixteen and everything you said was life or death cool.
“Let’s cut through the field,” he suddenly said.
“I can’t jump the fence,” I said as I looked down and tugged at the ends of hair curled around my ear.
“You can go under.”
We walked to a break in the fence and I stared at it for a moment, looked back at the 7-11 we had just come from and looked down to the tall building nestled in the nook of the Franklin mountains where I was supposed to be at summer school. I crouched down and shimmied under, trying hard not to get too dirty. He waited till I was almost on the other side, then hopped the fence with little effort, and held out his hand to help me up. I dusted off the dirt as nonchalantly as possible and continued to walk. We talked about summer school and he complained about having to be there. I lied and agreed knowing it wouldn’t be cool of he knew I was there to get ahead. Each word seemed vitally important and I second guessed them as they came out of my mouth.
Mid-way through the field the sprinklers turned on attempting to quench life into dehydrated desert crab grass. We laughed and started to run, and as we ran he shoved me towards a sprinkler. I pulled at his shirt and tugged him along with me. Instead of running away we ran back and forth scissoring through the sprinklers laughing and screaming as they sprayed us. We shoved and pushed at each other as kaleidoscopes of light danced along with us in the shower of the sprinklers, and watery rainbows haloed in the sunlight. By the end of it we were soaked and my new Vans were muddy, but I didn’t care. My jeans hung heavily like wet clothes hanging on the clothing line of my hips as we tried to walk to safety. I walked ahead of him towards the school when he grabbed my hand and pulled me to a halt.
As I turned the laughter died in my throat. His head blocked the sunlight and I stopped breathing as a darkened silhouette leaned down to me. His lips met mine. I felt his wet hair against my check and his hand on my neck as we stood still for a moment. The surge of shock and anticipation hit me in the stomach. What I wanted I didn’t know, but I didn’t want the watery kiss to end. As abruptly as it happened it ended. Water dripped from my hair into my eyes. I smiled at him held onto his hand, and pulled him towards the building.
“Come on!” I laughed.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...
3 comments
Read more

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this...
2 comments
Read more

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...
Post a Comment
Read more