Like Watching Paint Dry
New Parts at Least Once a Week
The vibrations pounded through the house. One, two, three, four, five. Pause. One, two three. The vibrations grew stronger as I stood there, looking up at the ceiling of my house as I was jostled around by the crowd dancing around, and a girl I never saw before walked into the room confidently, she was wearing a tight white crop top and super baggy jeans. Her dirty blond hair was tied messily back in a ponytail. Her brilliant brown eyes set on me and quickly looked down for fear that she would see my face flushing red. The floor was filled with white Vans that had little tread marks all over from being stepped on by partiers. Her black Doc Marten mary janes stepped towards me in swift, wide steps. Thinking of a little girl that I had lived with in a past foster home for almost a year had worn the exact same pair. I remembered her chubby, round face and her blue eyes swollen from crying as I was driven away to the next home and the feeling of no control in my life, knowing that I would never see her again. But that was three years ago. Now I’m fifteen, and in another three years I’ll be out of this hellhole at my new home, with a guy named Brandon and his son Timothy, who both have their own sets of troubles to give more than a dime of their attention to me.
It seems as though all Timothee wants to do is see me without my mom jeans and tank top, in his too-lumpy bed. I shudder thinking about it. By now, the girl has told me her name and is standing right in front of me. From a little part of my brain I heard that it was Katrine while I was thinking. “Soo.. you not much of a partier?” I flush as red as the wine I so often see Timothee swiping from his dad’s cooler. “Just not in this house.” I say. “You hosting this?” she asks. “Not hosting.. But I live here.” I answer gaining my confidence to not be looking down constantly. “My brother is.” I say quickly, as I can tell she thinks its a boyfriend of mine. I wouldn’t have a boyfriend, I would much rather date girls. And maybe even Katrine. There is something about her that I like, whether it’s her confidence, or the way she talks in a soft, slightly southern accent. I wonder what she’s doing here in California. “You know, I’m not getting ‘straight person’ vibes from you.”Katrine says finally as I was staring past her shoulder at the mantle clock. “Good intuition,” I say half jokingly. Some random rapper is playing in the background, and I notice someone turn the volume down a little. The buzz I had gotten from earlier when I had two cherry vodka shots settles in a bit more. “I need some air,” I say as I head toward the apartment balcony. I go out and lean my chest over the railing. I think about what it would be like to flip over it and into mid-air. I think about whether ending my ‘wannabe orphan’ would even be a good thing. Sure, foster parents sometimes are good, but sometimes they are like Brandon, a cheater who smokes two packs a day, sometimes three.I close my eyes and picture myself flipping into the air and falling with a smile on my face, the wind picking up and hearing in woosh past me, my unbuttoned green flannel standing almost vertically. I picture myself a few inches from the dry cement, BANG. I open my eyes and a firework goes off in the distance, a tree blocking the full view of it. Timothee is standing next to me, his full seventeen year old self right in front of me. I raise my eyebrow, and his eyes travel up and down me for a second. What if I’m not lesbian? I think. I could be bi. Only one way to find out. I grab his hand after a minute and drag him to the hallway. He grins as I pull into his untidy bedroom with plates, half empty plastic bags, and hoodies strewn across the stained carpet and dirty Ikea furniture. “Fine. But leave me alone after I do this, deal?” “Deal”. He says, taking off his t shirt.