The Guinea Pig
Jordan was lying on her half lofted bed, underneath the thinning lemon-lime comforter and I could see the cogs of anxiety turning as she tried to formulate what happened last night and the ensuing argument of today. The guinea pig shouldn’t be here listening to this. I hope the sound of his rusty wheel blocks out the heartache. Jordan’s cadence was slow and smooth like a river’s distant ripple. It must seem so vivid to her, even under the fog of alcohol and cigar smoke. First pulling at her sleeves of her hemp sweatshirt, her stress traveled to the tips of each finger. I looked to the heavily spackled walls attempting to cover the water stains -they didn’t- and the sole Ranger’s jersey thumb tacked above the guilty pipe. Her eyes were locked on the rubber curtain bending, not blowing, from the fan that been knocked over in celebration hours before. “I didn’t mean for him to see it.” She said.
I see the tension in her jaw as she begins her side of the story: the adrenaline rush, and the smack of the ocean as she reached it with full force, the embrace of the green striped towel, Hannah’s strong but gentle arms holding it up, just for her. I was suddenly taking on a car-sick feeling for not only hearing the flood of gossip, but for floating a top it. The things people do to get crush’s attention will never cease to impress me. I know too much.
Between Hannah and Jordan, they carried each-other; to any outsider they carried a team. Four years of sprinting, of six AM practices, of three hour bus rides to non-conference games, and one moment when they were finally alone. Finally able to shrug the weight of a team off the shoulders, to enlace fingers and walk along the abandoned beach.
Torrie strides in, stammering over the same joke from Austin Powers for the fourth time. It was a gift of her to break that silence although my eyes had since shifted from the wall downward to Jordan’s shamed face. She carried the weight of the ocean soaked blankets and ragged towels. The notion of the whole school knowing what she really was.
I see the tension in her jaw as she begins her side of the story: the adrenaline rush, and the smack of the ocean as she reached it with full force, the embrace of the green striped towel, Hannah’s strong but gentle arms holding it up, just for her. I was suddenly taking on a car-sick feeling for not only hearing the flood of gossip, but for floating a top it. The things people do to get crush’s attention will never cease to impress me. I know too much.
Between Hannah and Jordan, they carried each-other; to any outsider they carried a team. Four years of sprinting, of six AM practices, of three hour bus rides to non-conference games, and one moment when they were finally alone. Finally able to shrug the weight of a team off the shoulders, to enlace fingers and walk along the abandoned beach.
Torrie strides in, stammering over the same joke from Austin Powers for the fourth time. It was a gift of her to break that silence although my eyes had since shifted from the wall downward to Jordan’s shamed face. She carried the weight of the ocean soaked blankets and ragged towels. The notion of the whole school knowing what she really was.
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