The Fragile Ordinary. Samantha Young

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СКАЧАТЬ is obsessive about cleaning it.”

      Irritation flexed its muscles within me, curling my fingers tight around the bottle of water in my left hand. “Are you trying to say I’m filthy? Unclean?”

      Steph’s eyes widened at my unfamiliar tone. I rarely got pissed off with my friends. Correction: I rarely revealed when I was pissed off with my friends. “No, I didn’t mean that. God, Comet, I’m sorry. You know I say stuff without thinking.”

      “No, you say mean stuff when you don’t get your way.”

      Vicki’s jaw dropped and I couldn’t work out if that was horror, amusement or respect in her eyes or even a mixture of all three. Steph flushed.

      An awful silence fell over our table.

      We stared at anything but each other as the noise of the cafeteria faded into the background. The impulse to apologize, to make things all right, clambered up my throat, and the determined stubbornness within me tried to stop it. However, the truth was my friend had apologized, and it just made me an ungracious arsehole to not accept it.

      “I’m sorry.” My gaze flitted to Steph, who looked ready to cry. “You apologized. It was mean of me not to accept it.”

      My friend looked up at me in relief and gave me a tremulous smile.

      “Phew!” Vicki relaxed back in her chair. “Okay, now that’s done with, back to this weekend. Before you say anything, Comet, I get it. We can’t have a party while your parents are away. But we could have a sleepover and not tell our parents your parents are away. Instead we could go hang out with Jordan and his friends.”

      Jordan as in Jordan Hall? The nineteen-year-old almost boy next door Vicki had been crushing on for two years? I raised an eyebrow and she laughed. “We ran into each other this morning, and he mentioned his friend was having a party on Saturday and I should come.”

      Steph’s eyes almost bugged out of her head. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” She squealed and reached across to squeeze Vicki’s arm in excitement. And then she swung her gaze back to me. “Comet, come on! We have to do this for Vicki.”

      I didn’t want to hang out with a bunch of college boys.

      I didn’t want to go to a party where no one knew me and wouldn’t care to know me.

      I wanted my friends to just sleep over at my house so I wouldn’t be alone the entire weekend.

      No doubt seeing the thought in my eyes, Vicki’s expression fell, disappointment clouding her features. She gazed at me in reproach, as if to say, You promised you’d try. And I had promised, hadn’t I?

      Feeling angry butterflies at the thought, I nodded. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

      While Steph practically bounced in her seat with excitement, Vicki’s disappointment melted into gratitude. “Thank you.”

      I smiled in return, but inside I was already dreading this weekend more than I dreaded end-of-term exams.

      * * *

      When the girls asked me if I wanted to hang out with them after school the plan had always been to lie and tell them I had a dentist appointment. Before lunch I would have felt bad about the lie, but after stewing over our conversation in the cafeteria I didn’t feel guilty about heading into the city without them. Being corralled into doing something I didn’t want to—being made to feel guilty for not wanting to go to some party with strangers—made me feel resentful. It also made me feel even more insecure than normal. While most days I could argue that wanting to live inside the world of books more than I wanted to live in the real world was perfectly rational considering how boring and sad my life was, there were days like today when I couldn’t. Because Vicki and Steph made it seem like it wasn’t normal. And maybe they were right.

      Maybe there was something wrong with me.

      Maybe I really was a weirdo.

      Good thing I was going to the one place I didn’t feel that way.

      After school I hurried home and changed out of my uniform, and then I caught the bus from Portobello High Street in the center of town. It took me into the city, to Edinburgh University, and from there I walked to Tollcross where my favorite café was. Pan was this almost ludicrously hipster café for poets and artists. There was a mishmash of murals painted on the walls, and a gallimaufry of furniture, including tables and chairs, sofas, armchairs and beanbags. Rugs of all sizes and colors had been thrown across the scuffed hardwood floors, and the café counter was discernible as such only because of the coffee machine behind it and the cake stands on it. At the far end of the room a small stage with a mic awaited poets and musicians. While I ordered my usual—a hot chocolate with whipped cream on top—a young guy, around college age, was onstage reading a poem from the crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

      Taking a seat at the back of the room, loving how no one here paid attention to me or my ruby-red Dorothy shoes, I took a sip of my hot chocolate and listened. The guy’s voice trembled and his hands shook, but it was hard to tell if it was from nerves or because of the subject of his poem.

      “It was like a knife of white heat

      Plunged into my chest

      Exploding in a myriad of pain and anger.

      Like a long lost letter unopened,

      Its pages waiting to bring

      A sudden dawning;

      To complete a puzzle that once

      Had been so difficult

      For a little boy to understand.

      The realization is consuming in its accompanied rage.

      Does he know what he did?

      A little boy suffers as another

      Parades his falsities

      To an audience of jesters.

      His teardrops fall

      Among the court of

      Villains and victims,

      Whilst another’s falls silently

      Behind his eyes and down

      Over his broken heart.”

      As much as I loved being at Pan, soaking in the good and the bad poetry and the fact that you could be a purple elephant in this room and no one would care, I could never dream of getting up on that stage and reading my own poetry aloud. It was only upon visiting the café that I’d discovered something depressing. Apparently, I belonged to a group of poets that had fallen out of fashion.

      A poet whose poetry rhymed.

      The only poets here who rhymed were the spoken word artists—those who wrote slam poetry.

      I wasn’t a spoken word artist.

      And the only other kind of poet I’d come across in Pan were the free verse poets. Maybe rhyming wasn’t cool anymore. I was a lover of Robert Burns, СКАЧАТЬ