Rebel in Remission; dark Literary Fic/coming of age

[mightymouse88]

Chapter 1
[Rocky]

I lied to everybody, not because I needed to or because I wanted to. It's just hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself more than anyone else. And to be honest (for once), I liked it that way. It was easier.

November

The engine purred awake with no more than the push of a button. Seconds later, a gentle warmth spread across the leather seat, soothing all the tension from my frozen muscles. It was only 6:30, but the elusive New England sun had already set on another wasted day. The moonlight practically made my pale face glow in the rear view mirror. I looked like a ghost. I was definitely ready to go home. I needed to get laid.

By the time I got to my floor I could hardly keep my eyes open, after three midterms my mind was running on auto pilot.

The air wafting from our apartment was a pungent mix of sesame oil, soy sauce, and red curry. The promise of a hot meal propelled me forward, reviving me enough to notice a neon orange post it stuck to the door. It was a third-attempt warning for a package. Strange, I hadn't seen the first two. The smell of chili peppers cleared my head, I remembered a UPS man had passed me in the stairwell.

I snatched the paper off the door and dragged myself back down the stairs to catch him. “Hey, I'm 4C,” I called, “got something for me?”

He turned slowly, his face haggard in a way I could relate to. He held a card board box the size of a baseball in his hands. The man nodded, handing me the package. The return address was marked San Antonio, Texas. The box was not for me.
I used my key to slice the tape open and turned the box over into my palm. In it was another box, a black satin jewelry box. The muscles in my jaw fastened shut as I glanced at the lethargic mail man, but he smiled back at me now.
My nostrils flared. The box was too small for a necklace or a bracelet, it could only hold two other kinds of jewelry. And my only piercing was in my left nostril. Damn it!

I used my thumb to flip up the lid and sure enough an antique diamond ring was nestled in the white silk. My eyes flashed to the truck driver and his congratulatory smile faded. After what can only be described as a growl escaped my lips his wide eyes shifted to the clip board in his hands. Wisely, he forged a generic and illegible signature for me as he fled from my building.
I felt the initial panic flood through me, the surge of fear and discomfort I'd always associated with commitment. Nothing could have induced a more torrential anxiety attack than an impending proposal. In my mind accepting an engagement ring was comparable to wearing my dogs choke chain.

I glared at the box in my hand, shutting the lid with a loud snap. Just thinking about the implications of this thing left me hyperventilating. Before the panic could overpower me I let the twinge of anger on the outskirts of my true feelings spread, leaving tinder where the other emotions had been. Anger worked for me, I welcomed it. Rage needed no further analysis of my hypothetical future. I could just zero in on the person responsible and ignore everything else.

Enraged, I stormed through the unlocked door already yelling, sliding between Spanish and English at random. In our tiny kitchen Alex stood frozen, holding a takeout box filled with white rice. His mouth hung open in shock.

When he slowly removed a headphone from his left ear I realized that he had no idea why I was yelling, but I was too furious to speak with complete sentences. I shrugged out of my book bag before I chucked the open jewelry box onto the kitchen table and threw my hands in the air, “Gah!”

I waited for him to say something, but he stared at the jewelry box as if he'd never seen one. Before he had a chance to figure it out, I was already down the hall, slamming the bedroom door and locking it behind me. “I am not my sister.” I muttered.

Gabby would have been thrilled. Idiot. She was just 18 years old, but she had her wedding planned since she was in pampers. Everything in her goddamn world revolved around training to be Little Suzy Homemaker. Better yet, my parents were constantly gushing about how Gabby, my baby sister, had such a bright future. Doing what? Wiping the babies ass with her Princeton diploma and waiting for Captain America to come back from overseas? No thanks.

I leaned against the door for a moment, fuming. I was not in the mood for this, not that I was ever in the mood to argue. Regardless, it took me less than a minute to decide what I would do. I was leaving. Obviously I didn't expect things would work themselves out in my absence, but that was how I'd always dealt with confrontation. This was the epitome of confrontation and I needed an escape hatch. Now.

Why am I always the one leaving? It's my apartment... I deliberated for a moment. Fuck it.

I dug through the pile of laundry that carpeted my walk in closet until I found my much abused gym bag. I did this often enough that keeping a pre-packed bag would've made sense, but I've never been very practical. So once again I sat on our bed and packed up my essentials for the night. I threw a pair of red plaid pajama pants and a hand full of tank tops into the bag, followed by a pair of fuzzy black slippers. I paused, trying to think of anything I forgot. Nothing came to mind, and I would only be gone for a day or two anyways so I wasn't worried about it.

Before I zipped up my bag to leave, I looked around my. . . our bedroom. It still made me cringe to think of myself as being tied down at all- even though I asked him to move in - I didn't like that it wasn't just my apartment or my bed anymore.

A familiar voice interrupted my derailed train of thought,“Rocky, what the hell are you doing in there? Can you please open the door?”

I paused. Why couldn't I just talk about it with him? Normal people talk about crap like this. With all the shit I put him through, it was amazing I was the only one who'd ever left.

Wracking my brain for excuses to leave, I settled on my last midterm paper. So instead of opening the door like a normal person, I tossed my lap top into the pile and put on my thicker winter coat. Even without the paper I would have found a reason to say the same thing, “No. Alex, I'll be around in a few days, alright? Just give me some space.”

Thunk, most likely the sound his head resting in defeat against the bedroom door, which I realized was my only exit.

Shit.

Not that he would tackle me or anything, I didn't have the guts to face him. In the full length mirror that stood in the corner, I noticed the sliding glass door behind me, which led onto a balcony. . . the proverbial light bulb went off. But it was snowing. I looked down at my flip flops and groaned, nevertheless I pulled the door open and tossed my bag into the snow covered grass below. I shivered convulsively while holding my computer like a football. Taking a deep breath I tried to brace myself for both the impact and the two inches of snow below my 2nd story balcony, and sitting on the railing I stepped off the side and fell to the ground. Ouch.

Once I got into my car I looked back up at the sliding glass door to see that Alex must have picked the lock just a few seconds too late. I tried not to read his lips as he waved limply, but somewhere in the back of my mind it registered that he probably said “I love you”.

It had started out a very normal day, it was not suppose to be so goddamned dramatic. My life was usually like an old pair of jeans, worn in and comfortable. Once, that was only a description of how I dressed, but now my sense of style had deteriorated to sweat pants and flip flops. Most things in my life had slowly become vanilla. It was mind numbing.

I suppose jumping from my balcony had it's advantages, it briefly fed my constant craving for adrenaline. Very briefly. Once I was safely in my car, driving away from a conversation I was no where near ready to have, I went to pull my phone out of my pocket. But it was empty. I left it in my book bag, and my book bag was next to the kitchen table. Great.

Luckily, where I was going, no formal invitation was necessary. Lilly had been my best friend since we were in grade school, she was possibly the only girl I could tolerate being around- including my sister. During adolescence we were partners in crime, both literally and figuratively speaking. When we were in high school we always said we would move to New York City and become flight attendants for JFK. Travel the world, never the same day twice. Well at least we made it out of Illinois, but in a lot of ways college had clipped my wings.

I knocked on her door sheepishly, knowing that- although she wouldn't push for details- she would already know what brought me there. She answered the door in a Smashing Pumpkins concert tee and baggy pajama pants rolled down to her hips. Her head was covered in tin foil panels, like a shiny silver roof for her brain. With a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth she waved me inside. She skipped to the bathroom to spit.

I carefully stepped over the Lego castle that blocked off the living room, it occurred to me that the architect was being unusually quiet, “Where's Pablo?” I asked.

Pablo was Lilly's three year old son. When we came to college Lilly was an artist and she lived to paint. I knew one day she'd be famous and I'd be able to tell people, “Oh yes, I've known Lilly D'Angelo my whole life.” Two weeks into our freshman year I took her to a frat party. Nine months later I took her to the hospital. Now she's a hair stylist and she lives for her son.

“At his dad's. We switched, he has him Wednesday through Friday now.” she mumbled before spitting, “So do you wanna talk about it?” she she asked poking her head out the door, her eye brows pushed together with discomfort. Lilly dealt with feelings about as well as I did.

I shook my head, “Not today, lets watch a movie”.

So that's exactly what we did, as always, we watched Good Will Hunting and talked about sex. This time we discussed the pro's and con's of fake orgasms, instead of the fact that I jumped off of a balcony to escape commitment. At first.

“So when are the aliens coming?” I said, staring at her head.

“Tuesday.” she laughed. “No, I got bored. I'm trying auburn on top and black underneath.” Now that she knew how to do it herself, Lilly dyed her hair constantly.

“Anyways. . . what about Frank?” she asked me with half a mouth full of popcorn. 'Frank the Tank' is my uncoordinated English Bulldog, he is the only male I have ever been able to make any life long commitment to.

“I think Alex can handle him for a couple days. He loves Frank.” I said. She nodded slowly. Nervously. I could see the question she really wanted to ask waiting on the tip of her tongue.
“And what about Alex?” she smirked as she said this, probably knowing how I would respond.

“Hmm. Well, I'm sure Frank can handle him for a couple days, they're both house broken.” Lilly smiled and shook her head as I answered, and the movie took our attention again. But during the scene where Matt Damon opens up to his shrink I started squirming, and before Lilly could raise that stupid eyebrow of hers I got up to get a water bottle from the fridge.

I lingered in the kitchen. Staring at the refrigerator door, covered in photographs and sketches. One photo stood out, me and Lilly, wearing what I wish I could say were Halloween costumes. We thought we were so cool with our plaid button ups tied at around our rib cages, black finger nails, and dirty Converse. My hair was pinned into an up-do that made me look like Sonic the Hedgehog and Lilly's was three different colors. It was our first day of high school, just six months before we started working). We used to be so innocent.

As I turned the corner Lilly was waiting for me, staring me down like a panther. “What?”

“You know what. Whats going on with you and Alex?” I could detect the curiosity in her voice, but not in a gossipy sort of way. That's the best thing about Lilly- she actually cared.

“Did he, uh, ask again?” she said the word with a certain thickness that vaguely exposed her envy.

I rolled my eyes as opposed to actually answering, she knew what happened when I knocked on her door. This thickness also brought up my own envy, I wished I felt the contentment that Lilly would feel if she'd been proposed to, but I could barely
choke out an “I Love You”.

Alex had been pushing marriage as if premarital sex has some sort of reverse statute of limitations in the Catholic Church. Alex Torres was raised in a first generation Mexican-American family, steeped in Catholic doctrine.

I, on the other hand, rejected Catholicism before I was even in middle school. I threatened my father that I would make my Conformation name Magdalene. As in Mary of Magdalene. Given our religious orientations alone, the fact that Alex and I ever got together was surprising. Making the fact that he wanted to marry me incomprehensible, and trust me I was not the only one who thought so, just ask his mother.

In the morning I woke up face down on Lilly's couch, my spine chastising me for my cowardice. But I reminded my spine that staying home would have been just as painful, as it would take some really impressive make up sex to distract him this time. Every time we had this fight he dug his heels in deeper. Which was part of why I chose to jump off a balcony instead. I was a sucker for guilt trips, and I put myself on one every time I saw the rejection in his face. Like the first time he proposed. I couldn't believe how hard he took it, so that night I cooked dinner naked. Conversation over.

But last night was much worse. Abuelita, his grandmother, sent him her goddamned wedding ring. If she knew, who else in his family knew? What if my family knew? What a mess. I was surprised that he would try again so soon, he knew me better than that. Hell, he was better than I probably deserved, but the idea of getting married was enough to make me go into anaphylactic shock.

I told Lilly about my escape over Pop Tarts, I avoided making eye contact like my life depended on it, I could feel the twinge of resentment in her stare.

“So anyways, I have a massive paper to write for Pan Asian Cinema due at 6 and I knew I'd never finish it if I stayed, so I just left.” I said trying to shift the topic.

As usual, she knew my agenda and cooperated, “Why the hell are you taking that by the way? What does that have to do with Spanish?” she said laughing at me. The Liberal Arts School concept was as transparent to Lilly as it was to me, I just happened to be giving in to it. Lilly dropped out the second semester of our freshman year and went for cosmetology at the community college down the road. So, she was actually paying her own rent. I, on the other hand, was financially dependent on my parents, who paid for my rent, food, and tuition.

I laughed in spite of my irritation, “I have to take a Fine Arts class, and it was easier than Art History,” I sighed, “I am the quintessential university cash cow.” Instantly regretting the farm animal reference.

“Baaaah.” she challenged, her eyebrow raised over a smug smirk.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my bags, heading for the door. I couldn't shake the sensation that I was forgetting something important. Oh, well. I attributed it to not having my cell phone.

Outside, the snow had melted but my car was buried under a mountain of leaves, and the melted snow had frozen over, plastering them to the windshield. It took a good fifteen minutes just to rake them off my windows. While I drove to campus I reminisced on all of our childhood schemes and ambitions, we were so damned determined to get away from home, anywhere but Chicago.

Living in a college town on the east coast was exactly like living in a scenic tourist postcard, especially this time of year. The leaves overflowed into the streets, blanketing the ground in a hundred shades of red and gold. But no matter how many leaves were on the ground, the foliage in these ancient tree's never seemed any thinner. It was truly picturesque.

It made me miss home, where beauty came in less predictable forms. I missed the way graffiti was scrawled on the side of vacant buildings, I missed how plant life refused to be evicted – always finding its way back through cracks in the cement, and I missed the contrast of the river winding naturally through the buildings. Growing up in Chicago had instilled in me an appreciation for the unique beauty of raw industrial materials. I loved how life- human or not- seemed to take hold of the city, making it organic again. This place was too. . . pristine. I yearned for my grungy city.

I stared at the clock on my dash, 9:27am. Even though I was a half hour early for class, a tiny voice somewhere in the back of my mind insisted I was running late. If I had my damn phone I could have checked my calendar. I shrugged.

My gym bag flopped over when I pulled into the last open space, a clear orange bottle rolling out and under the glove compartment. It was a good thing too, I didn't like taking my pills in front of people so I skipped them at breakfast with Lilly. The nearly empty bottle brought my nagging worry out of my subconscious and into center stage.

I had a therapy appointment at 9:30 am, “Son of a bitch!”

I threw the car in reverse and ground my teeth in irritation. Driving slower than necessary on my way to the counseling center – wasting as much time as I could – I tried to sort through what I would say.

I glared at the bottle and the two capsules rolling around inside, if they weren't absolutely necessary I never would have made an appointment. I would rather shove bamboo splinters under my finger nails than talk another psychologist. I had a new therapist almost every year since I was 13. My parents interpreted a little teenage angst and rebellion as psychosis. I don't know what scared them more – the chance that my escapades would tarnish our family reputation or the idea of actually talking to me for more than ten minutes. Either way, I was passed from shrink to shrink in the hopes that one of them might convince me to be the preppy Jr. WASP my parents wanted. I just got more pissed off, eventually I started screwing with them. I started making up incredible stories of parental strife that never happened. Once I said that I found hard core gay porn in my dad's brief case, now that was fun.

I parked at a meter and put in enough for 15 minutes. It still felt just like going to confession with the priest, I had nothing to say- what I did was my business and I had no regrets. I knew the only thing that came from telling a pompous old man my secrets was judgment and pressure to conform. Really I'd come to hold that as a general rule for all people. Just nod and smile.

I am looking for feedback on anything and everything, don't be shy please! :-)

[Netti]

Gotta say, I really enjoyed this! I'm definitely intrigued by Rocky's story.

The one thing that bugged me was in the beginning. The UPS left a note on the apartment door so I assumed no one was home but then Rocky goes into the apartment and starts yelling at Alex. So, why didn't he answer the door for the UPS man? I thought to that maybe he wanted her to find the ring like that but when she goes in he just looks surprised by what's happening.

[mightymouse88]

THANK YOU! hahaha, this is the kind of stuff that slips past me from time to time! See, when I picture the story in my head, Alex is listening to music and not until Rocky storms in screaming does he hear anything over his headphones. Not sure how I missed that.. thanks!

[arbraun]

I lied to everybody, not because I needed to or because I wanted to. It's just hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself more than anyone else. And to be honest (for once), I liked it that way. It was easier. I like this opening. It catches my attention.

November

The engine purred awake with no more than the push of a button. Seconds later, a gentle warmth spread across the leather seat, soothing all the tension from my frozen muscles. It was only 6:30, but the elusive New England sun had already set on another wasted day. The moonlight practically made my pale face glow in the rear view mirror. I looked like a ghost. I was definitely ready to go home. I needed to get laid. I like this paragraph too.

By the time I got to my floor I could hardly keep my eyes open, after three midterms my mind was running on auto pilot. Love this.

The air wafting from our apartment was a pungent mix of sesame oil, soy sauce, and red curry. I would say "wafting in." The promise of a hot meal propelled me forward, reviving me enough to notice a neon orange post it stuck to the door. "Post-it" has a hyphen. It was a third-attempt warning for a package. Strange, I hadn't seen the first two. The smell of chili peppers cleared my head, I remembered a UPS man had passed me in the stairwell.

I snatched the paper off the door and dragged myself back down the stairs to catch him. “Hey, I'm 4C,” I called, “got something for me?”

He turned slowly, his face haggard in a way I could relate to. He held a card board box the size of a baseball in his hands. The man nodded, handing me the package. The return address was marked San Antonio, Texas. The box was not for me.
I used my key to slice the tape open and turned the box over into my palm. In it was another box, a black satin jewelry box. The muscles in my jaw fastened shut as I glanced at the lethargic mail man, but he smiled back at me now.
My nostrils flared. The box was too small for a necklace or a bracelet, it could only hold two other kinds of jewelry. And my only piercing was in my left nostril. Damn it!

I used my thumb to flip up the lid and sure enough an antique diamond ring was nestled in the white silk. My eyes flashed to the truck driver and his congratulatory smile faded. After what can only be described as a growl escaped my lips his wide eyes shifted to the clip board in his hands. Wisely, he forged a generic and illegible signature for me as he fled from my building. I heard somewhere agents don't like "growled" as a dialogue tag.
I felt the initial panic flood through me, the surge of fear and discomfort I'd always associated with commitment. Nothing could have induced a more torrential anxiety attack than an impending proposal. In my mind accepting an engagement ring was comparable to wearing my dogs choke chain. At this point I'm wondering how this can be a coming-of-age drama. The protagonist seems to be an adult.

I glared at the box in my hand, shutting the lid with a loud snap. Just thinking about the implications of this thing left me hyperventilating. Before the panic could overpower me I let the twinge of anger on the outskirts of my true feelings spread, leaving tinder where the other emotions had been. Anger worked for me, I welcomed it. Rage needed no further analysis of my hypothetical future. I could just zero in on the person responsible and ignore everything else. It seems this book's heavy on descripton. I'd include more dialogue and inner thoughts.

Enraged, I stormed through the unlocked door already yelling, sliding between Spanish and English at random. In our tiny kitchen Alex stood frozen, holding a takeout box filled with white rice. His mouth hung open in shock. The way it's written, it seems the door is yelling. I recast: "Enraged and yelling, I stormed . . ."

When he slowly removed a headphone from his left ear I realized that he had no idea why I was yelling, but I was too furious to speak with complete sentences. I shrugged out of my book bag before I chucked the open jewelry box onto the kitchen table and threw my hands in the air, “Gah!” I'd use a period instead of a comma here.

I waited for him to say something, but he stared at the jewelry box as if he'd never seen one. Before he had a chance to figure it out, I was already down the hall, slamming the bedroom door and locking it behind me. “I am not my sister.” I muttered.

Gabby would have been thrilled. Idiot. She was just 18 years old, but she had her wedding planned since she was in pampers. Everything in her goddamn world revolved around training to be Little Suzy Homemaker. Better yet, my parents were constantly gushing about how Gabby, my baby sister, had such a bright future. Doing what? Wiping the babies ass with her Princeton diploma and waiting for Captain America to come back from overseas? No thanks. Great detail here, but I'd write: "baby's ass."

I leaned against the door for a moment, fuming. I was not in the mood for this, not that I was ever in the mood to argue. Regardless, it took me less than a minute to decide what I would do. I was leaving. Obviously I didn't expect things would work themselves out in my absence, but that was how I'd always dealt with confrontation. This was the epitome of confrontation and I needed an escape hatch. Now.

Why am I always the one leaving? It's my apartment... It's four ellipses points to end a sentence. I deliberated for a moment. Fuck it.

I dug through the pile of laundry that carpeted my walk in closet until I found my much abused gym bag. Hyphen in "walk-in closet" because it's a compound adjective. I did this often enough that keeping a pre-packed bag would've made sense, but I've never been very practical. So once again I sat on our bed and packed up my essentials for the night. I threw a pair of red plaid pajama pants and a hand full of tank tops into the bag, followed by a pair of fuzzy black slippers. I paused, trying to think of anything I forgot. Nothing came to mind, and I would only be gone for a day or two anyways so I wasn't worried about it. I'd say "anyway."

Before I zipped up my bag to leave, I looked around my. . . our bedroom. It still made me cringe to think of myself as being tied down at all- even though I asked him to move in - I didn't like that it wasn't just my apartment or my bed anymore. I'd use two hyphens for a dash.

A familiar voice interrupted my derailed train of thought,“Rocky, what the hell are you doing in there? Can you please open the door?” I'd use a period instead of a comma here.

I paused. Why couldn't I just talk about it with him? Normal people talk about crap like this. With all the shit I put him through, it was amazing I was the only one who'd ever left.

Wracking my brain for excuses to leave, I settled on my last midterm paper. So instead of opening the door like a normal person, I tossed my lap top into the pile and put on my thicker winter coat. "Laptop" is one word. Even without the paper I would have found a reason to say the same thing, “No. Alex, I'll be around in a few days, alright? Just give me some space.”

Thunk, most likely the sound his head resting in defeat against the bedroom door, which I realized was my only exit. I'd put I'd put "Thunk" in italics.

Shit. Repetition of "shit." I'd say "Fuck."

Not that he would tackle me or anything, I didn't have the guts to face him. In the full length mirror that stood in the corner, I noticed the sliding glass door behind me, which led onto a balcony. . . the proverbial light bulb went off. But it was snowing. I looked down at my flip flops and groaned, nevertheless I pulled the door open and tossed my bag into the snow covered grass below. I shivered convulsively while holding my computer like a football. Taking a deep breath I tried to brace myself for both the impact and the two inches of snow below my 2nd story balcony, and sitting on the railing I stepped off the side and fell to the ground. Ouch. Repetition of "and." I'd start a new sentence with "Sitting on the railing, I . . ."

Once I got into my car I looked back up at the sliding glass door to see that Alex must have picked the lock just a few seconds too late. I tried not to read his lips as he waved limply, but somewhere in the back of my mind it registered that he probably said “I love you”.

It had started out a very normal day, it was not suppose to be so goddamned dramatic. My life was usually like an old pair of jeans, worn in and comfortable. Once, that was only a description of how I dressed, but now my sense of style had deteriorated to sweat pants and flip flops. Most things in my life had slowly become vanilla. What does "become vanilla" mean? If I'm confused, a lot of others might be too. It was mind numbing.

I suppose jumping from my balcony had it's advantages, it briefly fed my constant craving for adrenaline. Very briefly. Once I was safely in my car, driving away from a conversation I was no where near ready to have, I went to pull my phone out of my pocket. But it was empty. I left it in my book bag, and my book bag was next to the kitchen table. Great.

Luckily, where I was going, no formal invitation was necessary. Lilly had been my best friend since we were in grade school, she was possibly the only girl I could tolerate being around- including my sister. During adolescence we were partners in crime, both literally and figuratively speaking. When we were in high school we always said we would move to New York City and become flight attendants for JFK. Travel the world, never the same day twice. Well at least we made it out of Illinois, but in a lot of ways college had clipped my wings. I can understand wanting to make it out of Illinois.

I knocked on her door sheepishly, knowing that- although she wouldn't push for details- she would already know what brought me there. She answered the door in a Smashing Pumpkins concert tee and baggy pajama pants rolled down to her hips. Her head was covered in tin foil panels, like a shiny silver roof for her brain. With a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth she waved me inside. She skipped to the bathroom to spit. I don't know about the "skipping" and "spitting" bit together. I think she's probably too old to skip.

I carefully stepped over the Lego castle that blocked off the living room, it occurred to me that the architect was being unusually quiet, “Where's Pablo?” I asked. Period after "quiet."

Pablo was Lilly's three year old son. When we came to college Lilly was an artist and she lived to paint. I knew one day she'd be famous and I'd be able to tell people, “Oh yes, I've known Lilly D'Angelo my whole life.” Two weeks into our freshman year I took her to a frat party. Nine months later I took her to the hospital. Now she's a hair stylist and she lives for her son.

“At his dad's. We switched, he has him Wednesday through Friday now.” she mumbled before spitting, “So do you wanna talk about it?” she she asked poking her head out the door, her eye brows pushed together with discomfort. Lilly dealt with feelings about as well as I did. No need for the speech tags here.

I shook my head, “Not today, lets watch a movie”. Period after "head."

So that's exactly what we did, as always, we watched Good Will Hunting and talked about sex. The movie should be in italics. This time we discussed the pro's and con's of fake orgasms, instead of the fact that I jumped off of a balcony to escape commitment. At first.

“So when are the aliens coming?” I said, staring at her head.

“Tuesday.” she laughed. “No, I got bored. I'm trying auburn on top and black underneath.” Now that she knew how to do it herself, Lilly dyed her hair constantly.

“Anyways. . . what about Frank?” she asked me with half a mouth full of popcorn. 'Frank the Tank' is my uncoordinated English Bulldog, he is the only male I have ever been able to make any life long commitment to. I believe "life-long" is one word with a hyphen.

“I think Alex can handle him for a couple days. He loves Frank.” I said. She nodded slowly. Nervously. I could see the question she really wanted to ask waiting on the tip of her tongue. I'd put one person's dialogue in its own paragraph.“And what about Alex?” she smirked as she said this, probably knowing how I would respond.

“Hmm. Well, I'm sure Frank can handle him for a couple days, they're both house broken.” Lilly smiled and shook her head as I answered, and the movie took our attention again. But during the scene where Matt Damon opens up to his shrink I started squirming, and before Lilly could raise that stupid eyebrow of hers I got up to get a water bottle from the fridge.

I lingered in the kitchen. Staring at the refrigerator door, covered in photographs and sketches. One photo stood out, me and Lilly, wearing what I wish I could say were Halloween costumes. "Lilly and I." We thought we were so cool with our plaid button ups tied at around our rib cages, black finger nails, and dirty Converse. tennis shoes? My hair was pinned into an up-do that made me look like Sonic the Hedgehog and Lilly's was three different colors. It was our first day of high school, just six months before we started working). We used to be so innocent. When did the parentheses start?

As I turned the corner Lilly was waiting for me, staring me down like a panther. “What?”

“You know what. Whats going on with you and Alex?” I could detect the curiosity in her voice, but not in a gossipy sort of way. That's the best thing about Lilly- she actually cared.

“Did he, uh, ask again?” she said the word with a certain thickness that vaguely exposed her envy.

I rolled my eyes as opposed to actually answering, she knew what happened when I knocked on her door. This thickness also brought up my own envy, I wished I felt the contentment that Lilly would feel if she'd been proposed to, but I could barely
choke out an “I Love You”. A couple of comma splices here that should have periods.

Alex had been pushing marriage as if premarital sex has some sort of reverse statute of limitations in the Catholic Church. Alex Torres was raised in a first generation Mexican-American family, steeped in Catholic doctrine.

I, on the other hand, rejected Catholicism before I was even in middle school. I threatened my father that I would make my Conformation name Magdalene. As in Mary of Magdalene. Given our religious orientations alone, the fact that Alex and I ever got together was surprising. Making the fact that he wanted to marry me incomprehensible, and trust me I was not the only one who thought so, just ask his mother.

In the morning I woke up face down on Lilly's couch, my spine chastising me for my cowardice. But I reminded my spine that staying home would have been just as painful, as it would take some really impressive make up sex to distract him this time. Every time we had this fight he dug his heels in deeper. Which was part of why I chose to jump off a balcony instead. I was a sucker for guilt trips, and I put myself on one every time I saw the rejection in his face. Like the first time he proposed. I couldn't believe how hard he took it, so that night I cooked dinner naked. Conversation over.

But last night was much worse. Abuelita, his grandmother, sent him her goddamned wedding ring. If she knew, who else in his family knew? What if my family knew? What a mess. I was surprised that he would try again so soon, he knew me better than that. Hell, he was better than I probably deserved, but the idea of getting married was enough to make me go into anaphylactic shock.

I told Lilly about my escape over Pop Tarts, I avoided making eye contact like my life depended on it, I could feel the twinge of resentment in her stare. Two more comma splices here.

“So anyways, I have a massive paper to write for Pan Asian Cinema due at 6 and I knew I'd never finish it if I stayed, so I just left.” I said trying to shift the topic. A speech tag should have a comma. Also, I'd write out the number.

As usual, she knew my agenda and cooperated, “Why the hell are you taking that by the way? What does that have to do with Spanish?” she said laughing at me. The Liberal Arts School concept was as transparent to Lilly as it was to me, I just happened to be giving in to it. Lilly dropped out the second semester of our freshman year and went for cosmetology at the community college down the road. So, she was actually paying her own rent. I, on the other hand, was financially dependent on my parents, who paid for my rent, food, and tuition.

I laughed in spite of my irritation, “I have to take a Fine Arts class, and it was easier than Art History,” I sighed, “I am the quintessential university cash cow.” Instantly regretting the farm animal reference.

“Baaaah.” she challenged, her eyebrow raised over a smug smirk.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my bags, heading for the door. I couldn't shake the sensation that I was forgetting something important. Oh, well. I attributed it to not having my cell phone.

Outside, the snow had melted but my car was buried under a mountain of leaves, and the melted snow had frozen over, plastering them to the windshield. It took a good fifteen minutes just to rake them off my windows. While I drove to campus I reminisced on all of our childhood schemes and ambitions, we were so damned determined to get away from home, anywhere but Chicago.

Living in a college town on the east coast was exactly like living in a scenic tourist postcard, especially this time of year. The leaves overflowed into the streets, blanketing the ground in a hundred shades of red and gold. But no matter how many leaves were on the ground, the foliage in these ancient tree's never seemed any thinner. It was truly picturesque.

It made me miss home, where beauty came in less predictable forms. I missed the way graffiti was scrawled on the side of vacant buildings, I missed how plant life refused to be evicted – always finding its way back through cracks in the cement, and I missed the contrast of the river winding naturally through the buildings. Growing up in Chicago had instilled in me an appreciation for the unique beauty of raw industrial materials. I loved how life- human or not- seemed to take hold of the city, making it organic again. This place was too. . . pristine. I yearned for my grungy city.

I stared at the clock on my dash, 9:27am. Even though I was a half hour early for class, a tiny voice somewhere in the back of my mind insisted I was running late. If I had my damn phone I could have checked my calendar. I shrugged.

My gym bag flopped over when I pulled into the last open space, a clear orange bottle rolling out and under the glove compartment. It was a good thing too, I didn't like taking my pills in front of people so I skipped them at breakfast with Lilly. The nearly empty bottle brought my nagging worry out of my subconscious and into center stage.

I had a therapy appointment at 9:30 am, “Son of a bitch!” Period instead of a comma here.

I threw the car in reverse and ground my teeth in irritation. Driving slower than necessary on my way to the counseling center – wasting as much time as I could – I tried to sort through what I would say.

I glared at the bottle and the two capsules rolling around inside, if they weren't absolutely necessary I never would have made an appointment. I would rather shove bamboo splinters under my finger nails than talk another psychologist. I had a new therapist almost every year since I was 13. My parents interpreted a little teenage angst and rebellion as psychosis. I don't know what scared them more – the chance that my escapades would tarnish our family reputation or the idea of actually talking to me for more than ten minutes. Either way, I was passed from shrink to shrink in the hopes that one of them might convince me to be the preppy Jr. WASP my parents wanted. Should this be, "A WASP, what my parents wanted. I just got more pissed off, eventually I started screwing with them. I started making up incredible stories of parental strife that never happened. Once I said that I found hard core gay porn in my dad's brief case, now that was fun. Lol!

I parked at a meter and put in enough for 15 minutes. It still felt just like going to confession with the priest, I had nothing to say- what I did was my business and I had no regrets. I knew the only thing that came from telling a pompous old man my secrets was judgment and pressure to conform. Really I'd come to hold that as a general rule for all people. Just nod and smile.

I would throw in some thrilling detail. While it's not boring when a woman backs out of a marriage, I'd stick some racier content in to spice it up. Perhaps they go see a male stripper, the protagonist meets a guy at a bar or in public, or they hire a john. Also, I think a grammar book would be beneficial to you. I saw a lot of comma foibles that could be fixed with some good instruction.

Hope this helps,

A. R.

[mightymouse88]

Wow, thanks for all the input! Not often that people are so helpful. Yeah, I'm not sure what to call it (coming of age?) she's a junior in college. I'm glad you liked it. And I'm off to fix my commas : )

[androidblues]

Some are trying to create a new genre called New Adult for 18-24. I think its a good idea, then YA can be YA again without twimoms pressuring writers to include graphic sex descriptions-stuff that belongs in the crappy commercial romance they read.

[Steppe]

I would echo the first critique and add a stylistic aside.

(...)
I, on the other hand, rejected Catholicism before I was even in middle school. I threatened my father that I would make my Conformation name Magdalene. (As in Mary of Magdalene. Skip this trust the reader.) Given our religious orientations alone, the fact that Alex and I ever got together was surprising. Making the fact that he wanted to marry me incomprehensible, and trust me I was not the only one who thought so, just ask his mother.
(...)

The reader has suddenly grasped the whole situation just previous to that blurb as a tableau portrait and all the elements have converged.
A crisp driven version of the run-away bride with a good contrast against the more settled friend with child.

Stylistic Definitive. Relentlessly pulled me forward until the critique above. I get it and fully understand the protagonist at that exact junction.
She's been behaving as if she is going to murder someone and suddenly I realize she thinks she is murdering herself.

Rewrite the stuff about the baby sisters feelings about marriage. Two sentences.
No suggestions, just more punchy or more obscure one or the other. It fell in the middle not providing mystery or explanation.

Quality narrative.
I felt I was the character due to the sum total of tools and methods applied to the narrators passion.

Growl = hissed malevolently etc etc.