Soundtrack: 1, 2, 3, 4 by the Plain White T's
*Gasp* I almost forgot today was Tuesday. I was working--at a bookstore, with calendars, where the day of the week is completely clear--all day, and I was convinced it was Wednesday.
For once, in over a month, I'm putting the teaser in Teaser Tuesday. Will, one of the main characters in my new, weird summer story, is a boy with a guitar.
So, what happened today? I got up, had a shower, and brushed my teeth. I know, I brush my teeth before I eat breakfast, it’s weird. That way, when I eat my cereal, my mouth still feels a little tingly.
Jack would understand.
I waded through the piles of gift baskets and bouquets to the couch, where Dad was sitting. He dipped his newspaper, a greeting I took to say, hi son, I know I took this holiday to spend time with you, but the sports page is more interesting. Don’t try to fight it, just get yourself some cereal.
Grandpa was down by the dock, I guessed by his absence at the kitchen table. He never slept past 6 AM, always ate Weetabix for breakfast, and loved his boat more than any living thing. I kind of admired his passion for it, because he knew that a pile of metal and rust-resistant paint wouldn’t let him down.
I was feeling all angsty and depressed, so I figured I might as well make up some gloomy riff and sing about it. I grabbed my guitar from its place of honour beside the table and slung the strap around my shoulder. And that’s when it happened: Hurricane Claire.
“Hey, Lenny,” she said, bursting through the door like she owned the place. With Claire, formalities weren’t a big deal.
She started calling me Lenny, short for Lennon, the first time she heard me sing. I was down by the dock, sure that I was alone, when she started singing along. Badly. I knew I was nowhere near as good as John Lennon, but you’d never get her to believe that.
Claire hopped up onto the table and patted her bare knees, humming what sounded like I Wanna Hold Your Hand.
“Guess what?” she asked, grinning.
“What?” I put my guitar down and took a seat at the table.
“Emma’s back,” she answered giddily and started patting her knees again, this time to some made up song that only she could hear.
“Emma...” I repeated, trying to see if saying the name would bring back any memories—-no luck.
Claire clicked her tongue in irritation and said, “Emma Proskova, my cousin. You know, Em, Emmy, Em-who-will-never-win-an-Emmy-because-she-sucks-at-acting. She was Juliet in that play, like, eight years ago. God, has it really been that long? I feel old.”
Claire ran a finger along the side of her face, tracing an imaginary wrinkle. “You’re not old,” I said. “And you’re not making any sense. Emma?”
I remembered the play. One summer, Claire decided to rewrite all of Shakespeare’s most famous plays, starting with Romeo and Juliet. Jack was Romeo and half of the lines didn’t make any sense. I remembered performing it for our parents who all applauded at the end—even Dad, an English teacher, who winced at almost every line. Oh yeah, Billy Shakespeare was pissing himself with laughter, wherever he was.
There you go! As I was trying to edit it, I realized it's a very rough draft and doesn't totally fit with Will's voice. I'm not sure if I should continue with this story or go back to my abandoned superhero thingymajigger. Sigh. Life and writing can be very confusing, sometimes.