red chamber dream
I've begun writing a short (?) story, and I'd like some feedback. I'll be posting the story in parts, but I won't be updating regularly, as I'm posting as I write so I can hear yall's thoughts and do some more editing. The story is currently untitled and will remain so until finished.
The first chapter is nearly completely autobiographical (but the other nine will not be). Here are the preface and first part of the first chapter:
Chapter One: Glory Fades
Preface — Francis Scott Key High
Ethan's earliest real relationship, or at least what he defined as real, occurred over the entire course of his freshmen year. She was nearly three years older than him at the time, and probably still was. Ethan didn't know; he hadn't talked to her but once since FSK, and he doubted that drunken phone call counted for very much. But he assumed there was a greater than average chance of her being dead by now if she were still as impulsive as he once knew her to be. It was that impulsiveness, that rashness that attracted Ethan in the first place: he had no choice in the matter.
Part I — Strawsburg
There were a few seats on the bus that weren't occupied, but one in particular lay beneath a girl in a white sweatshirt who immediately caught my eye. I figured there was nothing wrong with taking the most attractive option when given the choice and gladly seized the opportunity. She was facing the window and didn't shift when I sat down.
As the bus started moving, I looked over at her and realized at once that she was crying: no one sat that still with their head pressed to a cold pane of glass at that angle unless they were upset, and the silent, subtle shaking of her shoulders told me the rest.
She was beautiful: that wasn't difficult to see, even from only the back of her head, but I didn't understand why such a beautiful girl was crying, especially on the bus ride to a volleyball match. While her teammates mentally prepared for the three upcoming sets—or four or five if they played particularly poorly—here she sat with her mind on anything but volleyball, and that certainly couldn't have been healthy for the impending match. As much as I desired to, there was nothing I could do for either hers or the team's sake: my shyness generally stopped me from initiating conversation, and in this particular situation, it was probably insurmountable.
"Hey." White Sweatshirt Girl was looking at me now. She hadn't bothered to dry her eyes, which greatly pleased me. This was why females were far superior to males.
"Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," she sighed, "I'm fine." She was finished crying. I assumed from her slightly exaggerated sigh that she wanted to tell me about this particular trouble, so I provoked her.
"What's wrong?" I chose the casual, inappropriately light tone that usually worked in situations like this.
"My best friend from Florida hates me."
"Why?"
She sighed again. "Well, his name's Brandon. His family is friends with my family, so I go down there every year with my parents and stuff. I'm like best friends with him, but he's gay, so nothing would ever happen between us. But he's really cool and I love him a lot. The problem is that I got really close to his brother Rob this year and had sex with him and Brandon just now found out."
"So he hates you now?"
"Yeah. I didn't really talk to Rob much at all before this year, so I guess he's jealous of the attention or something."
"That's a stupid reason to hate someone," I informed her. "It's not like you did anything wrong." I knew that most other people, if given my position, would disagree, but I felt nothing resembling animosity toward her— she was entirely innocent to me.
"Yeah, well, he's not talking to me either way."
"So? Don't worry about it. That's his loss."
She smiled just a bit, and I noticed how very much I liked her dark blue eyes.
"I guess so." Yes, her eyes were definitely my favorite of her features. They made her look tired, but that wasn't at all unattractive— I liked the way they wandered all about unless she was looking directly at me, and when she did, I could not turn my own away. Suddenly I felt like a very dull person.
"Aren't you a freshman?" I was glad she asked this, as I was wondering her age as well. It was the day of their first match: I hadn't seen the team in uniform yet and therefore had no way of knowing whether she was JV or varsity.
Her fleeting smile returned just as I started to answer. It made her eyes sparkle in their tired way, and for a moment I couldn't speak.
"Yep. How old are you?" That was more like it.
"Seventeen— I'm a junior."
Seventeen. It seemed not too young, but not too old, not too innocent, but not too mature, and here was this beautiful creature sitting beside me, sharing a small but significant part of her life with a freshman boy she had just met. And she was seventeen. It was my perfect age, and she was perfect.
"So you're on varsity?" We both knew it was a useless question, but I was trying to make conversation. As much as I hated small talk, especially immediately after a more personal exchange, I was willing to continue, for her sake. Besides, if small talk were ever appropriate, it was now.
"Yeah, but I won't get to play much. I'm not very good." Whether she was being earnest, modest, or self-deprecating didn't matter much to me. I just wanted to hear her voice, always cutely gentle, but always confident. In fact, I could tell that everything about her was confident, from her mannerisms to her speech, even from what little interaction we had had. She was always to the point: simple and direct.
I couldn't resist her.
"So what's your name?" I was not used to asking girls' names; I liked to wait for them to ask me. But the circumstances now were very different, and it seemed almost vital for me to ask first.
"Nicole."
Nicole wore very little makeup, if any at all. I didn't like when girls wore makeup, so it suited me wonderfully. Of course. As far as I could tell, everything about her was wonderful, and always simple. Direct.
"I'm Ethan."
There was a pause that lasted for at least half a minute. I think I was holding my breath during its entirety.
"Hey do you have AIM?" she asked, finally, in a playful, almost laughing voice. It reminded me of my own light tone, the one I had used so effectively minutes ago. I didn't know what to make of it.
"Yep." Of course I had AIM. Instant messaging was direct.
"Here, I'll give you my screenname. You can talk to me whenever you want; I'm on like all the time."
"Okay, cool."
She hastily pushed up the black sleeve of my sweatshirt and wrote the username on my forearm with the five-cent ballpoint pen she had quickly pulled from her backpack beneath our seat. If I were fortunate, the ink would last through the night, but to be safe I would have to take extreme care during the volleyball match and subsequent ride home. It would be worth the effort.
"Thanks." I gingerly rolled the sleeve back down.
"Seriously, you better IM me sometime. I don't have any freshman friends." She was using her playful tone again— I wondered if she talked like that with everyone. Still unsure what to make of it, I stared at the combination of letters and numbers inscribed onto my pale flesh instead, silently vowing not to let anything that evening rub them out.
Her handwriting could only be described as a scrawl, though I wasn't sure if she always wrote like that or if it was just because she had written on my arm. I hoped her actual handwriting was not too different from the black lettering on my forearm, as the bubbly, slanted letters intrigued appealed to me in a very surreal way. They were unlike any other girls' writing: they were uniquely Nicole. I wished she would write more, all over my arms and hands and legs and all four of the notebooks in my backpack just so I could look at all the different lines and shapes forever: I would never be bored again.
After a while, I glanced over at my seat-mate, hoping for once that she wouldn't be looking back at me— it seemed better to admire her secretly, at least for now. Nicole had resumed staring out the window, only now she wasn't crying like before. It was greatly satisfying to know I alone was the reason for that, though it still didn't seem possible that she could exist in my dull life. But each time I stole a glance to my left, Nicole was sitting there in a white sweatshirt like any ordinary person might, even though she was far more magnificent than every ordinary person.
We were quiet the rest of the ride; the many words and thoughts left unspoken were instead tacitly understood. I could feel them, and I knew she could too. At this point in our friendship—I assumed I was now permitted to call it that—that was the most satisfying knowledge yet.
The first chapter is nearly completely autobiographical (but the other nine will not be). Here are the preface and first part of the first chapter:
Chapter One: Glory Fades
Preface — Francis Scott Key High
Ethan's earliest real relationship, or at least what he defined as real, occurred over the entire course of his freshmen year. She was nearly three years older than him at the time, and probably still was. Ethan didn't know; he hadn't talked to her but once since FSK, and he doubted that drunken phone call counted for very much. But he assumed there was a greater than average chance of her being dead by now if she were still as impulsive as he once knew her to be. It was that impulsiveness, that rashness that attracted Ethan in the first place: he had no choice in the matter.
Part I — Strawsburg
There were a few seats on the bus that weren't occupied, but one in particular lay beneath a girl in a white sweatshirt who immediately caught my eye. I figured there was nothing wrong with taking the most attractive option when given the choice and gladly seized the opportunity. She was facing the window and didn't shift when I sat down.
As the bus started moving, I looked over at her and realized at once that she was crying: no one sat that still with their head pressed to a cold pane of glass at that angle unless they were upset, and the silent, subtle shaking of her shoulders told me the rest.
She was beautiful: that wasn't difficult to see, even from only the back of her head, but I didn't understand why such a beautiful girl was crying, especially on the bus ride to a volleyball match. While her teammates mentally prepared for the three upcoming sets—or four or five if they played particularly poorly—here she sat with her mind on anything but volleyball, and that certainly couldn't have been healthy for the impending match. As much as I desired to, there was nothing I could do for either hers or the team's sake: my shyness generally stopped me from initiating conversation, and in this particular situation, it was probably insurmountable.
"Hey." White Sweatshirt Girl was looking at me now. She hadn't bothered to dry her eyes, which greatly pleased me. This was why females were far superior to males.
"Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," she sighed, "I'm fine." She was finished crying. I assumed from her slightly exaggerated sigh that she wanted to tell me about this particular trouble, so I provoked her.
"What's wrong?" I chose the casual, inappropriately light tone that usually worked in situations like this.
"My best friend from Florida hates me."
"Why?"
She sighed again. "Well, his name's Brandon. His family is friends with my family, so I go down there every year with my parents and stuff. I'm like best friends with him, but he's gay, so nothing would ever happen between us. But he's really cool and I love him a lot. The problem is that I got really close to his brother Rob this year and had sex with him and Brandon just now found out."
"So he hates you now?"
"Yeah. I didn't really talk to Rob much at all before this year, so I guess he's jealous of the attention or something."
"That's a stupid reason to hate someone," I informed her. "It's not like you did anything wrong." I knew that most other people, if given my position, would disagree, but I felt nothing resembling animosity toward her— she was entirely innocent to me.
"Yeah, well, he's not talking to me either way."
"So? Don't worry about it. That's his loss."
She smiled just a bit, and I noticed how very much I liked her dark blue eyes.
"I guess so." Yes, her eyes were definitely my favorite of her features. They made her look tired, but that wasn't at all unattractive— I liked the way they wandered all about unless she was looking directly at me, and when she did, I could not turn my own away. Suddenly I felt like a very dull person.
"Aren't you a freshman?" I was glad she asked this, as I was wondering her age as well. It was the day of their first match: I hadn't seen the team in uniform yet and therefore had no way of knowing whether she was JV or varsity.
Her fleeting smile returned just as I started to answer. It made her eyes sparkle in their tired way, and for a moment I couldn't speak.
"Yep. How old are you?" That was more like it.
"Seventeen— I'm a junior."
Seventeen. It seemed not too young, but not too old, not too innocent, but not too mature, and here was this beautiful creature sitting beside me, sharing a small but significant part of her life with a freshman boy she had just met. And she was seventeen. It was my perfect age, and she was perfect.
"So you're on varsity?" We both knew it was a useless question, but I was trying to make conversation. As much as I hated small talk, especially immediately after a more personal exchange, I was willing to continue, for her sake. Besides, if small talk were ever appropriate, it was now.
"Yeah, but I won't get to play much. I'm not very good." Whether she was being earnest, modest, or self-deprecating didn't matter much to me. I just wanted to hear her voice, always cutely gentle, but always confident. In fact, I could tell that everything about her was confident, from her mannerisms to her speech, even from what little interaction we had had. She was always to the point: simple and direct.
I couldn't resist her.
"So what's your name?" I was not used to asking girls' names; I liked to wait for them to ask me. But the circumstances now were very different, and it seemed almost vital for me to ask first.
"Nicole."
Nicole wore very little makeup, if any at all. I didn't like when girls wore makeup, so it suited me wonderfully. Of course. As far as I could tell, everything about her was wonderful, and always simple. Direct.
"I'm Ethan."
There was a pause that lasted for at least half a minute. I think I was holding my breath during its entirety.
"Hey do you have AIM?" she asked, finally, in a playful, almost laughing voice. It reminded me of my own light tone, the one I had used so effectively minutes ago. I didn't know what to make of it.
"Yep." Of course I had AIM. Instant messaging was direct.
"Here, I'll give you my screenname. You can talk to me whenever you want; I'm on like all the time."
"Okay, cool."
She hastily pushed up the black sleeve of my sweatshirt and wrote the username on my forearm with the five-cent ballpoint pen she had quickly pulled from her backpack beneath our seat. If I were fortunate, the ink would last through the night, but to be safe I would have to take extreme care during the volleyball match and subsequent ride home. It would be worth the effort.
"Thanks." I gingerly rolled the sleeve back down.
"Seriously, you better IM me sometime. I don't have any freshman friends." She was using her playful tone again— I wondered if she talked like that with everyone. Still unsure what to make of it, I stared at the combination of letters and numbers inscribed onto my pale flesh instead, silently vowing not to let anything that evening rub them out.
Her handwriting could only be described as a scrawl, though I wasn't sure if she always wrote like that or if it was just because she had written on my arm. I hoped her actual handwriting was not too different from the black lettering on my forearm, as the bubbly, slanted letters intrigued appealed to me in a very surreal way. They were unlike any other girls' writing: they were uniquely Nicole. I wished she would write more, all over my arms and hands and legs and all four of the notebooks in my backpack just so I could look at all the different lines and shapes forever: I would never be bored again.
After a while, I glanced over at my seat-mate, hoping for once that she wouldn't be looking back at me— it seemed better to admire her secretly, at least for now. Nicole had resumed staring out the window, only now she wasn't crying like before. It was greatly satisfying to know I alone was the reason for that, though it still didn't seem possible that she could exist in my dull life. But each time I stole a glance to my left, Nicole was sitting there in a white sweatshirt like any ordinary person might, even though she was far more magnificent than every ordinary person.
We were quiet the rest of the ride; the many words and thoughts left unspoken were instead tacitly understood. I could feel them, and I knew she could too. At this point in our friendship—I assumed I was now permitted to call it that—that was the most satisfying knowledge yet.
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