Stampede 2 (After a Few of My Own Ramblings)

For  five whole seconds (and for five seconds only) we are going to talk about the massive bowl of ice cream that I am currently inducing. It’s Homemade Vanilla ice cream (Blue Bell (it was my mom’s money so I didn’t have to get the cheap kind (plus there is just some stuff you can’t get the cheap kind for))) and it also has cookie dough (like I actually bought cookie dough separately and put it in here!!! (it’s been a long awaited ice cream craving, so I had to hit it hard)) and it’s pretty delicious. Plus in other news, I am an episode away from finishing the episodes that Netflix has of Grey’s Anatomy (I have worked long and hard for this moment it’s only fitting that I celebrate with some ice cream), so (aside from the bad sushi I ate) I guess you could say I’ve had a pretty good(ish) day.

I also read an article or rather a blog post somewhere on the internet where the author of the article says he wanted for so long to be a writer but how long it took him to decide he actually had to write. Well I did the same thing (except he wanted to be a writer since 9th grade and I’ve talked about being an author since I was five years old (can you say dedication? (but this is no competition))) somewhere last year (as in 2014, like October 2014) when I realized that I wanted to be a novelist so bad, but I was just sitting around waiting for my old pin drive that my dad lost at a gas station to magically reappear so I can turn all my thirteen-year-old stories into nineteen-year-old novels, so that’s what I did, I started to write (and in fact, I am roughly around ten thousand words from finishing my novel and I’m so close and this is the closest I’ve ever gotten and I know exactly what I’m going to write (except for the fact that I can’t seem to write it (like I’ve been at a standstill since November 30 when I said “Oh I’ll have more time over winter break to finish.” (More like more time to waste away on my couch while watching Netflix (I am a Netflix junkie I swear)))). Then I came to another stand still and suddenly it was the day before the day it was supposed to be a new year, so I decided why the heck not? And made a resolution to write more. And while I have done very well in keeping up with writing in this thing everyday, I realized my novel is still at a standstill (in fact, my career writing is a stand still, like I have not written any fiction). So I decided to revise my resolution and add that on top of my blog thing, I will actually fiction write (because let’s get real, what are the odds of me becoming a famous blogger, right?) and that’s why I pumped out the Lacey Story (See: Stampede). So you know, the Lacey show must go on.

Here is the second part to the (random) story i (randomly) started the other day.


 

“Do you need me to carry your backpack for you?” Willie asked, eyebrows raised. We stood outside the old beat up station wagon as I did my breathing exercises that my mom usually did. She did yoga religiously and tried to teach me her yoga ways all the time but I always ignored her. So, no, I didn’t actually know what I was doing besides breathing in and out as slowly as possible in an attempt to stop my heart so that maybe I could die here instead of dying of embarrassment once I walked into the building.

“It’s already on my back, stupid,” I muttered. He was disrupting my breathing.

He threw his hands up in front of him in defense. “I’m just trying to help, Lace.”

“You would have helped by not coming to pick me up! There was no way my mom would have done it. I would have skipped school and avoided this misery!” I leaned my head back against the car and sighed. It was an uncomfortable position with my overstuffed backpack in the way.

We were way out as far away from campus as possible. Wilson always parked in the same spot waaaaay at the back of the parking lot where no one else parked because he didn’t want his car to get scratched. He made me walk ten million miles every morning just so that his completely wrecked vehicle didn’t get another scratch to add to the collection. Wilson was stupid sometimes. He was especially stupid about his car.

“Your mom called me to pick you up. How was I supposed to tell her no?”

“You hang up?”

“Lacey.”

“Wilson.”

He sighed, blowing his curly black hair out of his face.  He reached up to affix his glasses onto his face properly and then swiftly moved his hands to my shoulders, grasping them tight.

“No one is even going to notice you Lace. This is not a big deal.” He was staring into my eyes and I squirmed out of his grip.

I hadn’t told anyone yet, but Wilson had a crush on me. Or rather, he’s in love me. He told me so. Two weeks before he had proclaimed his love to me on a pile of blankets in my living room.  We were having our standard Friday Dinner and a Movie in the Fall.  It was a corny name I know, but Wilson is always trying to be poetic and cute and stuff. Basically, in the Fall is when football season is around, leaving the restaurants and theaters free of people who were instead out in the stands at the football games. I told Wilson it was stupid, because our dinner and a movie always happened at my house so it didn’t matter if people were out at football games.

“It’s just quieter in general, Lacey. The noise is all situated at the stadium, so the rest of the city is quiet.”

I told him he was stupid.

We usually laid a pallet of blankets out on my living room floor and ate spaghetti while we watched whatever movie was new on DVD that week.  We always ended up falling asleep so our dinner and movie always turned into a sleepover. But my mom is one of those weird moms who thinks there is nothing wrong with her teenage daughter having a sleepover with another teenage boy while she is just a room away. I have seen the look on our neighbor, Mrs. Harris’s face when I’ve ushered Wilson out in the mornings.

Anyway, so we were doing just what we always did. And we were in the middle of a lame romantic comedy that Wilson had picked out about a girl and boy who become friends but then realized they’re perfect for each other.  It was, I hate to say, a pretty good movie, but I still managed to doze off for a bit and I was almost completely zonked when the credits started rolling and Wilson said my name. All soft and romantic like and I froze. I completely froze.

“Lacey?” he breathed. “You know, I know that we have been friends a long time and I know that what I’m about to say could totally mess things up, but Lacey? Lacey I think I might be in love with you–I mean I am. Lacey I am in love with you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and ignored him when he prodded my shoulder with his finger. And then he sighed, but it was more of a sigh of relief, like maybe he was glad I hadn’t heard. But I did. I heard it all. And the last two weeks I’ve been scared to touch him or look him in the eye too long because he seemed to be bursting at the seams with love I was scared he would tell me again, or worse.  I was scared he might actually kiss me or something.

So I whipped myself away from him and started the long walk into the building, trying to keep my arms down so that they’d be noticed as less as possible.  Wilsons heavy footsteps against the heavy pavement sounded beside me.

“You didn’t wait for me to lock the car,” he panted, but I gave him nothing more than a sideways glance. Did he always trail me like an annoying puppy like this? Or was this the arms talking?

We didn’t say another word and walked swiftly, his legs working quickly to keep up with my long legged strides.

0

I was definitely needing a time machine before the day even really got started.  My first trip would have been back to the car where I would have gotten off and run away immediately before Wilson could have touched me and made me feel uneasy like he was going to come up behind me and smother me with love at any moment, so that if I hadn’t spent so much time at the car, I would have showed up on time to first period history and not grabbed attention by bursting through the door during Mr. Rayben’s lecture.  Unfortunately he was the type of teacher who did not like a minute wasted and started lecturing the second class started. So it was just my luck that I threw open the door in the middle of whatever crap he was saying about George Washington (who we all already know everything there is to know about him, he is on the one dollar bill and the quarter and really that’s all anyone cares about–let’s get real).

Instead of his usual snarky comment to late students, he leaned back in his seat with his eyes wide.

“Miss Anders, I’m glad you are back to join us!” And he tried to smiled but he kept the same wide eyed, pitying look. I gave him what I thought might have looked like a small smile, but I don’t think the corners of my mouth ever lifted, so I just walked to my seat.

Everyone stared as I struggled to get out of my backpack and finally, after a long few minutes of awkward silence, I plopped into my seat with my backpack on, glad that even though I was no rail-thin model, I at least fit between the chair and the desktop with my backpack on. I crossed my arms on my desk (easy to do, ha ha) and dunked my head onto one of the pink casts. My cheeks were on fire and I was sure my hair looked terrible but there was nothing I could do.  My mom had done my hair in this morning using her flat iron to make “loose, flowing curls” in my hair that I was positive the humidity in the building had done enough damage on. The air condition in the school had been broken for weeks but winter was coming, so the school district decided to buy new football uniforms instead of fixing a maintenance issue.  My day was just getting better and–

“Miss Anders…” Mr. Rayben whispered, jabbing my arm with a pencil.

I snapped my head up. I had evidently fallen asleep. My forehead stung, and a quick glance into the mirror by the door told me that I had Cast Face as in all the fine indentions from the hardhats were now imprinted into an ugly red mark at the top of my face. I moaned inwardly. Freak arms and Cast Face and bride of Frankenstein hair, complete with sweaty bangs that were glued to my forehead.

“You should hurry, you don’t want to be late to your next class!” he said happily as if somehow this statement was supposed to cheer me up.

I stared at him blankly for a second so that he understood how stupid he sounded and turned around to walk out into the hallway.

And in my effort to keep my face hidden, collided head first into a body that sent me stumbling back.  It was like I was a smart car and he was a giant truck with a giant butt (you know when the farm boys add extra tires to their back wheels and give the illusion of a big butt-ed woman).

“Ow!” I shouted (as if it wasn’t my fault I wasn’t watching where I was going. The kids lingering in the hallways stopped what they were doing to watch. I saw them all give my arms a once over but ignored their gazes.

In front of me, Giant Truck boy turned around slowly, using crutches to help him limp around. I stood waiting, expecting him to apologize.

Instead, I was staring into Jason Whitting’s dancing brown eyes. “Ah, Arms Girl. Just the girl I was looking for. I see you’re still trying to injure me.”


Annnnnnnnnddddd one large bowl of ice cream later, I think I’m going to be sick.

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