Amy's Flower

Written in Kerry Madden's teen writing workshop at Vroman's. I'm debating whether to write more or to leave it as just a little glimpse into the narrator's life.

Amy gave me a flower a few days ago, and I let it dry on the dashboard of my car. I didn’t feel right bringing it inside where my parents could and would see it. They would ask me, “What’s the occasion?” And when I shrugged my mom would pinch dad’s sleeve and half-worriedly, half-excitedly whisper, “Steve, it’s from a girl.” Which means of course, “Our little baby’s all grown up and dating!” I dunno, I mean that’s not what I’d mind so much as what my mom’d think of Amy. She’s a great girl and all, it’s just – well, she dyes her hair pink. She’s got a nose ring. Her parents are divorced, which my mom says is the reason kids get messed up. Anytime we watch the news and it reports some new kidnapping or shooting, my mom sighs as they handcuff the perp and says, “He must have had such a difficult family life.” Sometimes I think she and dad are just staying together because of me, because they don’t want to screw me up. And then I see them holding hands, just like Amy and I do, and they seem suddenly so young and giddy – fights are in the past, blame over the miscarriage is forgotten, they’re twenty again and have their whole future ahead of them. And I feel it would be imprudent to show them a flower I got and remind them that their only child is getting older, because that makes them older, too.

I remember

Written in Kerry Madden's teen writing workshop at Vroman's. Kind of jumps awkwardly from pre-Italy to post-Italy, while trying not to mention the year, since it's not really relevant to the exercise.

I remember the first time I went to New York City, how tall and imposing the buildings were. I remember feeling lost and insignificant also, frustrated that my mom slowed the car at every corner not in accordance with the uneasy traffic, just to gaze up at the towering glassy-eyed skyscrapers. I remember the second time I came to New York City. I remember that I was too nervous to be afraid of the noise, the crowds that bumped off each other in the streets and in the underground of subway stations. I remember a young man smiling at me on the train, but I remember that I was so preoccupied I forgot to smile back. I remember the grimy sidewalks; I remember the lights of the city at night receding as our train took us to the airport. I remember hugging my mother goodbye. I remember feeling trapped, seated in the center of the airplane, unable to watch New York, America, fade away below. I remember wishing it were light enough to see the Statue of Liberty. I remember the near-tangible nervousness among the students on the airplane, as strong as the reluctance that characterized the return flight back home to New York. I remember seeing the ground, hazy and urbanized, swoop up to the plane. I remember how warm the air smelled, like a just-clipped vine, when I stepped off the plane. I remember that third visit to New York. I remember my awe at the frank, loud English floating off of every tongue. I remember being unable to sleep, the first night, for jetlag, and then finally dozing late the next morning. I remember eating Chinese food takeout, sitting on the hotel bed with my knees to my chin, talking to my mother as though she were my roommate at boarding school, as though we hadn't been apart for more than a week. I remember going out, just the two of us alone in New York City, eating bagels in the mist on a river - the Hudson? - and seeing suddenly muffled in the distance by fog the Statue of Liberty, more beautiful than I'd remembered. I remember walking through the streets, the same chaos that had put me off the first time I came to New York. I remember it vividly, this time, but as a city invigorating, not the oppressive overwhelming city of my first impression.

Welcome to my mind

I'm such a bad writer, in that I would rather read than write, and there are definitely those days when I just kick back and reread everything I've written in the last five years. Read, but don't add. Occasionally I add a couple sentences here and there. At this rate I'll be able to publish a collection of short stories when I'm 80. So, because I just love looking at those same boring stories over and over again, I thought I'd put them online for anyone who likes to read and comment and encourage, so that slowly but surely I'll keep on writing.

By the way, check out my blog that I kept while in Italy during my junior year of high school, Holly in Italy, and the blog I'm currently keeping, Holly's thoughts. And now of course we have "scritch-scratch", my very first blog ever to not have my name in the title!