***Creative writing project for The House on Mango Street for English. This is an unedited, more honest version.
The heat was a frying pan. The grass was greenish brown, already wilting in June. The seal sculpture, our protector, sat peacefully on the path. Whaleback. Whaleback park. Blue and red slides waving like children ready to be played with. There was a short, tall hill that surrounded the main structure. Winding around, cradling childhood in its hands. Many times, I had run up that hill, dizzy like I ran a marathon. My laughter the number 10. Round, simple, again and again. My limbs had since grown too long to stomp up and down the ladders. Instead, I remembered and traced the well-worn patterns.
On the side of the hill was a party. Multicolored balloons greeted me. Cupcakes, pizza and coke winked at me. Streamers clumsily attached to the wooden structure shrugged. My friends and I squealed through our masks. I’m so happy you’re here. We’re going to miss you so much. There’s food and desserts and music. (Can I last, or will we all just fade away?)
Lily was a firecracker. She skyrocketed through the sky in all her sparkling glory. I couldn’t help but admire her. But what comes up must come down, down, down. She could get so high, high, higher, then so low, low, low. All that would be left was a night sky like crying. BOOM! There she goes again. Warming the cold air with her laughter. She was wavy brown hair, and blue eyes, and California girls, and puppies, and fighting and snorting laughter.
Lucy was a willow. Not a weeping willow, but a willow. Tall, quiet and graceful. Perfect for reading novels and companionable silence. An oak. Steady, and strong. A daisy. Sweet and silly like a spring song. My loving her was inevitable. Having a friend who sends letters is better than having a friend who texts all day. Better than the ones who talk and talk but don’t say nothing.
Peyton was a banana. Nutritious and filling. A little comical in its shape and size. She biked around with crass jokes, an easy smile and a house full of bumbling brothers. Except when something was wrong. Then she had a raised voice and an urgent tone. I dress the exact same way and still get called a slut. Women always have to work twice as hard to be respected. I stopped reading that because I couldn’t stand the way she was treated. All the things we related to much too early, and still had more to come.
Emma might’ve been a wallflower or a cherry blossom or basic white vans I dunno. She’s a friend, but the friendship was hair curling for Halloween not the jack o lantern that glows in the dark.
Sam. Sam was a prickly one. She thrust her roots deep into my perfect garden and stuck out like a violent Spartan. For a year I dug my heels in and shook my head. Eventually, Sam was a column we leaned on, and I learned to lean too. Too slow, too sad cause then I was gone and now I listen to her playlist's miles away and reflect on my inability to change.
That summer afternoon we pretended we were infinite. We passed around plates of Mountain Mike’s stringy pizza and smeared frosting on our faces. Between rounds of Would You Rather (clean version for Lucy of course and surprisingly Sam too) we drank watermelon sugar wore paper rings and hummed for dorothea and Sofia. We talked about boys but didn’t date them and complained about our parents who drove us there.
Time slowed down then sped up until it was time to go. Hugs were passed around and promises made. Write to us every day. Make sure to text often. Facetime as soon as you get there. We won’t forget you. (These friendships have been through too much to quit now). My mind was already on the plane. One leg there, one leg stretching through state lines. Did we know the end? Could we foresee what our promises amounted to? Weeks without texting, new friends, new lives, new stories? It was the end of the world. It wasn’t. Just the end of Act 1 with a whole other plot line left.
The heat was a frying pan. The grass was greenish brown, already wilting in June. The seal sculpture, our protector, sat peacefully on the path. Whaleback. Whaleback park. Blue and red slides waving like children ready to be played with. There was a short, tall hill that surrounded the main structure. Winding around, cradling childhood in its hands. Many times, I had run up that hill, dizzy like I ran a marathon. My laughter the number 10. Round, simple, again and again. My limbs had since grown too long to stomp up and down the ladders. Instead, I remembered and traced the well-worn patterns.
On the side of the hill was a party. Multicolored balloons greeted me. Cupcakes, pizza and coke winked at me. Streamers clumsily attached to the wooden structure shrugged. My friends and I squealed through our masks. I’m so happy you’re here. We’re going to miss you so much. There’s food and desserts and music. (Can I last, or will we all just fade away?)
Lily was a firecracker. She skyrocketed through the sky in all her sparkling glory. I couldn’t help but admire her. But what comes up must come down, down, down. She could get so high, high, higher, then so low, low, low. All that would be left was a night sky like crying. BOOM! There she goes again. Warming the cold air with her laughter. She was wavy brown hair, and blue eyes, and California girls, and puppies, and fighting and snorting laughter.
Lucy was a willow. Not a weeping willow, but a willow. Tall, quiet and graceful. Perfect for reading novels and companionable silence. An oak. Steady, and strong. A daisy. Sweet and silly like a spring song. My loving her was inevitable. Having a friend who sends letters is better than having a friend who texts all day. Better than the ones who talk and talk but don’t say nothing.
Peyton was a banana. Nutritious and filling. A little comical in its shape and size. She biked around with crass jokes, an easy smile and a house full of bumbling brothers. Except when something was wrong. Then she had a raised voice and an urgent tone. I dress the exact same way and still get called a slut. Women always have to work twice as hard to be respected. I stopped reading that because I couldn’t stand the way she was treated. All the things we related to much too early, and still had more to come.
Emma might’ve been a wallflower or a cherry blossom or basic white vans I dunno. She’s a friend, but the friendship was hair curling for Halloween not the jack o lantern that glows in the dark.
Sam. Sam was a prickly one. She thrust her roots deep into my perfect garden and stuck out like a violent Spartan. For a year I dug my heels in and shook my head. Eventually, Sam was a column we leaned on, and I learned to lean too. Too slow, too sad cause then I was gone and now I listen to her playlist's miles away and reflect on my inability to change.
That summer afternoon we pretended we were infinite. We passed around plates of Mountain Mike’s stringy pizza and smeared frosting on our faces. Between rounds of Would You Rather (clean version for Lucy of course and surprisingly Sam too) we drank watermelon sugar wore paper rings and hummed for dorothea and Sofia. We talked about boys but didn’t date them and complained about our parents who drove us there.
Time slowed down then sped up until it was time to go. Hugs were passed around and promises made. Write to us every day. Make sure to text often. Facetime as soon as you get there. We won’t forget you. (These friendships have been through too much to quit now). My mind was already on the plane. One leg there, one leg stretching through state lines. Did we know the end? Could we foresee what our promises amounted to? Weeks without texting, new friends, new lives, new stories? It was the end of the world. It wasn’t. Just the end of Act 1 with a whole other plot line left.
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