Developing

I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me.

-- Anne Frank

&

I didn't always agree with my mother.

Sometimes I hated her. Sometimes I wished I would just run away to Mexico and never see her again.

But. . .you know. She's my mother, and I love her. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her. Just wished it weren't happening so slowly.

'Let's buy a house in L.A.' she says one Monday morning. 'I always liked the sound of LaLa Land. I think it's a plan. . .Yeah. Let's do it.'

In response, I would just roll my eyes -- like I always did -- and chew my cereal hard, staring at her through squinted eyes, like I was trying to analyze the way her mind worked. It should be a world wonder. She was always making plans like these -- but never followed them. I was sort of used to it. . .it makes me wonder what new plan she'll make up next.

We lived with my grandmother. But you wouldn't call it 'living with her' because she was always sleeping. Sometimes I think she died in her sleep. But when I turn the TV off, her head jerks up and she shreiks in her husky voice, 'Blondie, why you'd turn the TV off?'

She always called me Blondie even though I had black hair. I don't even listen to the band. I don't know where she gets these things. I don't think I ever want to be old like her.

School was my escape. It was the only place that allowed me to get away from Mom and grand.

&

I remembered it was a Wednesday morning -- I was in math as the teacher was explaining equations -- when he turned his head slightly to look at me.

I raised my eyebrows in a 'What?' expression.

He sat right in front of me. His name's Nick, and the only time we talked to each other was when we did a project together for Social Studies about pilgrams. This, of course, was in third grade. 'Nothing.' he whispers then he turned around again.

I felt that there was probably something wrong with the way I looked. I didn't had time to comb my hair for mom was going on my back about taking me to acting class so I could become famous and live in LaLa Land. I had to dash out of there quickly.

So, it was probably my hair, and he was trying to indicate to me that it looked bad. I tried to comb it with my fingers and straightened the top of my head so nothing was sticking up. This would of been a great time to own a mirror.

I combed down my bangs and then it got into my eyes, so I had to push it aside, but somehow I felt that it looked ugly so I straigthened it down again. . .

Nick turned around to look at me again, then smiled. 'Nothing's wrong with your hair.' he whispers while the teacher was writing on the board.

'Yes there is.' I say.

'No there isn't.'

'Then why do you keep looking at me.'

'Because there's nothing wrong with your hair.'

'That doesn't make sense.' I answer.

'Brittany and Nick, cut it out.' my teacher warns us.

Nick turns around and copies down what was written on the board.

Boys don't make sense -- they're the ones who should live in LaLa Land.

&

I raced home that day and burst into my house. I found grand sleeping on the sofa in the living room. I yell out, 'Mom! Mom!'

I found her in the kitchen talking on the phone. 'Uh-huh. . .No way!. . . Nuh-uh!. . .Really?'

She always talked like a teenager on the phone. I think she's just faking it so she feels younger. . .years younger, talking to her best friend and curling up the phone cord and repeated the same thing over and over again.

When she was finished I grabbed the phone and dialed numbers.

'Who you calling?' mom asks.

'Hong Kong.' I answer.

I heard the phone pick up. 'Hello?'

'Hey whore. What you doing?'

'Oh, Brittany.' It was my cousin Anna. She lives in Ohio, and I miss her so much! We lived far far away in Long Island, and so far I made only one friend. And he wasn't really my friend. 'Nothing. Homework. You?'

'Just trying to keep myself alive.' I say. 'Grand and mom can be so hard to live with.'

'Maybe you should kill them in their sleep.'

'Tried, but they just keep waking up.' That's what I love about Anna. You can joke around with her and say these crazy things and she wouldn't say 'That's so mean!' or 'Why would you say such a thing?'

'So,' she starts. 'Met any cute guys over there?'

'Not really. I mean, like I have time with mom always moving around all over the country.'

'You guys are moving again?'

'For now, no. But just wait.' My mom moved around a lot. I was born here, attended school up to third grade -- then we moved to Cincinatti where I was finally introduced to Anna -- then moved again to Florida for the summer -- and then my mom was bored because she felt like she was staying in a reitrement home in Florida, then moved back here with grand.

'What about that Nick you talked about while you were over here?'

'Him? He's nobody -- just someone who likes hair I guess.'

'What?'

'He likes to look at people when their hair's nice, I guess.' I say. 'He was looking at me because my hair's nice, he said.'

'You thought he was looking at you because of your hair?' she says.

'Yeah. That's what he said.'

'I think he likes you.'

'Nick? No. I don't think so.'

'Why not?' she asks.

'Because. . .because.' I answer. Nick doesn't like me -- why should he?

'Listen to the master.' she says. Anna is two years older than me. I guess she should know, or whatever. 'When a guy turns around to look at you, and he doesn't ask for a pencil loan, he likes you.'

'You actually believe in that crap?'

'Believe? I created it! Now, be a good slut and talk to him!'

&

All I could think about the next day was what Anna told me. He didn't like me -- I know he didn't.

I mean, why should I care if he liked me or not? It didn't matter -- I knew it didn't. I should slap myself -- get a grip!

I turned to look down on my notebook when he turned around. 'Hey, you have a pen I can use?' he asks.

Yes! He's asking to borrow a pen -- just like what Anna said he wouldn't do if he liked me. . .okay, I'm feeling a little better now. I gave him a pen and he thanked me.

I overheard Lisa -- who sat next to me -- talking to Lynne. 'The dance is this Friday -- I'm so excited! It's going to be the first dance that I ever been to!'

'Yeah,' she replies. 'Who are you going with?'

'I don't know.' she says. 'Hopefully a guy.'

I wasn't a the type who would go to these, 'dances'. I was the type who would go to the 'anti-dances'. But whatever. It's not like anyone was going to ask me.

&

Lunch. As most people liked this subject -- I don't really find it that appealing. I guess it was because I sat next to no one I knew. I usually sit next to Gavin -- who farted a lot. Not that I care because he was sitting at the other end of the table -- by himself, of course. And the table was really long, so I couldn't smell anything and I wasn't the only one sitting at a table.

But that day was different when Nick sat down across from me.

'I forgot to give you back your pen.' he says -- giving me my pen.

This boy is weird. 'Thanks.' I say and take the pen from him.

'So, you sit on the same table with Steve?' he points to the farting boy as he breaths out a silent-but-deadly.

'Yeah.' I say embarrassed. I feel like such a loser.

'You must be brave.' was what he says instead.

'Brave? Me? Oh, I'm the last person you should think as brave! I'm afraid of just climbing stairs!'

'Really?'

'Yeah, I don't know why, but I just get this nervous feeling when I going up and down the stairs.'

'I know how you feel.' he says looking down on his tray.

'You get scared climbing stairs too?' That was usually my own sort of phobia -- I didn't think anyone else had that either.

'I just know the feeling. . .it's like when you really like somebody and when you see them -- it's like you get butterflies in your stomach.'

'Exactly, just like butterflies.' I agree.

'You heard about the dance this Friday?' he asks.

'Yeah. . .'

'Well -- I was wondering if you'd like to go with me -- you know. For fun.' he says.

He was asking me to go to the dance with him?

I just shrugged. 'Yeah, sure.'

&

My mom always picked me up after school with her red Volkswagon Beetle. I hated that car -- it made me look like a ditz. But I could never convince my mother to get a new car -- any car -- but this one. She always refused. She was the worst driver I ever met. Sometimes she would try to beat the red light -- and one time she almost ran over a family with a baby son, and honked her horn really loud.

'Watch the sidewalk!' she yells.

'We have a son!!' they yell back as mom passes by them really fast.

I predict that there's going to be a special on the news about my mother's bad driving and pedestrians would cry and cry about how they almost died. It's going to happen. I can feel it.

She turns the radio on and stays on a station that was playing Blondie. I turn the radio off.

'Hey!' she whines and turns the radio back on.

I just turn it off again. 'I hate Blondie -- their music's too happy.'

'Well, Britanny, the song is called Heart of Glass that doesn't sound like a happy song to sing to.'

'I don't mean happy as in happy but happy as in gay!' I say.

'Sweetie, you're overreacting.'

'No, I'm not! Mom, you drive a red punch buggy listening to a band called Blondie and you're fourty-five years old! I mean, grow up!'

'Aw. Don't worry honey. You're just going through that stage where you're embarrassed hanging out with you mother.'

'Well, it's not so hard to be embarrassed when you're driving a red Beetle!'

'What do you have against red? Red is nice.'

I sigh and lean on the window. 'Forget it.'

She looks at me then on the road. 'You're not seeing a boy are you?'

'What?' I yell. 'Where did that come from?'

'I'm just saying, most teenage girls get grumpy and uncomfortable with people who are much older than them when they start dating -- I saw it on Dr. Phil.'

'What does he know?'

'He knows a lot of things that help mothers'-- I grunt --'understand their daughters, you should watch it sometime.'

'Dr. Phil is the last person I would listen too. First of all he's bald second he's an old man -- what does he know about being a teenage girl?'

'So who is it?'

'Who's who?'

'Your boyfriend! Come on, I wanna know -- is it Jonathan?'

'Ill.' Jonathan was the last person I would want to date!

'It's Jonathan isn't it -- I always liked the sound of that boy.'

'Mom, did you not hear me say ill?'

'What? What's wrong with Jonathan -- he's intelligent, he's dashing. . .'

'He's a man whore.'

'He's a -- what? Jonathan Marks is not a man whore -- where do you kids learn these phrases?'

'From God.' I say.

'God is the last person to teach you those kind of words.'

'This car ride is so long.'

'So, if it isn't Jonathan -- then who is?'

'There's no boy, mom.'

'Don't tell me you're a lesbian.'

'MOM!!'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just Susanne's daughter turned out to be a lesbian -- and it's not like I don't like lesbians is just that I would prefer it if you liked boys--'

'Mom, I'm not a lesbian -- I'm just not seeing a boy right now. You're not seeing anyone, but does that make you lesbian?'

'Good point.'

'Are we there yet?'

'But at this age -- you should have a boyfriend. I mean you're a cute girl, you should have a boy friend right now, right?'

'Mom, where do you get these things?'

'From Oprah.'

'Don't you do anything else besides watching quack shows.'

'That's not the point right now, the point is I just want to know who you're dating -- that's all! -- is that too much to ask?'

'Yes, it is.'

'I just want to know -- I mean you had your period already--'

At this point I turn the radio back on to the Blondie song realizing it was a tape my mother was listening to. I turn the radio up and try to drain out my mother's rambling. 'Soon turned out I had a heart of glass.' I sing really loudly.

My mom just looked at me and then kept on driving.

&

After the "conversation" I couldn't possibly tell my mother about the dance on Friday. I had to find a way to go without not having to actually tell her.

I was doing my math homework while my mother was folding the laundry. 'Mom,' I start.

'Hm?'

'There's sort of this thing at my school. . .'

'What kind of thing?'

'A dance.' I whisper.

'A chant?' she asks.

'A dance.' I try to say casually.

I wasn't facing my mother and so I couldn't see what her reaction was. But there was a long pause.

Until she practically jumped on my shoulder. 'Aw. My little girl finally going to a dance! I knew it! With who?'

'Nobody.' I lie.

'Oh, tell me, Brit. C'mon.' she shakes me.

'This boy name Nick.' I finally say. I know my mom, and once she gets onto something -- she won't stop until she gets the answer. . .or else she wouldn't talk to me and ignore me for the rest of my time on Earth.

Then my mother made this baby-gushy noise and starting shaking my shoulders back and forth -- which I couldn't help but laugh to.

I have a weird laugh -- it's almost like a chuckle slash hyena sounding laugh. That's probably why I don't laugh so much. . .

But with my mother making these over-exaggerating noises at the sound of a boy's name -- I couldn't just help but laugh. . .

. . .'I guess my mother's alright' I'm thinking as I watch her do this silly dance and singing, "Britanny's got a boyfriend! Britanny's got a boyfriend!" in this real irritating way. I don't know why -- but I guess I feel like she was the little sister I never had. (Even though she's ten times older than me.)

She started to get me into it and grabbed my hands. 'Let me teach you how to dance.' and then she spinned me around and dipped me and we just held hands and spun around the room.

I got dizzy -- but. . .hell! . . .

. . .I was dancing with my mother over a boy.

&

FIN

&

Author'sNote: I was inspired for this short story after reading "The Diary of Anne Frank" over the summer and added a more modern detail to it after I read that she hated her mother. . . . It was just something I wanted to try writing for myself. Please leave a review! You read this far -- so why not tell me what you thought about it!

Please take a glance at my other story, "Dreams, Dreams". (About a teen and an actor mysteriously having the same dreams.)

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Thanks again -- and don't forget to tell me what you think!