|Class of '13
Author: HeroForTheLostCause PM
A short I wrote for English, with a prompt of write about leaving. A short romance between a boy and a girl, a cannoli, and a broken car. Please read, criticize, and review.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 589 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 01-18-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2765452
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This is a piece of micro fiction I wrote for English, with a prompt of writing about leaving. Please comment and help me out.
Class of '13
You stand in the driveway, wearing your oldest jeans and a backwards Red Sox hat, your shirt jammed into your waistband, car hood up. It's your dad's car that's broken, but he promised you twenty bucks and an unsupervised spin if you get it fixed up. The wrench you are using is his too, because you don't know shit about how a car works.
She walks by, short blue skirt, tights, her brother's flannel shirt, and a pair of clunky army boots. The tights and the shirt are a pity. They hide her pretty body, and it takes all your focus not to her stare at her as she walks by. You've spent the last three years sitting across from her in class, trying to speak to her but never having the courage.
Hey, you say, wiping your greasy hands off on your jeans. She turns around.
Hey, she says back. What are you doing?
Not much. Just fixing up a car. You speak casually, like you haven't spent the past three hours trying to get the damn thing to run.
Lemme see. She gives you a push out of the way and looks at the engine. She grabs the wrench from your hands and does something wonderful with it. There's a streak of motor oil on her face.
Try it now. You open the car door and turn it on. The engine roars to life.
How did you do that?
She smiles. My secret.
You've got oil on your face. You move to brush it off, your fingers on her cheek, the closest you've ever come to her.
Thanks. She wipes it off on the back of her sleeve and gives you her smile, the smile that breaks your heart every time you see it.
Do you want to go out for a cannoli?" It spills out before you can stop yourself and you swear under your breath. Damn it.
Thanks, but I'm not allowed to date Italian boys. My dad says so. See you on Monday. She walks off, leaving you with a working car and a greasy wrench.
Monday. You put the wrench back into your father's toolbox and turn off the car.
Your brothers are sprawled inside the house, watching the game on TV and drinking beers. You're the baby of the family around here. You slink to the garage, to put your dad's toolbox away.
Who was that chick? One of your brothers pulls away from the game for a few seconds.
Girl from school. You shrug, like she's nobody special, like she's not the girl who's been breaking your heart since seventh grade. Your brother grunts and goes back to watching the game.
When your dad comes home, you show him the working car engine and he pats you on the back and gives you a crisp twenty-dollar bill. You thank him and put it into your backpack.
The next day at school, you watch her open her locker and pick up the green bill on top of her books. She smiles when she reads the note. You know what it says. Meet me today after school for cannoli and then I'll speak to your father. By the time she looks up for you, you've left.