Fun tunes, Shout Out Loud-esque voice

I was feeling confused and sad in Geographic Information Systems, so this was the result…

I haven’t been able to write a whole lot, but here’s a little something!

The entire school is alive with energy and anticipation. People eye each other in the halls, wondering who they could possibly talk into attending prom with them. When they’re not busy handing out senior photos, the upperclassmen stare out windows and watch clocks. Girls go tanning to prepare for summer and pool parties, and in their short shorts and tank tops, one can see tiny white patches of skin in the shapes of dolphins and hearts. Everyday, Clara eats lunch with Josh and expects him to ask her to prom, but he just plays with his string cheese, talks about movies, and proposes countless “would you rather?” situations. Kyle and Amber answer enthusiastically, yelling and laughing. Clara tries to match their energy, but her heart just isn’t in it; while she nods and grins, her mind is sluggish, like a child curled up on a couch for Saturday morning cartoons.

Sometimes, after school, the group meets in the park to play music and read. The manicured clearing is always empty, save for the occasional young family or dog/jogger combination. Amber practices her chords while Kyle plays along with improvisational solos on his trumpet. Kyle is a quiet kid, much noisier with a musical instrument than his own voice. Clara lies on her stomach and reads Oliver Twist while Josh works on a poem for English, his legs resting on her back so that the two of them form a human plus sign.

The air in the park smells of witch-hazel, thick and yeasty like baking bread, and the feeling of seclusion is so strong that it’s almost a tangible presence—like a stranger suspected before one actually opens the door. The sun pours down onto the clearing like paint on a canvas, leaving everyone dripping in warm, yellow light. Clara’s thoughts meander between Oliver and Conor, and in her imagination, the images get mixed around so that sometimes the young orphan plays a guitar while Conor runs the streets.

He’ll be on the tonight show this Friday, due to a string of good reviews and a growing fan base of screaming girls and bearded boys, and Clara will be watching with the eyes of a sailor long at sea, longing for land and vitamin C. Amber and Kyle will be going to a movie, under the impression that Clara has some calculus to attend to. When asked about his plans, Josh is evasive, muttering unintelligible things about his dog—a boxer named Zelda—and an approaching thunderstorm.

Amber and Kyle meander over to an old swing set, and Josh lays his notebook on the grass.

“I have something to tell you,” he says, cautiously.

“Sure,” she says.

She lets her eyes fall closed and her arm drop to her side. The sunlight warms every inch of exposed skin like a hug.

“So…Friday…”

“When you’ll be protecting Zelda from the big, bad storm?”

“Yeah, that’s not true. I totally lied.”

“Mmhmm,” Clara replies, “I kind of guessed that.”

“Well, ummm,” he continues, his voice as uneven as a seismograph, “Did you guess that I had a date with Whitney Kensington?”

 A pause.

“You don’t,” she says in disbelief.

“I do,” he replies, “And I’m very sorry Clara, if you feel betrayed or—”

“Seriously Josh!” Clara interrupts, pushing his legs off her so that she can stand up. “She screwed my boyfriend!”

“I know, I just—”

“Just do me a favor,” she says, shaking her head violently, “please don’t even try to explain your reasoning. I’m sure you must have such fantastic reasons for doing this. Just, good luck. I hope you two have, like, an awesome time together.”

“Come on Clara…”

She gathers her belongings and walks away, sending a “Later” in Josh’s direction.

Blindly, he brushes the ground beside him and locates his notebook. With a sigh, he opens it flat and lays the pages against his face.

A thousand miles away, Conor is writing a song about how people seem to change along with the seasons. He’s alone in a mauve hotel room, abstract art on the walls and a sense of stifled dread in the air. When he scratches his scalp, his new hair cut feels short and unnatural.

            To clear his mind, he turns on the television set and watches a period piece—but he barely hears the words. Sometimes, in the silence, Conor thinks about Clara, and he wonders what storm is currently brewing under that olive skin. He think about her in that sad, desperate way that someone thinks about a love they once had, and lost due to miscommunication or some silly error; a fisherman pulls up an empty line, and she is the fish, still making circles under the waves with a hook strung through her skin. He curses the words could, should, and would.

            There’s a knock on the door, and Conor opens it to find Kristi looking as cold and sick as ever. She’s beautiful in the way that a natural disaster is beautiful—a tornado, a flood—but whereas Clara’s eyes seem to be a deep well, Kristi’s seem like a shallow pool. She only wastes a few short sentences on small talk, berating room service and commenting on the weather, before pushing Conor’s shoulders to the bed and layering herself on top of him.

Wild Light : California On My Mind

Blitzen Trapper : Furr

Both sound like songs that could easily fall into the background of The O.C…