Stare
He comes every night. The ghost. As if we were standing on the floor and facing each other, he floats just out of reach and he stares at me. He never moves. Never speaks. Only stares. When I lie down to sleep at night, he is there. When I jolt awake from a nightmare, he is there. If I leave my room and return, he waits for me there, hovering above the bed, staring at the vacant pillow. Only when sunlight shines through the windows does he fade away, but he reappears when night falls. To stare.
I know how he died. He was stabbed in the chest. Sometimes his ripped and twisted wound drips blood on me. I wash the sheets. But he never tells me how it happened. He never tells me who it was. He looks at me as if he wants me to find out for him, perhaps to avenge him. But I do not know the ghost’s name. I do not know how long ago he lived. I believe that he used to sleep in the bed I now call my own, but he has never told me so. I can only guess. All I really know of him is his blood and his face.
I used to be afraid. The first few weeks, I barely slept. I screamed, and then I shut my eyes, and then I tried to pretend he wasn’t there, but he was, always floating, staring. He never threatened me, and soon I began to speak to him as I would to a friend. I tell him everything. I tell him of my work, of my friends, of my hopes, dreams, fears, shortcomings. I know he hears me; it is when I tell him of my love that he bleeds the most.
Sometimes I stare back. I look into his eyes. I read his face. I try to understand what is written there. It is something awful. Something painful, something desperate. Something he wants me to understand. I try to listen. I wait for a sign. For a movement of the eyes, for a breath from the lips, but nothing, nothing ever happens. He only stares with his black eyes, those dark circles beneath dark hair under which lies some dark and empty space. Something so barren and hollow, it keeps him here. It keeps him coming back every night. It is something so horrible that he can never rest until he makes me understand. But try as I might, I learn nothing new. I only sleep, and he, my nighttime guardian, watches me until morning.
I do not know how long it will be until he leaves me alone. I do not even know that I wish it. This ghost, who was once a man, with a message eternally in his eyes, may never leave. Perhaps when I die, I will join him and finally ask him what he was trying to tell me all along.
But until then, I will tell him goodnight and close my eyes while he continues staring on.
Violet
Fifth floor, room 508. This was it.
I took a deep breath and smoothed out my orange flower-print skirt and matching top. I had ten minutes here. Ten minutes, and then I would need to go down to the third floor and meet Jaden. I had plenty of time. So why was my heart pounding so fast? I pressed one hand to my chest and closed my eyes, composing myself. There was nothing to be afraid of. There was just one thing I needed to say, and then I could leave.
I knocked twice on the door.
From within, an alto voice called, “Come in.”
I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. Inside, a dark curtain hung over the wide window, blotting out the orange evening sunlight. Glow-in-the-dark stars hung from the ceiling. The walls, although decorated with a variety of colorful posters and hangings, all seemed to soak in the darkness, and I wondered if they would be soft to the touch and moist with the blackness. It felt oppressive and foreboding, and did nothing to still my fears.
On one of the room’s two beds, the one doused in the most shadow, lay a thin, long-limbed girl with straight black hair that flayed out across her pillow. Everything about her whispered of beauty and a comfortable elegance. She was dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and tall dark jeans. Her feet were bare. She looked at me blankly with lazy eyes when I entered, and she said nothing.
I rocked back and forth a few times on the heels of my shoes and kept my hands behind my back. I looked at the carpet, the desk overflowing with paper, the refrigerator humming darkly; anywhere but at the girl. But the silence quickly became uncomfortable, and I assumed that she was waiting for me to explain why I had come. “I’m… Summer Styles,” I said.
“I know,” she muttered. “Jaden told me. And we have the same English class.”
I frowned. “I… I just wanted to come here to apologize to you.”
“Apologize? What for?” She stared up at the stars.
I took a deep breath. “For what… happened. I know you and Jaden were…”
“In love?” She extended one hand toward the stars, as if trying to reach them.
“…Yeah.”
She shook her head and let her hand drop onto her chest. “Never were.”
I waited.
“He never knew what he wanted,” she said. “He was always caught in the middle. So indecisive. He always liked another girl too, I was never good enough.” She looked at me. I expected to see anger, but there was nothing there. Only a blank face, an empty face.
“I’m sorry…” I said reverently.
She shook her head and looked back up at the stars. “Don’t be. It’s for the best. If he really likes you, then he’s with who he should be. Do you like him?”
“I… yes. I do,” I admitted. “He… I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
“Go ahead, I’m fine.”
I knew that she was lying, but I didn’t know what else to say to lift her spirits. “Well, he told me that you were different from everyone else before. He really did care about you, Violet.”
“Did he really?” No emotion.
I nodded. “Yes, he did. He wishes that he treated you better.”
A small teardrop formed in one of her empty eyes, and when she spoke, he voice choked up. “Yeah. Me too.”
Despite the uncomfortable darkness and the strange situation we were both in, I couldn’t stop myself from walking over to her bed and sitting down next to her when I saw the tears start to flow. Once they started, they came stronger and stronger. I felt like the cause of this depression. Part of me wanted to just run away and avoid her, but I knew that I could not just leave her crying on her bed like this. I had to set things right. I warily placed a comforting hand on her arm, and she didn’t push me away.
“I’m sorry about this,” Violet said. Her indigo mascara was leaking like ink into her tears, but she made no effort to stop herself.
“You’re sorry? I’m the one that came to apologize!” I said, mustering as much sympathetic cheer I could.
She smiled half-heartedly. “You’re a good person, Summer. I just wish I was good enough. Not just for Jaden, but for anyone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She sniffed. “I mean, every guy I’ve been with has left me as soon as the next best thing came along. It’s got me wondering.”
I sighed. She needed help, and this was bigger than just one boy. Every part of me wanted to reach out to her; it was in my nature. If Violet had been one of my close friends, I would have named off some of her admirable traits to debunk her theory, but, our relationship being as non-existent as it was aside from English class, I couldn’t come up with anything to say. But I had an idea. “Are you doing anything tomorrow night?”
She shook her head, and then smiled. “Are you going to ask me if I want to hang out?”
I returned her smile.
“Something tells me we have very different personalities.”
I shrugged. “That’s alright. I’m sure we can find plenty in common.”
“Like Jaden?”
“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “Something different. Something else. We can leave him out of it.”
She thought for a moment and shrugged. “I’m free.”
I grinned. “Good. We’ll do something fun and get to know each other.”
I stood up from the bed and walked toward the door. As I grabbed the doorknob to leave, Violet spoke. “Summer?”
“Yeah?”
She gave me a sincere smile as she lay in the darkness on her bed. That tiny spark of happiness seemed to light up the air immediately around her. “Thanks for stopping by.”
I smiled, and left. As I walked toward the elevator, that smile stayed on my face. I had come to Violet’s room expecting to find an enemy; instead, I had hopefully made a new friend.
California Wedding
Jackie has always looked good in white. From those first sweltering days on the road, I recall the image of her in her white shirt as she sat on the hood of the Camaro and gazed off into the distant Pacific sunset, thinking. It was one of the few times she ever looked serious. She was stunning in her simple white summer dress, all frills and ruffles of cotton and lace, as she lounged in the back seat, headphones on, eyes closed, and smiling. I remember moments like this being peaceful and pure, and of all the experiences the six of us had together since we decided to run the rest of our lives out on the ocean coast, these are the ones I cherish most. She was beautiful, but I never lusted after her; she was my best friend, practically my sister, whose spirit, I knew, was just as beautiful as her face. For years, I wanted to ask her to escape with me on our own coastal journey and leave the others behind, but I knew she wouldn’t have done it. Still, during those brief moments when it was only the car, Jackie, and me, the world was alright after all.
But I know Jimmy thought differently about her. I saw his eyes run over her whenever they got the chance, and I recognized the grin that always spread over his lips. He’d always try touching her shoulders or back. Jackie said that he was just a touchy person, and she didn’t mind. I wanted to believe that too, until the rainy August day I caught him in the back seat with her. I slammed the window with my fist, swore at him through the safety glass, and all he did was smile and keep going, fingers skating across her skin and sweat dripping from his forehead. What happened next was a blur to me now, but when it was over, Jimmy was crying over the impossible angle of his arm, my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding, and the car needed a new left window. Jackie wouldn’t stop crying.
Today, she is getting married to him, and things still aren’t the same. She steps past the front row, where I am slouched. She shifts her dress uncomfortably. The top button of my collar is flying loose, and the summer breeze drifts down my neck, but I feel as unsettled as her. Her dark eyes flash in my direction. She knows what I think about the wedding. Jen and Roxy, both dressed in red dresses, hold her train and look anywhere but at me. Even Alex, who Jimmy picked over me to be the best man, won’t look at me. They all support Jackie and Jimmy’s decision; I am the only one who does not agree.
The priest begins to read. He has a low, colorless voice that is easy to lose. Jimmy is smiling at Jackie, but she is not smiling back. I sigh and wonder what she is thinking. I can tell she knows she is making the wrong choice, and yet, her face darkens when he strokes the back of her hand with his thumb. She enjoys his touch and his attention, but even now, I can see that she will regret her decision someday. She will wish she had chosen someone else, someone who will cherish her and give her the real love she so deserves. If only she had chosen me. We might not have ever been romantically attracted to each other, but we were never happier than when we were together. We would have made a good family.
“Are there any present who know of a reason why these two should not be married?” the priest says. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” Jackie’s eyes flash at me, almost as if she expects me to say something. I want to stand up and shout, “It’s all a mistake!” I want my limbs to move, but fear keeps me still. This is her choice; I cannot interfere. I only listen as the vows are completed and the priest declares the two of them husband and wife. They lean in to kiss and finalize the ceremony.
I cannot watch. I turn away and watch a small flock of white birds ascend to the sky as everyone else smiles and claps, congratulating them on their new life together. If only they knew how it would turn out.
Remembering Ashley
The first thing I notice is that the tree is dying. The weather is still warm; it’s still mid-July, and the leaves are already turning brown and grey and falling from the branches, rotting on the grass. I open the car door and step out onto the gravel path. The air is strangely old and humid here. Despite being quite alone, I lock the car before shutting the door.
As I walk through the overgrown clearing along what used to be a well-worn path, I begin to second-guess my decision to come here. Mom and Dad told me to take a ride in my new birthday present, and I ended up here. I’d been planning it all along; I think I decided sometime long ago that that nostalgic place would be the first place I would go on this day. I have another party to go to with my friends in half an hour, but the cake-induced malaise I feel in my stomach reminds me that I am sick of the festivities and in no hurry to continue them. Besides, I know that there is no way to back out of my decision now. Time has passed, and I am finally ready to confront my past.
I continue walking, noticing how much everything has changed. The path is virtually gone, lost in the grass from so many years of desuetude. The trees seem to have all grown bigger and greener. Even the sky looks wider to me now. But the tree, standing along and so proud in the center of the clearing like a mortally wounded soldier awaiting the mercy of death, looks largely the same as it always has, despite the dying leaves and discoloration of the wood. Memories wash over my eyes like filters, altering my view of the quiet meadow. I see myself at six years old, a thin fallen branch in my hands, bravely fending off legions of baddies. At ten, I am climbing through the boughs and imagining that they are the masts of a grand ship, and pirates are approaching on the horizon. At twelve, I am sitting against the trunk, head in my hands, unable to imagine at a time when I wish to imagine anything at all.
There is also a girl there with me. She offers a shoulder for comfort, loads the cannons in preparation for battle, and fights at my back as we protect each other. Little but her age changes through the years. She always has long chocolate hair and eyes to match, wearing the same patterned shirt and the same sweet smile. As the nostalgia passes, she grows older, matching my own age, until all at once we return to reality and she is standing in front of me. “Happy birthday, Peter,” she grins.
“Ashley,” I say, surprised.
“I told you I wouldn’t forget.” She reveals a delicate white flower from behind her back. “July twelfth. You turn sixteen today.”
I smile as I take the flower, but accepting it fills me with a horrible guilt; she has no idea of what is to come tonight. In the moonlight, I see that the flower is flawless and breathtaking. The deep white petals are curved like six silk lips, and the stem is firm and green. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
She blushes and turns toward the tree. “Birthdays always make me think about the passage of time. About the past, about the future.” She turns back to me. “Peter, do you remember when we used to play here? When we were younger?” I nod. She continues, “We’ve both done a lot of growing up since then, haven’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” For a moment, I am silent. Does she know what I am thinking? If she does, she gives no physical sign. The quiet begins to make me uncomfortable. I sigh. “Ashley, we need to talk.”
She smiles at me so innocently that I nearly tell her that it is nothing. But if it is not now, then when? Today is my sixteenth birthday, and there is something I must do, however horrible it is. “What is it?” she asks, seeing the pained look on my face. Her eyes take on a sympathetic look. “Are you okay?”
“I shouldn’t see you anymore, Ashley,” I mumble.
She says nothing at first. A weak smile flashes briefly across her lips, and her voice cracks slightly as she quietly asks, “What?”
I look into her brown eyes. They are wide and scared. Shakily, I take a deep breath and say, “Today, I am sixteen. I’m getting too old for this. I’m getting too old for you.”
She reaches up a hand to stroke my cheek, and her eyes jump back and forth between my own. “I don’t understand,” she whispers. “Did I do something wrong?”
I shake my head, vigorously. “No, no. It was nothing you did. You are… perfect,” I say. “I’m just growing up.”
“Can’t I grow up with you?” she asks.
I take a deep breath and step away, swinging my arms and looking around the clearing. In my hand, I spin the white flower. Part of me wants to abandon the whole thing now, but I know it’s already too late. I look at the lone tree, at its dying branches and at the rotting leaves peppering the ground. My mouth opens, and I begin to speak. “Ashley. You and this tree… you are my strongest memories of my childhood. The tree is passing away, while the forest around it keeps growing. Before long, it will be completely gone, and I will never come back to this place.” I look at her and, like the tree, she seems so alone, so hurt, her hair waving in the gentle breeze like the wild grass at her feet. “I need to grow up. I need to leave my childhood behind me.”
“No…” she says softly. “Peter, don’t…”
I take a breath. “I… don’t believe in you anymore, Ashley.”
Tears build in the corners of her eyes, and she lets them fall. She looks at her feet and at the rippling grass beneath her. “Do you mean it?”
She meets my eyes, and I feel my own burn in response. I want so badly to take back what I said and comfort her, but that would be a lie and I know that if I do, everything I have done will be a waste. I nod. “Yes, Ashley. I’m sorry.”
She weakly attempts to smile at me. “It’s alright. I knew this day would come, it always does.” She walks forward with her arms open. I hesitate, wondering if this is a plea for reconsideration. She shakes her head. “Don’t worry, Peter. I’m just saying goodbye.”
I return her embrace. I cannot feel her like a real human body, as I once did; her solidity is already fading. I grasp her tightly and take a deep breath of the cinnamon scent of her hair. We stay this way for a few seconds, and then timidly break apart.
“Promise me one thing, Peter,” Ashley says, as she places one hand on the trunk of the tree and looks back.
“Anything,” I say.
She exhales deeply, and smiles. “Remember me.” With that, she walks behind the tree and does not reappear on the other side. She is gone.
The trees sigh as a new breeze runs through them. Then there is complete silence. Thoughts of her run themselves in my mind. I look down at my hand. Her flower is still there, drinking in the moonlight. I press it to my chest, with a last sigh in Ashley’s memory. I look at the tree, and as I do, a leaf breaks free of a branch and drifts to the ground. I watch my eight-year-old self as he builds a snowman here during a forgotten winter, and smile at the girl who puts the carrot in for his nose. I listen to the isolated practice of a violin and remember the one who sat and listened. Through everything, she was always there; she was the definition of my childhood, and I would never forget those years. “I will always remember, Ashley,” I say to myself. “I will never return, but I will always remember.”
Dusty
Dusty was a keeper of secrets until the day he disappeared and left our little desert town to keep its own. Some say he ran off to the next sandy city. Others are still looking for his body in the shifting sands. As for me, I believe he joined the breeze as a cloud of dust. He had kept more secrets than anything else in that silent mind of his, and that was only the first thing to turn into sand. On his night-table, underneath a vial of dirt, was a small note, the only clue Dusty ever left us. It simply warned: “Creator of secrets, the keeper should be.” No one ever saw him again.
We never thought we were doing anything wrong. Life gets hard in our little town and when mistakes are made, as they always are, we cannot disclose ourselves to just anyone. If we’re not careful, the sandy whirlwinds will pick our secrets from the air and carry them off to any willing ear. Their telling was a dangerous business, until Dusty came to town.
He arrived alone. No one ever saw or heard mention of his parents. Dusty was not even his real name; it was given to him after he neglected to tell anyone what he called himself. In fact, during his short stay with us, he never said anything at all. Some believed he was deaf, but most of us knew that he was a listener, one who could even communicate with the winds. He was an attractive boy of fifteen or sixteen with dirty, tousled hair and tired eyes. Dark circles always surrounded them. Those circles seemed to engulf his entire being, completely covering him in a blanket of shadow-thread. Under this cover, he drifted about as he pleased, like a desert whirlwind, picking up tiny grains of sand wherever he went, always listening to the whispers on the breeze.
Another of Dusty’s curious traits was how he naturally drew people to him, despite his silence. Before long, everyone began going to him with their confessions, pouring out their very souls to him as he simply sat and listened and stared with his tired eyes. Even those who believed he had no powers of comprehension would go. They didn’t care so much if he heard them or not; the simple act of confession was enough for them. They wanted a secure chest, buried somewhere in the desert, to lock their secrets in and to forget about, and they found it in Dusty’s open ears. Their sands whirled about his brain, gathering and mixing and stirring until one grain could not be told from another and this, everyone knew, was the best way to dispose of a secret.
I myself confessed a thing or two to Dusty. I knocked on the front door of his shabby one-room hut, and he opened the door without a word. We walked inside and sat down at a tiny table set up in the center of the room, and I began to talk. He sat patiently, listening and staring, until I was finished, and then I got up and simply left, back out into the sandstorms, feeling lightened and free. My secrets belonged to him now, and seeing as no sound ever escaped his lips, they were quite safe.
Of course, that was before the day he vanished. Somehow, we all seemed to know at once: Dusty was gone. Perhaps we all overheard a series of conversations, or perhaps the cool moon-winds whispered it into our ears while we slept. But we all knew it was true. I went to see for myself, and when I knocked on Dusty’s door, another curious investigator answered. He immediately directed me to the mysterious note on the night-table and together, we sat and pondered its meaning for us and the future of our village.
“Creator of secrets, the keeper should be…”
Over the next few days, the townspeople gathered and spoke, and finally came to a conclusion. Although our secrets were only tiny grains of sand to Dusty, there were a great many of them. The weight had finally become too much for him to bear, and he left us, broken and burdened with our dust. This was their theory.
I believe that he still exists here, in this desert town. He is still with us, drifting on the winds and listening, always listening, to the sand of our secrets…
The Valentine Plan
As I stood there in the lightly falling snow, feet frozen to my driveway, watching the silver Toyota pull away, I went over the whole ordeal in my head and tried to make sense of it. I slipped my hand into the front pocket of my white jacket and found the single pink conversation heart I knew was there. I popped it into my mouth and bit down.
I’d been planning for that day, February 14th, for a while. By the time my mom drove me to Target to look for a present, the plan was already taking form. “How about this one?” she asked, holding a stuffed pink bear up to her face.
I frowned. “No, it’s posed; it’s too stiff. I want to get her something soft, something she can hug.”
Disappointed, she placed the bear back on the shelf and we continued our search. That was when a white dog with pink spots caught my eye. I reached out to stroke it, and my fingertips barely registered its fur. I grinned. It was perfect.
We left the store with the stuffed dog, a package of heart-shaped Reese’s peanut butter cups, and a gift bag my mother insisted was “adorable” and “perfect.” When we got back home, I booted up my computer and put the finishing touches on the drawing I’d made for her. It was of a particularly pleasant dream she’d had where we fell asleep against a tree together. I printed it out, carefully mounted it on some thicker paper, and slipped it into the bag alongside the other items. Satisfied, I hid it all away in my room and nervously awaited the fourteenth of February.
It was the night of the thirteenth that the final and greatest part of the plan came to mind. At that time, I still had Virgin Lips; I’d never been kissed. Well, things were different now, weren’t they? Never before had a girl and I shared mutual feelings of attraction, and the sudden thought of finally experiencing my first kiss was thrilling. And tomorrow was Valentines Day. What could be more perfect? I froze, my mind working, thinking of a way, until my eyes strayed toward my hand. I’d been idly chewing on seasonal Valentine hearts, and the one I held in my hand at that exact moment bore the perfect, simplest message: “Kiss Me.”
I didn’t spend long thinking it all through. Maybe if I had, it would have all gone over smoothly. But the sun went down and came back up, I went off to school, and when it was over, I nervously fidgeted at the passenger side door of her older sister’s car. She took me home every day. After what seemed like twenty minutes, she walked out of the school, arm in arm with her boyfriend Matt. In my mind, I replaced them with my special girl and me. It made me smile. They finally reached the car, and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
The two of us hadn’t kissed on the cheek yet. This sudden realization struck me like a javelin to the heart. I was trying to skip a step! I couldn’t do that! Could I? Wasn’t that against the rules? I didn’t know!
It’s okay, I said to myself. Just go ahead with the plan. It’ll all work out.
“Guess what Matt got me for Valentine’s Day?” the sister asked as she started the car.
“What?” I asked.
She grinned widely and raised one hand to her neck. “This necklace!” She leaned over slightly, still keeping her eyes up, and held it out so I could see it. It glittered like ice in the winter sun.
I forced a smile. “Wow, that’s really nice!”
But nothing could distract me. When the dirty tan brick of the junior high building came into view, I began choking on a nervous lump in my throat. We parked in front and the younger sister, my girl, came out. My heart fluttered a bit more than usual. I gave her a smile as she climbed into the back seat. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I said.
“I had the worst day today!” she fumed. “Sterling was being such a jerk to me.”
Our next destination in our daily routine was my house. That was when I would tell the two sisters to wait, go inside, and come back out with the gift and, most importantly, the heart. For the entire duration of the trip, she talked about how horrible her day had been. I sympathized with her, and wanted to somehow help her feel better, but somewhere in the back of my head, I was worried. Would she still want to kiss me, despite her furious mood?
I clasped my hands tightly to keep them from shaking. We were pulling down my street now. Slowly, we rolled to a stop in front of my house. I turned to the back seat. “Wait here, I have something for you.” Quickly, I jumped out and ran inside, nearly slipping on my icy porch. The gift was waiting for me on the living room couch, just where I’d left it. I performed a swift search of the contents to make sure everything was in place (it was), and then I picked up the heart. I looked at it, at its simple message, and instantly, doubts flooded my mind. How would I give it to her? Just pull it out of my pocket and hand it to her? Wouldn’t that be a little strange? What if my lips are chapped? What if my breath smells bad? Should I go get a mint? No, no time! What should I say? Should I say anything? What will her sister think? Will she tell her mom? Her mom hates me already! Will I ever be allowed to see her again?
I took a deep breath and cleared my head. The answers would come to me when the time was right. There was nothing to worry about. I put the heart into the front pocket of my jacket, grasped the gift bag’s pink handles tightly, and confidently swaggered out the door.
In my head, I imagined her standing by the car, waiting for me with a gift of her own in her hands. But she wasn’t there. She was still sitting inside. A minor setback, I told myself. When I approached, she got out. There was nothing in her hands. “Sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t get you anything…”
I shrugged. “That’s alright.” I honestly didn’t care at that point; I just wanted to get it over with. I accidentally glanced at her lips. They sparkled with freshly-applied lip gloss. Did she have the same idea? My heart skipped.
I held out the bag. I’d imagined that she would take her time and go through the contents slowly, but she didn’t. Instead, she glanced inside and quickly thanked me. Before I knew it, she was pulling me in for our daily hug. Wait! What about the heart? What about the kiss? My mind was reeling. This couldn’t be happening! I pressed my arms against her back and played along. Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe once we stopped, I would quickly give it to her before she got back in and left. Yes, that’s what I would do.
What happened next occurred so quickly that I did not have time to react. While I was thinking, she pulled her head back slightly and turned her face toward me. For a split-second, she waited. That was when I was supposed to turn my head as well, and our lips would meet and the heavens would open and concourses of angels would sing hallelujahs.
I hesitated.
Before I could make a conscious decision, she made her move, and her lips landed on my cheek, pressed lightly, once, and then it was over. She got back in the car with the gift and shut the door, and her sister pulled away, leaving me there, standing in the snow, confused and frustrated.
I had just missed my chance. I still had Virgin Lips. My plan had failed.
The car drove out of sight, and I let the candy dissolve on my tongue. After all my planning, after all my hopes and imaginings, I was still standing alone, my first kiss still only a dream. I felt robbed. It was unfair. And yet I knew I only had myself to blame. She’d offered it to me, and I hadn’t taken it. Why? Because I was thinking too hard about how I would do it. I chuckled dryly. It was so ironic! Because I’d tried so hard and been so excited, I’d forgotten to plan out the most important parts, and froze when it didn’t go like I imagined. Because of this, I failed. And although my cheek tingled a little and was slightly sticky to the touch, that trophy was not the one I wanted.
And yet, as I passed back over the day, I slowly began to realize something. Every past Valentine’s Day had been one of heartache. For so long, I’d wished for what everyone else already seemed to have: a special someone. Didn’t I receive my wish this year? Sure, my attempt at my first kiss was a failure, but there would be tomorrow, and many days after that. If I had not developed my Valentine plan, this day would have been just like any other. There would have less of a gift and no candy heart. Of course, I also wouldn’t have been so worried, I wouldn’t have shaken so badly, and I wouldn’t still be standing in the snow, but although part of me wanted to complain about these things, another part of me knew; this Valentine’s Day was the most exciting and enjoyable one I’d ever had. It hadn’t been another lonely and jealous day of watching other couples exchange affections; it had been my day. I thought of this with a smile itching at my lips as I walked up the driveway and into the house.
From that point on, I always remembered one thing when I thought of Valentine’s Day: plans rarely work out the way you want them to. Sometimes they lead to the same end result with only minor changes. Sometimes they fail miserably and leave all your hopes in ruins. But despite all the bad luck and poor planning in the world, sometimes they turn out even better.
