What She Doesn't Have (Book Idea)

"It doesn't matter; it never mattered." Breathing, it just happens for some, absent-minded; it just happens. For others, though, it's an art, an inquired task. In, out. On, off. When eyes are closed, winced from clogged lungs, the count down begins like a line of racers digging their heels into the gravel at the sound of the bullet. Three breaths in, four out. Somehow, it fails to be enough. Piling up in an ungodly matter, bursting in a putter-patter of exhaling, minus the inhaling, that's what just happens. Remember, remember the in and out, remember. Blue in the cheeks, from the bruises, the ones that come from choking. I fibbed again, through gritted teeth and a half-hearted sigh, "It does not matter."
She gave me a maudlin glare, unbelieving.
"Mom, just go on your date, enjoy yourself tonight." I could feel the asthma yearning to weave over my vealed disguise of approval.
Uneasy, her eyes flickered, questioning my permission, "If you are sure, then I'm about to leave; all I need is to dab on some perfume." Perfume, really, since when do you use that garbage? It wasn't fair, not to anyone, especially my father. "Of course, mom," my redundancy was beginning to be irritating, "I want you to party hard." I knew my teasing would convince her. She needed to leave the house so I could call Kitty. I needed Kitty. I needed to hear her stories, the stories full of romance, drama, girls who can't dress well. Somehow, listening to her tales made my body feel gambol-like. I began growing pallor as my mother shut the door to leave. 7:06, she has four more hours. Dinner. A movie. That's it, and then she's back again. Four hours. I might even be asleep by then.
Usually when mom used to have a last minute call for girl's night, Dad and I would cuddle on the couch with non-fat yogurt and organic cheese crackers. He was clever enough to know that grub was the way to win my love, as if it is a prize to achieve. Now, though, it's just Cheshire and me. Cheshire, the once active, playful kitten, lay like a sloth at the edge of couch, avoiding my palm as I attempted coaxing her fur with affection. What type of cat loathes being pet? Cheshire, that's who. I wish I would have been one of those little girls who refused to throw away her baby blanket (omit the doll because those were never my style), but I wasn't. No blanket. No father.
As I listened to the phone ringing, I counted the tiles on the kitchen floor for the tenth time in a week. "Hello, is Kitty home? May I speak with her?" It was easy to be polite to Kitty's mother, always so chipper and optimistic. "No, sweetheart, I'm sorry, but she's out with her boyfriend this evening." Wonderful, Kitty. "Thanks." Click. I didn't want to wait for another apology; my breathing was too heavy as it was. Hello, insomnia. Hello, night. Hello, mom's date who I didn't even get to catch a clear glimpse at through the second story window as he waited in the car for her to come out to him. What happened to the gentlemen-knocking on doors, holding hands was too frisky to dream of, ties were required. Hello, My name whatever you'd like it to be because I'm feeling vulnerable tonight.

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Late, the word lingers like a butterknife with nothing to spread. You woke up at 7:30 instead of 5:00: late. You entered the mandatory board meeting fifteen minutes after you were supposed to speak about puncuality: late (and a hypocrit). You haven’t had your menstral cycle in six weeks: late. You spend the night at a fellow’s house to leave your daugher with a horrendous crook in her neck from slumbering on the couch while waiting for you to return home at all hours of night: late.
Once, when Matthew decided that I wasn’t enough for him, my pal Kris gave me a little encouraging doodle, on it read: “Silence is pure. It draws people together because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking.” When my mother stammered in at eight in the A.M. from her supposed to be quickie date, the silence was stale enough to flatten my Dr.Pepper. I was not comfortable. (Note to self: Edit Kris’s quote)
The staring contest was drying out my eyes, and unless I pulled out some secret interrogation equipment, no explaining would commence. No excuses, that is. Silence is Pure.
Pure:
1.) Free from anything adulterates, taints.
2.) Simple, mere.
3.) Utter, absolute.
4.) Faultless.
5.) Blameles.
6.) virgin or chaste.
7.) absolute or theoretorical.
Silence is pure. Silence is pure. Alternatives: silence is…virgin. Let’s go with the shindig. Virgin. Even I would accept an LOL expression at that little sweetheart.
Breaking the ice, mom screeched at me, “AH, you lose!” Unfazed, I looked at her with my strongest, dead-panned facial expression, “Pardon?” “Well, you blinked.” She’s nervous. “Congrats, mother.” Oh, how she loathed me calling her mother. Chipperly, she jigged around the room like Cheshire when I trick her into sniffing cat nip for my late, insomnia caused, nights’ entertainment. “What do I win?” her grin infuriated me. “Well, mom, judging by the results of last night…probably aids.”

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Dreams are indispensable. A lack of dream activity can mean protein deficiency or a personality disorder.

The pounding of rain could not be heard next to the thud in my chest. My tears were filling the floor, like Alice not able to reach the key to enter Wonderland.
"I can't lie to myself anymore, you aren't enough. You've never been enough. I won't pretend; I'm stepping off this stage. The lights are turning off; find another dance partner." His shoe marks imprinted into the wooden floor, as if he weight ten zillion pounds.
"This isn't a show, Matthew!" This wasn't plausible.
"Not anymore, it isn't." Calm. His face was completely calm.
"Matthew, I need you. You need me."
"You will never be enough for any guy. Never."

Gasping, my pillow was soaked from my unnerving feelings. I held my eyelids, trying to recall the dream. It was so accurate, so realistic. Grabbing my phone, I dialed his number. "Please, Matthew, don't do this." "What are you talking about? Go back to sleep." And just like that, his voice was gone, and I pressed my head into my sheets will a screech. My fingers gripped the mattress, with pain. Could eyelids close tighter? Could tears burn warmer? Could this be love? Could. This. Be. Love.

...you will never be enough. Shake the legs, shake the legs. Shaking them somehow works like a dream catcher, casting the nightmares away. Forgetting the memories. Forgetting the memories with every kick of the leg. Please, Please, let it go.
I snatched my notepad into my lap and searched for a pen. Barely legible, I began to get high. I began to comply with my addiction.
Some people resort to drugs, rebellion, hatred. My escape is writing. From time to time, my words don't form in an understanding manner. When you first fall in love and you can't breathe; you feel like your lungs can't handle it. The feeling of knowing that all you want is to live for another person just causes so much urgency, breathlessness. And when you're writing with that same passion, of love, it causes fragments. You can't breathe; you can't write. When you are writing with hatred, which is found to be more aggressive than love, the pen can cut through the paper, forgetting even apostophes.

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Without Kitty, what would I do? "This is rad! I am beyond stoked that you got accepted into Alabama. That'll be just darling for you," I truly meant it, even though I felt too bitter. "Really? Aw, won't this be wonderful? I'll be attending where my father before me did, and, well, of course I've already become friends with some other students from summer college, and..." her voice trailed off as I thought of my own selfish scheme. Unfortunately, my lips refused to participate with my plot. don'tleavedon'tleavedon'tleave. I turned my face toward the window so she wouldn't notice that giant alligator tears were swelling in the tips of my eyeballs. ...eyeballs, what a neat, odd word. Eyeball.. so simple... "Hey, Chicka, stop zoning out." I let out a weak laugh as I squirmed awkwardly in the leather chair, my legs had glued themselves to the bottom of the seat. She always knew I lolly gagged into thelandofthelost when I was sensing fiasco. I didn't want her to see my pain, but I forget how transparent my skin is with her hazel x-ray vision staring through my pores. She reached her freshly painted nails over to my hands and squeezed, "You'll always be my best friend." "We will always be bee eff effs," I retorted her. "Would you like to stay for dinner at least, or do you need to be going to your casa to spend your last few hours of jail time with your padres?" "Well, I know how you loathe rejection." And that part was especially true.
Suddenly, without warning, my mother's knocked flew through the beads that were draped over my open doorway; she demanded that I explain the letter on the our kitchen bar. I struggled to not make it obvious that I was a tad bit relieved that my mom had interrupted our fair-thee-well sad fest here. Crying was weakness. Crying was something to be done in private (even if this was Kitty).
On the top of the mail basket lay a tiny purple envelope. Nothing mysterious. Nothing odd. Nothing particular. I realized fast that my mother had torn open the sides of this letter already. Privacy: she should invest in a dictionary and learn the meaning of said word, along with a few others. As I unfolded the letter, a familiar smell tickled at my nose from the paper.
"Dear Love,
I miss you. Gosh, being apart from you is torture. It is pure torture. I'm not sure how much longer I can deal with such a departure. You are most certainly my best friend, don't tell your mommy, though. I'm sure that old gal would be envious. How's Cheshire? Laying off the 'nip, I hope. Let me know how you are. I look forward to it. I love you, darling.
Truly, your father."

I dropped the letter, and felt a cold drip slip down my neck and onto my blouse. I gazed to my mother's direction without seeing anything at all. Kitty began tugging at my shoulders while faint voices filled my ears.

The walls were white, and the TV that was placed at eye level was set on The News. The smell of hospitals always felt homey. As I collected my thoughts and tried to recall how I was in this bed, half naked, I glanced over to spot Kitty. "Well, what a way to steal my goodbye thunder, girl." Like an ex boyfriend that just won't quit blowing up my phone, the lingering query reappeared: Without Kitty, what was I going to do? Especially now. Very much so now.

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People want many things, but lonliness is not one of them.

lone·ly:
1.affected with, characterized by, or causing a depressing feeling of being alone; lonesome.
2.destitute of sympathetic or friendly companionship, intercourse, support, etc.: a lonely exile.
3.lone; solitary; without company; companionless.
4.remote from places of human habitation; desolate; unfrequented; bleak: a lonely road.
5.standing apart; isolated: a lonely tower.

It's shown on many billboards, signs in the hallways of high schools, notebooks, cutsie school supplies: "Stand apart, be different." Zilch times did I see "Warning: this may lead to loneliness." Else wise, I might have decided to take up my mat and slumber with compliance. Loneliness. Loneliness. Loneliness. The less drab it becomes, as it lingers off the tongue. Lown-lee-ness. A certain boy in my first period pronounces it with a draw Loan-leh-nest. Everything becomes humor once spoken with a hick lingo. I would rather be lame than to join the wagon. No, thanks. I'll continue saying nine as none and ten as tin. Hm.

Lately, I've been hearing voices. Now comes the "uh oh, she's a loon" card, I know. It is absurd, I wouldn't want to explain it to any given Joe. What shall I do? Ring up Doctor Donnie and say, "Listen, can you hear her? She is taunting me." I don't enjoy whiteness. If I wasn't a fruit loop before, I would be afterwards, due to the lack of imagination and color. It's a blank canvas that my hands would pointlessly itch to cover. If it is caused by loneliness, would sending me away to an empty room be the solution? I think not. Silence is key, or actually I've heard it was knowledge. Knowledge to be silent. Perhaps that's the reason that the Silent Game was always so effective as a child. Points, mother.

Loneliness. Sometimes, it's what strives us to be more. Sometimes, it was condones us to be less. Sometimes, though, it makes you sick.
Sick? Yes. And I never thought bulimic girls felt loved anyways.

He is the Bee, and I am the honey. I'd say I'm pretty sweet on him.

Jones Soda (Jonesing for a Jones is their slogan), a marvelous beverage to be consumed, is rated at an all-time seven in my book.

Brandon Jones. Brandon Keith Jones: Also known as BEE; it fits like leather, Italian shoes after they break-in to the soles of one's feet. This cat has all the works of a water hose, with the tricks of a sprinkler. Granted, I never, beforehand, considered him on the charts of someone for me. Initially, I cockily stated that "he would be minep;" however, I never once quelled my conceit long enough to realize that my words were a plausible reality. Oh, sure, no one is impeccable, indeed. My only leery fault with this lad is that he is thirty, soon to be thirty-one; and I am eighteen; that's boarder-line of legal through the officer's sunglasses. I would, without hesitation, be delighted to disclose that age is but only a number: that meaningless phrase would be false (regardless of my denial orally of said fraud). Brandon is an adult. Despite his humor, adventurous demeanor, sly sarcasm, and easily switched giggle-box, he has still skipped upon the stones in the river that I have yet to even notice are flowing ahead of me.
My fit: I would fancy a fellow who experiences things with me; he shall know me as I change. Seeing as how I've gained so much maturity in the previous two years, the chances and aims of me being this me are slim as an eighteen wheeler crossing an ancient bridge.

Sure, Brandon knows himself. He isn't digging the whole harlot scene any longer. He is in it to win it. Will not the lads my age be that way in a few years as well? Can I not wait for them? Are they not worth my waiting? Brandon, eleven years ago, was in their converse shoes: chatting about sexual intercourse, teasing his pals about parties they attended, committing numerous douche bag activities. After a decade of growing up, he's the Brandon that I know well and find agreeable.
Confused as to if he'll still like me after a month: where I am.
In a healthy relationship, whirled in a sense of peace: where I wish to be.

PLEASE LET THIS ONE STAY FOREVER.
Aside from age, aside from status, aside from anything, I really like Brandon.
I want this to go somewhere.

Baah.
I need a white chocolate mocha latte' with two shots of expresso--and make it snappy.