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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v102) (the January 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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Sprinkles

Bob Strother

    I’m sitting on my bed with my back against the headboard watching a roughly trapezoidal patch of sunshine travel from one side of my room to the other. I figure if I stare at it long enough, sooner or later I’ll actually see it moving. Pathetic, huh?
    My name is Claire. I’m sixteen and apparently there’s a lot less to me than meets the eye. I mean I’m not bad-looking; at least that’s what I’ve been told. And I’m not conceited or bitchy like some of the girls I know. But my boyfriend broke up with me. Looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Your tears remind me of living diamonds.” It was a nice sentiment—probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me while breaking my heart. Guess I should have known better than to date a guy who shoved scribbled love poems through the little louvers in the door to my locker.
    Since then, I’ve been spending afternoons and weekends hiding in my room, listening to my music and pigging out on tortilla chips. I now know the words to every Linkin Park song there is—which is not necessarily a bad thing; I mean they are an awesome group—but the Doritos are beginning to taste the same no matter what flavor they are.
    So that’s my life. That and going to school. Which, to put it bluntly, is no life at all. It’s different when you’re in love. Then you have someone to share it with—your thoughts, hopes, and dreams—and to sympathize with you when you’re feeling bummed. It’s the only thing—I guess I should say was the only thing—that made it possible for me to stand living in a place like Bovine, Texas. Yes, Bovine. Like a cow. Can you imagine? Our next contestant in the talent competition, ladies and gentlemen, is Miss Something-Or-Other from Bovine, Texas. Wouldn’t you just die?
    There’s a knock on my bedroom door and it opens before I can say anything—or nothing, which is my current preference.
    “You look like you could use some sunshine, Claire. Why don’t you spend some time outside?”
    That’s Grady, my mom’s boyfriend. We live with him since my mom and dad got divorced. He’s wearing a sweat-stained orange t-shirt, the same color hat with a Texas Longhorns logo on it, and a quick grin that doesn’t quite line up right. What he’s really saying is: Why don’t you go help your mom in the garden? Good thing I’m wearing my MP-3 Player earphones. If I don’t answer soon, he’ll go away. I don’t. He does.
    Since Mom’s unemployment ran out last year, she’s taken over and expanded Grady’s garden to almost a full acre. She cans all summer long and sells the goods at the farmers’ market. It’s her way of making up for Grady’s having to support us now. Grady’s not a bad guy, I guess. He and I just don’t relate. And he wears that stupid hat all the time and goes sort of crazy when the Longhorns are playing. Like almost all Texans, he grew up obsessed with high school and college football, and I suppose, in his defense, he’s no crazier than the rest. Even my mom watches now, or pretends to. More guilt, I imagine.
    Not me. I don’t care for football at all. No wonder I feel like such an outcast.
    But I’m glad I don’t feel guilty. Maybe I will later. When I grow up and have a daughter and get divorced.
    I hear a sound like hornets swarming, and grab my cell from the nightstand. Funny how I can hear the cell phone buzzing while LP’s “Stick ‘N’ Move” is pounding in my ears, but not my mom telling me to clean my room. The text message is from Lucas, who’s kind of a geek and a druggie and Goth, all black clothes and spiked hair—not my type at all—but he likes me. And for sure he’s not a poet. Lucas says why don’t I come over after school tomorrow? Says his parents both work second shift at the factory, so we won’t have to suffer parental unit supervision. I text him back: Why not? I mean it’s not like I have anything else to do.
    I’m listening to “One Step Closer” when the phone goes off again, and I think it must be Lucas calling back, but it’s not. It’s my dad, so I don’t answer it.
    My dad lives with my grandpa now since he’s not working anymore. Mainly, he drinks—starts in the morning and drinks vodka all day long. When he’s had enough to drink, he calls me.
    I remember when we were all together, back before the divorce. It was only a single-wide trailer, but at least it felt like home. Mom worked then and so did my dad—sometimes. But I don’t like to be around him now. When we’re together he picks at me. Why don’t I call him? Why don’t I come to see him? What’s going on with Grady and your mom? I wish he would just leave me alone.
    I check the clock, blue numerals and the little blinking colon telling me it’s four-thirty. Only a few more hours and I can go to sleep. I lie back on my pillow and close my eyes and wonder what tomorrow will bring to the party.

.....

    When I mentioned party yesterday, I was like, being a bit sarcastic.
    I had no idea.
    Lucas slips me this little tab and twenty minutes later, I’m flying. I mean I’m lying on Lucas’ bed, but the room has narrowed and stretches out before me like a roller coaster ride. Lucas sits beside me on the floor, holding my hand, telling me how he’s my tether. I guess to keep me from floating up, up, up into the stratosphere. I’ve got this whole repertoire of LP song lyrics to draw from but all I can hear is that old Elton John song, “Benny and the Jets”. The part where he says it’s so weird and wonderful.
    That’s how I feel. The song zings through my brain, like I’m wearing my headphones, but I’m not. My hand—the one not presently attached to Lucas—caresses the sheet on his bed, and it feels so smooth, like silk. I turn my head on the pillow and get a scent that’s part after-shave, part sweat and I think that must be how Lucas smells all the time. Then I picture him strolling down the corridors at school, this faint male scent eddying along in his wake. He’s looking up at me now, sitting there on the floor, a sort of big-eyed, adoring look on his face, as if he were a puppy needing a pat on the head.
    His bedroom is changing colors—from yellow to red to purple, and then back to yellow. It’s so awesome I believe I could stay here forever, suspended in this toasty cocoon of sensations. It feels like I’m sunbathing, dozing in a warm, soft cloud. My cheeks are hot and I wonder if they are showing colors, too—something like magenta or rose or perhaps vermillion. I close my eyes. Behind my lids, tiny sparks of light reflect all the colors of the rainbow. They remind me of the sprinkles you get on ice cream. I think maybe I’ll eat them and taste their sweetness.
    I keep my eyes scrunched closed and my mouth wide open.

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