We have been editing our short stories in class by fours. Mine will be edited next Tuesday so I am interested to see what people have to say! Here is another Thursday scene write, with a little something comforting, if not happy, at the end (for once):

SOMEOME

She sat, back straight against the cold, brick wall. Her fingernails dug into the cement, palms grounded. Her already chipped, garish red nail polish made pink lines on the crumbling sidewalk as her fingers quaked. A silver chain charm bracelet with the signature Tiffany heart, the only charm, made soft taps on the ground as her body tremored. Her soft brunette, barrel rolled curls were drawn half up; revealing her tear stained, make up blurred face. Despite the fact that there was a light dusting of snow on the ground, she wore a sleeveless, black dress. The A-line lay in a pool in her lap, barricaded in by her bent knees. She was only seventeen, I knew that.

I was sitting in my beat up Ford F-150 in the St. Barnabas Catholic Church parking lot, hands still on the steering wheel, even though I’d been there ten minutes already. I was in my black suit, dark grey collared dress shirt and brown oxfords. I should have already been in the church; I was late already, but I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the truck. I knew I’d have to pass her; knew I’d have to say something, I couldn’t just walk by. It wasn’t just that though, I was strangely mesmerized by her. She sat there, in the frigid air, crying over the death of her junkie mother who hadn’t given a shit about her. Why did people do that? I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell her mom would be acting the same way if the tables were turned, and yet, here Maia was.

But I realized the answer, as I sat there hands gripping the steering wheel, palms sweating. She didn’t have anyone else. Even the pathetic shell of a mom she had a week ago wasn’t there anymore. I released the wheel and, without taking time to process my thoughts, opened the truck’s door. She didn’t look up when the door slammed shut; still in her desperately alone world. The air was colder than I had guessed and I shrugged my shoulders up against the biting wind. I sat down on the severely cracked sidewalk beside her, her head moving up a fractional amount, eyes darting sideways at me. As she looked at me, I saw some of the anguish in her eyes replaced with exhaustion, so I stayed sitting.

I don’t know how she tells the story, but that’s the only part of the funeral I remember anymore.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit