Now Would Be a Good Time to Be Anyone But Me

People often say that art is a reflection of the soul. Then what is a soul when the art is torn and unfinished? Maybe I'll never know, I don't know as much as I claim to be smart. I mean— I'm supposed to be smart. I make good grades, and I'm told I'm gifted,but I always seem to have more questions than answers. My own brain is a mystery, and I'm the one in control of it.

Either way, I made my way towards the train tracks with my questions in tow. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my faded blue jeans. I thank every higher power that it was a free dress down day. In the distance, I heard rolling thunder. I groaned for what felt like hours. Reaching for a hood, I realized I was wearing my leather jacket, which didn't have a hood.

"Well, that's just great!"

Shaking my head, I picked up the pace, trying to get home before the storm. Rainbow beat down on my skin as I pounded past the train tracks. Running like a bat out of hell, I flipped out my phone to text my mother. She was worried. Of course she was. I'm running home with only a heavy school bag and a torn leather jacket on me. My glasses were blotted with rain, clouding my vision. I stopped in my tracks and wiped my glasses.

"Isn't New Jersey weather just divine," I mumbled with scorn. As I picked up my walk, I ran into a sign.

Road Work Ahead

Shaking my head, I changed directions. Impulsively, I turned around to see why the road was closed. Construction workers drove large trucks hauling off wood and giant balls of steel. Sharp directions were being hollered in all directions. A new house was being made. A better house. A house I could never live in because of our unjust world. The house was elegant and angelic. It was marble like the sculptures of ancient Greece. There were large posts like the doors looking like the pillars of Heavan.

Its beauty brought me envy. I could never have the luxury of the renter. The world wouldn't allow it. I put my head in my hands. It shouldn't be a big deal. It was just the devils last chance to make me hate what I have. I was grateful for what I had. My family, my accomplishments, my health...

I let my thoughts wander aside entered my house.

"I'm home!" My mom rushed over to me. She bombarded me with questions, and I felt my mind grow weary. I felt like a zombie as I changed out of my damp clothes.

"What took you so long!?" I turned around sheepishly.

"Uhhh I—"

"Because she walks like a snail! No, wait! Even the snail is faster than her!"

I rolled my eyes at my brother's intervention.

"I was walking normally until the rain started. I didn't know it was supposed to rain, and people were working on the streets I usually cross."

Sometimes, I wonder how my brother and I haven't gone crazy around each other— I mean, more than we already are. We're about as alike as fire and ice are in personality. There's something poetically cliché about having a quiet but intelligent oldest daughter and a sociable and intelligent younger son. Praised for the same reason, but seen in different lights. Something gnawed at me, and I guess it showed on my face.

"What's wrong," asked my mother.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me! I see it on your face." She looked at me with annoyance while I frantically shook my head.

She let me be after that. I fumbled to the corner between my bed and desk. Sliding down, my mind filtered out only one question.

What went wrong?

Again, I had no answers. The future was supposed to be good, they said. High school was supposed to be our golden years. All the awards, straight A's, they couldn't be for nothing. Right?

Still, no answers.

My questions were interrupted by a blaring and horn and wheezes. A '57 Chevy pulled into the driveway across the street. It was as blue as the ocean and looked as polluted as one. Vintage, but not old enough to be considered antique. Something about it lured me like an anglerfish to its prey. Was it the color? Was it the fact it was still used? Or was it its look that resembled a broken person. Vibrant but dented, clinging to its last resort. Its sputters were cries of help and oil stains resembled dried tears I'm the dim light.

Whatever it was, I couldn't make it let me go.