23Author's Note: Someone told me that this was good, and after a few days of letting it sit, I admit that it's become a favorite of my mine, as well. I'd love to hear what you think, and whether it's worth the effort of continuation.
There was once a girl who loved me so much that I unconciously broke her
heart. She was fifteen, a tender age, and known for her conquests, fictional though they
often were. Tragic, spontaneous hallway reenditions of Romeo's scene of death earned
her applause and notoriety...she had always loved to act. I met her in freshman
English, Honors; I remembered her for her violet hair and because she had already
read all of the course work assigned, making her a constant frustration to teachers and
envious peers.
She was one who recited Homer as though speaking to a friend, and quoted
Kafka like she knew him; as though she was recounting a funny comment someone
had made at a recent party. A party of cockroaches and gentlemen.
Her name was Genevieve, accent on the e', if you please. She wasn't French. Not
even of French descent, though she claimed for effect that she had a cousin in Paris
who was studying art. She was Navajo, Czech, and Vietemese, a sweet triad of
beautiful ethnicity (this she had informed the class of during her lengthy introductory
speech), and, if needed, she'd could always kick someone's ass.
Truly, she was beautiful. We thought she was sexy, my friend Damian and I, we
who would sit at the back of the class and attempt to glimpse more of the long, lean,
striped-stocking clad legs portruding from her short black skirt; the tentacles of an
octopus on mushrooms. We loved her. She radiated security in black eyeliner and tai
chi lessons...Our punk rock Nefertiti; Minerva. Artemis.
The first thing she said to me, and I remember it so clearly that I could mimick
the intonation down to the vowel, was this: What the fuck is wrong with your hair?
It's all, and here she touched it, balancing her hand on the sea of dirty blonde spikes,
like...how does it stay up on it's own?
I felt deliciously violated. I couldn't respond correctly, wittily, so I told the trite,
patheticly simple truth: Um...glue. Yeah, and rubber cement works the best, but it
smells like shit, so I just use Elmer's.
She gave me her prettiest punk ass smile; I wished to Hell and Buddah and, fuck,
even God that I could catch it in my back pack and hang it on my wall. It's awesome,
she said. I melted. She scratched between the spires, which, I admit, were impressively
tall. I was nearly purring when she asked, Are you a boy are a girl?
I felt my face sag; I have never been one with much facial elasticity, and I'd
hoped...well, that she would know... Girl. Just sort of an androgynous freak of a girl.
She laughed, a flawless sonification of monsoon drenched creosote, Aww, nuh-
uh! I just didn't know if you were a pretty boy or, more laughter, I heard gypsy bells,
a pretty girl. Because you are, you know, you could just sort of be...interchangeable.
Oh my God, she said, upon looking at me (I was close to tears), don't cry about it, I'm
sorry, sorry, ssshh.
I sniffed; my voice was cracked and , it's okay. I get that a lot.
She pulled me into a half-hug, bending down slightly (I am only 4'11'' to her
5'4''). If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumbered here,
While these visions did appear;
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.' She grinned a maroon, lipsticky grin; a little vampiric,
but sweet. We're gonna be friends, you and I.
Her boyfriend was a cheap punk named Jake, a green haired junior with safety
pins through his ears. She loved him with Helena's passion, but he loved her more, and
wrote her good, rapidly paced, kick ass songs for her on his navy blue Squier guitar.
His band was called Kill All Your Rock Stars, and we went to every gig. She was fond of
dressing me up in pink and lace, making sure to tear it up a bit first and pair it with
fishnets, so as not to look overly Jane Austen.' And no empire waists. Her favorite part
was my hair, which she spiked faithfully with candy colored hair dye mixed with
Elmer's glue.
The gigs took place in dark, glittery clubs downtown, and were faithfully
attended by Tucson's best and most depressed. We moshed, bled, moshed, and only
Genevieve sat onstage, perched atop a spare amp, gazing at Jake. Sometimes I saw
tears seeping down from the corners of her eyes, fucking up her make up, but no one
else noticed or cared. I'd never seen any two people so utterly in love.
_(brownie points for someone who recognizes the poetry from another of my works...)_
There's a girl I know named Manhattan
who wears a trenchcoat made of satin
and when her boy comes back to town
We'll show them all what's going down.