The Rose

I’ve always liked to watch people. I always have and will. I really don’t know why and don’t care how. I suppose it just fascinates me. I mean, look at the average street corner. Men and women, children and puppies stroll there. As they pass without a glance I like to gaze at their expressions. Is someone distressed or is he happy? As they approach the street to cross, who is more cautious? Is it that heavy set man with the long, curly goatee or the woman in the bright green business suit who seems to want to make the Guinness Book of World Records if only she would have been at work two minutes earlier? Obviously, but just by observing their dress or actions a personality shines through. I mean, you can tell so much about a person just by looking at them and hearing them speak. Seriously, I can scare people sometimes by the things I observe right off the bat. But one thing that I find that is common for all: everyone loves a hello, a smile and someone to listen to them until the other person’s ear falls off. Some actually enjoy listening though, and somehow, I find myself such a person. Oh hell, what am I thinking? Here I am telling you about myself and other people and I forgot to tell you my name. Let me start over. I’m Christina Walters. I live in Boston, Massachusetts and I’m sixteen. Yeah, I’m not free yet, but I sure am close. Till then my parents and I live in a raptured tree house that some like to call an apartment. My dad is a fireman and my mom works at the dry cleaners downtown. She also is going to college right now to become a commercial artist. She’s always been extremely good at painting and when she’s not at school or working, she tends to attack her latest painting with vicious furiousity. My parents are gone most of the time or too tired when they get home, so I’m alone a lot. Consequently, I find things to do. I guess that’s where my people watching started was out of pure boredom. Because when the wash was done, the dinner dishes shining in the cupboard, and my homework damned history, I had nothing left to do except grab a smoothie and sit on the street corner. My favorite is banana-cherry by the way. If you’re scrunching you’re face at this moment in disgust, I bet it’s only because you’ve never tried one or were as low as to gag and spit one out. Honestly, they are the best thing this world has come up with besides dance class. That’s the other thing I love is to dance. I suck at singing, drawing flowers and playing soccer, but I sure can dance. Whether it’s modern, tapping or classically ballet, I’m sweet at it. Ok, I know this is going to sound weird, but ballet is my favorite. While everybody else is rapping and rocking, I’m over here twirling pirouettes in my bedroom. It’s embarrassing, but it’s what I love to do. Oh God, I can’t believe I just told you that. It’s one of my deepest darkest secrets, not even my parents know how much I love to dance. They’d think it’s cute and send me off to tip-toe through the daisies in a pink tutu. Oh God, on your life, please swear you won’t tell. But why do tutus have to be pink anyway? Why not something like plaid or black? That would be ten times more amazing than pink, which is a color I hate on my life. I know girls are supposed to wear it and all to be feminine, but guys wear it too, so what’s the difference? I want to be considered a girl and all, I just despise pink. So if they ever could make a tutu in black I’d wear it proudly, just don’t make me smother myself in horrendous pinkish frilliness. Ugh! There’s only one problem with my love of dance, (not ballet of course,) it’s stayed behind closed doors for eleven years and that’s probably were it will stay. When I was little I would beg my parents to let me take dance lessons. Tap, jazz, modern or just anything were I would get to dance. But it was always that the funds were too tight, there wasn’t enough time or the dance studio wasn’t just right, and the answer ended up being no. After awhile of hoping, I gave in to a world of closed door interpretive dancing to my own taste of music. I suppose I don’t mind. After all, when I get sick of people watching I can always dance or hang out with my friends. But it would be awesome if I could learn more somewhere. And fuck, if that ever happens, I’m so taking a banana-cherry smoothie along, just for kicks and the funniest expression on my teacher’s face as it all comes squirting through my nose.

“Christina! Come here a moment, will you?”

Shoot, I’m being paged from the living room. My mom’s painting in there and probably wants me to scrub a few brushes.

“Christina!!”

Ok, I so have to run. Moms just can’t wait, you know?

Copyright 2005 of Jessica Anne McLean. All rights reserved.