(no subject)
She looked out the window, the trees flying past her, droplets of the ended rain storm glistening and slowly running off the edge of the big yellow school bus windows. She watched one - watched it fall, symbolic of the innocence that fell with age. Sure, they were on the big yellow school bus that you rode as a kid, but these were anything but kids. These were teenagers. Too old to play childhood games; too young to not play games at all. They played games. However, there were no Power Rangers involved, no cops, no robbers, no Barbie dolls. Teenagers played games with emotions.
No matter what it was, a teenager could find a way to play it. You were too happy for their liking? A snide remark about your new haircut will do the trick. You were too sad? A mumbled remark here and there about you being mopey all the time would get you acting happy. Sure, people say they don’t care about what other people think. But deep down inside, everyone does. It doesn’t matter if you’re Britney Spears or an invisible vessel trudging through the halls of high school- everyone cares.
The bus slowed to a stop. She watched another rain drop slide off, creating a streak of brilliance on the foggy, plexiglass window. Someone called to her.
“Jeanie? Jeanie, it’s your stop.” She looked up, her eyes wide. The bus seemed to move faster today. She collected her bag, got up, slid out of the seat, and down the steps she went. As soon as her feet hit the damp pavement, the doors sealed shut, the gears working and the air rushing out of the bus, creating that whoosh sound we all love. The bus wheezed away, down the street, and Jeanie stood there until the yellow beacon weaned out of sight.
She stood there a moment more, looking around and observing the details of the street corner she knew so well. She spotted the Sycamore tree; it was dying. It made her sad, to see such a beautiful thing waste away. She started up the sidewalk, passing the big white house her neighbors lived in, the dog barking at her as he always did. Dogs had never liked Jeanie- she was more catlike herself. She was small, with black hair and almost yellow eyes. People loved to look at Jeanie’s eyes. She had a squashed nose, a small mouth, and giant canines that gave her teeth the appearance of fangs. Soon enough she had reached her own gate. She opened it, the damp wood creaking with dislike. Her gate never liked it when it rained. It became stubborn, and more days than one Jeanie had to talk it into letting her in.
She pulled her keys out of her pocket, the jangling sound echoing down the empty street. She found the right one, positioned it in the keyhole and turned. The door opened, and her cat, Mr. Fizzles, came to greet her. Mr. Fizzles was quite an old cat; Jeanie had gotten him when she was five- she was now 15. She dropped her bag, pulled her keys out of the lock, and shut the door. She had done her homework in gym, the one class she never had to participate in. Her gym teacher was a sexist pig who spent all class period flirting with high school girls and trying to look down their shirts.
She took the stairs up to second floor. Her house was the odd house on the block. It had only two stories, but it had a lovely attic. That was where Jeanie’s room was. The stairs to the attic were in the computer room- big, spiral stairs that creaked and moaned when too much weight encumbered them. She reached the computer room, not bothering to turn on the computer. While most teenagers were thoroughly obsessed, to put it lightly, with the internet, Jeanie only used it when she really needed information. She made it up the stairs, and stood back to admire her room.
It was a simple room. It was perfect for Jeanie. She had her twin bed with the big brass headboard she had been given as a child, she had a small TV placed on a table in the corner- she never used it. She had an armchair in the back of the room. It was her sanctuary; it was a big, green monster, passed down through many generations, the cover slightly worn and the brass buttons rusted and brown. The chair was framed by bookshelf after bookshelf. Jeanie loved to read. She always had. Even as a child she spent almost all her time up in her room, reading about witches and castles, Hansel and Gretel, knights in shining armor.
Jeanie had never been attractive. She knew this, but surprisingly, it didn’t bother her. The reason she read so much was possibly because she had never been pretty. She loved to read about princesses and charming princes probably because she knew she’d never experience something like that. Jeanie never looked for romance; she preferred to read about it.
There was one more thing in the room worth mentioning. It was a window. One might call it Jeanie’s window to life. It was a big, gothic window that caused the whole room to shine when it was bright outside. Jeanie sat here, normally when she was done reading, and liked to watch the people walk by. The weird thing about this window was that instead of facing out of the front of the house, like most attic windows did, this window faced left, causing Jeanie to have a perfect view of the main street. This was where Jeanie learned to draw. After watching people for so long, one becomes so well-versed with the human anatomy, it’s highly probable that they will one day want to draw it. That was all Jeanie drew; people. People in motion, people sitting, people in the candid form of people. Her walls were covered with her numerous drawings of people; a portrait of Ms. Johnson, the town widow, crying on the bus stop bench. Mr. Smeithy casually picking his nose while walking his dog. If the townspeople had ever come into Jeanie’s bedroom, they would have vomited at the sight of all their secrets revealed.
Jeanie walked to her bed. She flopped down on it, sinking into the down comforter. She closed her eyes. If she tried long enough, she could make herself believe she was a princess, lying on her royal bed, residing in the palace, waiting for her prince to come singing at her window. But today, she couldn’t. She sighed, not wanting to open her eyes, but knowing she had to. Her fantasies sometimes became too real- there had been days where she had laid on her bed all day long, eyes closed, dreaming fantasy after fantasy. So she got up, walked over to the windowsill, and decided to talk to her plants.
Jeanie knelt next to the window. Placed about 10 inches apart, Jeanie had three pots. Two were clay pots that contained two beautiful and extremely different flowers. One was a pansy, purple and white now with the autumn light and one was a red Tiger Lily, Jeanie’s favorite kind of flower. She loved her Tiger Lily; she had even named it. Juliet was its name. Jeanie had named it after Shakespeare’s legendary character, the epitome of youthful beauty and love. The last pot was a blue glazed pot her mother had gotten her for Christmas a few years ago, and this pot contained a leafy green plant. Jeanie had no clue what this was- she had found it a year ago lying on the sidewalk, roots and all. It looked as though someone had just ripped it out of a pot and mercilessly thrown it on the sidewalk. Jeanie had taken it home, potted it, and fed it well.
Jeanie began to talk to her plants. She told them of the weather, of her day at school. The plants listened intently, never tiring of Jeanie’s conversations. Outside, a light breeze rustled through the tree tops. It would be winter soon, and all the plants outside would wither and die. It always saddened Jeanie, that winter. The trees looked so sad, all barren and dead. There were no flowers; only shriveled leaves and dry twigs. Yes, most plants would not survive this winter. This winter would be a cold one. Cold, and extremely dry. Foliage in the town would die; the town would be dead and lifeless. No one would walk the main street. People would stay indoors, sipping hot cocoa and snuggling up by the fire.
Yes, the plants would die.
But not Jeanie’s plants.