Enter crappy title here
Other things. Yay. Ish.
This story I wrote in one night. Unfortunately I don't get the chance to edit again, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.
I need to learn how to write comedy. Most of my stories are on the dark side. Which I rather find amusing. Tomorrow is my workshop for this piece. We'll see what people say.
Clarissa
The rain tapped gently on the window. Through a careless crack, a breeze swept in, teasing the curtains and riling them into a fluid dance in the moisture heavy air. The flapping beat was accentuated by the ticking of a hard cord handle against unforgiving grey glass.
She moved to still the incessant sound and in doing so, touched the window. Tentatively, and at first with two fingertips, then with her whole palm as well, she pressed her hand against the glass. Clarissa peered out into the green freshness for a moment. Rolling green hills with dark little trees nestled in the folds.
A visible halo of heat emanated from her hand on the pane. I could see it grow, and distracted for a minute from the scene outside, she, too, watched the living frost as it ventured forth from the protective inlets of her fingers, creating a mitten of mist. Presently, it settled and grew no more. Clarissa took her hand away and I watched the outline fade.
Quickly, urged on by the sleek chill of the rain rivulets, it was disappearing. As I watched the transient warmth melt to nothing, she stopped the clicking sound, smothering the cord handle against the curtains and moved to shut the window.
“The rain will come through and ruin the curtains.”
I nodded my head silently but wished she had left it. Or better yet, had flung open the window and laughed at the rain. She never would do that in this house, though. Her parents would not approve.
She sat on the sofa across from me and arranged her skirt, with ankles neatly crossed, then bent forward to pick up her notebook. Her half of the coffee table was neat, papers in a straight pile, texts evenly highlighted. As she bent over her notes, short tendrils of hair at her neck curled themselves free of her prim old-fashioned bun. She hated those curls, but I loved them.
“Who left a hand print on that window?”
Clarissa jumped. Her mother had paused in the doorway. She always spoke slowly and softly but in such a way, even I always found myself straightening my sweater and patting my hair to make sure it was presentable.
Clarissa’s face reddened and said, “It was me.”
“I thought so.”
With a swish her mother continued on her way. Clarissa blinked, eyes filling, and I quickly looked down and pretended to be absorbed with my art history. We didn’t talk about it, but I knew that she would clean all of the windows in the house tonight. Her mother wouldn’t make her, or tell her to, but Clarissa would do it.
Once, a while ago, we asked her to go with us to the beach. All of us were shocked when her parents agreed. Clarissa was quiet in the car. She looked out the window, or watched our faces with a neutral expression as we laughed and teased one another, complained about the lack of room or Billy’s driving. I don’t think she said a thing.
On the beach, Clarissa sat fully clothed on an old blanket she’d brought. The sun was warm and the ocean breeze flapped my hair into my face. I went swimming and played volleyball. I always remembered to ask her to join in, but she always declined with a small smile and a shake of her head.
At one point, someone noticed she wasn’t on the blanket anymore. We looked all over for her. George checked back at the car, and Jess and Billy walked along the beach in one direction, and I walked in the other, towards the distant rocky jetty where the beach bent around the base of a rocky cliff.
I found her shoes and little blue socks first, on a pile in the sand, always neat. As I walked on and rounded the bend, I saw Clarissa. She was standing on top of a boulder, arms spread wide with her long dark hair down and fluttering in the breeze, laughing at the ocean spray.
I called out to her. She was smiling and started to wave, but she turned too fast. She slipped and fell. I remember I ran to her. Her clothes were soaked and clung to her goose pimpled skin as I helped her up. She seemed okay, at first, but she couldn’t walk on her ankle. We left immediately to take her home.
“I should have listened to them. They were right,” was all she said to us.