Wax

  Chapter 6

  It was a school night that night, but I didn’t care. I needed to find Claire.

  I wanted to show her the song that I wrote for her, and tell her about how I talked back to my parents and stood up for myself. I felt like she was the only one in the goddamn world, where 7 billion people resided, that actually understood me for who I actually am.

  My room was on the second story, and Claire’s house was a couple houses over, but her room was also on the second story as well, with a window connecting to her roof. A crazy idea came to mind as I stood up with purpose and conviction in my hands.

  I quickly opened my drawer after my brother left for his room to continue his gaming night life, and I grabbed my worn out notebook filled with gold, where I had written down all my ideas and songs. I knew what I was about to do was dangerous, perhaps even suicidal in some ways, but for some reason I felt like I was part of a movement bigger then myself, and I felt like I could’ve done anything.

  As silently as I could, I lifted the bar that locked my window with a nervous anticipation for what was about to come. I didn’t even think the whole plan through, and I didn’t even know if she was home or not. After all, I had no way of contacting her since I didn’t even have her number in my contacts list. However, I just had a feeling, an in sync connection with whatever thing was watching over us that it would work out.

  Was it God?

  I didn’t know, but I knew that whatever it was, I’m so glad that it worked out.

  I leapt out of my window with as much might as I could muster, while at the same time trying to be as stealthy as possible. I knew that sneaking out past curfew broke every law and rule in the game and the system, but I didn’t care. Instead, I rather quite liked the feeling. It was intense, and I wondered if addiction felt like this.

  The next house over was about a car lengths shape away, and normally, I didn’t think it was humanly possible to jump and be able to clear that distance. But tonight, as the moonlight filled my limbs with a celestial strength, I knew that I could do anything.

  I jumped.

  I jumped.

  I jumped.

  And my feet touched the familiar maroon brown tiles that I’ve become so infatuated with for the past week. Claire’s house stood as more of a safe haven and a home then even my own house was to me. And every night, as I traversed the land of dreams, I would always see her, and her chocolate eyes and the maroon brown tiles of the roof on the moon.

  I don’t know why the freaking moon was there, but I knew it was symbolic in some way. Actually not that I think about it, I’ve had the exact same dream for the past 3 days, and they were always about her. She was an addiction, an infatuation that didn’t even start off as romantic, but instead as a growing respect for her character as a person rather than by her looks or her grace.

  I realized that I actually quite liked her.

  And so, as I stood outside her window, as the moon took its darkened journey across the midnight sky, in a reverse parallel of the sun’s, I suddenly very much wanted to chicken out. I didn’t know what happened, but a few moments ago I was quite ready and eager to speak with her about my actions today and show her the song that I wrote to her.

  However, as soon as I realized I liked her, all that went out the window. Childish and petty thoughts filled my head as my hyperactive imagination went to work. Suddenly, the movie that I told myself that I was in turned into a chick flick romance, and I was putty in her hands.

  I started worrying about how my hair looked, and the fact that I smelled like an awkward scent of perfume also turned my muddled brain self-conscious. I knew for a fact that Claire probably was different from the other girls, and probably wouldn’t have cared as much. However, there was still some innate human instinct, or some possessed demonic things driven so deep into my psyche by society and peer pressure that just forced me to feel this way.

  I knew that she was right beyond that window, and there was literally a 5 centimeter thin barrier of glass between me and her. I could hear her blasting The 1975 through the walls, and I could practically smell the roses in her hair already. I could just knock, say hi, and proceed with my original plan. However, for that strange reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to open that window.

  In the end, after perhaps 5 minutes of intense concentration and much contemplation, I decided to just play it off cool. I know I probably sound like a love sick school boy, but there was just something about her that made her an addiction, she was just so distractingly irresistible.

  I licked my lips in nervous anticipation.

  Here we go.

  I knocked on her window three times.

  Claire turned.

  Her chocolate hazel eyes widened at the sight of me crouching near her window with a notebook in hand like Spiderman. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, even with the new addition of heavy bags under eyes. She looked tired, but the sort of tired that gave off a melodramatic feel that so resembled the style of The 1975 that I just couldn’t describe it as anything other than fashionable pessimism.

  She gave off an angelic laugh, one that was filled with an unknown emotion.

  A quick slide of the door handle, and she was suddenly crouching nose to nose with me.

  It was night time, around midnight to be precise.

  And as I stared into her eyes, I realized that the windows to her soul had almost another life of their own as I could see the reflection of the Milky Way, and the entire galaxy above us in them.

  Her eyes, however, were the color of the Earth after a fresh rainstorm, brimming to the tip with so much depth and strength and complexity, that if I looked into it any longer, I would’ve been lost in the mesmerizing maze that was her sweet disposition.

  And so, I tore my gaze away reluctantly as she chuckled in an amused manner.

  “So what brings Spiderman to my window at 12:16?”

  I winced slightly at the reference.

  I was about to open my mouth, to tell her about everything that happened, and how I finally stood up for what I believed in today, and then I looked into her eyes again. And for the first time, I realized that the fashionable pessimism that was the surface belayed how truly tired she was.

  Suddenly, my life paled in comparison importance wise.

  “Claire, are you all right?”

  Claire’s surprised expression was almost hilarious to witness. However, she was only caught off guard for a brief second, before her form reverted back to the blank façade that it used to be.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I have to give her credit. Her façade, her disguise would’ve fooled anyone else. But it was only because of the fact that I see the same façade in the mirror everyday that I was able to convince her I knew otherwise. And she understood that as well.

  I didn’t even have to speak.

  She groaned, and I had to suppress a giggle as she half-heartedly glared at me.

  “I knew it.” She mumbled as she leaned into her window’s embrace. I sat down next to her and gazed over. “I knew I couldn’t hide from you and your stupid sense of understanding.”

  I merely nodded.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Claire shook her head, and I grimaced again. I saw this act in the mirror countless times as well.

  I had a bad habit of keeping all my problems and negative emotions all to myself and without help. I don’t know why, but I suppose I decided that I could handle the pressure and the weight of the entire freaking world on my shoulders. And the thing is, even recognizing this habit, I still couldn’t open up. I guess Claire must’ve felt the exact same way.

  “You can tell me.”

  “I know.”

  I paused, and corrected myself with slight hesitation.

  “You don’t want to tell me.”

  “It’s not that.”

  I didn’t want to pry, and yet I didn’t want to force her to be like me and let all those negative emotions boil over
and slowly erode the insides of her body. And I guess there must’ve been a God because she decided to tell me anyways.

  “My parents,” She said after a brief moment of silence. “They told me something that I didn’t really agree with, but I have to do it because it’s pretty important for our family and as much as I hate the way things are, we’re still family.”

  She broke off, and I was caught off guard as she looked at me with a gleam in her eye so in anguish and manically depressed that I didn’t want to believe it was her.

  “I don’t want it. I finally found someone who-”

  Her voice broke off at the end as she put her head between her knees, covered in ripped dark denim jeans.

  I awkwardly patted her on the back, and scooted closer to her. I had no experience with this, comforting people, because I never really got close enough to someone to know them on a personal level so deep that they could confide their problems to me.

  I decided to change the subject.

  I assumed that she didn’t want to talk about whatever it is her parents is forcing her do, and so I didn’t push her. I figured that she would tell me when she was ready, and I respected her for that. I told my curiosity to go love itself, and I changed the weather.

  “Um. So I was writing a song earlier for you, and I think I may have finally finished it.”

  Claire looked up as she wiped her eyes. I pretended not to see the lone teardrop that trekked down her hand like a lonely soldier. She was stronger than me, and so I had no right to judge anyways. And I wasn’t judging not only because of that but because everybody needs to let go of their emotions sometimes.

  It isn’t healthy otherwise.

  Anyways, Claire gave me a watery grin. “Can I hear it?”

  I coughed into my hand and forced out some laughter that hopefully wasn’t intensely nervous. “Well, I only have the lyrics right now so it’s more of a poem. But I have an idea for the chorus of the song, I just need to find the right balance between the rhythm and the melody you know?”

  She nodded, a sign for me to continue.

  And so I did.

  “Do you want to hear it? In poem form I mean?”

  Claire thought about it for a second.

  I mean, I had asked it as a rhetorical question, and I didn’t really expect her to tell me no, and so just as I was about to open my mouth to proceed onto the first line, Claire cut me off with an apologetic expression.

  “Sorry Merci, but.” And then she paused again. “Have you tried skating on a waxed curb yet?”

  I switched my gaze from the twinkling celestial fireflies in the night sky, to her face, which was just as brilliant.

  I was confused.

  What did wax have to do with anything? I wondered internally as my face betrayed my emotions.

  She sighed with an emotion that I couldn’t even trace.

  “Do you wanna try it now?”

  She seemed like she was in a hurry, and so I told her I would give it a shot if she showed me how to do it. Although, I did have doubts about what the importance of the thing was. I mean, it had to be some sort of symbolism, because there was no way wax had something to do with singing.

  “Sure.”

  In a few moments, we were down by the street side, where an already skated curb awaited.

  Claire had gone back inside her house and got her board and the wax. I had no idea why this entire ordeal was so damn important to her, but I decided to humor her because I wanted to take her out of her funk earlier.

  Under the dimly lit street lights and after the entire ordeal, I thought I understood why waxing had such a surface level appeal for the first time, and I thought that I actually deciphered the true meaning of waxing a curb.

  Anyways, Claire handed me the little donut shaped block of wax.

  I stared back at her blankly, and looked down at the foreign object in my hands.

  “Um.” I said in order to display my confusion. It rose to the surface quicker than even my façade. “What do I do?”

  Claire seemingly giggled at my expression, but I saw a flash of another undetectable emotion in her eyes. I didn’t understand what anything meant anymore, as everything became an intricate maze designed to trick the brain and fool the eyes.

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Should I know?” I replied to humor her.

  “Well, you’ve seen me do it before right?”

  I suppose that was true. I had seen her wax the curb before, the first time I had met her actually. But back then, I wasn’t how I am now. I was that angry boy who kept all of his emotions behind the façade of a deluded glass vase. It’s actually really surprising and almost funny how much I’ve changed and matured in the span of a couple days.

  Anyways, I gave a short nod of pretense understanding to Claire, before taking the offered piece of wax in my hands and bent down to the curb. I had seen her meticulously waxing the curb, like it was a piece of art that needed to be precisely handled, but not regulated to a certain standard. It was free flowing, and it was art, so I grabbed the donut shaped object and started grinding the hard surface against the equally tough surface of the curb.

  The curb itself was scratched up, and dented, and looked like it had been skated on countless times before. It was blackened to midnight, and the previous blood red coat that it were was reduced to tatters by the edges of a board hell bent on self expressionism.

  That’s one of the coolest things about skating, and I think that’s why both Claire and I have an odd fascination with it. I know that I probably can’t say much, because I’ve only been skating for a few hours total, but I was already in love with the culture the art brought along and the people that I got to meet. And most importantly, I was in love with the concept.

  Skateboarding was freedom exemplified in an art form.

  In skateboarding, there are no rules, and no heavy authority to tell you what to and what not to do. Sure, there were recommended steps to take, but no one said you had to follow them. You could learn whatever tricks you wanted, at whatever pace you wanted, and no one would judge. You could ride whatever board you wanted, and skate whatever wheels with whatever shoes and whatever trucks and whatever wax and whatever clothes and whatever family background and whatever past. And in the end, no one would judge because everyone is brought down to the same level upon a common ground, the art of skateboarding. The skateboarding community is also the nicest possible community ever, in which all skaters attempted to help one another get better.

  Claire once told me of a story in which one of the CEO’s of a large company helped a 16 year old employee of his company learn Ollies.

  But I think the biggest and best part about skateboarding is finding yourself. Skating is an extension of your freedom, the will to break free from the cage and do anything you’ve ever wanted to do. It’s perhaps one of the most artistically articulated ideals a sport can have, and that’s the real reason why I love it so damn much.

  With that in mind, I set out to skate a waxed curb.

  Once the entire curb was scrubbed clean with wax, and the layered coat I gave it gleamed with a shiny metallic light, I looked up at Claire for confirmation.

  She nodded, and gave me a nod and a thumbs up.

  It was time.

  I grabbed her board and spun it in my hands expertly, the Daphne blue rose graphic on the back of the board creating a spinning silhouette of virtual nature.

  I took a deep breath.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Claire staring intensely at my tense form.

  Her eyes were the color of mocha, warm enough to melt your heart but the kind of hot that burns you if you got too close without warning. I saw emotions sprint across her soulful eyes as I approached the curb slowly, rolling towards the inevitable moment. I couldn’t decipher any of them, as the emotions flashed by too quick to see. They ran rampant in the windows of her soul, and I thought with an almost religious reverence that the moon had neve
r looked brighter than in her eyes.

  I shook my head, and cleared my thoughts of her.

  I knew I couldn’t fail her.

  I think that now that I look back on it, I didn’t realize the importance of the moment, and if I did, I definitely would’ve tried anything I could to land the goddamn trick. I knew that it meant something to her; I just didn’t know what exactly. I think that I had figured it was a figure of speech, or some literal stepping stone to learn better tricks in the future.

  Anyways, I approached the gleaming waxed curb slowly, and Ollied.

  My knees rose in that same practiced motion that would lift the wooden board up into the air, and onto the curb. I assumed by skating a waxed curb, she had meant that I would need to 50-50 it. 50-50 is a trick in which the board is slid on the trucks of the board, and the skater would need to grind the curb until it was time to pop off.

  The trick was to find the balance, and that was the hardest part, according to Claire.

  I mean, I thought I was going to do it on my first try, but evidently, that wasn’t the case.

  I failed spectacularly.

  My board slipped out from under me because I leaned way too much on the side of the curb. My left ankle snapped backwards in a painful roll, as my body pitched forwards and I fell flat on my stomach.

  I groaned.

  That absolutely sucked.

  Claire didn’t laugh, like most people would.

  And when I turned to look at her, I was almost taken back by her expression.

  She looked, for a lack of a better word choice, sad.

  I didn’t know why she looked sad, because I was the one that ended up on my stomach. However, I wasn’t mad, or angry at her. I don’t know what it was about her expression that almost gave me a heart attack.

  She looked sorta hopeful as well, like the sort of hope that had her expecting something in the future.

  And yet she also looked sad.

  She also looked like hope had been ripped away from her, but yet it still persisted.

  She looked like she expected something, but I just couldn’t give it to her, and that in turn made me sad.

  The entire thing was so damn sad.

  Sad.

  Sad.

  Sad.

  “You did well, for a first try at least.” She whispered as she crouched next to me and offered me her hand.

  I stared at her mirror like orbs, reflecting my own image back at me, different, yet the same.

  I took her hand.

  With a mighty pull, she pulled us both on our feet and we found ourselves standing nose to nose.

  I could smell the roses in her hair, the fresh rainstorm that was her scent, and it was addicting. I didn’t know where these thoughts came from, but I knew that they were real, and true, and I felt very kiddy once again.

  “You were too far on the curb side.”

  She said after a minute of silence.

  We were still standing nose to nose, and I caught her gaze.

  “You need to find a balance between life on the curb, and life off the curb, you know?”

  I figured it was a figure of speech, a skater thing if you will.

  And so I nodded to show that I understood her.

  She sighed, and took a step away from me.

  The oddly cold behavior was kind of hurtful, actually, and I winced internally. I felt like I failed her.

  “In any case, you haven’t learned how to skate a waxed curb yet. So how about I make you a deal?”

  “A deal?” I whispered.

  “Mhm.”

  “Ok.”

  “Sing me the song you wrote for me, when you learn how to skate a waxed curb. And then someday maybe we might.”

  I smiled, a genuine smile like the ones that I used only around her.

  “I think I’ll take you up on that deal.”

  It was her turn to smile, and she looked angelic as ever.

  A face straight out of a magazine, and only seventeen.

  She’s a killer queen, but oh she was liberty.

  “You’re still coming to my tournament this Saturday right?”

  I nodded.

  She gave me another brief smile through her melancholic gaze. It somehow managed to make her look all the more cooler.

  “Then I’ll see you there. 3 PM. Lower Peter’s Canyon.”

  I made a quick mental note.

  There was another brief moment of silence as we both gazed into each other’s eyes. She looked so in control, so cool just standing there as if there was nothing in the world that could faze her because her will was just that freaking strong.

  And then there was me.

  I was a nervous wreck internally. Externally, I was just as cool as her, putting up a calm façade that was held only by the countless hours of practice that I’ve had at school and in the house, and pretty much just everywhere except for in her vicinity.

  She was ice.

  I was fire.

  And yet she could’ve melted me.

  Finally, after what felt like eternity’s hold on time released, she shot me another cracked smile, like a broken vase that stilled maintained her beauty even after all of her peers had rotted away and withered into dust in the trials of time.

  “Well good night.”

  “Yeah.” I replied, not sure of what I was feeling at that exact moment. “Good night.”

  I turned just as she turned, and we walked towards our respective houses.

  Saturday came sooner than I thought, as the rest of the week flew by with relative ease as I just tried to keep everything to myself and get through the goddamn time. It was kind of slowly driving me crazy though, having to pretend to be something that I wasn’t.

  The façade that I had put on for 16 years of my life seemed to crack and wither away before my very eyes. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but I knew it had something to do with Claire. She just possessed a certain thing that permeated the air around her that made me addicted to her very presence.

  I was infatuated with her gaze.

  I was addicted to her touch.

  And it was slowly driving me insane.

  However, eventually, Saturday afternoon did come around and I found myself walking in unfamiliar territory.

  I was never really one for sports, and outdoors activities even though the group and my parents forced me to go to the goddamn gym sometimes. And even then, I tried to do as little as possible because I just didn’t give a crap about how society perceived my body, or whatever else the norms were for a guy.

  But as I found myself milling about the crowds of people watching tennis, an almost foreign uneasy feeling seemed to penetrate my mind.

  Every where I looked, people were wearing bright neon colors that was supposed to make them stand out in the crowd. However, when all those people stood together, it became a freaking colorful eyesore that I just couldn’t stand to be around.

  The entire thing looked like a festival, with the many different courts, and the many different types of courts, and just all the people. The sky was bright blue, the color of the people’s supposed perfect color. And the sun was out and bright, and everything was horrible. It was almost mind boggling.

  I couldn’t stand the energy, and all the attentive and supposedly attractive optimism these people gave off. So in the end, I just opted to sit underneath the shade of a large tree that gave me some sorts of cover from everyone else.

  I knew I probably stood out like a sore thumb, because I was wearing all black, and it was 90 degrees outside. However, I always wore all dark colors because I had aimed to possess the same fashionable pessimism that was shared by Claire.

  With my dark ripped skinny jeans, and a black dress shirt, I looked like a black dot on what seemed to be the perfectly happy place.

  And after 15 minutes passed, I still couldn’t find Claire.

  I was tempted to steel my jumpy nerves
and attempt to try to find her in the crowd, because it was 2:50, and her match was in approximately 10 minutes. However, there was no need because a soft and melodic sound made its way to my ears.

  I turned.

  Claire stood behind me, and towered above me as well. From my position on the ground, with my legs sprawled forwards and my hands supporting me, she looked like an angel even more so.

  “Hey,” she said softly, and in an amused manner I suppose. Even when she was dressed in the same bright and obnoxious colors as everyone else, she still held on to her rather cool look of melodramatic melancholy.

  I nodded.

  “Are you ready?”

  She snorted.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. Come on, I’ll introduce you to my parents. I told them a friend was coming to watch.”

  I nodded again wordlessly and followed her retreating form back into the crowds.

  To be perfectly honest, I was kind of nervous to meet her parents. I know it isn’t really fair of me to say, but I had already given birth to a predisposed image of them. I wanted to believe really badly that they just cared for Claire, and that they would love her enough to let her do what she wants in life.

  I think this was partly for me as well, because no one likes seeing their idols stumble or falter.

  And so I told myself that I would give them the benefit of the doubt.

  I regretted that decision almost instantly.

  Claire’s parents, for the lack of a better description, were the stereotypical Asian parents, I think. Of course, I never actually met another Asian’s parents besides hers, but that was beside the point.

  Claire led me to a tennis court that was a little bit away from all the other courts. There were still people crowded around the courts, where 2 other teenage girls were finishing up their matches. I couldn’t see any referees nearby, and I was a little confused at the sport already.

  And then I saw her parents.

  Her father was a tall man, his stature easily reaching over 6 feet. He held a stern visage, one that seemed to be forced in a permanent glare or scowl. His clothes were purely professional, and he wore a navy blue suit even in a day as hot as this one. His eyes, although the same cocoa brown as Claire’s, held a certain type of steel, the icy cold ones that made you want to wither under his gaze- the gaze of a seemingly superior man.

  I was wary of him almost instantly.

  Her mother, on the other hand, was almost Claire’s exact replica. And instantly, I recognized many of Claire’s angelic features on her blood relative’s face. Claire’s mother was shorter than her husband, however. She was actually a little shorter than Claire, and Claire was almost 5 inches shorter than me, although she never really felt shorter than me. And her eyes, a hazel chestnut color, seemed to have the same warmness as Claire’s yet although possessing the same steel as her husband.

  I liked her a little bit more than Claire’s father.

  “Mother, Father, this is my friend Merci.”

  Immediately, I felt the disapproval radiate through the air, and I felt the pressure change.

  Claire’s father’s goat like eyes locked onto me, and I felt like withering underneath the brutal storm that was coming. It was an intense and impressive look, one that would make lesser men tremble under its gaze.

  “A friend huh?” Claire’s father said the word friend like it was a disease, something that could be cut out and away.

  Claire had once told me before that she didn’t have a lot of friends simply because she was homeschooled. And the only friends she did have are from tennis, and they all live 2 to 3 hours away in driving distance.

  I thought how it was kinda fucked up that her family would take away a basic necessity in life, which were friends, but I figured that maybe she liked it that way, who knows.

  Her parents were inspecting me, sizing me up, and probably debating whether or not to take me and chuck me in the trash somewhere. I steeled my nerves, I wouldn’t back down again. I would be like James Dean again.

  I stuck out my hand, “Hi Mr. and Mrs. Dean, my name’s Merci. How do you do?”

  It was the most formal greeting that I could think of, one that was used to initiate contact with another person. It was basic, and it was traditional, but it worked.

  Mr. Dean shook my hand firmly, and his grip almost crushed my delicate piano fingers.

  “Hello Merci. Are you here to watch Claire’s match?”

  I nodded. “Yes sir.”

  Everything was so goddamn tense, and so goddamn formal. I hated things like this, but I knew there was some reason Claire wanted to introduce me to her parents, and if she had a plan then I would trust her because she was like me.

  “Mother, Father, this is the friend that I was telling you about.”

  She smiled thinly, and instantly, I knew something was wrong.

  Her parents’ expressions changed as well, and as to before where their gazes were the winter frost, they were now the howling abyss of the dead ice storm. I felt like I was excluded from something was extremely personal, and I became all the more uncomfortable.

  “So he’s the one you brought over to our house hm?”

  She nodded.

  I nodded.

  They nodded.

  “Well, that’s quite all right.” Mr. Dean said again.

  And I could tell he wanted to say something else, but a quick tap from his wife, and he forced it down his throat. It looked like he was trying to swallow the biggest cough drop in the world. I wanted to laugh at the image, but I had a bad feeling that whatever it was Mr. Dean had just swallowed was about me.

  “You best get ready for your tennis match.”

  Claire nodded, and turned to me.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need it, but good luck.” I offered in return.

  She smiled thinly again.

  Claire’s father led me to a shady spot next to the main bleachers where everyone else sat. We were separated from the group, I noticed, and that made me uneasy. For some reason, Mrs. Dean had left to go get something, and so now it was only the two of us.

  The silence was almost unbearable.

  It was a far cry from the comfortable silence around Claire, because with her, everything was understood and we operated on almost the same mind frequency. And with her father, whereas she was the warm summer Sunday, he was the winter’s bite that could kill at anytime.

  “So what do you think of Claire?” He finally asked.

  I paused my daydream and thought about my next words instantly.

  “She’s nice.”

  I didn’t want to give anything away, because I wanted to see where he was going with this conversation. He nodded, as if expecting the answer, and suddenly changed topics.

  “So what colleges are you applying for?”

  “UCLA, UCI, pretty much all the top UC’s.”

  He nodded, like he almost expected this as well.

  “Claire wants to go to UCI. You know that right?”

  I grimaced.

  Claire told me her parents wanted her to go to UCI but, in reality, UCI was the dream school of her parents, and not hers. She told me, one night when we were gazing at the stars, that she wanted to go to a liberal arts college if it wasn’t for her parents. I respected that, and I actually really, really respected the way she stood up for herself in front of her parents.

  She told me her plan was to first get accepted into UCI, and then just go to a liberal arts college to show her parents that she didn’t need to go to a fancy school to learn something she didn’t want in order to be successful in life, and I was all the more impressed.

  I must’ve been the first one to see her true self, because I was able to recognize the façade that she put on in the mirror every single morning.

  On the outside, she was a normal girl with normal aspirations, who was obedient and loyal to her family, and wouldn’t question her parents
.

  On the outside, I was a normal boy with normal aspirations, who was obedient and loyal to his family, and wouldn’t question his parents.

  We were two sides of the same coin, and the copper mask that was fit over us unwillingly was slowly being chipped away and eroded through our constant battle against society.

  Anyways, I didn’t even give her father an answer. I just sorta nodded.

  He harrumphed.

  “Look. I have nothing against you personally.”

  Before he even finished that sentence, I was already thinking he had something against me personally. It’s like when someone tells you “no offense”, but you already know they mean “full offense.”

  “But you know that is period in Claire’s life is very important to her. She loves tennis and she’s going to use that passion to get into UCI, which is her dream school. And I need her to be extremely focused during these next 6 or 7 months. So I’m going to have to ask you to stay away from her in the remaining time that you guys have left.”

  Everything went silent for me, and I swear the only thing I could hear was the roar of my blood pumping through my veins.

  How could I?

  How could I keep away from someone that made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the world?

  How could I keep away from someone I respected as both a friend and an idol?

  Claire just seemed to possess a certain type of charisma that possessed my mind and make me infatuated with her and her every action.

  She was the brightest firefly in the night sky, she was the perfect skater, and she was just so cool.

  And then I got angry.

  What the hell was Mr. Dean talking about?

  I mean, it’s probably a credit to her façade’s strength, but she was the opposite of everything her father told about her. She hated tennis with a passion, and she was only playing the damn sport because her parents wanted to mold her into the perfect daughter of their dreams. Mr. Dean still saw her as her façade, and not the actual Claire Dean.

  I’m not sure if I was happy or sad that her own father couldn’t see through her façade; even though my own father couldn’t see through mine either.

  Why should I stay away from her?

  We were friends.

  Hell, I’d even call her my best friend because she understood me more than anyone else in the world. She was the other side of my coin, and she was supposed to teach me how to skate a curb. And I still needed to show her the song that I’ve been working on non-stop for her.

  It was important.

  It was important, Goddamn it.

  And so when Mr. Dean told me that, I wanted so very badly to tell him to fuck off.

  Why did he get to control our lives, he wasn’t his daughter, and he certainly wasn’t me. We were our own people and we lived and breathed for different purposes, for our own goals. I really hated how people decided they could control someone and force them to conform to their ideals of a perfect person.

  I hated that more than anything in the world.

  And I had my own experiences with that as well, and it had to do with something so ordinary that it would turn out to be extraordinary.

  Hair.

  My hair was long, longer than most guys’. It wrapped around my head like a helmet, and some parts hung over my eyes, creating a false shadow that looked super cool in my opinion. If I had to describe in a way you’d understand, I’d say it’d be the cooler version of Justin Bieber’s old hair cut, the old Bieber hair you know?

  I loved my hair, and I loved the way that it covered my eyes sometimes.

  My mother, on the other hand, really didn’t.

  She expected my hair to be short and crisp. Originally, she had wanted me to get a buzz cut, but I threw the biggest temper tantrum when I was 6, and I turned her mind around. She allowed me to keep my hair semi long, but every month or so we’d get into an “argument” in which I try to tell her no. I’d plead with her that I didn’t want my hair cut, and she would give me an ultimatum that left me no choice but to crop my hair.

  I hated that day; it was usually the last Sunday of every month, and I hated it with a burning passion.

  I mean, I didn’t exactly care about the hair as much, even though I really liked my hair that way. The thing I really cared about was that my own mother was trying to make me conform to her ideal standard of a perfect son. It annoyed me even more that I wasn’t strong enough to fight back against even my own mother for my beliefs.

  It was symbolism, if you really thought about it long and hard.

  I remember one time, not too long ago, we were involved in another argument about my hair. I was the angriest I’ve ever been, and tears almost threatened to cloud my eyes. My mother was sitting across from me, and we were at the dining table.

  In a brief little “fight” earlier that day, my mother had told me to get a haircut or else, before my father told her to talk about it later because he was working on something important. As usual, I protested half-heartedly because every single time we “argued”, she would win no matter what.

  “Look at your hair Merci. I have allowed you to keep it like this for so damn long, I’m asking you nicely. Cut it, or else.”

  I winced.

  At the time, I really didn’t want to talk about it, as I had hoped she would forget about the whole hair business entirely.

  “But why Mother, what’s wrong with it now?”

  I ask this question every time, and she responds with the same answer every time.

  “The bottom line is that it cannot exceed your eyes. Cut it.”

  I looked down.

  “My hair is a part of my own body, just let me do it the way I want to do it.”

  “You can have your own hair when you’re 18 and making money. For now, as long as you are under my roof, you will cut it.”

  She used the same goddamn excuse every single time, I swear. And usually by this point, I just sigh in defeat and accept my loss. She was all the happier, and I get to keep my façade of being the obedient son. And I hated myself for it every single time.

  This time, however, I went farther than I’ve ever gone.

  “But it’s my hair. You can’t control my body or what I look like.”

  I’ve never seen her so livid before.

  With an earthcracking slam of her hands on the table, she stood up and screamed at me.

  “You WILL cut your hair because I am your mother and I said so! It’s the son’s duty to be obedient to the parents! You’re a horrible child if you disagree with this.”

  I wanted to laugh in hysterical anger.

  I wanted to punch something in the face.

  I was my own self, and I was controlled by nobody, not even my parents. Children usually listen to their parents because the parent’s know what’s best for them. However, in this situation, there was no harm for me in letting my hair stay out this long, and so based off of logic alone it is correct to assume that I didn’t have to listen to my mother.

  I wanted to tell her that.

  However, I’ve never really talked back to my parents before this, and so even the arguments that we get in are me asking my mother for what I want and her saying no, and then rinsing and repeating that process before I finally give up.

  “But mother,” I had tried again.

  I remember this part very vividly, because I saw this part through blurry tears.

  My mother lost it completely.

  I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation very well. Before this moment, I had never tried to talk back to my mother even once. And although my father tells me she has a very short temper, I’ve never seen it before because I was just so damn obedient.

  But now, as her face grew progressively redder and redder, I came to realize what I had gotten myself into.

  “Merci listen to me right now!” She was screaming, yelling at the top of her lungs. A high pitched cacophon
y that was eerily similar to a siren, or a dying bird.

  “I paid for your food and your housing for the first 16 years of your life! I demand that you repay me by getting this goddamn hair cut! How dare you talk back to your own mother?! If you don’t like the way I do things, then leave the goddamn house right now.”

  I choked back whatever emotion that was going to come out my mouth.

  It took some time before my brain finally comprehended the situation. My own mother had told me she would pretty much disown me, because she didn’t like the way my goddamn hair looked. There was something very wrong with that statement, and I wanted to curse out the world, I wanted to punch someone in the face, I just wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.

  “So basically,” I choked out, and a few more teardrops came slowly into my vision, “you want me to leave if I don’t get a haircut?”

  I was ready to sob.

  It’s really just that unfair, the entirety of the situation.

  And although I knew my mother was going to scream at me again for almost crying, I just couldn’t help it. She was one of those people that just stuck to tradition and the rules blindly, and it was so infuriating that sometimes I didn’t see how we were related.

  I once told her that I wanted a pink dress shirt. She refused to buy it for me and after a long speech about how she didn’t want me to be gay; she let me off with a warning and some chores. Pretty much, I had no respect for my mother, even though I still had to love her because she gave birth to me.

  Sometimes, I thought to myself that in another universe, if she hadn’t been my mother and was a stranger, I would’ve hated her guts.

  I sighed, as my flashback ended in my head.

  Thinking about things like this made so tired constantly, and the melodramatic melancholy didn’t seem as fashionable as Claire’s anymore.

  I rooted myself in the present situation again, and everything sped back up.

  I didn’t really want to say yes to Mr. Dean, because I knew for a fact that I wasn’t just going to say away from her. I didn’t want to say no either, because although obviously I would totally mean it, I didn’t want them to hurt Claire, or do something that would inconvenience her in some way. And there was something else that bugged me as well, the last line of his statement seemed pretty ominous, and I didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

  So instead, I just shrugged my shoulders and opted to stay silent.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I knew that he wanted to make a comment, but decided to stay silent as well after he noticed my eyes were glued to the game that was happening in front of us. He probably decided that Claire was more important, and I’m very glad he did so.

  I didn’t understand tennis one bit, but when I looked at the match, I thought I could maybe get the flow of the game. I was totally wrong. Everything was so damn confusing, but Claire still looked confident in her play. Her opponent was taller than her, and white, and bore the resemblance to a person who would want to vote for Trump.

  And although the other girl would scream and yell in frustration every single time she lost a point, Claire kept her cool throughout it all. I didn’t understand tennis, and I don’t think I ever will, but that day I realized that Claire looked cool wherever she was.

  The match went on for about while, and I don’t remember a lot of details. I just remember having to shake my head from side to side like a lost puppy to follow the ball. Rally after rally, return after return, I watched the ball go between Claire’s racket, to the other chick’s racket. I lost count of how many hits there were, or who won what rally.

  But I remembered one thing, Claire was winning.

  And when she finally threw up her hands in victory, in a rare moment in which a slight smile slipped through her mask, I was happy for her.

  She came off the courts then, and gave the smile she always gave to me, before nodding at her father.

  I wanted to say something, like congratulations, but I could tell that she wanted me to wait for later. It was almost as if she expected me to tell her something, like she wanted me to confirm something for her.

  I didn’t really question it, and so I just followed her out into the parking lot.

  Mr. Dean led the way, but as he left, he sort of had this constipated look on his stern visage. He wanted to say something as well, I recognized, but I think he held back because I was there. I didn’t want to comment, but the tension in the air rose to an almost unbearable degree.

  Hell, I didn’t even know what I was doing; I was literally following them to their car, even though my ride was on the other side of the parking lot. I had ridden my skateboard here because I wanted to practice Ollies up curbs, and I had locked it in this little shed on the other side of the park.

  And on our way out, we passed by another Asian family that was crowded around one of the tennis courts. We were all walking fairly slowly; because I think Mr. Dean was purposefully slowing us down to see if I would initiate conversation with Claire. I mean, obviously I was stuck between a rock and a hard place because I was walking with them to their car, and yet I wasn’t making conversation with them either.

  I looked at Claire helplessly, and she shook her head and mouthed the word ‘later’.

  The Asian family was the most interesting, however, because it was composed of a family of 3, with one little girl being the foremost daughter. And it would’ve been a wonderful family scene, it would’ve been so cute because the Dad and the Mom were both cuddling the child, and the child was squealing in happiness, if not for the conversation that was taking place.

  “Mama! “ The child yelled happily, and I cracked a smile at the sight.

  And then I noticed the makeup.

  It was layered on her face, like frosting on the biggest wedding cake you’re ever gonna see. She looked like a grotesque yet perfect Asian Barbie Doll, and it made me almost more depressed than pretty much any other time.

  She was no older than 6 years old.

  The fact that a 6 year old got the memo that she needed to wear make up in order to look pretty, well, that was the most depressing thing in the world. I couldn’t believe that the corruption and the beauty standards in society were so deeply rooted in place that they started to affect the innocent minds of our future generation. If I was Holden Caufield, or if he were really alive, he would’ve thrown a fit and demanded to see the person who started this goddamn business.

  And what made it even worse was that literally no one around the park cared.

  They all thought it was perfectly normal that a 6 year old had the thought to put on makeup before she got up for kindergarten every morning. And the parents, they were doting on her like perfectly good people, except they were applying fucking mascara to her eyes. And the child herself, she actually looked happy.

  I sometimes wondered when superficiality became more important than the personality that defines a human being in this God forsaken world. When the colors of our eyes, the “beauty” of our skin and of our features, overwhelm the work ethic and the strong wills and souls we have, well that’s just plain fucked up.

  I remember reading this post on Facebook once, and it said something about women who wore more makeup had a better chance of being successful in the industrial world, or in the workplace in general. Honestly, when I read it, I wanted to throw my phone down a drain. Sometimes, I didn’t get why sexism or racism, or homosexuality existed.

  It really fucking depressed me.

  There was so much hatred and terrible things that were happening in the world because of all this hatred and discrimination, and I wondered if God really did create us. I mean, why the hell would He make some of us atheist and some of us heretics of other religions that wanted to blow up the fucking world?

  My random derailment of my train of thoughts started wandering to odd places.

  And I found myself thinking about the recent Orlando Gay Club shooting, and Eryk’s reaction to it. br />