Literature

PREFACE

 Cynthia Withers is who I was. Cynthia Withers is who I am by birth. Cynthia Withers is who I left behind. My name is Cynthia Withers. I’m glad we got that cleared up. There is something weird I am struck by. My life’s story is behind a brick wall I am trying to knock down. Therefore, at this moment in time, I cannot find the words of my inner self. All I know is that I seem to want to fit in, but I am wondering if in this world I am meant to stand out. If you haven’t already guessed, I am contradicting. I do not know who I am and how I am anything in connection to Cynthia Withers. My Achilles heel, like none other, is my life; my future. I know nothing of what makes me up, but a mindless, curious, sixteen year old girl.  Now please don’t go off getting a doctor to prescribe me something for amnesia. I am far from that. I just need some enlightenment on what to look for. I need to discover myself. I will no longer be a mystery, or live my days in a shell. Sure, in a shell you can hear the ocean, but you will find  no answers. I want to finally be able to see my life, full open book. Until then, I remain anonymous.  To retrieve what I long for, I need to lay down the way of Cynthia Withers.  Without Cynthia, I am a single leaf that has found no ground.

CHAPTER 1

My eyes stare blankly across the room to the digital clock on my inn table. How is it already 4:45 P.M.? More importantly, what teacher tells you to fill out a questionnaire about yourself? The freshman.  I consider any new teacher a freshman. In similarity to the ninth graders, they are nervous neat freaks wandering the halls in confusion, for the first week of school.  I waste more time laughing to myself, and then I realize it is now 4:50 P.M. I look down at my paper. It’s blank.  The worst part is I’ve been sitting here for an hour trying to think of an answer to number three. I skipped one and two. My thoughts were tangled on what to put down. Question three said, “Describe your personality.”  This was mission impossible. I had no personality to tell about. I had one to break open. Not only was the questionnaire a blank page, but so was my life. An hour wasted on that got me nowhere, but skipping to number four. I begin to get dehydrated from any detail I try to maneuver. I still come up with nothing. As a person, I begin to wish I hadn't chosen this elective. Cynthia however continues to persue in a drowning state. New York, New York starts to blare, at full volume. I realize I must change my ringtone, since I do not live in the big time "square" location anymore. Now, I’m in San. Fran, and it’s so much more fulfilling. I never even liked THE city, as in the city of New York. My dying mother put that as my default. It disgusts me. I guess I just never had the time to change it. The dreadful song continues to go on into the chorus. I check the caller ID on my cell phone. It doesn’t surprise me who is so persistent as to get a hold of me on the other line.  I knew I wouldn’t care to answer.  Put simply, this person I speak of is perky, an overbearing happy, and my lab partner. WOW! What a title to put shame to! I begin to ask myself why I let her talk me into exchanging numbers. Reluctantly, I pick it up, only to stop the moaning of New York, New York. “Hello,” I say with a deep sigh. “Thia!”, a loud noise by the name of Chelsea booms in my eardrums. Thia was not Cynthia, and certainly not me. It’s hard enough as it is to walk within a person that I can’t decode. I honestly can’t handle any other petty name that Chelsea continues to punch out in sentences. Still, I say nothing in remark toward it. She waits for a response, but when there is a gap of silence, she clears her throat, as if to hint to me she has something important to say. Well then again, there is the slight chance she finds the call more awkward than me. Never mind. That's practically impossible. She loves to talk to people who honestly hate listening to her, or even responding for that matter. The worst part is, she's aware of this, but does absolutely nothing about it.  All this time, Chelsea has been dragging on. “Ugh, my mother tells me to grow up, when she is going out partying. She tells me to take it slow, when she is drinking day and night around the clock.” This was the first I heard her seriously complain about a matter.   “My mother is so hypocritical,” the criticizing continues. “She doesn’t want what’s best for me. She would rather have me move out. The only thing I hear in her voice anymore is disappointment and resentment. I don’t understand her reasoning. She is the one raising me, if you can even call it that. She should be the one to step up and make some changes of her own.” Chelsea suddenly stops in her tracks. Obviously she is looking for my support. I can’t help her there. I have nothing to say. I am completely flabbergasted. “So…,” she begins. Uh- Oh. Here it comes. She’s going to rely on me. “So, what do you think I should do?” There it is. It’s right in front of me, but my own worries shape into hers. I quickly snap back to her question. “Just a moment,” I say. I nervously search through my dusty, old bookcase. What I find, is Chicken Soup for the Soul, which I haven’t touched since the day when I stored it away. I mindlessly skim the pages. Chelsea is still on the other line waiting. I don’t want to make this more painful for either one of us, so I simply say I will see her at school tomorrow. “But..,” she starts to protest. “We will talk outside the school building then,” I argue back irritated.  Although still panicked, she accepts. I really felt more like saying shove a sock in it, but I’m just so relieved that I can have time to myself without playing psychiatrist.  The relief doesn’t last long.  I realize, that only a mere couple of minutes earlier, Caller ID was trying to save me. I should have given it my full attention. I knew my mistake would kick me in the ass.  Next time, if by some outrageous reason I have not changed my ringtone, I’ll put my cell phone on silent. Would Chelsea have bombarded me at school regardless? I brought myself into hell, so I keep the book on my desk for further inspection later. Tomorrow is going to be frustrating.

CHAPTER 2

I bike to school, and today, I am desperately hoping for a flat tire. I do not have magic pot of fairy dust, so I’ll have to pop it myself, or claim that I overslept. Right now, I’ll do anything to avoid Chelsea. Instead, I have no such luck. Luck spits at me in disgust. The old rubber tire continues to fight. I peddle slowly. One tardy slip will not send me to the principal’s office. Mr. Riley is a friend of mine. Besides, he owes me. His house once flooded, and my family payed for his two week stay at the Hilton. I didn’t even know we had that amount of money. Regardless, here I am in front of the old, shabby, brick building. It is marked Gatway High School. The thirty year old sign is missing the ‘e’ in Gateway. Gatway said fast, only sounds like get away. Gee, what a pleasant welcoming, especially considering my morning is already terrible.  I hesitantly swing my legs off the bike, lock the chain to the rusty rack, and drag my feet along the steps. Unfortunately, I am only ten minutes into my first class. I have English first period, the dreaded class with the questionnaire I never finished.  I walk to my locker, and stand there, fiddling with things inside it for minutes, trying to delay. It might as well be the superstitious Friday the thirteenth. Right as I turn to look at school bulletin board across from me, Chelsea, of all people, takes a long drink from the water fountain. Like myself yesterday, she must be dehydrated from all the stress she has. I turn away with hope she won’t see me, but before I know it she is walking up to me. “Cynthia, you’re late today.”  Who is she, my guardian? “Yeah, I overslept,” I say quite roughly and hesitantly. “What time shall we meet today, Thia?” I can’t stand that she’s still calling me that. “Never,” I mumble ever so soft she doesn’t hear me. “I….I, don’t know,” I tell her in a louder voice. “I have a better place than here to meet, that’s why I ask, she says. Unfortunately, the hours are only from 12:00 to 4:15 P.M. I find it would be best to go there right after school.  It’s an ice cream shop on East Main Street, which my grandpa owns.”  No wonder she is always so hyper; she’s sugar high. “I can even get you a free scoop.” “Thanks, this means ever so much to me.” Blah, blah, blah, another lie.  I wish she wasn’t so persistent. I wish she would just take matters to someone else.  “So, what do you think?” “I think you need to leave me alone.” “What? Did I do something to offend you? “You just don’t understand do you? I have problems of my own. I’m not your shoulder to cry on.” “I’m sorry. I only thought I could rely on a friend.” “I’m not your friend, and I never have been. I didn’t know how to say it before.” “So this whole time you had lied to my face?” she choked between tears.  “No. Most of our conversations were on the phone, so it would be less painful. “So are you saying that you avoided me?”  “Listen, I think it is best of you just let it be.” Wow, this is not how I expected it to go down. I’ve never had the courage before to speak up. What changed in me? Maybe I spread myself too thinly and cracked. I don’t want to be mean but it’s the bitter truth. I’m not the only one to complain. She was getting annoying. I had had enough. Ugh, life is so complicated. This year is not starting off well at all. “Goodbye, Cynthia Withers! She blew her last switch as she stormed away.  At least she didn’t call me by anything else. Regardless, I am quite steamed myself and I quickly make my way to English. It’s got to be better than this incident. Mrs. Thompson says nothing of the homework the previous night, so I suppose I am off the hook. She does however notice I’m late and she gives me questions, which the class had already gone over.  I can’t wait for lunch fifth period. I need carbs to take off the edge. Meanwhile, English has five minutes left. Everyone has free time, but I am asked to answer the questions instead. Oh no! Hopefully it’s not a disaster repeat of last night.  I spend all of the five minutes worrying. The bell rings and I am so grateful. I begin to feel nausea from the Chelsea incident. I run to the bathroom just in time to hurl. I go to see the school nurse, and there she is, the churning in my stomach. “Hi,” I begin. Chelsea turns her head away from me in disgust. “Take some ginger ale and soda crackers. Your stomach will adjust. Other than that, you are all set Miss Rafael.”  Perhaps we both felt sick of each other’s attitude.  Neither addressing me nor making eye contact with me, Chelsea Rafael walks to the door. Just as she is stepping into the hall I say, “Chelsea please, can we talk? We could go to your grandfather’s shop.” I see her roll her eyes.  “Absolutely not.” She walks out. Five seconds later, she peaks her head back around the corner. “By the way, I’m transferring. Would you let your friend know that?”  Chelsea had only said this because months back Mr. Riley had posted in the school newsletter that he was so grateful to me and my family for helping him in his time of need. He had also mentioned that he knew we would be great friends. I could not believe she remembered this. After hearing that Chelsea would be leaving, I was both shocked and oddly enough, disappointed. She read my expression and exited happily into the hall whistling, as if she was delighted that she hurt me. I guess she wanted her avenge. After all, I did give her crap when she needed me most.

CHAPTER 3

The nurse assured me that I would feel better and to just take it easy, seeing as though I had no high temperature. Skipping what will most definitely be a terrible day, I walk outside the front school doors. I wear no coat and I leave my bike. My mind is preoccupied with frustration. The cold, chilly air doesn’t stop me. I actually need it to take away the heat of my aggravation. Still, I feel the ping of frost settling in on me and the outside world. I take small, quick steps across the road and board the trolley. Twenty blocks later, the trolley stops at Green Hill Center. It is filled of stores of all sorts. I bid the driver goodbye, hop off, and walk toward Les’s Ice Cream Shop. An older man is in the window on his phone. “Now don’t you pay any attention to that. You just stay strong, and in the mean time try to think of the situation from her perspective. I love you Chelsea dear. Alright sweetheart, goodbye.” My jaw nearly drops with sudden realization. “Excuse me sir – “I’m sorry young lady. What can I get to hit the spot for you?” He looks at me with friendly, but worried eyes. I figure that it must be Chelsea he is thinking about. “Why, where’s your coat honey? You’ll catch cold for sure.” “You’re very considerate.” I suddenly recall what I had said to Chelsea earlier about a free scoop.

 “Thanks. I’ll be alright. Can I get a cone of butterscotch ice cream with nuts, please?” “Sure, but are you positive you don’t want some hot chocolate instead?” Was he trying to pitch a sale or was he really that concerned? I quickly change the subject. “Actually, could you answer me this question? Who owns this shop?” “Well, I do. Les Rafael, I am, at your service. Is there any particular reason you might be asking?” I have to find somehow to lie. “In a way. I just… I wanted to say I appreciate your frozen ice cream. It is always cold and quite delicious.” I try to fill the awkward, empty spaces with compliments. There is no way I am mentioning Chelsea, not today anyway. Les moves swiftly to the back by the machines and soon comes to face me again.  “Alrighty then miss, here is your cone.” I take a lick. “It is very flavorful,” I say to him. “Hmm…, thank you. No hot chocolate then.” Is he still fussing about that? I savor a few more tastes. My eyes catch the words on a sign for the shop. “You sell ice cream and you’re opened all year round?” I question. “Funny you should ask that.” He starts to grin and begins a jolly laugh. “When I get customers up here, I always tell them, anything good should definitely last.” I can’t help myself. I find it interesting and I begin to smile with him. “I even say the same to my granddaughter.” My smile fades, but I try not to show I am uncomfortable. All I can do now is pay nice Les, and make my way out the door with my cone.