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Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
CHAPTER 8

Someone out there must  be hearing my prayers, because we are running/jogging/strolling around the track(albeit in dorky gym uniforms), the trees outlining it appearing to be the ones passing by, not me.  Not a dodge ball in sight. Knowledge from my previous short-lived endeavor in high school informs me that dodge ball= total purgatory.
I joyously sprint around the circle of track for the first two rounds(Harper at an admirable pace, only slightly behind me). As a result of a pathetic case of pleading, I kep pace with an exhausted Will. Turns out he’s the kind of person you can keep a comfortable silence with. There’s no pressure to come up with topics of conversation, if one comes up, you just talk about it. Simple as that.
If only everything were that simple…
Harper passes us, her bangs up and out of her face in a heart hair-clip, hair turning gold, illuminating whenever the sun decides to grace us with it presence, easing from being sandwiched between the clouds. Will is transfixed on her loose braid as it swings between her shoulder blades. I cannot contain myself any longer.
“I know something you don’t know,” I chant mercilessly. “Actually, you probably DO know, but you’ll deny it, so I hardly even see the point of bringing it up.”
“NICE, Nadya. That’s really annoying, you know,” he complains.
“Um…okay. I’m gonna try something. I’ll join you in a sec.”
I run ahead of him. When a sufficient amount of time(by my standards) has passed, I glance back at Will, whose gaze is still fixed on that apparently enchanting braid.
Ah-hah.
I trot back to him triumphantly.
“What are YOU so smug about?”
“Well…you weren’t staring at me.”
“What?”
“Weren’t staring at MY luscious hair, swinging back and forth, back and forth…”
He does a double-take.
“Whoa, whoa , whoa! Wait a second here! That’s because you’re my BEST FRIEND’S GIRLFRIEND. Chill out. Who do you think I-”
“You’re missing the point. My point is that, as I conclude after my handy little experiment, you do not have a fixation with girls’ hair.”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with any-”
“BUT,” I shout, drowning him out and cutting him off, “you are fixated with a certain SOMEONE’S(I cough something that I hope sound like “Harper”) blonde braid. Back and forth, back and forth. Which means…”
Stonily, he jogs a little faster(good luck with that) and says, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And I’M sure you have and idea that I have and idea that I’M sure you DO have an idea about what I’m talking about.”
“What the hell?!”
“Ha HA. I confused you.”  And I leave him in the dust as Mrs. Mitchell blows her shiny whistle.

Just like that, I get used to the house, slowly but surely, school becomes just another pattern in the quilt-work of my life. All it takes is three days, and it falls in comfortably.
My tentative, rough schedule in the past few days(which will probably be somewhat similar to the next ones) is as follows:

6: 30 AM : Leap out of bed as fuzzy radio stations plays for my alarm. Pull on jeans/long skirt with some Aerosmith/Nirvana/Pink Flloyd/The Bangles t-shirt that I got from GoodWill. Drink Passion Fruit/Green/Black/Earl Grey tea that Bibio has scrounged from the little smorgasboard she displays to diners. Devour a gargantuan blueberry/chocolate chip muffin and a banana.
Wash face, wash hair in a sink. Apply eyeliner and mascara, as well as cover-up to disguise my stubborn pimple form hell. Brush hair and teeth till acceptable, all while blasting my portable stereo, studiously ignoring the fact that technically you’re not supposed to have electronics by water.
Grab backpack, lace up combat boots/British Knights, wave goodbye to Bibio, and hop into Raphael’s Volvo, where we proceed to

7: 30 AM : Choir III Period 0, where we all(prepare yourself for this shocker) SING until

8:30 AM : Art II Period 1, where Meg sits as far away from me as possible, my peers look at me like I’m about to spontaneously combust at any given moments, and Ms. Carey assigns us one quirky little thing after another, I finish them, drawing happily until

9:30 AM: P.E. Period 2, where I talk to Will and watch Will watching me watching him watching Harper(who is also running him). Because it is Physical Education, after all, we always do something involving running. This would be fine if it didn’t have a ball,  because even though I’m actually quite a good dancer, my hand-eye coordination is buried somewhere in my subconscious. Because of this, it drags on forever, down to the last excruciating detail of changing in the locker room, until

10:30 AM: Algebra II, Period 3, where Mr. Stone speaks some language I don’t understand(German, perhaps) with numbers. I take Raphael’s advice and ask him for help after he’s doled out the page numbers, manage to make some sense out of them. I tell him, “Thanks, Stone”. He replies, “No problem, Bashalede”.
I guess you could say it’s our “thing”.
Proceeding our “Thing” is me finishing the problems with an intense scratching of my lead, until

11: 30 AM : English II, Period 4 with Mrs. Meyer, who has given us each a copy of Romeo an Juliet, and told us to modernize the situation in a 5 to 10 page story(“Don’t even THINK about using West Side Story.” I think I was the only one who did, because the rest of the class didn’t even react).  The entire hour is filled with the sound of pages turning, pencils moving( I use a quiet, gliding pen) and my tape of The Bangles’ “Everything” playing in my ears. I have only had my Sony headphones yanked off two times by Mrs. Meyer, which I believe is a positive show of my stealth.
I write until…

12: 30 AM: Lunch II(freshman and sophomores), where I eat the only good thing they have in the cafeteria: their deli-style sandwiches with fresh bread, chips, and a Coke. I usually snag a pack of Oreos from the snack machine, thinking of Constanta.
Will sits with me, and he’s opened up: I now know his mother has been clinically depressed fro two years, and that sometimes he takes care of her. I know she was the one who taught him to play guitar, and I share my music-addled memory/epiphany and we form a sort of kinship.
Food finished, we meander until

1:00 PM : Study Hall II, where I do my homework and/or write a letter to Constanta until

1:30 PM : History II, Period 6 with Ms. Hunt, who gave us a timeline project on the first day(she doesn’t beat around the bush), so I copy and paste pictures of important dead people and write dates under them until

2:30 PM : Science II, Period 7, with Mr. Blenner, who makes us read out of the EARTH SCIENCE textbook and answer the reading questions…if we don’t do anything hands-on soon I’m gonna flip.
I watch the inane words do jumping jacks over each other till they’re on big clump until

3:30 PM: School ENDS, Raphael drives me and Will to his house, where we do homework/eat microwave burritos and watch TV until

5:30 PM : I walk home to read books/Cosmina’s old letters(not just from her husband, but also her children and friends) until

6:30 PM: Bibio comes home and we make delectable lasagna/soup/dumplings and salad/ mac’n’cheese from a box. We eat and share anything worth mentioning(ie meaningful or hilarious) until

7: 15 PM : I run with Raphael until

7:52 PM: I get home to take a grateful, long shower, towel off, and study/listen to music until

9:30 PM: I fall asleep until

10:00 PM : I get up, then can’t sleep again, put deodorant on, and feel a nagging restlessness until

10:15 PM: I run to the ocean, sometimes with Raphael, sometimes without, and watch the water . Eventually my eyelids start to droop until

11:00 PM : I sleep until

2:00 AM: I wake up, then run back home,

2:20ish: I sink into bed and sleep until

3:00 AM : I wake up and watch the moonlight, unable to think of anything but if HE’S looking at the same moonlight until

4:00 AM : I fall asleep until

6: 30 AM: Lather, rinse, repeat cycle all over again.

On average I get little less than 7 hours of sleep. Which actually isn’t that bad, considering. But I have a really weird way of getting my sleep: in the moments in between.
Which is where I seem to get everything done…

I sift through a pile of mail on the dining room table, vaguely wondering if there’ll be any ads for clothing sales(I desperately need some new threads). A blank white cover pops out at me in its crispness, CENTRAL FLAL HIGH ART MAGAZINE emblazoned on the top, outlined stencil-style.
Turning curiously to the Table of Contents, my finger skims down and parks at what I’m looking for:

“Woman Trapped In A World…” by Nadya Bashalde, 15, Sophomore…..page 27

I flip to the page. The full title is on the top. A poem with the title “Debutante” next to mine catches my eye. It’s by Harper Lowell, also(I find by flipping back to the Table of Contents), also 15 and a Sophomore.
Huh.

DEBUTANTE

They tell you
You’re going up the stairs of success
But where are you REALLY going?
You have to follow their rules
Take small, careful steps
Never go outside
The lines they have
So meticulously
And drearily
Drawn for you
In slate gray
Parched white gloves
Lacy white fans
To shield your eyes
For they don’t want to see
Your soul
You can fakely smile
They’ll pretend it’s real
Because they don’t care either way
Your mother taught you this good breeding
You’ll teach your daughter the same
It doesn’t matter
What people are needing
On and on it’ll go
Down that polished, pristine, bland lane
Until someone’s brave enough
To break the rusty chain
So, croquet on a hot day
(Because you can only “have fun”
When they say you can)
Iced lemonade
It’s all to parade
You to the perfect match
But you’ll do what you can now
Won’t you?
Have a cigarette
In the dressing room
Muttering
“Fuck etiquette”
Kiss the servant boy
In the dark corners of Daddy’s guesthouse
Because that’s what you want
Even if it’s scandalous
For a debutante
But I tell you:
Get out while you can
Before it’s too late
Make an abscission
Before the envelope’s sealed on your fate
For when you have to marry a man
You’ll be a doe in a steel trap
Raising children, cleaning, abuse, submission
You can’t ever go back

The words grab me, a break in conformity one wouldn’t expect from the Blonde Perfect Girl.

At last, the final bell rings. I get my backpack on my shoulders, spin my lock, and turn to talk to Harper, undaunted by Heath’s arm around her waist, Jen right by her heels, and her friends in the background.
Okay, maybe I’m a LITTLE undaunted. But I’m not about to let it show.
“You did a really good job on that poem.”
“Poem? What poem?” she asks, ocean-blue-grey eyes distant but fixed and hard.
“It was in the school magazine. By my picture?” I prompt.
Meg glares at me. The rest aren’t quite so intense, but give no effort to hide their disdain
“Oh. I almost forgot about that. I only wrote it because Carey offered extra credit. Thanks, I guess.”
Every tiny gesture, every time I see her composure break a little, gives away that she’s lying. The two of us are the only ones who know it, though. I’m sure of it.
“You’re welcome. So, do you want to hang out later, some time?” The question is intended for Harper individually, and I try to portray this in my locked gaze on only her.
Something about her reminds me of a doe in a trap, just like her poem. She wants to be my friends, she knows me somehow, it’s a sensation stronger than déjà vu. But she also wants her safety net. Heath isn’t’ even paying attention, already bored.
I want to scream at her, “Are these REALLY the people you want to spend the next two years(or God forbid, your life) with? Why spend another SECOND with them? With their fake charm and charisma, winning every temporary prize and pretending every little slight never happened? How do you keep up the act? How tiring is it to convince them you think it’s real when you know damn well it’s not?”
Harper twirls a piece of her hair around her finger, tighter and tighter until I think she’s cut off the circulation, and says, “You WISH.”
Her friends laugh appreciatively, the sound of it buzzes and nips at my ears. Heath says, “Nice attitude, baby. I like it.”
A diminutive part of me try to goad me into walking away, but I ignore it as my stomach sinks. “I may have a boyfriend, but I’m nobody’s baby. And you don’t have to be either.”
Harper looks like the wind’s been knocked out or her, shame-faced, but I ignore this, and instead plow on through my anger before I’m outnumbered by their reactions.
“But hey- you could become your poem. If that’s really what you want. Your choice.”
I leave them, a little wounded, a little worse for wear, but with something else to add to the list.
Choices and circumstances shape your life. You have no control over circumstances nor other people’s choices: only your own choices. Despite the sometimes plaintive and hurt side of some of mine…I wouldn’t exchange them for anything in the world.
I hope someday Harper can say the same thing.

Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
CHAPTER 8

Someone out there must  be hearing my prayers, because we are running/jogging/strolling around the track(albeit in dorky gym uniforms), the trees outlining it appearing to be the ones passing by, not me.  Not a dodge ball in sight. Knowledge from my previous short-lived endeavor in high school informs me that dodge ball= total purgatory.
I joyously sprint around the circle of track for the first two rounds(Harper at an admirable pace, only slightly behind me). As a result of a pathetic case of pleading, I kep pace with an exhausted Will. Turns out he’s the kind of person you can keep a comfortable silence with. There’s no pressure to come up with topics of conversation, if one comes up, you just talk about it. Simple as that.
If only everything were that simple…
Harper passes us, her bangs up and out of her face in a heart hair-clip, hair turning gold, illuminating whenever the sun decides to grace us with it presence, easing from being sandwiched between the clouds. Will is transfixed on her loose braid as it swings between her shoulder blades. I cannot contain myself any longer.
“I know something you don’t know,” I chant mercilessly. “Actually, you probably DO know, but you’ll deny it, so I hardly even see the point of bringing it up.”
“NICE, Nadya. That’s really annoying, you know,” he complains.
“Um…okay. I’m gonna try something. I’ll join you in a sec.”
I run ahead of him. When a sufficient amount of time(by my standards) has passed, I glance back at Will, whose gaze is still fixed on that apparently enchanting braid.
Ah-hah.
I trot back to him triumphantly.
“What are YOU so smug about?”
“Well…you weren’t staring at me.”
“What?”
“Weren’t staring at MY luscious hair, swinging back and forth, back and forth…”
He does a double-take.
“Whoa, whoa , whoa! Wait a second here! That’s because you’re my BEST FRIEND’S GIRLFRIEND. Chill out. Who do you think I-”
“You’re missing the point. My point is that, as I conclude after my handy little experiment, you do not have a fixation with girls’ hair.”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with any-”
“BUT,” I shout, drowning him out and cutting him off, “you are fixated with a certain SOMEONE’S(I cough something that I hope sound like “Harper”) blonde braid. Back and forth, back and forth. Which means…”
Stonily, he jogs a little faster(good luck with that) and says, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And I’M sure you have and idea that I have and idea that I’M sure you DO have an idea about what I’m talking about.”
“What the hell?!”
“Ha HA. I confused you.”  And I leave him in the dust as Mrs. Mitchell blows her shiny whistle.

Just like that, I get used to the house, slowly but surely, school becomes just another pattern in the quilt-work of my life. All it takes is three days, and it falls in comfortably.
My tentative, rough schedule in the past few days(which will probably be somewhat similar to the next ones) is as follows:

6: 30 AM : Leap out of bed as fuzzy radio stations plays for my alarm. Pull on jeans/long skirt with some Aerosmith/Nirvana/Pink Flloyd/The Bangles t-shirt that I got from GoodWill. Drink Passion Fruit/Green/Black/Earl Grey tea that Bibio has scrounged from the little smorgasboard she displays to diners. Devour a gargantuan blueberry/chocolate chip muffin and a banana.
Wash face, wash hair in a sink. Apply eyeliner and mascara, as well as cover-up to disguise my stubborn pimple form hell. Brush hair and teeth till acceptable, all while blasting my portable stereo, studiously ignoring the fact that technically you’re not supposed to have electronics by water.
Grab backpack, lace up combat boots/British Knights, wave goodbye to Bibio, and hop into Raphael’s Volvo, where we proceed to

7: 30 AM : Choir III Period 0, where we all(prepare yourself for this shocker) SING until

8:30 AM : Art II Period 1, where Meg sits as far away from me as possible, my peers look at me like I’m about to spontaneously combust at any given moments, and Ms. Carey assigns us one quirky little thing after another, I finish them, drawing happily until

9:30 AM: P.E. Period 2, where I talk to Will and watch Will watching me watching him watching Harper(who is also running him). Because it is Physical Education, after all, we always do something involving running. This would be fine if it didn’t have a ball,  because even though I’m actually quite a good dancer, my hand-eye coordination is buried somewhere in my subconscious. Because of this, it drags on forever, down to the last excruciating detail of changing in the locker room, until

10:30 AM: Algebra II, Period 3, where Mr. Stone speaks some language I don’t understand(German, perhaps) with numbers. I take Raphael’s advice and ask him for help after he’s doled out the page numbers, manage to make some sense out of them. I tell him, “Thanks, Stone”. He replies, “No problem, Bashalede”.
I guess you could say it’s our “thing”.
Proceeding our “Thing” is me finishing the problems with an intense scratching of my lead, until

11: 30 AM : English II, Period 4 with Mrs. Meyer, who has given us each a copy of Romeo an Juliet, and told us to modernize the situation in a 5 to 10 page story(“Don’t even THINK about using West Side Story.” I think I was the only one who did, because the rest of the class didn’t even react).  The entire hour is filled with the sound of pages turning, pencils moving( I use a quiet, gliding pen) and my tape of The Bangles’ “Everything” playing in my ears. I have only had my Sony headphones yanked off two times by Mrs. Meyer, which I believe is a positive show of my stealth.
I write until…

12: 30 AM: Lunch II(freshman and sophomores), where I eat the only good thing they have in the cafeteria: their deli-style sandwiches with fresh bread, chips, and a Coke. I usually snag a pack of Oreos from the snack machine, thinking of Constanta.
Will sits with me, and he’s opened up: I now know his mother has been clinically depressed fro two years, and that sometimes he takes care of her. I know she was the one who taught him to play guitar, and I share my music-addled memory/epiphany and we form a sort of kinship.
Food finished, we meander until

1:00 PM : Study Hall II, where I do my homework and/or write a letter to Constanta until

1:30 PM : History II, Period 6 with Ms. Hunt, who gave us a timeline project on the first day(she doesn’t beat around the bush), so I copy and paste pictures of important dead people and write dates under them until

2:30 PM : Science II, Period 7, with Mr. Blenner, who makes us read out of the EARTH SCIENCE textbook and answer the reading questions…if we don’t do anything hands-on soon I’m gonna flip.
I watch the inane words do jumping jacks over each other till they’re on big clump until

3:30 PM: School ENDS, Raphael drives me and Will to his house, where we do homework/eat microwave burritos and watch TV until

5:30 PM : I walk home to read books/Cosmina’s old letters(not just from her husband, but also her children and friends) until

6:30 PM: Bibio comes home and we make delectable lasagna/soup/dumplings and salad/ mac’n’cheese from a box. We eat and share anything worth mentioning(ie meaningful or hilarious) until

7: 15 PM : I run with Raphael until

7:52 PM: I get home to take a grateful, long shower, towel off, and study/listen to music until

9:30 PM: I fall asleep until

10:00 PM : I get up, then can’t sleep again, put deodorant on, and feel a nagging restlessness until

10:15 PM: I run to the ocean, sometimes with Raphael, sometimes without, and watch the water . Eventually my eyelids start to droop until

11:00 PM : I sleep until

2:00 AM: I wake up, then run back home,

2:20ish: I sink into bed and sleep until

3:00 AM : I wake up and watch the moonlight, unable to think of anything but if HE’S looking at the same moonlight until

4:00 AM : I fall asleep until

6: 30 AM: Lather, rinse, repeat cycle all over again.

On average I get little less than 7 hours of sleep. Which actually isn’t that bad, considering. But I have a really weird way of getting my sleep: in the moments in between.
Which is where I seem to get everything done…

I sift through a pile of mail on the dining room table, vaguely wondering if there’ll be any ads for clothing sales(I desperately need some new threads). A blank white cover pops out at me in its crispness, CENTRAL FLAL HIGH ART MAGAZINE emblazoned on the top, outlined stencil-style.
Turning curiously to the Table of Contents, my finger skims down and parks at what I’m looking for:

“Woman Trapped In A World…” by Nadya Bashalde, 15, Sophomore…..page 27

I flip to the page. The full title is on the top. A poem with the title “Debutante” next to mine catches my eye. It’s by Harper Lowell, also(I find by flipping back to the Table of Contents), also 15 and a Sophomore.
Huh.

DEBUTANTE

They tell you
You’re going up the stairs of success
But where are you REALLY going?
You have to follow their rules
Take small, careful steps
Never go outside
The lines they have
So meticulously
And drearily
Drawn for you
In slate gray
Parched white gloves
Lacy white fans
To shield your eyes
For they don’t want to see
Your soul
You can fakely smile
They’ll pretend it’s real
Because they don’t care either way
Your mother taught you this good breeding
You’ll teach your daughter the same
It doesn’t matter
What people are needing
On and on it’ll go
Down that polished, pristine, bland lane
Until someone’s brave enough
To break the rusty chain
So, croquet on a hot day
(Because you can only “have fun”
When they say you can)
Iced lemonade
It’s all to parade
You to the perfect match
But you’ll do what you can now
Won’t you?
Have a cigarette
In the dressing room
Muttering
“Fuck etiquette”
Kiss the servant boy
In the dark corners of Daddy’s guesthouse
Because that’s what you want
Even if it’s scandalous
For a debutante
But I tell you:
Get out while you can
Before it’s too late
Make an abscission
Before the envelope’s sealed on your fate
For when you have to marry a man
You’ll be a doe in a steel trap
Raising children, cleaning, abuse, submission
You can’t ever go back

The words grab me, a break in conformity one wouldn’t expect from the Blonde Perfect Girl.

At last, the final bell rings. I get my backpack on my shoulders, spin my lock, and turn to talk to Harper, undaunted by Heath’s arm around her waist, Jen right by her heels, and her friends in the background.
Okay, maybe I’m a LITTLE undaunted. But I’m not about to let it show.
“You did a really good job on that poem.”
“Poem? What poem?” she asks, ocean-blue-grey eyes distant but fixed and hard.
“It was in the school magazine. By my picture?” I prompt.
Meg glares at me. The rest aren’t quite so intense, but give no effort to hide their disdain
“Oh. I almost forgot about that. I only wrote it because Carey offered extra credit. Thanks, I guess.”
Every tiny gesture, every time I see her composure break a little, gives away that she’s lying. The two of us are the only ones who know it, though. I’m sure of it.
“You’re welcome. So, do you want to hang out later, some time?” The question is intended for Harper individually, and I try to portray this in my locked gaze on only her.
Something about her reminds me of a doe in a trap, just like her poem. She wants to be my friends, she knows me somehow, it’s a sensation stronger than déjà vu. But she also wants her safety net. Heath isn’t’ even paying attention, already bored.
I want to scream at her, “Are these REALLY the people you want to spend the next two years(or God forbid, your life) with? Why spend another SECOND with them? With their fake charm and charisma, winning every temporary prize and pretending every little slight never happened? How do you keep up the act? How tiring is it to convince them you think it’s real when you know damn well it’s not?”
Harper twirls a piece of her hair around her finger, tighter and tighter until I think she’s cut off the circulation, and says, “You WISH.”
Her friends laugh appreciatively, the sound of it buzzes and nips at my ears. Heath says, “Nice attitude, baby. I like it.”
A diminutive part of me try to goad me into walking away, but I ignore it as my stomach sinks. “I may have a boyfriend, but I’m nobody’s baby. And you don’t have to be either.”
Harper looks like the wind’s been knocked out or her, shame-faced, but I ignore this, and instead plow on through my anger before I’m outnumbered by their reactions.
“But hey- you could become your poem. If that’s really what you want. Your choice.”
I leave them, a little wounded, a little worse for wear, but with something else to add to the list.
Choices and circumstances shape your life. You have no control over circumstances nor other people’s choices: only your own choices. Despite the sometimes plaintive and hurt side of some of mine…I wouldn’t exchange them for anything in the world.
I hope someday Harper can say the same thing.