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The Gypsy's Niece

Chapter 4

            After a week, I began to sink into familiarity; the house didn't give me the creeps anymore. I mean, yeah, someone died there. People die every day, though, and anyway, you can get used to almost anything.

            But even though I didn't jump out of my skin every time the sixth stair up creaks, I don't know there was still something about the house that I couldn’t put my finger on. Not like a ghost or some crap like that (the Mulo* had been cleared out, in any case), more like an enigma I couldn't quite wrap myself around. Even though Rosa came to visit, I couldn't bear asking her the questions that most frequently popped up in my curious head; I didn't want to pry.

            I barely slept. Well, I didn't really try to, mainly I either read, drew in my notebook, or tried to come up with more reasons why I shouldn't go to the local high school. No matter how many reasons I came up with, though, Bibio* would not budge, so coming up with reasons was kinda pointless.

            On this particular August night/morning, 1 AM, I decide to get off my lazy butt and do something other than non-sleeping.

            With more resolve than I actually feel, I change into a t-shirt and shorts. I almost put on the closest thing I have to running shoes(some beat-up old Airmax), but ultimately decide against it- I like going au natural.

            I mean my FEET. Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter.

            God, I love running. But I like doing it for myself. I've never told my aunt about it, because then she'd probably sign me up for some sport. See, some people don't see that just because you have a talent or just something you like doing, it doesn't necessarily mean you want to show it off or use it to compete. Some things I think you should just let be, instead of putting them in containers.

            Why do people always find the need for containers? We wake up in our houses(containers), then get into our cars(smaller containers) to go the the building where we work/go to school(alternate container). What bothers me most is the containers we put up for people in our minds: naive little kids(who probably know more than we realize), angst-y teens(there are legitimate reasons why we're so angst-y, ya know), adults(who can sometimes act like or less mature than kids), and senile old people/senior citizens(who actually had a first date and parents and a job and a favorite color, but we don't remember that because when they eat the institutionalized jell-O at retirement homes, we can't think they're actually real).

            Then of course there's race, gender, class, etc. In high school there's the Preps, the Punks, the Goths, the Ivy-Leaguers, the Hippies, the Potheads, the Artists, etc.

            There's the proletariats, the liberals, the conservatives, the divorcees, the widows/widowers, the stroller-moms, the librarians, the doctors.

            I guess the only way to survive this topsy-turvy, grocery aisle-esque categorized world is to nudge your way in between the containers and shout, 'But I'm ME. I mighs supposedly belong in any number of these containers, but see, I'm right here. Look.'

            Maybe that's a 'radical' idea. But honestly, what other time is there to declare yourself except the moments in between?

            I stop my rambling thoughts to focus on what I'm actually doing.

            I'm sitting on the side of the drom*, stretching my legs. I wait for the rock-hard feeling in my chest I always get when I stop running to come, and it does. It can only be expanded by finding my pace and just going ahead. Sometimes I'll even forget it's there, patiently waiting. When I go running, though, it's a wake-up call, because it stretches like taffy and I feel all tingly and bubbly, like a newly-opened can of Coke. I've heard this is a 'runner's high', but I don’t call it that- the only way I can think to describe it is 'wondrous'.

            I get up to run again. I have a motivational purpose, which always helps: I want to get to the ocean. Since it's early, the beach will probably be deserted, so I can appreciate it alone.

            One thing I really like about Rhode Island is that no matter where you are in this state, you're never more than 30 miles away from the water. Where I live, we're about a mile-and-a-half away.

            One thing I really don’t like about is its name: if you're going to name a place, at least do it right. I mean, come on. For the record, the definition of island is a piece of land with water on ALL THREE SIDES. I suppose the prestigious namers didn't have a dictionary handy.

            There's a bit of a hiil to get there, and I sprint down it, just to see if I can. I half-expect I'll take a nose-dive to the shore, but thankfully I don't.

            I look up to the sky and it's a milky blue-black. The ocean is slightly darker. I inhale the air, nascent of saltiness and a diminutive, subtle bit of sweetness, nature’s caramel.

            Spread out on the water are the glistening silvery white pieces of the full moon on the water. A light shines in the distance. I squint in the darkness and make out the shape out of a lighthouse, offhandedly wondering how many tourists have gawked and semi-worshipped it. Most likely they haven't done so at this hour.

            I pivot my bare feet on the wet, smooth as clay sand, then dramatically let myself fall backwards with a childish ecstasy, making sand angels.

            Listening to my heartbeat in my ear, I realize that it matches the rhythm of the sea pulling in, out, in, out

            It reminds me of Joseph and Cosmina, star-crossed and far away. It reminds me of the children he loved so much, the children that would never know their own father. They probably all had the same heartbeats

            Is mine one with MY father's? Or are they not the same? If someone is a stranger to you, does it diminish all blood bonds, rendering them meaningless? Or do our hearts beat at the same time in spite of all that? Does he think about me as much as I think about him?

            My cheek rests on the sand, and I know I need to sleep. I imagine each and every question falling into the waves in front of me, and finally succumb to the tiredness I've been avoiding, my ankles damp and getting licked whenever the tide decides to come in

            Eyes flickering open, I shield them from the shy yet bright morning light.

            Oh. Oh, that light is coming from the SUN. The sun is up. Which MEANS...

            'Shit. Oh, SHIT,' I mutter angrily, pulling my lazy, half-submerged body up and racing on the sand.

            'Shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit. Bibio is going to go Kamikaze on me'

            I start to sweat rivulets. Ew, gross. It should be illegal, it being this hot this early.

            You know that little voice that's supposedly in everyone's head?

            The one that tells you what would be best?

            'Take off your shirt, Nadya.'

            A much louder voices screeches, 'NO! Are you insane?!'

            'You're wearing a sports bra underneath, Nadya. You're going to die of heat. You'll feel much better. It's early, no one will be up. You can put it back on when you get closer to your house, so your Bibio won't die of shame. It will be fine. Fine.'

            Shut up, little voice.

            'You know I’m right.'

            'SHUT. UP.'

            'Hahahahahaha'

            'Stop it!'

            In a surrendering fashion, I strip off my t-shirt, hoping it will make me stop perspiring like a pig, or at the very least perspire a little less. Three trucks pass by, but I pretend I don't see them.

            Exhausted and hoping I've made progress, I sit down at the side of the drom* once again.

            I see a silhouette, and it comes closer, jogging. After a while I see it's some guy around my age. He randomly sits next to me and slides his headphones off his hair, and they hang around his tan neck.

            'Hi,' he says, his hazel eyes dancing, probably because I look so pathetic just sitting there.

            'Can I help you?' I ask, irritated.

            'Well, good morning to you, too.'

            'Go to hell.'

            'Maybe I'm already in hell'

            'What?!'

            'Or toeing the line of it, in any case. Or maybe this world IS hell, and no one bothered to tell us. Did you ever think of that?'

            'I have, actually. But I think hell is how we perceive it. We create our own heavens and hells,' I blurt out. Lord, how did I ever get into this conversation?

            'Hmmm. I mean, don't take what I said the wrong way. I'm pretty sure I'm not in hell, as of now. You're very beautiful, you know'

            Oh, right. I can't believe Ive been so stupid. I cross my arms over my unfortunately large chest.

            'Fine, then. You've come for what you wanted to see. I can assure you that's all you'll see, so you can leave now.'

            'Hey. Do not write me off like that. I noticed that, of course, because I am a guy and I do have a Y chromosome, but you should notice that I am looking only at your face now. Have been for some time. In fact, I'm looking into your eyes, which have more words in them than I have read in my entire life'

            'You totally just plagiarized that from Whitman.'

            'Ah, see, I KNEW you would say that.'

            'Sure you did.'

           ' I did. I KNEW that you were the kind of girl who would know that Whitman even said that. I KNEW we had some sort of natural connection. You see, normally I don't do stuff like this. But I did. Because I KNEW.'

            The impertinent dude lays back and waves his hand in the air.

            'C'mon. You can't deny this is FATE.'

            'You. Have. GOT to be kidding me.' I shake my head.

            'Nope. I have never been more serious about anything in my life.'

           ' Aren't we melodramatic.'

            'There had to be a reason why we both happened to cross paths at what most people would consider an un-Godly hour. It means something.'

            'I don't think so.'

           ' Yes you do.'

            'Don't tell me what to think!' I bite out, pissed.

            Ignoring this, he takes his headphones off from his neck and cranks up the volume so we can both hear it.

            'Whatever song comes up next we will forever think of as "our song".'

            'You are frickin' unbelievable.'

            The DJ's voice crackles at the end of his proclamation, 'You're listening to 99.5 FM, the Sunny Decade station. Playing all the best hits!'

            A guitar plays, and I recognize the song. I mean, please. Everyone knows this song. It's practically universal.

            He grins and sings along to the first verse, happily, to me, like they lyrics were written just for me and me alone.

            'Just a small town girl

            Living in a lonely world

            She took the midnight train

            Going aaaa-neee-where'

            He's being so annoyingly endearing, I can't help but sing the next one.

            'Just a city boy

            Born and raised in South Detroit

            He took the midnight train

            Going aaaa-neee-where'

            I've always liked music, I have all the cassettes and records to Broadway stuff, and know pretty much all the tracks. There's a piano in the living room, and I've been taking lessons from Bibio when she gets back from her job as a waitress. She taught me how to read sheet music a few years ago, and sing it, and I'm proud to say I hit every note about the city boy perfectly. I'm not proud to say that I blushed while doing it, just because he was staring at me.

            Suddenly I get a picture of my aunt knocking on my door, asking me to get up, only I'm not there.

            'I have to go,' I say abruptly.

            'What?'

           ' My B- my aunt, she's waiting for me, she doesn't know I left. I snuck out.'

            His face falls.

            'To meet some guy?'

            'What? No,' I laugh, 'GOD no. Nothing like that. I snuck out to run, and went to the ocean, because I couldn't get to sleep.'

            Saying the words out loud make them sound ridiculous and lame, but he nods as if he understands. As he moves his head, I catch a glimpse of a strand of red in his otherwise dark, curly hair.

            'Do you have a name?'

            I grinned.

            'It just happens that I do. It means hope.' Why I'm telling him this, I don't know.

            'Hope, wait, is it Esperanza?'

            'No.'

            'Oh well I thought it might be. My mom's Mexican," he says by way of an explanation.'

            'It's Nadya. Yours?'

           ' Raphael.'

            I raise an eyebrow.

            'As in the angel?'

            He grimaces.

            'Whatever. Hey, maybe we'll run into each other again'

            'Probably. It's a small town, Central Falls.'

            We just look at each other for a second.

            'Well, bye, Angel Raphael.'

            'Bye, Lady Hope.'

            I proceed to go back home, feeling my namesake ..

Description
The Gypsy's Niece

Chapter 4

            After a week, I began to sink into familiarity; the house didn't give me the creeps anymore. I mean, yeah, someone died there. People die every day, though, and anyway, you can get used to almost anything.

            But even though I didn't jump out of my skin every time the sixth stair up creaks, I don't know there was still something about the house that I couldn’t put my finger on. Not like a ghost or some crap like that (the Mulo* had been cleared out, in any case), more like an enigma I couldn't quite wrap myself around. Even though Rosa came to visit, I couldn't bear asking her the questions that most frequently popped up in my curious head; I didn't want to pry.

            I barely slept. Well, I didn't really try to, mainly I either read, drew in my notebook, or tried to come up with more reasons why I shouldn't go to the local high school. No matter how many reasons I came up with, though, Bibio* would not budge, so coming up with reasons was kinda pointless.

            On this particular August night/morning, 1 AM, I decide to get off my lazy butt and do something other than non-sleeping.

            With more resolve than I actually feel, I change into a t-shirt and shorts. I almost put on the closest thing I have to running shoes(some beat-up old Airmax), but ultimately decide against it- I like going au natural.

            I mean my FEET. Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter.

            God, I love running. But I like doing it for myself. I've never told my aunt about it, because then she'd probably sign me up for some sport. See, some people don't see that just because you have a talent or just something you like doing, it doesn't necessarily mean you want to show it off or use it to compete. Some things I think you should just let be, instead of putting them in containers.

            Why do people always find the need for containers? We wake up in our houses(containers), then get into our cars(smaller containers) to go the the building where we work/go to school(alternate container). What bothers me most is the containers we put up for people in our minds: naive little kids(who probably know more than we realize), angst-y teens(there are legitimate reasons why we're so angst-y, ya know), adults(who can sometimes act like or less mature than kids), and senile old people/senior citizens(who actually had a first date and parents and a job and a favorite color, but we don't remember that because when they eat the institutionalized jell-O at retirement homes, we can't think they're actually real).

            Then of course there's race, gender, class, etc. In high school there's the Preps, the Punks, the Goths, the Ivy-Leaguers, the Hippies, the Potheads, the Artists, etc.

            There's the proletariats, the liberals, the conservatives, the divorcees, the widows/widowers, the stroller-moms, the librarians, the doctors.

            I guess the only way to survive this topsy-turvy, grocery aisle-esque categorized world is to nudge your way in between the containers and shout, 'But I'm ME. I mighs supposedly belong in any number of these containers, but see, I'm right here. Look.'

            Maybe that's a 'radical' idea. But honestly, what other time is there to declare yourself except the moments in between?

            I stop my rambling thoughts to focus on what I'm actually doing.

            I'm sitting on the side of the drom*, stretching my legs. I wait for the rock-hard feeling in my chest I always get when I stop running to come, and it does. It can only be expanded by finding my pace and just going ahead. Sometimes I'll even forget it's there, patiently waiting. When I go running, though, it's a wake-up call, because it stretches like taffy and I feel all tingly and bubbly, like a newly-opened can of Coke. I've heard this is a 'runner's high', but I don’t call it that- the only way I can think to describe it is 'wondrous'.

            I get up to run again. I have a motivational purpose, which always helps: I want to get to the ocean. Since it's early, the beach will probably be deserted, so I can appreciate it alone.

            One thing I really like about Rhode Island is that no matter where you are in this state, you're never more than 30 miles away from the water. Where I live, we're about a mile-and-a-half away.

            One thing I really don’t like about is its name: if you're going to name a place, at least do it right. I mean, come on. For the record, the definition of island is a piece of land with water on ALL THREE SIDES. I suppose the prestigious namers didn't have a dictionary handy.

            There's a bit of a hiil to get there, and I sprint down it, just to see if I can. I half-expect I'll take a nose-dive to the shore, but thankfully I don't.

            I look up to the sky and it's a milky blue-black. The ocean is slightly darker. I inhale the air, nascent of saltiness and a diminutive, subtle bit of sweetness, nature’s caramel.

            Spread out on the water are the glistening silvery white pieces of the full moon on the water. A light shines in the distance. I squint in the darkness and make out the shape out of a lighthouse, offhandedly wondering how many tourists have gawked and semi-worshipped it. Most likely they haven't done so at this hour.

            I pivot my bare feet on the wet, smooth as clay sand, then dramatically let myself fall backwards with a childish ecstasy, making sand angels.

            Listening to my heartbeat in my ear, I realize that it matches the rhythm of the sea pulling in, out, in, out

            It reminds me of Joseph and Cosmina, star-crossed and far away. It reminds me of the children he loved so much, the children that would never know their own father. They probably all had the same heartbeats

            Is mine one with MY father's? Or are they not the same? If someone is a stranger to you, does it diminish all blood bonds, rendering them meaningless? Or do our hearts beat at the same time in spite of all that? Does he think about me as much as I think about him?

            My cheek rests on the sand, and I know I need to sleep. I imagine each and every question falling into the waves in front of me, and finally succumb to the tiredness I've been avoiding, my ankles damp and getting licked whenever the tide decides to come in

            Eyes flickering open, I shield them from the shy yet bright morning light.

            Oh. Oh, that light is coming from the SUN. The sun is up. Which MEANS...

            'Shit. Oh, SHIT,' I mutter angrily, pulling my lazy, half-submerged body up and racing on the sand.

            'Shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit. Bibio is going to go Kamikaze on me'

            I start to sweat rivulets. Ew, gross. It should be illegal, it being this hot this early.

            You know that little voice that's supposedly in everyone's head?

            The one that tells you what would be best?

            'Take off your shirt, Nadya.'

            A much louder voices screeches, 'NO! Are you insane?!'

            'You're wearing a sports bra underneath, Nadya. You're going to die of heat. You'll feel much better. It's early, no one will be up. You can put it back on when you get closer to your house, so your Bibio won't die of shame. It will be fine. Fine.'

            Shut up, little voice.

            'You know I’m right.'

            'SHUT. UP.'

            'Hahahahahaha'

            'Stop it!'

            In a surrendering fashion, I strip off my t-shirt, hoping it will make me stop perspiring like a pig, or at the very least perspire a little less. Three trucks pass by, but I pretend I don't see them.

            Exhausted and hoping I've made progress, I sit down at the side of the drom* once again.

            I see a silhouette, and it comes closer, jogging. After a while I see it's some guy around my age. He randomly sits next to me and slides his headphones off his hair, and they hang around his tan neck.

            'Hi,' he says, his hazel eyes dancing, probably because I look so pathetic just sitting there.

            'Can I help you?' I ask, irritated.

            'Well, good morning to you, too.'

            'Go to hell.'

            'Maybe I'm already in hell'

            'What?!'

            'Or toeing the line of it, in any case. Or maybe this world IS hell, and no one bothered to tell us. Did you ever think of that?'

            'I have, actually. But I think hell is how we perceive it. We create our own heavens and hells,' I blurt out. Lord, how did I ever get into this conversation?

            'Hmmm. I mean, don't take what I said the wrong way. I'm pretty sure I'm not in hell, as of now. You're very beautiful, you know'

            Oh, right. I can't believe Ive been so stupid. I cross my arms over my unfortunately large chest.

            'Fine, then. You've come for what you wanted to see. I can assure you that's all you'll see, so you can leave now.'

            'Hey. Do not write me off like that. I noticed that, of course, because I am a guy and I do have a Y chromosome, but you should notice that I am looking only at your face now. Have been for some time. In fact, I'm looking into your eyes, which have more words in them than I have read in my entire life'

            'You totally just plagiarized that from Whitman.'

            'Ah, see, I KNEW you would say that.'

            'Sure you did.'

           ' I did. I KNEW that you were the kind of girl who would know that Whitman even said that. I KNEW we had some sort of natural connection. You see, normally I don't do stuff like this. But I did. Because I KNEW.'

            The impertinent dude lays back and waves his hand in the air.

            'C'mon. You can't deny this is FATE.'

            'You. Have. GOT to be kidding me.' I shake my head.

            'Nope. I have never been more serious about anything in my life.'

           ' Aren't we melodramatic.'

            'There had to be a reason why we both happened to cross paths at what most people would consider an un-Godly hour. It means something.'

            'I don't think so.'

           ' Yes you do.'

            'Don't tell me what to think!' I bite out, pissed.

            Ignoring this, he takes his headphones off from his neck and cranks up the volume so we can both hear it.

            'Whatever song comes up next we will forever think of as "our song".'

            'You are frickin' unbelievable.'

            The DJ's voice crackles at the end of his proclamation, 'You're listening to 99.5 FM, the Sunny Decade station. Playing all the best hits!'

            A guitar plays, and I recognize the song. I mean, please. Everyone knows this song. It's practically universal.

            He grins and sings along to the first verse, happily, to me, like they lyrics were written just for me and me alone.

            'Just a small town girl

            Living in a lonely world

            She took the midnight train

            Going aaaa-neee-where'

            He's being so annoyingly endearing, I can't help but sing the next one.

            'Just a city boy

            Born and raised in South Detroit

            He took the midnight train

            Going aaaa-neee-where'

            I've always liked music, I have all the cassettes and records to Broadway stuff, and know pretty much all the tracks. There's a piano in the living room, and I've been taking lessons from Bibio when she gets back from her job as a waitress. She taught me how to read sheet music a few years ago, and sing it, and I'm proud to say I hit every note about the city boy perfectly. I'm not proud to say that I blushed while doing it, just because he was staring at me.

            Suddenly I get a picture of my aunt knocking on my door, asking me to get up, only I'm not there.

            'I have to go,' I say abruptly.

            'What?'

           ' My B- my aunt, she's waiting for me, she doesn't know I left. I snuck out.'

            His face falls.

            'To meet some guy?'

            'What? No,' I laugh, 'GOD no. Nothing like that. I snuck out to run, and went to the ocean, because I couldn't get to sleep.'

            Saying the words out loud make them sound ridiculous and lame, but he nods as if he understands. As he moves his head, I catch a glimpse of a strand of red in his otherwise dark, curly hair.

            'Do you have a name?'

            I grinned.

            'It just happens that I do. It means hope.' Why I'm telling him this, I don't know.

            'Hope, wait, is it Esperanza?'

            'No.'

            'Oh well I thought it might be. My mom's Mexican," he says by way of an explanation.'

            'It's Nadya. Yours?'

           ' Raphael.'

            I raise an eyebrow.

            'As in the angel?'

            He grimaces.

            'Whatever. Hey, maybe we'll run into each other again'

            'Probably. It's a small town, Central Falls.'

            We just look at each other for a second.

            'Well, bye, Angel Raphael.'

            'Bye, Lady Hope.'

            I proceed to go back home, feeling my namesake ..