Fictitious People
Nothing much happened today. I got a cool ornament that says "Nina National Honors Society 2005" in pretty writing from my Secret Santa today. It's awesome. I love it. I'm hangning it on the tree once we put it up.
I went to Sam Goody with my brother and Jake after school today. Ran into Shawn, Claire and Jin.
When we got home, my dad said there was something waiting on the answering machine for me. So I pressed play. It made me smile. "Nina, hi... it's Andrew. I'm on the corner of 4th and South St. right now. Just had a Philly cheese steak from Jim's Cheese Steaks. We're playing a show soon. I love you. I'll call you back. Bye." I miss Andrew so much! I miss my big brother. He promised he'd call me from Philly, and he did :-) So that was pretty awesome.
Since there's not much I really have to say, I thought I'd just post some of my writing. The two short stories and the five poems I've done for English so far this year.
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Nina Tollas
4th Hour AP English
Short Story
October 23, 2005
Mismatched Dishes
Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake. I blink my eyes hard a few times. No go. Still tired.
It’s 12:47 in the morning, and I’m still driving along Interstate Some-Number-I-Don’t-Really-Care. I could be in
New York City right now, but no. I had to stay home and keep doing ridiculous odd chores for mom. Chores she never has me do; never would have me do if I weren’t going out to Brie’s. Yes, Brie. Like the cheese. That’s my sister. The one my mother doesn’t like. If I had been going into the city to see any other family, I could’ve left earlier like I wanted to.
I pass a sign saying, Rest Area 1 mile. Rest Area. Not sleep area, just Rest Area.
“I’ll only stay for a half an hour at the most. Drink some coffee. There are coffee machines there, right?” I look to my passenger seat. No one answers. No one agrees; probably because no one’s even there. I can keep talking to the window. At least it’s keeping me awake. It wouldn’t matter if anyone were sitting next to me anyway. No one listens to me.
I turn right off the highway towards the building conveniently marked “Rest Area”. The parking lot is vacant. The lights glow pale yellow. I can see the bright vending machine lights glare against the windows. The moon is bright. I’m cold. I almost don’t want to get out of the car, but that coffee is calling my name. It wants me to drink it. It’s that ice age demand: Jessie need coffee. Jessie need her coffee now. It’s enough to get me out of my car.
I settle on a plain black coffee from the noisy machine in one of those dinky Styrofoam cups that break if you get over half a cup in there; the ones that are ruining our environment. I take my hot coffee and leave the building that smells too much like disinfectant. The wind is bitter, even though it’s only the end of October. The coffee is hot enough to keep the blood circulating in my hands. I grab my sweater from my car and walk with my coffee over to the picnic table under the giant maple tree. I slide up onto the table and lean down, the branches and leaves of the great maple a canopy over me. The wind blows and a few leaves fall. One falls on my stomach. I let it sit there. It reminds me of Brie.
It reminds me of Brie and me. Ages eight and fourteen. Lying in a pile of leaves in the front yard. Brie getting blamed for messing up Andy’s newly raked pile of leaves. Brie getting grounded. Brie and her black nail polish and ripped jeans.
Brie at graduation. Safety pins holding her graduation gown together instead of the buttons. The day Brie moved out with very few boxes. Everything was given to me. Everything except the hatred of our mother. Mom still loves me. Mom still hates Brie. She doesn’t approve. She’s embarrassed. She doesn’t like Brie’s clothing style. She doesn’t like Brie’s apartment in the city. She doesn’t like Brie’s layered, red streaked hair. She didn’t like it the week back in eighth grade when Brie’s hair went from blonde, to black, to red. All in two days.
Mom doesn’t like Brie’s notebook of poetry. Mom doesn’t like Brie’s tattoo. Mom doesn’t like Brie’s earrings. Mom doesn’t like Brie’s choice to study art when she should have been a lawyer. Mom doesn’t like Brie. Mom says she likes Brie. Reality? Mom doesn’t like Brie.
Mom doesn’t like Brie’s boyfriend. Dad likes him. Grandma likes him. I like Ryan. Mom doesn’t like his tattoos. Mom doesn’t like his lip ring. Mom doesn’t like his spiked hair. Mom doesn’t like his chosen profession. Ryan is in school to be a music therapist. Music therapy for the sick. What could be better? She didn’t care when I told her what Ryan did for me when I was sick last time I saw them. I had the flu. He took out his guitar and played for me. Nothing in particular; he just made it up as he went along. And I fell asleep listening to his soft chords and melodies. Mom just doesn’t like Ryan. And Mom just doesn’t like Brie.
I take a sip of coffee and let it warm my stomach. I take the leaf into my hands. It’s red. With tiny lines of gold intricately woven in. Brie would love it. She’d want to paint it. I carefully stick the leaf in my pocket. The wind blows again and more leaves fall. It’s quiet out here, save for the few cars that pass by. I almost don’t want to get back into my car and continue into the noisy city. I only go from one noisy city to the other. Then I’d be like mom. Trying to make excuses to not go and see my sister. Noisy this, noisy that, dirty street, mismatched dishes. Loud neighbors, crowded apartment, not a good place to raise a family. Too bad. Ryan and Brie will anyway. In about eight-and-a-half months. And mom doesn’t know. Mom will probably not find out until the little child is born. It doesn’t matter. She’s brought it on herself. All she’d say would be, “I only hope you don’t go through with naming the child Bella.” Mom doesn’t care that Bella means beautiful.
My coffee is almost gone and I’m getting cold again. I hop off of the table and meander back to my car. I toss the empty coffee cup in the back and start the ignition. I take the red leaf out of my pocket and set it on the dashboard to give to Brie. I turn on the heat. I pull out of the Rest Area parking lot to turn back onto the Interstate. This time I looked at the map to remember. It’s Interstate 95.
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Nina Tollas
English 4th Hour
Short Story
December 9, 2005
February 41st
I can’t stop my leg from shaking up and down. I can’t help but do it when I get excited. The woman dressed in mink sitting across the car smiles quickly at me. I stop shaking my leg. Dad never lets me ride the subway alone. The day-after-Thanksgiving-shopping-sale-extravaganza is the only day of the year I’m allowed to take the subway across town without him. I can’t quite do my Christmas shopping for him with him, now can I? I didn’t think so.
The man sitting across from me jolts with each movement of the railcar. I think he’s fallen asleep. I can’t tell though; his hat has fallen down over his eyes. A ratty scarf is wrapped around his neck, and his gray trench coat smells of mothballs. His beard is long and tangled. I wouldn’t be surprised if he rides around town on the A-Train for a living. I can’t stand the smell. It’s positively rancid. There’s an open seat down the car a little ways. No one else is down there, save for the Mink Woman. Although it probably doesn’t smell much better, it can’t smell much worse. I gather my backpack and grasp the poles for balance as I shuffle my way to the empty seat. I plop down onto the lumpy vinyl seat, appreciative of the somewhat fresh air.
I lean my head against the window. The bench is long enough for me to lie down. I stretch my legs out and use my backpack as a pillow. I look around at the rest of the people on the subway. No one pays attention to me. I close my eyes, hugging my sweatshirt so close it feels like I’ve made it a part of my skin. I forgot how much I dislike the smell of the subway. Mothballs. Hotdogs and mustard. Coffee. Some things I’d rather not distinguish, but there are others. Briefcase leather. Men’s cologne. Breakfast Danish. Then something different: a scent strong, reminiscent, and familiar. Flowers. Perfume. I’m working hard to push it out of my head. Push it from my mind. Push it from my senses. Push it out of existence. Lavender.
Small purple flowers; the little ones that grow out of a watering can on the windowsill of our Lower East Side apartment. Mom brought home the packet of seeds. She poured them into my hand. She had me dig a small hole in the soil in the can. The soil, cool and gritty, dyed my hands brown. I planted the lavender. I watched it grow. Even when she wasn’t there, I watched it grow.
When her postcard came from Florence, the stems were just poking out of the soil. As I read about the view from the Eiffel Tower, the stems towered at about two centimeters high. I looked at brochures of Stonehenge when the first purple buds were showing. I ripped up the picture of her making a ridiculous face, trying to crack up the Buckingham Palace guard, when the flowers were in full bloom. Last week I burned the letter about her ski trip to the Swiss Alps and doused the flames with the leftover water from when I watered the pitiful plant.
I look up. The Mink Woman smiles from her seat across from me. The material reeks of strong lavender. It stings my eyes. I put my palms to my eyes.
“I’ll be back soon, Kathleen, baby, I promise, “ her letter lied; the letter I opened on the morning of March 11th, two years ago. The one I found under the lavender plant. I hate March 11th. It no longer exists in my opinion. I’ve calculated it perfectly. March 11th has become February 41st on my calendar. March doesn’t even begin until after February 41st for me. Yeah, bullshit she’ll be back. She doesn’t care. And neither do I. Not anymore. She can gallivant around Europe all she wants. At least I’m responsible.
I take care of Dad. I take care of the house. I keep my grades up. I do the grocery shopping. I baby-sit for the Peterson’s upstairs to earn extra money. I take care of the damn plant we were going to grow together. I water it everyday. I nurture it. I give it sunlight. I take care of that plant as well as any mother would take care of their child; as any mother should take care of their child, if they cared. If they weren’t self-centered. If they didn’t take off whenever they felt like it. If they weren’t liars. Those mothers; the mothers who love their children more than themselves. Those who love as much as I love that daft little plant. I should throw it away. I don’t need that plant. I don’t need it for anything. I don’t need to have the stupid scent of lavender piercing my heart every time I wake up.
Lavender. It’s strong right now, filling my nose, my chest, my senses. My heart. My heart jolts as the subway jerks to a stop. I take my hands away from my eyes and flinch. The Mink Woman is standing right over me, clutching a pole for balance.
“I’m sorry, dear. Did I scare you?” Mink Woman asks me, concerned. The scent is as strong as ever. It’s giving me a headache. I shake my head no. I sit up and rub my eyes. The subway is pulling into the station. It’s my stop. Apparently it’s Mink Woman’s too; she smiles, nods a goodbye, and steps out into the subway station when the doors open.
It’s gone. The lavender. It left as suddenly as it hit me. I grab my backpack and step off the subway. The lavender is gone, but the smell is back. The hotdogs, briefcase leather, coffee and those I’d rather not mention.
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Nina Tollas
AP English 4th Hour
Poems
October 13, 2005
Wool
Knit wool hangs over brittle bones
Hiding under the skin, you’ll only fall through the cracks
Where she’s breaking into pieces
You’ve tried to mend her heart
With staples, tape, stitches, and glue
Each word rips the seam further into divide
You watch her duck down into desolate shadows
She can weep over her losses in solitude
Dim my already dull inner lights to a completed blackened surrounding
Though it wasn’t me I began telling you about
Scarlet Confessions
Crimson dotted lines
Would you take it all away? Will it all away? Wish it all away?
Lead me across this razor thin barrier to where
It’s alright to hang my head and cry without showing shame
You chew up your words and then spit them out
I don’t understand them, that jumbled mess of confessed lies
What do you mean you never cared?
But you saved me.
You pulled me back.
You took my life into your hands and molded a new foundation
One that is still trying to try and stay solid
You take my face into your hands and force me to look back
I don’t want to look back
I want to go back
To the beginning
Amour Absolu
f you strike me, might I break from the pain
Or withhold the harsh pressure?
If you smile at me, might I smile back in pleasure
Or cry from what I can’t stand to keep under my gaze?
If you said you loved me, would I exhale in relief
Or back away in fear of something that the bottom could
Drop out of at any moment?
Would you be hurt if I left
Or rejoice in my absence?
Would you stand in the rain, remembering my tear streaked face
Or bask in the sunlight, as to not picture my glassy pools of jade?
Regardless of what happens,
Will your hand be there to grab me when I’m falling?
Or would you only step in, once the worst has passed, to be my tourniquet?
My voice is on mute so I can’t pierce your
Sweet dreams with my nightmarish screams
You’ve always wanted better, and the best
Isn’t, wasn’t, and will never be me
Did you love me? I think you used to
Do you love me now? I don't think you do
Especially when I look like this, love me forever and always,
I'm sure you won't.
Transparency
There are no strings of alliterated phrases to explain
No clichés and talks of heartbreaking absences
Who can describe what goes on in the deep abyss of the heart
No poem or song
Or word
Can describe what goes on in this mind
No images of fiery anger or iced fear
Deep depression or extreme happiness
An area close to exploding from such romantic love
Sing your sorrow and shout your hate
Hug thy lover and hide in the corner
Write away. Try to please whomever.
I’ve only been trying to make you happy.
Nothing is good enough, though nothing is what I have
Everything I could offer has been reduced to everything I do not have.
To change the topic and begin a new conversation
My distraction to you is what has now become
Sheer emptiness
Never Gray
This black thinking.
If I’m not, I never will be.
This white thinking.
If I am, I always will be.
Never gray.
Never both.
Never a mixture of the absence of colors.
Horrible, terrible, worst, blades, night, dark.
Wonderful, lovely, best, love, day, light.
Black and white.
Taking up too much space?
Not taking enough space?
The absence of colors has evolved to
The absence of gray