Hello everyone! No, I'm not dead, as you can see from my many posts on my main blog, Serendipity Book Reviews, I've just totally lost my will to write.
Well, I want to, and I have ideas, but I've been reading my stuff on here, and here, my dear readers, is what I have to say:
IT'S A BUNCH OF CRAPOLA.
It's just AWFUL, right? My characters are SO lame. Well, some parts I felt were acceptable, but then others were just... UGH. And the first line fo Black and White Rainbow was enough to make me seem certifiable.
Maybe I'm being too hard on my self, but I just feel the need to stop writing in this bad mood :P
I'll be back soon with something. And I promise one day, Claire's story will be told fully, no copouts. :)
The Other Angela
My adoptive sister, Angela, used to be beautiful, with eyes as blue as the ocean, adorable little ringlets of golden hair, and this big, mysterious Mona Lisa smile. To our parents, she was an absolute angel. Me, the other Angela? I was just there. Still am. I know they try to pretend they forgive me for what happened, try to hide all that hate you aren't even allowed to have for your child, even if they are adopted, but they can't help the dead-fish-eye look they give me. I'm essentially dead to them.
Every night, I still feel the details of that day. That day when that precious angel of an Angela was lost. I remember the leather of the truck we played in, sticky with from or hands and sticking to our thighs in the heat. I remember that last giggle Angela made, like glass tinkling around in a crystal glass. And most importantly, the one I remember as vividly as if it was one of my watercolor paintings, sitting in front of me, is the awful crunch of metal as the truck sped backwards, where I had stepped on the break, and the even more awful shriek, as glass shards jammed into Angela, whose Mona Lisa smile was lost forever. That part, I remember with excruciating clarity.
But I survived without a scratch. The worst part? I didn't even cry. Not one tear. My eyes didn't even get wet. I just sat, stunned, calm. Not even sad.
I was always compared to my sister Angela. She was a year older than me, and she always did things better. Even when I did something right, it wasn't acknowledged. I wonder why my parents even bothered to adopt when they couldn't have another child, if that was how they were to treat her. First off, there was the name confusion- two Angela's? That certainly couldn't work. Now- and I know this is such a completely morbid, awful thought- at least now there was only one Angela.
For the longest time, I thought I did it on purpose- like a self-fulfilled prophecy, because I hated her. Maybe I didn't know I hated her, and I really and truly did, and the whole crash was on purpose. I think that was another thing keeping me awake.
The only person who didn't blame me for what happened was our brother, Drake. We never talked about it, but I knew he still loved me. He never blamed me, either, or compared me to Angela- not even when he was alive, after which the comparisons only increased. I just never knew it until a long time after.
Years later, when I was 14 and Drake was 18, I was helping- meaning watching, of course- him pack his stuff up to go to college. He was going all the way across the country to California, just to escape our sadist parents. Or that's what I thought. I chose to believe that.
All those years later, I was still as sick over what happened as ever, and my paretns were still as... I can't say angry. They were never angry. The emotion they always showed me in their eyes and behavior was even worse than anger. Anger I could have dealt with. Anger, you return, even if you have no reason to return it other than the fact that they are handing it out to you. But this, this indescribable glimmer in their eyes? You can't return it, it's too strong.
"Drake?"I said. "I need to ask you something."
"Yeah? What?"
"Was Angela... was Angela really as perfect as they say?"
He thought about it for a minute. "Angela, I know we aren't supposed to 'speak ill of the dead' or whatever-" He did that Catholic cross thing across his chest-" but Angela wasn't as perfect as you think."
I really and truly think that was the best possible thing I ever heard in my life. "Really!? What do you mean?"
"She had such a mean streak in her, that Angela," He got this nostalgic look in his eyes. "A thief, too! I can't tell you how many iPods I've had to buy after she broke every one. You really don't remember how much of a bully she was?"
I really didn't. We were so little when it happened. Your memory tends to get distorted after that long, I guess. "Um. No."
"Angela? You know she forgives you, right?" All the laughter he had in his voice earlier was gone when he said this.
"I do now." I didn't have to say anything else. He knew how much it meant to me.
Not my best work, but I'm hoping it's plausible :)
Every night, I still feel the details of that day. That day when that precious angel of an Angela was lost. I remember the leather of the truck we played in, sticky with from or hands and sticking to our thighs in the heat. I remember that last giggle Angela made, like glass tinkling around in a crystal glass. And most importantly, the one I remember as vividly as if it was one of my watercolor paintings, sitting in front of me, is the awful crunch of metal as the truck sped backwards, where I had stepped on the break, and the even more awful shriek, as glass shards jammed into Angela, whose Mona Lisa smile was lost forever. That part, I remember with excruciating clarity.
But I survived without a scratch. The worst part? I didn't even cry. Not one tear. My eyes didn't even get wet. I just sat, stunned, calm. Not even sad.
I was always compared to my sister Angela. She was a year older than me, and she always did things better. Even when I did something right, it wasn't acknowledged. I wonder why my parents even bothered to adopt when they couldn't have another child, if that was how they were to treat her. First off, there was the name confusion- two Angela's? That certainly couldn't work. Now- and I know this is such a completely morbid, awful thought- at least now there was only one Angela.
For the longest time, I thought I did it on purpose- like a self-fulfilled prophecy, because I hated her. Maybe I didn't know I hated her, and I really and truly did, and the whole crash was on purpose. I think that was another thing keeping me awake.
The only person who didn't blame me for what happened was our brother, Drake. We never talked about it, but I knew he still loved me. He never blamed me, either, or compared me to Angela- not even when he was alive, after which the comparisons only increased. I just never knew it until a long time after.
Years later, when I was 14 and Drake was 18, I was helping- meaning watching, of course- him pack his stuff up to go to college. He was going all the way across the country to California, just to escape our sadist parents. Or that's what I thought. I chose to believe that.
All those years later, I was still as sick over what happened as ever, and my paretns were still as... I can't say angry. They were never angry. The emotion they always showed me in their eyes and behavior was even worse than anger. Anger I could have dealt with. Anger, you return, even if you have no reason to return it other than the fact that they are handing it out to you. But this, this indescribable glimmer in their eyes? You can't return it, it's too strong.
"Drake?"I said. "I need to ask you something."
"Yeah? What?"
"Was Angela... was Angela really as perfect as they say?"
He thought about it for a minute. "Angela, I know we aren't supposed to 'speak ill of the dead' or whatever-" He did that Catholic cross thing across his chest-" but Angela wasn't as perfect as you think."
I really and truly think that was the best possible thing I ever heard in my life. "Really!? What do you mean?"
"She had such a mean streak in her, that Angela," He got this nostalgic look in his eyes. "A thief, too! I can't tell you how many iPods I've had to buy after she broke every one. You really don't remember how much of a bully she was?"
I really didn't. We were so little when it happened. Your memory tends to get distorted after that long, I guess. "Um. No."
"Angela? You know she forgives you, right?" All the laughter he had in his voice earlier was gone when he said this.
"I do now." I didn't have to say anything else. He knew how much it meant to me.
Not my best work, but I'm hoping it's plausible :)
Black and White Rainbow, Chapter 3
***3***
Gym is made of suckitude.
I mean, it’s a proven fact. Have you ever met someone who enjoyed it? Did you personally enjoy it? Say it with me girls, NO.
So how had I possibly been assigned double periods- and one with BOYS, and only 6 other girls. Most girls, they’d probably be happy about this situation- the sexiest boys in school would see them in their short shorts and tanks, waving their “ta-tas” (As Cass called them). But, seeing as I had that rule about love, even flings (you always get hurt in flings, always always always, even though they say flings are just fun that you forget after they happen. You don’t, in my opinion. Both parties are damaged. Okay, moral monitor freakout over.) Anyways, I think it’s simple why the above statement is true.
And that day, Coach Shiner only proved my point further. Her brilliant idea? Dancing. SQUARE dancing, in mixed partners. Say it with me again, everyone: GYM SUCKS. GYM SUCKS. PLUS I had to do it for two periods in a row. Fairness percentage: 0.0000001%.
And another thing: My partner was the jerk that was Nate.
Nate Burlington was the new guy. He was an exchange student, but just from New York. Um, we thought. No one really heard him talk. No, he only did that when it was to make a dig at me.
Nate was what some more swoony girls (which it’s painfully obvious I’m not) would consider cute. I however, considered him an absolute scumbag. I think, now that I look back on it, that I hated him so much because he reminded me of Jess. I just couldn’t handle that, that deprived starving feeling he always gave me, so I automatically wrote him off. That and he was a total pig- did I mention that? I thought so.
“So fate’s thrown us together again, huh, beautiful?” He said to me in a voice that suggested I was anything but.
“I guess so. Now go away.” I tried to walk away to the bleachers (gray, like the rest of that
school- why did the academic committee see it fitting to not only stick us in some building for the longest time with people we despise, but they have to make it color-coordinated with our moods- gray and BLAH), but of course he followed me.
“Oh, c’mon Claire, I know you love me. We both know it,” He did this weird eyebrow thing. Grrrrrrrrr.
“Yes, I confess- I’m madly in love with you. I write about you in my diary all the time: “Dearest diary, Nate was a jerk for the 176th day in the row. Plus he ate a banana, and I took the peel- score, bite marks!- He’s soooooo dreamy.”
He grinned. “See? I knew it,” The grin fell when he saw some of his jock buddies (he wasn’t a jock, but he hang out with them anyways), and turned around, pretending he had never spoken to me.
Ladies and gentlemen, the mess that was my Italian roommate, as I would find out soon enough. Ain't life just lovely?
Gym is made of suckitude.
I mean, it’s a proven fact. Have you ever met someone who enjoyed it? Did you personally enjoy it? Say it with me girls, NO.
So how had I possibly been assigned double periods- and one with BOYS, and only 6 other girls. Most girls, they’d probably be happy about this situation- the sexiest boys in school would see them in their short shorts and tanks, waving their “ta-tas” (As Cass called them). But, seeing as I had that rule about love, even flings (you always get hurt in flings, always always always, even though they say flings are just fun that you forget after they happen. You don’t, in my opinion. Both parties are damaged. Okay, moral monitor freakout over.) Anyways, I think it’s simple why the above statement is true.
And that day, Coach Shiner only proved my point further. Her brilliant idea? Dancing. SQUARE dancing, in mixed partners. Say it with me again, everyone: GYM SUCKS. GYM SUCKS. PLUS I had to do it for two periods in a row. Fairness percentage: 0.0000001%.
And another thing: My partner was the jerk that was Nate.
Nate Burlington was the new guy. He was an exchange student, but just from New York. Um, we thought. No one really heard him talk. No, he only did that when it was to make a dig at me.
Nate was what some more swoony girls (which it’s painfully obvious I’m not) would consider cute. I however, considered him an absolute scumbag. I think, now that I look back on it, that I hated him so much because he reminded me of Jess. I just couldn’t handle that, that deprived starving feeling he always gave me, so I automatically wrote him off. That and he was a total pig- did I mention that? I thought so.
“So fate’s thrown us together again, huh, beautiful?” He said to me in a voice that suggested I was anything but.
“I guess so. Now go away.” I tried to walk away to the bleachers (gray, like the rest of that
school- why did the academic committee see it fitting to not only stick us in some building for the longest time with people we despise, but they have to make it color-coordinated with our moods- gray and BLAH), but of course he followed me.
“Oh, c’mon Claire, I know you love me. We both know it,” He did this weird eyebrow thing. Grrrrrrrrr.
“Yes, I confess- I’m madly in love with you. I write about you in my diary all the time: “Dearest diary, Nate was a jerk for the 176th day in the row. Plus he ate a banana, and I took the peel- score, bite marks!- He’s soooooo dreamy.”
He grinned. “See? I knew it,” The grin fell when he saw some of his jock buddies (he wasn’t a jock, but he hang out with them anyways), and turned around, pretending he had never spoken to me.
Ladies and gentlemen, the mess that was my Italian roommate, as I would find out soon enough. Ain't life just lovely?
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