Gray Days

"Wake up, Hon," Emmy whispered into my ear as she slowly shook me awake. I groaned softly. I rolled over and tried to open my eyes but all I could manage was a squint.

I could make out Emmy across my empty room in the almost darkness lighting a cold fire in my hearth.

A cold fire for a cold room, I thought. How typical.

My room is just a room, hardly a bedroom. Actually,it's pretty large for just any room. It's almost a ballroom. It's only a bit smaller than the one downstairs. The walls are blank, a drab grayish color. They almost look black in this early light. A faint white glow spills across the empty room, almost touching the heels of Emmy's shoes.

From where my head lay on my hard pillow, I could see out my window. It's a plain window with no special frame or anything. There used to be curtains once when I was little. I remember they were yellow with little pink flowers. But that was a long time ago. Through the still dead branches of the tree outside, I could see the flat gray sky. It's just the same as usual.

Just another gray day, I whispered inside my head.

watercolor by Brett

Suddenly, jolting me out of my thoughts, a door slammed. I sighed loudly. A door slamming only means one thing in this house - fighting. Almost every morning my mom and dad fight over breakfast, and it always ends with my dad slamming the door as he rushes off to work. It's usually over something stupid like bills, but each time it completely destroys my mother. It never used to be this way.

"Don't worry!" Emmy calls from across the room. "I'm sure some good will come of this day!" she said cheerfully. She knows what the door slams means too. I didn't answer back. Sometimes it¹s better not to.

Unfortunately, no good ever does come from anything anymore. Emmy knows that but she just tries to make the best of things. She knows how hard this is for me.

"Come on, now," she said. She was standing next to my bed. The cold fire was blazing.

"You better get up and ready for school." She knows that I don't want to go. I never do.

I reluctantly crawled out of bed and trudged over the wooden floors over to my closet. It's not really a closet. It's more like a shed. It just has two wooden doors and a bar across to hang stuff on. Besides the bed and the small stool next to the fire, it's the only furniture in the room.

The doors felt even heavier today as I pulled them open. I felt really weak. Even in my dreary world, I've had better days.

I glanced inside my closet. I don't even know why I bother. It looks exactly the same way every single day. There are always four plain pleated gray skirts hanging neatly on the right side of the closet, five white polo shirts on the left with two of my school's sweatshirts in the middle. Below my uniforms is a shelf where I keep the only clothes that I actually picked out. My little wardrobe consists of a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, a blue shirt, a red shirt, and an orange tank top. It's all my grandmother will permit me. But they might as well not exist. She never lets me wear them. She thinks that all little girls should dress "properly" in formalwear. She thinks my style is tasteless. She buys me all these skirts and conservative shirts, but she wouldn't dare ever put them in my closet. She keeps them in my mother's closet. I told her once that if I ever found one of her things in my closet, I would take torch to it all. I think she believed me.

Rolled up in balls in the corner are my undergarments and things. "Unmentionable things" as my grandmother would say. She says young ladies shouldn't think about such inappropriate things. I was almost a "B" cup before she let me get my first bra.

Next to that are my shoes, neatly lined up. My shoes are pretty much my only form of me, my creativity. Even my casual clothes don't reflect me. It's easy to get away with small things like shoes in this house. My favorite pair is the plastic, yellow boots with black laces. I wear them everyday. Next in line are my second favorite - pink Puma sneakers with Velcro straps. Then come the black leather pumps ­ my grandmother's choice. I only wear them on the days Grandmother comes to inspect me. I'm her "project."

The thing that never ever changes about my closet is how clean it is. I can see my reflection in the back wooden panel. It's really weird having a clean closet. It's nice, but change would be good even if it was only two specs of dust.

I pulled my clothes on and went to the bathroom down the hall. As I washed my face and brushed my hair, I looked at my distorted face in the cracked mirror. Grandmother wouldn't let Emmy replace it. I could see a new pimple rising on my forehead.

So what else is new?

As I walked down the stairs to the kitchen, I could hear my boots echoing as they pounded on the marble floor. I could see the reflection of my yellow boots and my legs in the shiny marble. I traced three fingers along the wall in the paths that my fingers have been grooving since I was old enough to reach that high.

I sat down at the kitchen table and nibbled at my already soggy cereal. My mother was all the way at the other end of the table with her head buried in her arms crying. We have one of those really long formal tables used for big dinners and stuff. I'm at one end and she's at the other. I don't say anything to her. You never say anything about anything in the house. She doesn't even notice me. She never does. It's kind of odd, me eating my breakfast normally while my mother's crying. That's just the way it is.

So I started off on my way to school walking by myself. I've always walked by myself. Other kids walk with their friends. They laugh and they talk and shout. They never ask me to walk with them. They just walk on by. Sometimes I feel like I'm invisible. They see right through me.

My school is kind of weird. It's called St. Jordan's. It'sone of those prestigious Catholic schools, but there's nothing holy about it. It might as well be a public school. The halls are dingy and littered, the bathroom walls are covered with graffiti and phone numbers, the locker room is filled with mold and cigarette smoke. In a sea of students I'm just a number. I don't know anyone and no one knows me. My teachers don't know my name, nor do I know most of theirs, not even my own. They wouldn't even notice if I didn't do my homework for a year. I walk the halls like a ghost. I bump into people and they bump into me. They don't even notice.

Our cafeteria is just like any other, only ten times bigger. The food is normal cafeteria food ­ almost unrecognizable and tasteless. Today seems no different than any other day. I always sit at the same table, in the same corner, always by myself. I just sit there and try to pretend like I' thinking about something really interesting, but it never works.

I always end up feeling sorry for myself.

drawing by Ariana

But today was different. Today someone sat with me.

"Hi, can I sit here?" asks a voice. I guess I must have been staring or something because he asked again. I didn't answer, so he sat down. He was really cute. He was tall, with dark hair and green eyes. Just my type.

I guess I must have been staring again because he raised his hand to my face and said slowly, "Heeeelllllooooo?" I blinked.

"Hello," I managed to whisper. "Why are you sitting with me?" My eyes darted around to see if anyone was looking, but no one had noticed. No one ever sits with me. The guy almost looked hurt.

"Why? Is there something wrong?" he questioned.

"No, no, no!" I didn't want to scare him off. "It's just that no one ever sits with me. Why are you here?" He kind of shrugged.

"It's kind of hard to believe that no one sits with the prettiest girl in school!" he said in a teasing manner. I blushed uncontrollably. No one had ever called me pretty before. I couldn't say anything. He stared at me for a while. I stared at him staring at me.

"I'm Andrew. I'm new here," he introduced himself, extending his hand. I shook it, and he gave my hand a small squeeze. He seemed to hold it for an extra second.

"I'm Marisa," I said. "Well, nice to meet you, Marisa," he smiled. He didn't just say things; he smiled them. It was kind
of odd, but I liked it.

drawing by April

He began to tell me about himself. He came from a small town upstate where everyone knew everyone else. He told me all about his friends from his old town and all about his family. I asked why he left, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it. I didn't pry; we all have things to hide. He started to ask questions about me. I tried not to tell too much. I didn't want to steal the conversation - besides I didn't really want to tell him what goes on in my life. It's too personal. I think he sensed that because suddenly he blurted out, "You have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen." I didn't have a chance to reply before he melted into the crowd. I walked around the rest of the day with stars in my eyes.

That night, I fell asleep with a smile on my face and woke up the next morning with Andrew on my mind. As Emmy lit a warm fire in the hearth, I looked out my window through the wavering branches, now sprouting green, searching for the sky.

by Sarah

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