Once upon a time….

baha just kidding.

I couldn’t think of anything to write. And I’ve been wanting to write that for a long time. The trouble is, even though every time I start a new post I want those words to start it out, I never have anything to follow them with. Maybe someday I’ll have something to follow “Once upon a time.” Even today, when I attempted to have something flow gloriously from typing “Once upon a time” it was complete and utter crap that came out. I randomly busted out some crap story about dinosaurs. And then I tapped the shit out of my “backspace” key because I thought, Katie, what the hell?! No one wants to hear a story about how you like dinosaurs but know nothing about dinosaurs nor do you really have a good story about why you like dinosaurs. So then I had to think of something else.

And now you got that story.

Actually, I’m gonna do something a little… different. And weird. And awkward.

I started writing something. You know, one of those secret things. The kinds of secrets you don’t tell anyone about. Not even your best friend. Because it’s one of those things that is scary to share because you love it so much and would absolutely die if someone told you it was stupid or that you should just give up your dream right now because there’s no shot in hell you’ll ever be good enough. It’s one of those dreams that you put away in a secret drawer to keep safe because it means that much.

But I’m gonna be brave, friends. I’m gonna share my special drawer-secret with you.

It’s brand new, this one is, and I wanted to share it. (I also didn’t know what else to put up for a post today.)

So here we go. It’s untitled thus far. But it’s mine.

—-

I was riding my classic Schwinn bicycle when I saw him step out of the car. The car was red and one I had never seen before. I didn’t pay any attention to the make or model because it never made any difference to me; I didn’t know cars. His brown hair was longer than I had remembered but it looked nice all the same, albeit a little greasy. My skirt billowed as I rode against the breeze and I felt my beachy curls begin to tangle. I had gone to visit the old lady with all the books, as I called her, and was coming home because my brother was due to show up that afternoon after his last final let out. Before I left, Mrs. Covington (the old lady with all the books) had filled my palms with caramel and butterscotch, just as she had done for the past fifteen years. Since I didn’t have pockets, I put them in the basket on the front of my bike.

He obviously had not seen me as I cruised past the driveway. His face, I noticed, bared no emotion. The hard line of his strong jaw was straight and his eyes bore ahead of him towards the front of the house. I was so surprised, I could not, for the life of me, think of anything to say to even get his attention.

The candy in the basket scattered on the grass when I hopped off my bike and left it in the yard. I didn’t pick it up. Instead, I ran as fast as my flats would carry me into the kitchen, where I knew my mom would be preparing dinner.

“Why didn’t you tell me Patrick was coming home?” I asked her.

It sounded more like an accusation, like she had deliberately held information from me and I had just discovered the truth. She did not like how I spoke to her, I could tell, because her face clouded with confusion and then slid into the expression I recognized as her disapproving of the tone I had used. “Patrick McKenna?”

“What other Patrick would I be talking about?” I snapped at her without thought.

“I didn’t know Patrick was coming home,” she told me as she reached for her glass of chardonnay. “Kath didn’t say anything on our walk this morning about him coming back.”

“Well,” I said impatiently, standing squarely in the kitchen, obviously flustered, “he’s here. He’s back. I just saw him get out of his car and go inside!”

Just then, Jack, my step-dad, strode into the kitchen and tossed his keys on the counter. It was a Friday, so Jack had finished early for the day and headed up north for the weekend. It was the common practice for summertime. He pulled the hem of his polo shirt from the waist of his khakis as he leaned in to place a kiss on my mom’s cheek and I wondered why he had so much fun playing golf every Friday.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said to me with a nod in my direction. “What the hell’s your bike doing in the lawn like that with all that candy everywhere?”

“I was in a hur-” I began.

“Patrick came home,” my mom told him, interrupting me. The significant glance between my parents was not lost on me.

“McKenna?” he asked immediately. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

—-

Thoughts?

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