The drill here is to use all three words chosen for the drill, with only five minutes to write in. no warning.
She looked at the road, whipping past in pale shades of mottled egg grey. Like a faded memory of a highway, bleached by disinterest and time, sun and the endless run of tires that ran the Pacific coastal highway. Bold painted lines slashed past her feet, without anything between her and the world – no carpet, no floor. Just a bike and a girl and a vendetta. And a stupid helmet that made her feel like a bobble head doll. The guy who had sold her the bike said she’d get used to it soon enough, but still. The leather suit was certainly fun.
The sea stretched out to her right like a lover’s limb, as she peeled along the PCH. Anywhere south, anywhere. More coast, more lovers. More more.
She had never done this trip without John, without his warmth in the driver’s seat, and without his arm straddling the back of her chair, both comforting and trapping her safely in the front bench of their sedan. But thanks to their divorce settlement, she finally had the money to head south. Drag her sorry ass away from the cubicle again, back to the shores and jungles she loved.
Now, without his warm smothering arms, without the calm safety of cruise control and easy listening, she just enjoyed the road viscerally within reach. If she touched it, it would rip her fingers. Wonderful, dangerous.
The sunset to her right flared out in pale purple lines like a chrysanthemum. She felt the sun and the colors reaching for her and pulled over to rest at a vista point.
The sun poured in under the helmet before it was even all the way off. The wind felt rich and sultry as it pulled her hair away from her face, a soft south wind foretelling the weather she was driving into.
He had a choice.
Attend the prom with Jen, and keep his status as unquestioned School Stud, King of everything. Jen would probably spend the night looking good for the school’s paparazzi and her underlings, all those damn drones buzzing around her, adoring hangers on of the queen bee of the school. Or he could do what he wanted to.
Lenore. Crap. What kind of parent had named a black haired, black eyed, poetic crucified genius after an Edgar Allen Poe icon.
Never would have ever friended her in real life. She’d been a grade ahead, and they shared a love of painting – which he tried to hide – because he only ever did anything about it at the community center. He thought he was the only kid in CHS who ever went there, but no. Lenore.
They talked sometimes at the centre, about stuff that never interests anyone but artists, convergence and shading and the many choices presented by a color wheel.
But then she friended him on Facebook. And he saw her portfolio, her witty wordplay, and her unique and oddball way of looking at the world. He followed her life, shared her love of coffee and bluejays, and felt a real connection to something for the first time. He finally got the gumption to start messaging. And it was really talking. A lot. Almost all night.
Now, he spent all his time in Football practice thinking of the way her hair swishes. And waiting for her facebook messages.
Jen would wear a swishy glittering slutfest dress. Lenore would wear a beautiful black slinky thing with no cleavage, just dark against pale, soft skin.
What to do. Expectation, or desire? Proms were supposed to be for girls.