One morning in English class we were assigned a “free write”-with a topic (somehow I was under the strange impression that free meant anything). We had to describe a scene so I grab my number two pencil excited by a finally creative assignment. I end up writing something along the lines of this:

“Sweat mats your hairline and glues strands of blonde to the nape of your neck. The dust dances in the light of your head lamp- your view is limited to that scarce cone of light. The trickling of a stream beckons you into further darkness. Your unsure feet hesitantly step on the cave floor as you approach your destination. You reach your hand into the underground stream to feel the stone at the bottom. It feels like ice. You anoint your face with the freezing water and…”

This was as far as I got because the all powerful teacher asked for volunteers to share. My hand eagerly darts into the air but the teacher doesn’t see it- or doesn’t want to. A blonde who is not actually a natural blond but still gives blonds a bad name’s hand timidly (the timid-ness was just for theatrics- we all knew she would be called on) makes it’s dizzy way to the air. She looks to her friend and giggles. They were cool because they knew what was going on we should all worship them right? ummmmmmmmm…uhhhh…sure (says the average 7th grader)

The teacher calls on giggly making her drone on about some mall scene where some idiot that she didn’t know asked her out and her friend was there who she periodically looked at and giggled.

My hand still waves impatiently in the air finally getting a chance from Queen teacher with a sigh. I tell my imaginary tale of the blonde cave adventurer every so often looking to the teacher to see if she approved. I could tell she was organizing some way to correct me. I finished and unnatural blonde type number one says

“You have been in a like (dizzy pause) cave” she said in her airy tired voice that only she could engineer. I ignore her and look to the teacher.

“You never ever use the second person. It is never necessary. I see this in your writing all the time. You never say you!” she says pretending to address the whole class but really addressing me.

If one cannot write in the second person I should not be in this school that is why I switched schools to move away from a few certain ones who used the correct person.

I can emphasize with this alleged second person- being daughter number two. We are not cool enough to be first yet not low key enough to be third.

I wish I could talk to you without being eaten by a certian one.

Locket

This last Christmas as I bound down the stairs barley achieving equilibrium in sliding socks I anticipate this years Christmas. The scent of the annual Christmas breakfast casserole reminds me (as if I could forget) that it was Christmas. I doubted that the scent was coming from my vegetarian half, but it made me happy all the same.
Santa out-did himself when he gave me a beautiful locket. I snatch the treasure out of the stylish box and fumble to clasp it around my neck. Of course it does not mach my customary Christmas pajamas, but it will do.


After the holiday was over and the excitement of the new toys had worn off I still proudly wore my pictureless locket around my neck. After some dramatic picture taking of the locket some part of the locket breaks, leaving it open. I could leave it that way and say it symbolizes something, but instead I hand it to my father for fixing.

The locket still remains broken, but I don’t mind. It still is beautiful sharing the platform above small counter with the microwave. I am glad Santa still lets me admire it…

My new name

Because I have been cyber-named, I now am “daughter #2”. I have started this blog in protest to this painfully mundane name. On my mother’s blog I am referred to by this name. Just like the name she gave me at birth to survive with in the real world, I will have to survive in this strange foreign modern world we call the internet with the bland term “daughter number two”.
Because my mother loves to write fiction I have to correct some falsities that she said about me on her blog. I know saying these things is not her fault, because she was cursed with a love of fiction since birth.

• I have not, nor ever will, spend more than $50 on jeans.
• I forgive the tooth fairy and only blame myself for producing bad worthless teeth.
• I am not as boring as my terrible name suggest

I understand that the normal needy boring wannabe thirteen year old twelve year old would be a much more interesting character for the daughter of my mother from the fiction stand point. I am afraid that I let down my mother in not being normal.

I apologize, O great world of semi nonfiction!