"Let's . . . just give it back to me and . . we'll pretend this thing never happened."
"If only life was that easy."
"Wha--it's mine. It's my property!"
"Oh, it yours alright."
"Please, just . . . give it back."
"Come on, get it. Get!"

Ms. Eden swivels away from the driver side door as her denim jacket flaps onto the fat windshield of the obese Red Family Wagon, in the Blue Ridge back parking lot.

The air is infested with the sharp smell of diesel, cheap rubber, burnt plastic and juvenile delinquency.

Other times, this specific scent would mark as the enjoyment of my adolescence.

That time is not now.

"Come on, boy. Come on, get it!"

She yaps from the passenger side window, waving the brown cover of the Blue Ridge Curriculum as the bustling frequency of her smile produces a sudden buzz on the window with thin vibration.

I produce a couple of steps around the engine block but the hindrance is put midway between her and I as my knee bumps on the plastic fender.

My trial of not looking pathetic is failing since the Gotfrey Newell in the arched mirror of the ugly Station Wagon is treading the arrival disposition before a frustrated squeal fires the tear ducts.

I stop in my step as I rest my hand on the cool metal of the bonnet.

In school, before the nosy Guidance Counselor, Francis Cain used to occupy the same office, with the same title but following a completely different protocol. His method was investing the time and energy in " Spirituality " but unlike the stereotypical vision of the word where people are dressed as Hippies with flowers hanging from every opening of their body, he understood the meaning of the theme to the fullest to practice it everyday without being sidelined by popular belief.

'Forgiveness to a wrong doing, aimed at you, is the best way peace can truly be achieved.'

The only way to counter a bully is to show no remorse, no reaction, no crease around the face from frowns or distinctly pronounced slangs.

I let the piston of my chest pump as the O2 floors my air tank.

I try to create the most neutral facial expression, possible by the long list of attractive traits of Gotfrey Newell.

I imagine a great Hindu Cow, sitting cross legged with a shawl around its belly and passed through its fatty shoulder.

Medium rare Steaks.

"Oh . . Frey . . are you gonna cry? Um . . please don't. I'll give it back . . don't cry . . here."

I hold posture as I lick my lips, advocating body languages to prove her to that I am on the verge of releasing emotional baggage through the medium of water.

"It's alright . . . just don 't . . cry. Jeez!"

Her right arm extends over from the driver side as the brown cover hovers over the metal hood.

I disperse a large sigh, selling the lie to her that I have tolerated her childish acts which are definitely inappropriate for many apparent reasons.

I command my right arm to grasp onto the notebook.

It slips.

Her hand retracts itself back to her anatomical structure like a robotic hand.

"Huh!"
"Ms. Eden . . . why . . just please!"
"You fell for it! You totally did!"

The voice forgets how to pronounce any more words as the barrel of laughter tips over and floods the empty tarmac with alternative frequencies of chortle.

There's the keen, screeching sound of Ms. Jordi smiling, the usual tone of her polite smirk whenever someone asks an obvious question at the desk. Then the rhythm is substituted by a deep tone, emerging from her chest which mimics the timbre of Mrs. Gideon.

Ms. Eden is a woman of many types of laughter.

She's unpredictable.

"Even though, I did not believe mum at first when she said that Sixth sense is present in humans and it is only a matter of time before scientific researches all have to bow down to Spiritual Guidelines. But I knew she could have a point when I saw Jackie's fist fidgeting to an open and a pressured close."

I freeze, like the cold of the bonnet as the voice trails from the back of the car.

These are the crucial first few lines of the introductory paragraph, in the first page.

I let go off the red hood as I trudge along the side of the car to stop this from revealing to the world.

The word 'Spirituality' is now out of practice.

The peaceful Hindu cow is now a burger patty.

"Ms. Eden . . . please just . . stop!"

Through the transparent and hideous read window , I can see her cruel pair of lips, giving birth to a sly smirk as her hand smoothens the folds of the page and carries on with the words.

The narrator in the back is my current biggest problem to solve.

"For breakfast, I was keen on having an extra grilled Cheese and Ham Sandwich, especially the type of food mum warned me to avoid. But breakfast was bumped down from the list of actions because of the mumbling words between Jackie and Clay--"

She pauses as her voice harbors a sudden deepness.

I stop my inconclusive chase, momentarily to listen to her resume.

"--talking in a weak dialect that was supposed to ensure secrecy."

She halts again in her read as the notebook is pushed to a close to locate my material self who is not fully committed to the idea of what will happen when I chase her down.

Her eyes does not spell frantic laughter. My imagination shows me a glint of concentration in them.

Then, without notice, the feverish smirk invites itself on her lips again as she bounces away to the driver side, passenger door.

I unfreeze to follow her.

"I was more baffled with myself rather than attentive to what they were talking about since my mind worried about finding what had gone wrong in the last few days or the week. Then the obvious stared me down to take notice of Jackie's parent marriage, the primary feature of all things that are evil and unholy in his premature life."

"Ms. Eden . . please, it's not funny anymore."
"It isn't . . it's just getting good!"

She stops to aware herself about my progression in the chase, as her neck cranes down to inspect the rear view mirror.

"Please . . . . just give it back, now!"
"Not till . . . I finish it!"

Looking satisfied, she flicks open the belly of the notebook as her head tilts like a camera to find the leftover paragraph.

It is now or never since after admitting Jackie's life long trauma, I continue to slag off Lisa and the unconfirmed length of her slutty acts of moving on from a sinking ship, rather than grabbing a bucket to salvage her son's life.

It is only the beginning of the passive aggressiveness.

I recall all the suitable and appropriate use of adjectives that I used to describe Lisa's failing character in the upcoming paragraph.

I have never used words like. 'Skunk' , 'Slut' , 'Selfish' , 'Lack of commitments' , 'a woman with no morale nor sensibility'.

It started off in the quite frank and open juvenile use of terms before my mother's voice nonchalantly advised me to crank it up more with higher humane sense.

"I wish I had knew Lisa in the way she always wanted everyone to know herself. But then again I take that wish back before it gets granted because then, like everyone else, I would be a fool too. And I do not enjoy being a fool, not for the usual reasons of ego. But for the scale of performance and statistics."

There's a pause where Ms. Eden's throat pulses for air.

"Lisa has probably become neurotic and forgot how old she is or how to act her age, but I do not take pride in being right all the time. In the past few--"

These is the prime second before 'Sink or Swim' just becomes an aspect of human life that I have not succeeded in experiencing.

There is no plan on how to stop Ms. Eden but time is not on my side.

I am asked to pounce to maintain the balance shades of grey and white, crimes and purity of my social self image.

I feel the boney caress of her forearm on my right hand. Her denim jacket has been punished to overuse as the instant touch tells the tale of grubby skin.

The narrator is manhandled.

The sound of an underused grammar notebook feels louder than a gunshot as it pummels to the tarred tarmac with a thump.

I quickly let go off her right hand elbow as I spot the flabbergasted expression of Ms. Eden on the left hand mirror.

She turns around to present me the actual image that is born through the practice of my boundary issues and accomplice desperation.

The air is so soft and clean that, if I listen very closely I bet I could hear the heavy steps of Mrs. Bonneville, working her ancient legs to get to her colorless front garden.

"I'm sorry . . I'm-" I mouth.

She says nothing. For the sake of it, I imagine a monstrous explosion of words out of her mouth.

This has gone too far.

"I'm sorry . . I didn't . . I didn't mean to push . . you . . I'm-"

My eyes latches onto the dead body of the notebook which is watching its master make a fool of himself in front of a woman.

Her body churns away without a sigh as she joins in my conundrum of noticing.

I quickly crouch down to capture the parchment of embarrassment and accurate thoughts of mine, before she tries to.

She does not try nor follow through with any words.

"I'm sorry . . Ms. Eden . . I didn't mean to . . touch you . . I mean push you . . . I was just trying to get this-"

The woman with the variable auras of laughter is silent.

I can feel the blood rushing upwards to hide in the ducts along of my ear. They feel hot; like leftover lukewarm tea.

"I don't want you to read it . . . I don't want anyone to read it . . especially you . . because I don't want you to think bad of me-"

She gazes at the border of my jaw before providing her attention to the far right as her body leans back on the fat car's belly.

"This was a mistake . . . I'll get rid of these soon. Right away. I'll burn it . . . and throw it away in Elvis Peak . . . I hope you understand. . . I'm not like this . . I did not mean anything I wrote!"

I meant every little word.

It was a work, done by the great Gotfrey Newell who does not care or think about Social acceptance.

To him, this is a work of art.

"I'm sorry . . . I hope you didn't read it-"

The guilty is setting in on my head. Like the blood, remorse and regret both have the same hiding place.

My aimless view spots her shoes before the layered grey and black dots of the tarmac becomes too dull.

Her boots are chipped at the sides, ruffled leather sits in the middle, untied shoelaces are spread out like leftover noodles in a cup.

I prod my head up to meet her disposition. Without this episode ending with her disappointment in me, for what I have wrote and for how I behaved, I will not be able to take my leave.

But from examining the scale of my acceptance to her, I conclude that running away cannot do any more damage that a light shove did not do.

Even though it was just a light shove, it was a shove.

I am discarded as guilty by the power of symbolism.

She seems to emerge from her emotionless appearance.

I can see her lips, frozen blood colored beans.

"You have . . .you have read it, haven't you?"
"Yes, I have."
"Oh . . no."
"A couple of times."
"God!"

The evening rolls back to the afternoon's laughter as the same tune flushes out of her mouth in quick succession.

I am both relieved and flattened by both of the prospect of her actions.

"It's good."
"It isn't ."
"It's very honest, Frey."
"It's private."
"I like how angry it is. Like, so much hatred put in one simple paragraph or-"
"It's embarrassing."
"For example. . . to show you how Red it is."

She coughs the last serving of her chortle as her hand collects the notebook from the crease of my arm.

I do not retaliate.

"Um . .where is it . . yeah got it!" She mumbles the beginning to the build up.

I do not stop her.

It is a strange feeling.

"My mum is probably around the matured age of reaching 40 in a few years. But I won't make the mistake of comparing Mum to someone like Lisa because my mother is sitting lightyears above the standard level of housewives. It would be unfair to Lisa and indecent to my mother."

She pauses but does not speak. Only lets her brows pop upwards.

I cannot obstruct the flow of an embarrassed laughter from my face.

"I noticed how she puts on lipstick, checking every corner of the rearview mirror to see if every inch of her lips are covered with the only signal necessary for someone to understand that, this woman still expects to be checked out by bystanders, stray guys at Supermalls. There's no reason for a married woman to feel attracted by anyone else. I have seen Rommery's mother during special occasion, such as Board meetings, in the local Feminism club where she wears everyday office clothes with no vigor of being superior or flashy. This is the stray--"

"Please, stop . . . It's so embarrassing!"

My words are lies as I try to kill my swooning smirk.

She understands my inner thought of hearing more.

"I like this part the most, by the way-"
"No."

"I wanted to see life in Jackie, even though from where we standing, it was being clear that he was angry. I secretively longed to see his fist aimed at my head, despite of having a half lodged broken nose--"

Ms. Eden stops to keen eye my straight spine nostrils.

"It was the least he could do but I wished he had done it, because it would show, Jackie Hemphry knows more emotion than the one hopeless blue he has been drowning himself into, lately."

There's another pause before I feel the climax of my own self.

She narrates without stuttering even once.

"If anyone crossed me, disturbed someone I loved and cared about, in any and all way, like a hate mail, I would have done a lot to that unfortunate kyke. A lot more than just an aggressive shove to enforce violence. And I would go to sleep at night in peace and no self-question of my acts of violence."

The silence is comforting now, like a hug which suffocates and inundates one in a thrilling sense of satisfaction.

"This . . . is quite something."
"No, it isn't . . and I don't know why you keep saying that."
"It's brilliant, Frey."
"It's not. I'm gonna throw it away the next chance I get. I'll lob it in that Elvis Peak."
"In that case, I'm keeping it."
"Alright, I won't."

I step forward to snatch it out of her hands.

No manhandling included.

"Course you won't. You like it. As much as I do. Maybe more."

I understand when my mother can assume what I am thinking or feeling about a certain topic because of various reasons such as: Living together, intuition, subconscious tells of body language, hereditary traits.

But it is uncanny how she knows.

"No. . I don't. . Just . . can I have it now?"

She does not answer since her eyes are again running through a paragraph solicited to Dolorous.

"I thought you didn't like books. Or read them."
"I don't . . I try to avoid studying as academically possible."
"Then how do you . . .explain these? I mean, it's not publication great. . . you misspelled some words like recess . . and don't even get me started about the commas-"
"I know. It's not good."
"No, no. It's better for . . . a . . . middle schooler."

She chirps the laughter to light the sarcasm.

I don't correct her. It is a sign that this conversation is more profound and strangely important to follow the inborn rules of debating tips, tricks and aggressive thrashes of facts.

"But the plot though. . . it's good. Strangely . . it's kind solid but then vague again."

She searches a response in myself but finds nothing than an agape mouth.

"I mean, I can see this . . Jackie, Clay. . . how they act through the whole thing and Lisa and Dolorous . . and Boy! The things you wrote about them!"
"Please, don't tell my mother about this. Or anyone in fact."
"I won't. I'm just . . surprised to see that even though I don't know any of these people or what they do but I still somehow understand and approve how they want to go . . It' strange . . . and that's good."

My retort falls dumb as the roadside street lamps flick on like several torchlights. The rays bounce of the fat red car and mushes the leftover glow on her dark blue shirt.

I notice that I am staring after her eye brows shoots the question again.

"I dunno. . I don't write. My mother does. She's an editor for a paper. She writes all kinds of . . . . articles. We discuss them a lot. . . It's our mutual ground."
"Uh-huh."

She grunts with the same sly smirk plastered on her lips. I can understand that she is not fully convinced and I should thank the parking lot lamp post which is throwing rays at a suitable angle for reading her eye's diction.

"What?"
"You know, you could just ask."
"Um . . . ask about what?"
"You could just take a form from Jordi and fill it out."
"I don't know. . I don't know what you are talking about."
"You want to be in the Free Hand Writing and Literature , don't you?"

She wets her lips as they reveal themselves alongside a confronting smile.

I am momentarily caught between speaking the absolute truth that I want nothing to do with any classes. The second choice sits in the socially acceptable lie of agreeing with someone on something silly just for the sake of avoiding any heated words.

"You do, don't you? This was your . . little way of asking, isn't it?"
"Um--"
"Admit it, this was sorta a stunt. A literary stunt."

She breaks her posture of power with the arrival of a laughter.

"It's not." I answer.

"Okay, it's not."
"Really?"
"Yeah, if you don't want to, if you say it's not, then it's not."

Our gazes are flinging suspicion and intuition at each other.

6 must have already passed on the clock as the evening glow is churning its dying pride to the night's inky arrogance. I don't know about her but for my own sake, and also to prove to my mother than I am upright and respectful to my morals of family, I have to get home.

"Can I . . have my book back . . please?"
"No."
"No? But it's mine . . I need it for exercises and . . such . . tests."

One of the key tips of debate or acquiring high ground in a heated conversation is delivery.

I am losing touch.

"No, you don't. And besides, if I do give you this, there's this chance that your--"

She stops to flick through the pages to a side note.

"Your juvenile delinquency might result in something regrettable. Like causing damage to this."

"So, what are you going to do with it?"
"Keep it. After all, I am the sensible one . . . between the both of us."

The car door blinks after the push and puts a halt to my weak response. To be fair, I only use that notebook whenever the exercise is easy enough to do or when I decide to convolute paper with my angry, pure thoughts.

She turns the cabin light on as her hand reaches down to the seat to adjust the arch of her back.

"Besides, you don't want to see the answer sheet. You're real shit at Punctuation! You got a C."

The car snarls into life and also to shame me on my lack of attention as it coughs, rumbles; giving birth to an unhealthy vibration on the bonnet.

Unlike me, she looks satisfied with the vehicle's questionable state.

"The class's on Friday evening. This is yours when I see you."

There's no exchange of farewells or conclusive ends to the conversation from Ms. Eden.

"Friday."

I mumble as the strange sensation tingles up to my spine before it transforms into a half executed smile.

"Friday."