"Get in."

"What?"

"I mean, get inside."

"No, I'm fine . . . here."

"So, are you going to stand out there for the next 15 minutes?"

I'm wearing the face of confusion whilst the air swings the cackle of Ms. Eden.

"I think I should . . . just stay out here." I breathe out and check the windows for any pressed face against the glass with scrutinizing eyes that are pointed at us.

But the parking lot of Blue Ridge Curriculum feels safe since the only people are a pack of dense looking 20 year olds, shuffling feet with the shadows bouncing off of the walls of the 2nd floor.

"You can read the whole thing in 15?" The question seeps in more surprise than intended because I believe in fast readers, like Mum who goes through the economy page in less than 10 minutes and carries on with her sarcastic examination of the fashion articles.

"Maybe. Not with that handwriting." Ms. Eden squints which makes her baggy eyes fluff out like an over poured cup of yoghurt.

"Is than an 'S' or a 'P'? Looks like a 'D' to me. You spelled cannibalism wrong." The laughter again breaks out like a pop song on the radio, hurting all the current frequencies, as well as my pride.

"Oh."

She doesn't go with further examination to see if my depression is comical or genuine.

"You really ought to practice some swirls. Those letters just look too malnourished. Too out of care."

She guffaws another set of laughter but instead of bluntly carrying on after the mark of her insult, she looks around as her hand trails over the corners of my Blur Ridge notebook.

I track her movement via the side view mirrors where the glass lets in an image of a pasty face, decorating the border with her brown hair which is becoming borderline dark from the crafty light.

I feel no emotion, no purse to admire anything or find anything attractive or attentive.

The smell of the red van, which is a mix of gasoline, overridden rubber tires along with a sniff of engine oil is blocking all the human thrive like a damn dam.

I am a blank canvass where the brown scuff marks of problems are scattered like indiscipline soldiers, not barricaded by any silver linings.

"Why don't you want to get in?" She asks in a giddy tone as the reflection curves her lips in.

"Isn't it 4 or already? I think I should . . . head in. Don't you have to like . . . go in the teacher's lounge and prepare for the class? "

I can see the resemblance between me and my mother because I have seen my mother in a funk.

Funk is a kind of word which means something depressive or awful but sounds like fun from afar. It was first heard in the kitchen when mum's headache kept her from pressing the receiver to close to her earlobes.

I heard Jan's voice which secreted the expression "Are you in a funk?" and the term "Funk" bounced off of mum's cheek, making her pull the phone closer to her like an unwanted lover.

My mother is more than enough knowledgeable to keep morale on high, on all times.

"I'm doing my best to avoid Jordi. It's Wednesday so Lance isn't here and she thinks I'm interested in helping her make that God awful fashion catalogue."

The image in the side view mirror finches, stoops to a lower enough to see the top of her head.

"See her anywhere?"

The fact is, Ms. Eden does not need to practice discretion by lowering her head in the cabin of the car. The Red van with the half repaired front bumper and the uncanny brightness are two biggest giveaways.

"No."

I can't even feel vindication or the surge of insult within myself.

I am numb, faceless. Without drive or aim.

I feel like a fashion store mannequin.

Instead of being put on display to showcase the new range of personalities on clothing, I am structured to advertise the lowest standard of the mentality of an adolescent.

"I can't send you a formal invitation to get in the car." She pauses and her throat changes the dial of her personality up to serious. "I won't ask again."

"It looks. . . bad."

"To who? It's not like we are dragging a dead body or something."

Momentarily, Ms. Eden loses commitment to her arduous tone as the fickle butts in.

"They'll probably think you're playing favorites with your students."

"I'm the teach. I can do anything I want. And, I was with them for 2 months now. They probably know who's the favorite and who's not."

I imagine Ms. Eden as the sort of the teacher who picks the best, the shiniest packet of Danish Sweets for one of her approve students in class on their birthday. And the rest of them have to be satisfied and celebrate their birthdays with train station chocolates which have the potential to make someone throw up on contact, even raise the dead.

Mr. Parrey, one of our teachers in 6th grade was very conscious about birthdays and gifts. Before mine, he engaged in a quick chat with me during Mid term History exam. I was stuck on question 32 and wondering who or what won the battle of Waterloo.

He asked me what I was interested in, in general which was a subtle way of asking what I wanted for my birthday. I was too hard on myself for the history test because mum quizzed me hard and I spent a large portion of the night, remembering various names of ancient benefactors, jotting down the spelling for perfection.

So, I answered with indifference, "Anything's fine" There was a mug on the last day of exam, before the winter break, which was also coincidentally my birthday. The outside ceramic cover of the mug had a snowman painted on it, a suitable orange carrot for a nose and a childish yell of "Happy Birthday" in all caps.

I step around the back of the car, where the windpipe of the vehicle doesn't drip with gross sips of oil.

I latch my hand around the passenger side door handle where musty oil has sought refuge.

I don't reply to the simper of Ms. Eden straightaway because I don't know what I am hoping to get out of anything from anyone.

Her cheeks form a half crescent moon, testing the elasticity of her skin. From stealing a quick look of the spread page, I detect the word "Existential".

My hand writing can serve dual purpose of promoting self-pity as well as a depressive state of mind.

She chirps a quick chortle then glances back at me, fiddles around in the glove box and back to the notebook.

I spot a tube of lipstick, a few hair pins sit unconsciously, a pack of dislocated gum is torn apart and the black hair band watches the mess of the glove box from a distance.

"Hmm . . . heh!" She muzzles the smirk, then wipes an invisible sweat from the edge of her forehead.

She finds my ramblings amusing. I am even failing to express myself with the help of arranged words on papers which are not verbal and provide time to create.

"Is Gracie the favorite?" I ask, high on nonchalance.

I'm scoping out the competition.

"Hmm?"

"Is she the favorite one? Do you buy her expensive birthday gifts than the rest?"

Her finger pauses in the process of turning a page. I expect guilt, from the aspect of being found out but her disposition deems no remorse.

"I never bought anyone any birthday gifts. Huh, I don't even know her birthday date."

I offer a side glance to detect any tells of a lie but I don't know what facial features mean what.

I think of placing a commonplace expression, a dull "Oh" but I don't follow through.

"How's the mother?" Her inquiry slaps the notebook shut as it sits on the top of the dashboard and soaks in the strained sunlight.

"My mum?"

"Yeah." Her eye brows flick can only mean an obvious insult to my obviousness.

"She's fine. Good. She's good." I have only positive adjectives listed on my vocabulary. Even though I do not meet with the definitions of those words.

"Is she still . . . away from home?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Okay. Good."

I try to think of the goodness that came out of mum's temporary leave from the house. From her point of view, it is a good exercise to stay away from family so that the usual clichés of "Love grows through distance" and "You have to stay off of what you love to feel its importance again" can take place.

To my dad, it has been an awkward rollercoaster of half-done adult responsibilities. Having little to none culinary skills, Dad was assigned with the roll of heating a storage of food and pre home cooked meals. Mistakenly, he left the oven on which I discovered on Monday night.

On Tuesday morning, we sat in the dining table. I, scribbling out my thoughts on "Existential Crisis" as Dad tackled the latest issue of "Heart Transplants and Tech" magazine.

"It's not what you think it is. It's no affair. Mum just went on to Eleanor's. I talked to her. She sounded nice."

"I didn't . . I didn't imply anything." Her defense is weakened because of the signs of a giggling jaw.

"I have been writing." I huff the words out loud.

I am trying not to sound too impassionate but all the trials are in vein.

"So, I have seen." Her index finger knocks on the cover of the Blue Ridge notebook.

"But it's all scattered. It's everywhere. It's hard to tell what I am writing about."

Beaten up red van also works as a confessional booth.

"It's vague?"

"It's a lot. I sometimes start but don't finish."

"I do that too sometimes."

I am judging the state of her mind, the needle of her personality wheel by her voice since I am too embarrassed to establish something as strong as eye contact.

"Are you proud?" I ask as I falter to a quick look.

She's humored.

She's comical.

"Yeah, yeah. I kinda am. Weirdly."

I take it as a compliment since beggars can't be choosers.

"Personally, short stories are beginner shoes. Because they are not as intimidating like writing full blown novels of hundred pages. You know?"

Her hand gestures put me into the groove since my head bobs up and down as the eyes turn a convincing squint. I can tell that she's putting effort into it because her voice has risen up a few notches and the fact that she is completely ignoring Ms. Jordi's stance on the mouth of the entrance.

"And, you can finish a short in one sitting so the whole planning stage isn't every day. It's good to be stressed, I agree but . . . but it's important to breath in a few moments too "

I nod autonomously as her hand wisps a few hairs which were already in their normal state. The collars of her shirt rise then fall, like the ocean side on high tide.

Mrs. Bonneville's way of liking someone includes a barrel of patronizing orders, advice, to do and what not to do. Mrs. Muhr makes the most eye contact with the student she likes. Our religious teacher puts the most effort on the students who are failing in most subjects.

Ms. Eden seems to hand incentives, directions and her thoughts on writing to her favorites, without announcing them to the wind.

There are different kind of affections, in this world.

"Journals are great starters. Diary writing often gets people to become writers."

I'm not a Diary man, like Mum who uses the hard cover, well decorated book to keep track of the things that she wants to buy.

"What are you reading these -"

"How's your writing going?" I butt in the middle of her sentence, to keep hold of my side of the conversation.

She plops a smirk, her lips curling up on every side. I feel a slither of happiness in my mind.

"Why are you asking that?"

"Is it . . . still a secret?"

"It is. Yeah." She's giddy beyond description but the increase of red in her cheeks are signs that are too hard to ignore.

"Does it include this Levin guy?" I step into the mood. She cannot tell but my best act is mimicking her persona of untuned happiness.

She halts to take a breath. She can easily tell me that it is impolite to keep poking at a same question. But since she does the same with me the most, her ideology allows it to happen.

"More or less."

"Which one is it?"

She shoots another smirk, breaks eye contact at the slightest inconvenience and watches the somewhat empty tarmac where a middle aged man waves at his invisible friend inside and carries on with his walk.

"Your dad isn't a big fan of him, is he?" It's only fair that I give her the same treatment she has presented me.

Parental problems are becoming more and more popular as bonding agents.

"Well, it's nothing exclusive. It's just . . . for a little while."

This could be a deciphered sentence of her relationship with Levin that will be comatose in the upcoming days.

I don't feel bad for Levin.

"Are we never going to hear . . . to hear about Home Invasion?"

My premature smirk pauses to a slide, first then disappears as her eyeballs increase its size to highest. As far as rude remarks go, "Home Invasion" is nothing of that sort but the current state of her full blown eyes prods me to think otherwise.

"I'm sorry . . . I just want to know . . . about it. I like the characters . . . I want to know what happens."

From the silence in the air, I think about running. Wrestling with the door flap, closing it in with a strong shove and then a one breath sprint of 6 miles back to home.

"Oh, Frey! Don't say it. Don't say the . . . title. You'll jinx it!"

She motions her hands in front, parallel with a slight tremor that starts on her fingertips and mellows up to her shoulder.

Nervous smiles and eccentric, dilated pupils are all I can see.

Her posture swims on a high tide as her body rises and the hand gestures to enforce calmness.

She's one of those animal scientists, hardcore observers and wildlife enthusiasts that we see on Animal Planet. Intentionally confronting a lion, just for the kick of it.

"I think . . . I should get out." I say, still contemplating the tiresome escape.

"No, no. Stay. Now that you said it. You gone and riled me up. Damn!"

Her voice indents a mixed signal, jittery, sensitive and excited. Even though, in neutral scenery, it may sound like a scold but her face is stuck in feverish smile.

Like an overexcited clown.

"I apologize. It was wrong of me to bring up that topic." I can tell that I am in a strange sense of mind because I am quoting the dialogues of my mother's cherished and loved French Sonatas where conversation lines are too formal and clean.

Her smile stumbles to a confused look then revives its offbeat curve as she fizzes out a laughter.

Never have I been so confused about women.

"Ah. Damn it. I didn't want to show it to anyone . . . not before tonight . . . but you have gone and pushed my buttons, man."

Her hand slaps an invisible ghost out of the air before she swivels her body in her seat, cramping her waist in just enough angle to face the middle row of the exhausted family wagon.

I turn simultaneously, in sync. Involuntarily, I take in a whiff of generously put body spray which copies the scent of some confusing flower.

The middle row has no baby seat, instead a carton of "Power Mech" sits overburdened by stationary. The flaps of clean, stapled pages peak from the cover of the cardboard box in hope of being rescued.

"This isn't jinxing it, right?"

"Definitely not."

I don't believe in witchcraft but this is not the time to debate about the unconfirmed supernatural and associated believes.

"God! I hope I get it. I hope I get it, tonight." Her fingers carefully slips in through the top, navigating through the bundles of hidden pages just from the feel of it.

I expect to see a gun, or a dismembered head or just a bloody wrist; anything out of the ordinary but the large dark brown folder seems to keep up with the mysticism.

"This is it!"

"Indeed."

She presses the folder to herself, like a metaphorical baby. And between the confusion and mystery, I feel a twang of jealousy from the affection provided to an inanimate object.

"Don't tell anyone about this, Frey"

"I won't."

"Promise me, man!"

"I do!"

"Not a word, especially in class. Today."

"Yeah . . . sure."

The folder sits in her hand, guarded by her dug in finger nails on the border. I expect a test, an intellectual battle or challenge, like the sword of King Arthur and philosophical competence of pulling it out of a rock. But she makes it difficult by holding it too tightly before it falls onto my lap.

The signs of her character gives me the idea that, when Ms. Eden will become a mother, her children will have to deal with suffocating love or commonly known as smothering.

"Easy. Gently."

I depend on one finger to do the sensitive job of turning the front cover.

" Home Invasions "

A Screenplay by Eden J. Lindenburgh

I fall in the middle of thought, of which aspect to tackle first. The fact that she has built the 17 pages into 80 or the surprising feature that her last name is Lindenburgh.

"Whoa!"

"Easy!"

"So, that's what you have been up to?"

Ms. Eden substitutes the reply with an accomplished giggle.

"And it's 80 pages long!" I can't remember the last time I was glad when I found out a book was longer than I expected. I haven't been into books.

I am a literary child, stumbling into new worlds by accident.

"It's great!"

"Well . . . eh . . um-"

"What happens to me? What happens to Warren?"

She is suffocating in intense anticipation and pride. All I hear is an unintelligible squeak that bounces off without any meaning.

Cautiously, I turn a bundle of page which brings out the scene of Warren Heid and Scott B, their first meeting which is a witty back and forth of cultural defiance and jokes.

"It looks . . . so professional. Like, so accomplished."

"I tried." I understand from her stuffed huff that she is trying not to burst into fire from all the rushing emotions of achievement and triumph.

My hands suddenly feel desperate, tensed and exhilarated as I flick through large chunks of chapters. Act 4 flies by with half a glance to the title before Act 6 comes in view.

The typewriter must have been set to bold on the scenery description because it catches my eyes more than anything else.

"Warren Heid, tied to a chair looks around in search of a light or a blade but finds nothing. From unrecognizable places, the sound of whispers . . . and hard voices utter dangerous words like ghosts. He thinks of death but the door's opening casts a long line of . . . the witch enters!"

"Frey!"

"There's a witch too?!" I squeal and then try to think of someone in the class who can roleplay as the witch.

"Don't flick. Why are you reading it? Jesus!"

"What?"

"It's bad luck! To let someone see it first."

"Oh."

I am mostly familiar with my mother's omens and hysterical traditions that are included and practiced like a religion. When her fingers dance on the keys of the typewriter, she faces towards the door way, with her back turned towards the kitchen. You can never see her in any seats when writing.

Secondly, mum never eats when she's busy with a paper except for the glugs of tea, a special brand which she buys from the local market. The package claims that, the tea has soothing potential and benefits the soul by calming it down. Numerous times I thought of complaining to them because of false advertisement, because whenever Julia Newell, News House Directive and Editor works, she is never calm or assertive.

"Sorry, but you can't read it now. You know . . . why."

"Superstitions, yeah. I am aware."

Her silence proves that she is superstitious otherwise there would be a rise in the debate.

"So, who's it for then?"

The image of the French Sonata butts into my mind which I have seen with my parents and one time, alone. The scene is set and the heroine is set to go back home to her husband where she will live unhappy and metaphorically alone because her husband doesn't know her, even after 12 years of marriage.

I don't remember the dialogues clearly but one thing leads to another and before the violin strings up to its highest note, the jazz band stops and there's the sound of mouth on mouth, lips crashing down and unintentionally exchanging lipstick.

Currently, the scene has exchanged people since Ms. Eden stands in black and white with another faceless man, a Levin perhaps and engages in a practical display of passionate necking.

I start to feel low, again.

"For a board of people, to see. To scrutinize."

"I don't understand."

"Well, Frey. It's quite simple, you see. There's a compe . . . wait. Hold on. Hold on."

Her eyes squint with confidence.

"You're doing that thing again, Frey."

For a second, I feel stumped because I cannot feel any tears rolling down on my cheek.

"What thing?"

"That thing. That you always do." From her simpers, it's hard to understand if she's angry, sad or happy but given the constant accomplishment in the equation, it's safe to assume that she's glad beyond a normal scale.

"What thing?"

"It's . . . difficult to describe."

"Um . . . you should try, then. If it's a bad thing, then as a teacher, you should tell me. I'm always looking out to better myself." I throw sarcasm into the mix to test the indestructibility of her joy.

"It's not a bad . . . thing . . . um--to be honest . . . it's more like demanding. Seeking--which is not always bad."

"So, is it a good thing?"

"It's probably a thing that you do subconsciously since it doesn't register on your mind . . . on its own."

I nod with my eyes squinted, as I always do in Advanced Math. Understanding nothing.

"It's . . . okay. It should be unknown to you. Let's just let it be something exciting. Like an element of surprise."

"Like your book?"

"Like my screenplay. Yeah."

I wonder what sort of things that I can say, in this situation, in her state of mind. I presume that from achieving something she is passionate about, her serotonin has reached sky high, outer space and sitting in a perpetual condition.

Do I tell her about Margaret and my parents and the story about an unholy offspring?

Do I confess that I wrote a socially unacceptable but criminally good hate letter to Dolorous which I am sometimes proud of?

Maybe, if I tell her that I am already hateful to my best friend Clay and her serotonin can do a sky dive back to normal. Like the rest of us pathetic people on earth.

"So, you're last name is Lindenburgh?"

"Yeah, why?" Her eye brows squinch to match her comical retort. From now on, she'll forever be a happy hippy because she has something that can convince her that her life on earth has some meaning.

"Nothing . . it's just--"

"Strange or too pretentious?"

"I was gonna say sounds like royal family. Foreign."

"Well, yours aren't too normal either!"

I make a mental note so that I can ask my parents how they managed to find a name. Also, the science behind appointing titles to new born babies who after birth look like a ball of human flesh with their under developed heart and bones.

"My parents are very adventurous. Hence, the name."

"Mine are just born in the wrong time. Dad says, his last name sounds like he should be walking in 18th century London. You know, living the day to day life of battling rat plagues and working in factories."

I tap on the side rail of the seat in frantic excitement. There's a mutual interest between us which is equivalent to sharing a moment and the base of strong friendship in the future.

We don't sit in silence because the light blue sedan rolls in through the front gate, struggling to overcome the high speed bump and then dies in front of the parking lot. The man in the driver seat looks annoyed and throws a look to the shotgun where Chris mumbles something conclusive before the bundle of teenagers fall out.

Gracie's arm latches around his neck like a spider and gives a squeeze over his biceps, the third girl hides her cringe in a smile then spaces away from the couple.

"I think--"

"I think you should get out, Frey. Jordi's on the block."

We both follow the large red bob of hair which looks like a failed design for a tower and the hairclips work like support beams.

"Ah, now I have to play teacher. Responsibility is fun!"

"Good luck!" I pass the compliment, genuinely. "But, hey-"

"What?" Her head tilts, revealing the side of her neck which remains unguarded by the edges of her clothing. I exaggeratedly think of something witty to say, a one liner but I am hypnotized by the lines of smooth skin and skinny jaw bones.

"You know . . . what."

"What?"

"I would like to know . . . what happens to it. If it's a success."

"Um-" She screeches a confusing hum. I have to rely on her giddiness and the sense of exhilaration to lose the debate.

"I should be the first one to know. I feel like I have earned the right . . . somehow. It doesn't matter how. But I should. Beside, I'm keeping it a secret."

"Is this a blackmail?" Ms. Eden's emotion is completely the opposite of a person who's being blackmailed because her kooky smile shows no entrance of aggression.

"I think the favorites should get something the others don't."

"Yeah, now that you mentioned, I think I should get something for Gracie. It would be like a surprise gift."

My snappy comeback is non-existent in my current life. I alternate my lack of ready wit with the present aspect of my characteristics.

Pathetic grins should also be listed under social manipulation's body languages.

"Alright . . . psfh! I'll give you a call then. Well, maybe. Don't count on it too much."

The beam turns into a full crack. The simper hurts my frowned jaw, stretching the muscles of both cheeks to the furthest edge it could before muscle contraption becomes the cause of death.

"I'll write down the number, then? Yeah?"

"Wasn't that the one that-"

"No, no. That's Mrs. Bonnie's. You don't want that."

The distant shriek of teenager's huddled heads, laughter and Ms. Jordi's hostile hair occupy both of our visions.

"I'll be quick. I just-"

"Alright, give it to me in class."

The dwelling emotion of becoming a burden steps into my mind with its discouraging shoes.

"Alright, then. In class?"

"Yeah. But, like I said, I might not."

"What--what if the other thing happens? What if they don't - "

"Alright, you're pushing it. Get out! And remember, no word of it."

"To anyone."

I subside to symbolism, drawing a large cross that will not only cut my heart in half, but also the left part of my lungs as well as a quarter of my stomach.

.