(real life influence: mike's story about listening to nin)

CHP 3. Lindsey

     

      The rain falls from a pale gray sky, silently. I hear it hiss past the leaves, softly falling in the sand. A light rain, more a change in temperature you can glide your hand through, settles on the park. I try to discover the origins of the drops and look far into the clouds. The gray is just too bright so she looks away as though I just saw something holy. I look away, I mean. I look away from the sky like it was something holy. The rain then falls on my face as though I am not there.

      Like most with authoritative insecurities who like to abuse power, she was a policeman.

      “Excuse me, but you need to move,” the officer says to the bench. The figure, like a wet, black garbage bag does not move. The officer braces herself and approaches cautiously. She sounds like a wild animal creeping when she steps onto the grass.

      “Excuse me, but you need to move,” she says again. The rain, although soft, smothers her command.

      The body moves a bit and like a wet, black tongue, arches itself up.

      “What is the matter?” I say to the woman.

      “You need to move.”

            I could barely hear her. I take my headphones off. “Why?”

            “We received a report of a ‘suspicious looking individual lying on a bench.’ This is also private property,” she shouts over the stifling rain.

            Well, this is a little strange.

            “I go to school here,” I say, pointing to the building in the distance. I then use that hand to wring the rain out of my hair.

            “Do you have an ID?” she tries to rub some warmth into her left bicep. Then, she does the same to the other one.

      From some dark, wet fold, a little white card avoids the rain somehow.  The woman squints at the card, at the smiling little face on it. She wipes her eyes and looks at me, then back at my little face on the white card. She wipes her eyes and rubs her bicep then looks back at the shadowed face. My shadowed face against the pale sky.

      “I am still going to have to ask you to move,” the small, shadowed woman tells me.

      “Over there?” My dripping fingernail points to the other bench. Hey, I am trying to lighten the mood. She does not look too amused, though.

      “You know,” says my “reasoning” voice, “I actually go to this school. I am passing all my classes and have paid my full tuition. I have full right to be here. Technically, you are trespassing – unless you have your student ID.”  Did I just say that last part?

      I feel one pronounced drop hit my neck. I shiver into a small, quick ball.

      “I need to pat you down for drugs and or drug paraphernalia and or weapons. Legs apart, hands on your head.” Her hands leave her body and reach for me.

      I take a wide step into the wet grass, in which my foot sinks easily. One of my hands, on the way to my head, nervously checks a place near my neck. There is nothing there, of course, but wet skin. I look at the policewoman. She must have not noticed.

      I feel her mitten-like hands paw my legs and pockets. When she finishes, she wipes her face with her wet hand and squints at me.

      “Can I lie on my bench now?” I ask.

      The rain, although still soft, has soaked her uniform. The look on the woman is an obstinate one I have seen before. The expression belongs to the defeated – the defeated that is dismissed.

      “So what are you doing out here?” she snaps.

      I slide onto the cold, wet bench.

      “I was being alone and miserable (and quite comfortable at it)– that is, before you bothered me.”

      She waves me off and rushes back to the squad car, leaving me with the gentle rain. I stare at the sky until I can no longer. The rain slaps my vulnerability and I listen. It is almost like sleep. 

      And she gets up from the bench, she who loves to stand in great open fields. The greatest warrior of the first age, she who crushed the empires, holds her head high to white sky. She who swallowed a thousand lives storms through the rain.

      She this, she that. I am cold and I am wet. I pick up my things and head back to the dorm.

      No, I don’t go to a university. That modern looking building is my high school, an elite boarding school for the obnoxiously wealthy. I suppose wealthy heirs do not want to raise their kids.

            I take out my keycard and slide it, then enter my PIN number. I sometimes wonder what I would do if the doors changed their minds and would not let me in, but they seem to be flattered by my presence and let me in, this time.

            The J. Washington Academy of Science and Technology, where we (yawn) study. Study science-oriented whatever and technology-driven anything. Usually we study technology-related science. And (yawn) we do experiments and experiments, logs too. Research logs and experiments, dealing with

      I’m pretty tired. I have had a long day. I’m going to finish what I can and then go to bed.

      “Naimlis!”

      I turn towards the foosball room. It’s a short angry person named Lindsey. She must want my biomechanics homework.

      “Hi Lindsey, how’s the game?” I say, approaching the table.

      Lindsey is overenthusiastic about the game as usual. Her opponent, a tall, blond male with an “All Your Base Are Belong to Us” T-shirt, plays and wins with an indifferent attitude. Lindsey, the shortest person in the room, stomps around and runs her little hands through her short, angry hair. “Rematch!” she yells, pointing one dagger-like finger across the table.

      The male rolls one eye and with the other, winks at me, then walks off.

      “Naimlis!”

      “Yes, I’m right here.” Short angry people are kind of cute in that funny way.

      “Would you like to sneak out tomorrow? Go to the city?” She asks.

      “And do what?”

      “We’re friend’s right?” Lindsey asks, gravely. She walks around the foosball table and comes to face me. Lindsey is up to my shoulder, so she tilts her head up to look at me. I cannot help thinking she is younger, like a little sister.  I am sure a lifetime of looking up to people has given her the angry personality that short people have. 

      I try not to pause too long. “I would say so. Why, what’s the matter?”

      “I just want to, well, what would you say if I wanted to get a tattoo?” her eyes ask me, can I trust you?

      “I would not think low of you at all. I am sure any tattoo would look lovely on you.” It better not be her boyfriend’s name. Are those rice crispies in the vending machine?

      “So you’ll come with me then? Tomorrow?” Lindsey is so bouncy when she’s happy.

      “Yea, I don’t think I have anything else to do. Maybe I’ll even get one too,” I say, checking both my watch and my change. I have barely enough for the rice crispy treat.

      “Naimlis?”

      I take my snack and thank the vending machine for its reliable service. “Yes?”

      “Do you have the biomechanics lab sheet?”