Lolita's Perception

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎

Tuesday: May 20th |1947|
Nothing interesting ever seems to happen here on Lawn Street. For just about as long as I can remember, it always been your typical, dead-end suburban neighborhood. The trees are always perfectly trimmed, the lawns are always perfectly mowed, and no matter what, everything always seems to be just peachy-perfect—but as Grandma Haze used to say: nothing could possibly be more boring than the idea of "perfect."

Around here, people seem to think the exact opposite. Everyone lies to save face, and no one talks when things get rough. You can't shout—even if you're doing it 'cause you're happy—and if your skirt goes up even just a little bit above your knee, you'll get called a you-know-what by just about every grownup lady on the block. I'll give you a hint: it starts with a great big capital S.

"Suburbia is where you can live in peace, and let your creativity become truly free."

At least that's the sort of thing they say in those lame homemaking magazines Mother loves so much. Really, I think suburbia is where your creativity goes to wander around in circles for forever, and the closest thing to excitement is Mrs. Lewinsky getting caught in bed with the neighborhood milkman.

What sort of awful life is that?
Not one for me. That's for sure.

I want adventure. Real adventure.
Like all the fantastic ones they show in the movies. I want to explore canyons, and go on thrilling expeditions. Lost at sea with pirates—taken for ransom by a group of New York mobsters. Anything to escape this drab life of flowered wallpaper and Sunday luncheons.

It feels like I'm stuck in some sort of strange, blink-once-and-you'll-miss-it, middle ground of reality. A reality where the most interesting thing to happen all week is getting served pizza for lunch on Monday instead of Friday. The pizza wasn't even good...but in the end, I guess it doesn't matter—because lunch is never really about the food. Everyone knows that.

Today was no different. Despite Mother's constant scoldings about the grass stains on my school skirts, I sat cross legged on the (mostly) empty soccer field, looping together little yellow dandelions by their stems as Mary-Rose Hammond went on and on about her latest creep of the week: that lame old Donnie Lamont.

The whole obsession with Donnie started just last Tuesday: when the two of us swung by Burger Chalet after school, and Mary-Rose spotted him flipping burgers under fluorescent lights. One look and it was over. Since then, she's been beyond crazy for him Completely over the moon. I don't get it. I mean, the guy's no catch. Boring as could be, with buzzed hair and a T-shirt that always seems to be stained. What's so special about that?

But Rose thinks I'm the crazy one—she says all that stuff doesn't matter, since Donnie has such a cute face. I couldn't really argue with her on that. Plus, he's old enough to buy cherry schnapps, and can take us to the Starlite Drive-in any day of the week. At least, that's what Mary-Rose said.

Her argument was pretty simple—even a little convincing...

"Don't you get it? Older guys are always better! Swear to God," she claimed, holding her hand over her heart as she swooned. "Why else would Lauren Bacall have married Humphrey Bogart?"

I couldn't help but roll my eyes when she said that, pressing a rough blade of grass between the crescents of my nails as I defensively replied. "That's different and you know it!"