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H E R
I remember one time, when I was maybe six, I got so angry with Jody that I kicked over a bowl of popcorn. He had won the game of rock-paper-scissors that determined what movie we were going to watch that night and I just lost it, threw an absolute tantrum. I was old enough to know better obviously, but young enough to do it anyways.
My mother had stood over me to insure I collected every last kernel from the floor, even the ones that had gotten all gross and dusty from ending up beneath the couch. "See?" She had said. "This is what happens when you act out in anger. You're left to pick up all the pieces."
Since then, I'd always sort of swallowed down whatever vexed me. I never wanted to get in trouble or be a disappointment or impose upon anyone with an unfavorable display of negative emotion. Adults always told my parents I was polite. An old soul. A pleasure to have in class. Just a nice way to say Yeah, your kid is a little odd but at least they don't act up.
Carl Grimes was one of the first people who I had let myself be angry with, be annoyed with, to the point I let it show and I let him see it and still, it never really seemed to bother him during all these months.
But now, I'd really done it. I let the wild, ugly beast of it out. I'd always been made to feel guilty for my anger so some small part of me was ashamed of it, after the adrenaline rush from my temper wore off. Like I was worried I'd upset him, that I'd been the one to hurt his feelings. After he'd absolutely obliterated mine.
So here I was. Sitting in the library watching Carl comb through the bookshelves. Trying to grapple for some pathetic sense of normalcy in this whole ordeal.
"Alright, how about Little House on the Prairie?" Carl tossed me the book a little too carelessly but I still managed to catch it from where I sat at the table, my feet slightly up.
Of course, it had to be the Little House series, which I ate up obsessively. Even leant heavily on the orphanism of on the the televised versions character, Albert, to get me through my own parentless struggles. I couldn't help but let a laugh escape me. It felt silly now, letting a fictional entity influence me.
We didn't really grow up with television, but whenever we visited my Nana Ruth, my mother's mother, she would have the Little House reruns playing over and over again. It was like she was addicted to it. You couldn't even touch the remote without her snapping not to change the channel because Michael Landon was on. Sure, Michael Landon was good-looking, but as a young girl I always had a bit of a thing for Albert. Went through the entire series of books looking for him only to discover he wasn't a real person, just a character made up for the show. The disappointment was staggering.
