clementine

chapter 13: Clementine is 17 years old

The idea that has captured my entire being, ever since I was about thirteen years old, is how anything, and I do mean anything, can be romanticised through the right words. By the right people. Of course, when I was younger, I had no clue what the word 'romanticise' even meant, but I was fascinated with people who could make life seem more than it is.

Often, I think that maybe I'm missing something. Is there a certain ray of sunlight that these people see the world through, a filter on reality? They can make even the sad, the tragic, the irrevocably ugly, seem graceful.

I see a tree, and that's all I see. Anatomy. Trunk. Branches. Leaves. Poetry sees something different, something impossibly possible to me. It's invigorating and confusing, and I like to spend my days muddling and unmuddling it in my brain.

Some people see the wind breathing through the greenery, and the way the wood covers up a heartbeat, and probably things even more amazing than my dull mind could begin to imagine.

I am a poetry kind of girl. I am the girl who can read poetry and understand, but never keep the words from escaping my understanding as soon as my eyes leave the page. I fall in love over and over again with words written by people who see the world in every way I can't. Maybe that's why I am so jealous of her.

It's tragic, really.

And the thing is, I can never seem to get enough of it. The sense of understanding that swells inside of me from reading a new poem, disappears as soon as it's over. It leaves me empty, stupid, boring.

I do not want to live in an ordinary world, in an ordinary house, with an ordinary family. I wish that I could be more.

And that brings us here, to the Crimson High Library, where no one can ever know I spend my free period. If I come up at lunch, I would have to make up a viable excuse, and God knows I can't lie. The library is social suicide. For me, anyway. Girlfriend of Trevor Matthews; Greek God/church boy, and best friend of Shannon Cooper, head cheerleader.

I am a shadow, and shadows cannot wander too far from their place.

Once upon a time I was supposed to do Spanish, fourth period on a Monday (and Wednesday, and Friday), but when I started failing, and my dad started donating funds for a new tennis court, there were no longer questions asked about my mythical free period. Even my friends think I'm still in Spanish, while they do other subjects.

Basically, it's a win-win situation – I get time to read without setting fire to my social status and my terrible grade doesn't drag down the average of Mr. Poe's class.

The poetry section of the Crimson High Library is not all that bountiful. I find myself bent over the shelves, just like every other week, searching for something that a) isn't Shakespeare, b) I have not read before, and c) I will not get bored with. It's very tough criteria.

Finally, I spot an unfamiliar title by an all too familiar poet, Charles Bukowski, and pull it out of its dusty confines. Just as the pages are freed, something strange happens.

Someone else is in here. And they make themselves known. "What are you looking for?"

I spin on my heel, startled, and prepared to defend my popularity tooth and nail. But, when my eyes meet hers, my mind goes blank. Golden, and calm, and churning.

"Clementine," My voice is an octave too high, but her expression remains blank. "What are you doing up here?"

She tilts her head to the left, crossing her arms over a tattered flannel shirt. Valencia orange tendrils fall down to her waist, curls stretched by the overbearing weight. Her silence is oh so heavy. With a poise demeanour, she replies evenly, "I didn't know they studied poetry in Spanish, now." And then she disappears past the shelves, toward the exit.

My hands are shaking. My muscles are taut and I have to remind myself that Clementine would not tell, she has no one to tell. And even if she did...

Who would ever believe something that Clementine Ross said?