Fake Sam

20. Sam: winter in Michigan

20. Sam: Winter in Michigan

Every other second I spot Logan eying my salad. I am trying to keep myself from shoving every bit of this garden in front of me, but I still some so he doesn't catch me.

I scrape dressing off the mounds of green vegetable to the side of the bowl, and put a piece of lettuce in my mouth. The taste floods through my mouth and takes over all my senses. I put another fork-stabbed piece of lettuce into my mouth, Logan speaks, "How's your lettuce?"

I look up, mid-bite, and pull the fork away from my mouth. "Um, yeah. It's good." When I speak, the voice that exits sounds weak. Having the food climb down my esophagus hurts; the lettuce cuts the side of my throat.

Logan smiles and nods before he passes another greasy fry through his lips.

This is disgusting, but I know if I don't eat both Logan and Keagan will start to worry. And befree I know it, I'll be sitting at our kitchen table, a plate mounted with fruits will wait for me to swallow it's contents, and mom and dad watching me not eat; they'll lecture me, and tell me I'm not fat, and that I'm just healthy...

But they would be lying, because they are adults, they don't know anything about today's generation.

It takes an hour to eat through our meals and have a shake, but I don't eat one since they have 70 calories, and that sounds risky considering I don't want to have to work out. We exit the building at 7;30 and on our ride home, Logan controls the radio, changing stations after each song with the volume almost blaring and the bass more than halfway up. In the back seat, Keagan switches between strumming his air guitar or beating on his lap with his hands to the drum beat.

I pull into Logan's driveway and after he climbs out, he turns to face back into the car, leaning over the passenger seat, "You got any plans for tomorrow?"

I look back at him, the only light is from the moon above and the ceiling light in the car since the door is open.

"Keagan and I have church tomorrow," I answer back.

"Can I come with?"

"You really want to? It's really boring and you have to dress nice."

His lips widen and he smiles while half-laughing. "It sounds like you don't want me to go."

"I'm just warning you ahead of time. We leave at 8," I say, and pull the shift into reverse. He slams the door shut and waves, yelling to me as I go out of the driveway.

"I'll be ready! Don't forget!"

~

I wake up at six, my regular time for Sunday's and take a quick shower just to rinse off and scrub my good smelling shampoo into my hair. In five minutes, I step out of the shower and tie my hair up with one towel and wrap another under my arms. I wipe the condensation off the mirror with a rag and rub lotion on my face. Then I move out of the bathroom, and continue through the cloud of steam that escaped when the door opened, down the hall and in my room,

First thing: I trip on my cord and fall forward onto my hands and knees, all my hair sticks around my face and shoulders since it is still wet. I raise to my feet and walk over to my dresser.

I watch the girl in the mirror brush through her knots and bring forth her Conair hair dyer to turn the hair into a fluffy frizz. Then, she uses a hair straightener to flatten the mass of bleachiness.

I crouch down in front of the drawers that remain at knee height, and pull them out to dig through the dressy shirts and casual dresses. I take out a white cardigan and a frilly flower-printed tank top for underneath. In the next drawer down, I search until I find a nice pair of dark-wash skinny jeans. My feet step through the skinny legs and I pull on the tops until the are over my thighs and I can button them tight. My arms, next travel through the holes in my camisole, and then down the long sleeves of my cardigan. I tug down on the bottoms and then I go across my room, sitting on my bed and tugging on a pair of dark brown leather boots.