“Carter! Get up, get up, get up!”
It’s a voice. A boy’s, but was raised by a few octaves. The voice shouts again. Okay, scratch that. A lot of octaves. I cover both of my ears with my pillow and groan.
“I said, get up!”
Nope, the pillow is not helping. It doesn’t even muffle the voice even a little bit. I groan and mumble a “go away” into my pillow. Hopefully he’ll—whoever he is—hear. But no. he doesn’t, apparently, because he keeps on shouting it over and over again.
I sit up, grab my pillow, and raise it, ready to aim and chuck it at whoever comes to view. But as I look around, no one’s there. I half-shrug and slump back onto my bed. But the shouting continues. It’s from my right side, so I grab the pillow and turn to my side. I see a bullhorn, and a hand. I trail my eyes from the hand, to the arm, to the shoulders, until I see the face of the intruder.
Oh, God, no.
It’s Isaac!
I internally groan. Moving swiftly, I make the bullhorn fall from his hand and before he has time to react, I chuck my pillow at his face. Bulls-eye! He falls backward and land on his ass with a thump. He winces, and I laugh maniacally at him before pulling off the covers and putting on my shoes. I grab for my iPod and head for the door.
“Where are you going?”
I turn to see him standing up, and rubbing his backside with a blush on his cheeks. I reply, “Jogging.”
He has on a look of disbelief. “In boxers?”
I look down, and yes, sure enough, I am in boxers. I sigh and put on sweatpants and an Adidas shirt. Checking my appearance with a mirror while holding on to the doorknob, I nod to my cousin and leave him in pain.
When I pass the kitchen, I hear my Aunt Carol’s voice floating through the air. “…and they weren’t seen or heard from for ten years! Can you imagine?” I could see my mom nodding her head and she turns to smile up at me. I curse mentally and try to run for it, but I’m too late. Mom calls my name and tells me to say hi to my aunt. Making a mental note to wake up even earlier than five in the morning—waking up earlier than that should be illegal, but I have to avoid those two women somehow—I shout, “hi!” and run outside the door. I know I’ll get in trouble for being rude, but I don’t care.
I turn on my iPod and Wonderwall by Oasis blasts through my ears. I wince, and turn down the music a notch or two, and continue on my jogging.
I love jogging every morning. I mean, how else would I get fit? Plus, I get to see our town covered in mildew and a bit of mist. I get to see the sun rising as I pass by the Fence. I stop for a second or two, admiring the colors the sky is making, and move on.
I don’t jog with anyone else. I consider it sacred, something that should be done alone, like showers and lying on the grass and looking up at the sky. Although all of these are better shared, admit it—it feels great when you’re alone.
I pass by the park, which means I’ve run a good mile or something. I’m not really good at this distance thing. So I stop by the local coffee shop, order a coffee and five bagels. One for Mom, and the rest for me. I know, I know. I’m so generous, right? And I’m hoping the bagel would make her shut up about earlier this morning.
Holding these in hand, I mumble a thanks to the girl who’s manning the register, send a smile her way too, for good measure, and leave. When I turn the corner, the inside of the shop still visible, from my peripheral vision I could see the girl fanning herself. I shrug and move on. Maybe she was feeling hot or something.
YOU ARE READING
Letters To Ava
عاطفية"Dear Ava, You must be mad at me, right? It’s okay. I completely understand. I’d be mad at me too, if I were in your position. But I’m not. Which makes me even angrier. I’d do anything to trade places with you. Anything. Except maybe forgive myself...
