Turmoil

Routine Killed the Cat

Atlanta 

Wheels were such an odd thing, I think, as we watch the vermilion Volvo of my brother kick up a fuss and veer off into the woods. It was the same movement over and over again, yet it got you places. It was because I hate routine that we had ended up here.

That and a good dose of running away from emotions and people.

"Well comrade, " I say, peeling my eyes of the dusty road.  Phoenix, is holding our bags. " this is our destination. Welcome to sucky-summer-land, "

Phoenix is my best, and closest friends, as unlikely and odd it seemed at times. We got on well, like toast and butter, one melting deliciously on the other.

"God I hate it when you get your heart broken, " he mutters when he finally gets adjusted to the surroundings " it always takes us to the weirdest of places, "

If it had been somebody else but Phoenix who said that, I may have punched them. But Jordan is long out of my head by now, and Phoenix is really an opinionated asshole who tries too hard to be different and not care. It's true though. Every time I fall for the wrong guy, and every time my heart gets shattered, we go on a trip. It's a wonder I'm still living, and my heart still beating. It's like a pencil that has been broken one too many times and stuck back together with sticky tape, so when it's used for writing, you need to be ever so gentle.   So instead I grin at him and punch him on the shoulder.

"Try actually being me, " I laugh, taking my bag from him. I know that he's a dude, and I'm a girl and traditionally speaking he needs to carry my stuff for me. I'm not against using men as carrier pigeons. I just don't want to seem weak.

All I can see is trees. Tall, like those giants from a movie, and full of deadly sharp darts. Pines. I inhale, and the forest smells like everything fresh and good. If somebody put the forest into a perfume bottle, they would name it Fresh. I'm distracted, I know, I can feel it. But distraction and distracting were always my speciality.

It's weird, how people have specialties. Just because your good at one thing, doesn't mean you can't master another. And yet, in this world of boxes and rigid rules we stick to our specialties, putting ourselves in these tiny frames, and try to be creative.

"How are we all going to fit in that? " Phoenix asks incredulously, and I look to see what he's talking about. Phoenix has a knack for getting me out of my head. Things always go awry when I get stuck in there for too long. So I bring my feet back to earth and check out what he's pointing at. It's a cabin, unremarkable and blending in with the scenery, it's log facade unassuming. I get what he means. It's much too small to fit in four of us let alone a full camp. There are no other buildings in sight.

Already, there are over thirty campers, all teenagers, getting out of cars and kissing parents. Or, others doing the traditional teenager thing, and sulking. Not too far away from us, a girl steps out, followed by the gaggling of her friends. They all look like plastic, perfect hair and white teeth, stepping out of their camper van.

A boy follows.

"This is the place you're brother dared you to go to? " the first one asks. She's a needle threaded through with brown thread. Thin with chestnut waves " we are never ever letting you pick a place again, "

This is said with good humor. The other three laugh. The needle is looking at the forest, with the kind of skeptical smile that only a teacher could manage when a student tells them that scientists have proven that now pigs can fly. A smaller one steps forward. She's so tiny and bony and fair, that she is Golum.

"Yeah this isn't your Malibu beach, " she says. The other two, one who looks like she thinks people are fruit and have to base the clothes you wear on that and the other with a thousand tiny beads running through her hair, Fruit, and Speckles, are taking things out of their car.

This group of friends and I can't help conjecture. Who out of the four, is kept around just so the others could feel pretty. Which one is the one with great comedic timing. And are they really as close as they think they are. People never think of those things. We just see a group of people and instantly assume that they're so much happier than us. That all is well.

Somebody grabs me by the arm. I know it's Phoenix. I don't even flinch.

"Earth to Atlanta, " he's saying, as he's dragging me towards where all the other teenagers are starting to assemble. forming a ring around a woman who has stepped out from the log cabin" come on, we'll see what she's saying, "

"Sorry, I was just observing our boorish fellow campers, " I reply and I begin walking to the clearing and the half circle that has been made around the cabin. I doubt Phoenix even knows what boorish means. But he doesn't ask and I don't explain. I think, that in the world, a lot of things are like that. And because of this, life is so much easier.