still waters

1.2

1.2: EVALUATION

I parked along the right-hand side, a sidewalk extending the length of the curb. Slowly, I opened the rental car's door. I glanced upward toward the house I knew belonged to my friend, but a row of neatly-trimmed bushes blocked my view.

As I turned to close the car door, raindrops on the flawless black paint caught my gaze. Each responded with a reflection of my own face, twisted up in confusion because I hadn't remembered seeing rain.

I quickly dismissed the thought and locked the car, beginning the journey that twined my path and my friend's into one another.

I walked slowly, studying my Nike shoes and wondering what Dayton's parents would think if they happened to answer the door. I knew they were the stricter type, but I didn't know much beyond that—for he didn't speak about them much.

Only in that moment did I briefly consider the notion that I may cause the boy trouble by my presence, but I shook my head at the thought. He had never said they minded our friendship.

Even though I almost knew for certain that he would be, I hoped Dayton would be open for a long stay. That way, I could fill in the blanks he'd left me with regarding his parents and his friends. I could experience first-hand the aspects that I knew he didn't enjoy speaking about.

Something in me gave me full assurance that he would let me stay, despite the spontaneity of the visit. I simply knew the boy, and he had said it himself multiple times through phone calls and text messages.

The house came into view. It was an eggshell-coloring with a roof on the far end of the color spectrum; a black that looked as if the sun had fried it to charcoals. There was a paved driveway that led to a closed garage, and up a small way's further, a pathway that jutted from the driveway. Three brick steps and a door that matched the ink black of the roof branched from the concrete pathway. It was nearly summertime and the flowers strewn along the other side of the driveway were only just beginning to realize it.

The front door approached quickly. Flashbacks of Dayton telling me he 'had just gotten home,' or 'was walking through the door,' washed over my head as I painted this scenery into that white spot in my memory. I breathed hard and bit my lip hard and stood up straight and knocked.

This was the moment I had wondered about for years. I pictured words coming smoothly, as they had through the webcam. I pictured effortlessly establishing a good first palpable impression. I pictured the boy's gape upon seeing me, but it morphing shortly afterward into that toothy grin of his.

And for the first time, we'd hug. Something like a handshake and a pat on the back, because neither of us were the type to make things dramatic.

I wanted the moment to unravel just as the scene in my head. But as the seconds ticked by, my tongue became a stutter, groping the air for words, and my heart pounded in my eardrums and wore at the inside of my rib cage and my knees knocked together as they trembled to keep up my body weight, and all of this happened as the doorknob twisted open.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't think of anything more stupid to do, but I also couldn't think of anything else to do. I sensed the door opening, and perhaps Dayton's father, or mother, or worst of all—himself—standing there, watching me. Wondering who I was. And why my eyes were shut. And if this was real. It didn't feel it.

I felt the spring air around me, and the birds' chirping faintly dissipated the thump of my heartbeat that had overtaken my sense of hearing. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.