The Girl In The Window

The Beginning of the Goddess

The Beginning of the Goddess

There's a girl that lives beside my apartment. She has short, thick black hair, eyes with the color of Caribbean water, and a freckled, button nose, along with a cleft chin. I know all that, because her bedroom window is right in front of mine, and this is the story of how I got to know this wonderful girl.

It was a Thursday morning when me and my mother were moving into that tiny, crummy apartment. The cardboard box that I was moving to my bedroom smelled like a fuming warehouse, and I was eager to set it down. While walking into the apartment with the heavy load, I took in all the boxes and bare rooms, and wondered what life would be like after we moved in, and settled down for once. Mom and I had never really stayed in one state or town for very long. It was a struggle to even find a job, but with the job that mom finally landed, we might be able to actually live here. I finally reached the bedroom, and set the box down with a loud thud. Wiping my brow, I put my hands on my hips, hoisted up my jeans, and scanned my room. Cardboard boxes were stranded everywhere like little islands, some on top of the others, and some just on their own. I exhaled sharply and admired my hard work, it had taken a whole lot of strength to move these boxes from the red Chevy, to the apartment, which was two levels up. And that was when I saw her. I hadn't even looked at what was outside my one window in the room.

As I looked closer I caught sight of a strange girl, laying upwards in her room. I became curious as I studied the girl. I knew that it was somewhat an invasion of privacy, but I didn't care. Her room seemed to be decorated with copper-wire lights over her white door, and posters of artists and bands I probably didn't know. And she lay on the cedar flooring, no carpets or mats. It was an odd position she was in at the time, just laying upwards toward a mustard yellow book that she seemed to be reading. With one hand she held the book, and with the other she turned the pages and chewed on her nails. Her olive oil colored skin almost blended in with her cedar floors, while her shoulder-length, black hair was sprawled out on the floor. She wore an oversized white t-shirt, with a bunch of blue orchids and writing I couldn't quite make out. It was tucked into some jean shorts, and at the end of her long legs were a pair of mis-matched yellow and black socks. She was possibly the most entrancing human being I've ever witnessed. I stared at her for I don't know how long, until the sight was spoiled when a large crash came from down the hall. I jerked my head back, and awaited some form of response. My mothers shaky voice trailed down the hallway, "Sorry, that was the coffee table...!", followed by a couple of nervous laughs. I let out a heavy breath I didn't know I was holding, and turned back to the window. Only the girl was looking back at me. She must've heard the loud crash, and seen me. Shit. I stumbled back when I met her cold, blue eyes, and nearly tripped over a box laying around. She no longer held the yellow book, and her arms were in tight fists next to her shorts. Her expression looked distraught and embarrassed, with her wild, black hair in a frizzy mess, that it emphasized the surprised look she had on her face. The color of peach spread across her cheeks and face, almost turning her into a tomato, the way it looked against her skin. After a couple of seconds of awkward surprise, the emotion changed to disgust and frustration, and with gritted teeth she stormed out of her room with a flurry of black hair, leaving the mustard-colored book on the floor. As I heard the white door slam shut from across my room, I felt a pang of guilt in my chest. "Wait, I just needed t-oh, fuck my life!", I yelled as I watched her run off, and kicked the box that I nearly tripped over. "Andrew McLander, that will be a dollar in the jar!", screamed my mother from down the hall. I sighed and sauntered into the living room, digging my hands into my pockets trying to search a dollar. I pulled a creased dollar bill out, and looked my mother in the face. Her wavy and messy brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, with a few sweaty strands stuck to her forehead and ears. She held in her callused hands a mason jar, that was labeled in scrappy penmanship " Swear Jar ". Her hazel eyes peered at me as I unfolded the bill, almost as if she could see inside of my soul, and her scrunched up nose intensified. "Sorry Mom..." I mumbled as I shook the dollar into the jar, and smoothed back my unruly, brown hair. My mother sighed, and took a look to the almost full jar. "Good, now unpack the rest of your things, young man.", and her face relaxed to a slightly less threatening look. I nodded and sprinted back to my room eagerly. I ran to the window, and pressed my face against the cold glass to look across. Nothing had changed, the mustard book was still open on the floor and the guilt still lingered in my chest. Looking longingly at the door, framed by the copper lights, I realized it must've been terrifying to see a stranger looking straight across to you. I knew I wanted to see her again, though. I had to...although, I wonder, what would dad think of me right now.