Playlist

2. "So Special" - MUNA

The air is hot, humid, and the sun is bright, warm, dousing the world in light and color. A breeze rustles the leaves, the music of Mother Nature playing for me. My body is warm but comfortable as I'm bathed in the shade provided by the trees. As I turn a new page in my notebook, I set it down in my lap along with my pen and look at the world around me. It's been a week since the party, since graduation, since I've talked to Aaron at all. I've barely been near my phone since then. Casey had blown up Twitter with tweets like: "aaron fucks the fat bitch!!" "people are so fukin sensitive" "bros b4 hoes man @doublea_watson"

I subsequently deleted my Twitter. When the drama leaked into Facebook, I deactivated that - even though Facebook is how I communicate with my coworkers. I even had to delete several people off Snapchat and Instagram. Luckily, I keep my Tumblr private, so I have one safe space.

For now.

Regardless, I've been doing better avoiding it lately. I don't care about how many likes I get on posts, I don't get upset when no one responds to my posts. I just... exist. It's nice. Leaves rustle to the left of me, and I'm pulled out of my head. About 30 yards away, a deer is walking through the brush. It looks up and sees me, and we maintain eye contact. It's tail swishes, and I make sure not to make any loud noises or sudden movements. I simply smile to myself and continue writing.

I keep a notebook wherever I go. Work, on a hike, to friends' houses. Everywhere. I want to be a published author one day, New York Times' Bestseller and everything. I want to travel the world, doing book signings. I want to see my books advertised on the TV as they're turned into movies. I want to be the J.K. Rowling, the Lewis Carroll, the Stephen King, the Jane Austen and the Cassandra Clare of my generation. I want to live on after I'm gone. The only way to get there is actively pursue writing. I wake up early to write and go to bed late to write. I've always been this way, ever since I could form words into sentences. There's composition books and notebooks full of the stories and dreams I used to have when I was a kid, and Mom has them all in a box in the attic labeled "Dakota's Mind." Writing has been the only constant, the only true solace I've had in my life, and so I guess it isn't so bad.

My alarm goes off, and I look down to see it's noon. How have I been up here for four hours already? Mom is having me over for dinner tonight, and I'm about three hours away from Sandy Springs where she and Adam, my adopted dad, live. I hop out of my eno and begin packing my things. The deer watches with me with intent, and I smile to it as I grab my bag and head towards my car. After loading up, I light a cigarette and head towards Mom's with the windows down, music on, and my phone on silent.

❧

There is a hollow feeling in my chest as I watch a leaf float through the air to the ground. I've been trying to keep a smile on my face for Mom, but I know she can see through it. Adam isn't home, so I know she will try and talk to me about what's going on.

"Well the food is in the oven," I hear, and I look over to see Mom sitting next to me on the porch, "so now I can listen to what's going on with you."

Told you.

"Nothing's going on, Mom." I smirk over at her, and she raises her eyebrow at me as she lights her own cigarette - a nasty menthol.

"Yeah, and I'm the queen of England."

I take in a deep breath, and I decide if I'm going to talk, I'm going to do it while smoking my own cigarette. "I broke up with Aaron."

"What? I thought you guys were good! What happened?"

"Remember Casey Garbon?"

"Oh god. What did that little shit do?"