Webb

October 14, 1989

I woke up at eleven thirty, oddly energetic and aroused (not in a sexual way because, nothing can break my "unclean" mind). I put on my bright yellow sweatshirt that had a small, plain Saturn design on the left side, a pair of old blue jeans, and my mud stained tennis shoes. I fluffed out my hair and I headed downstairs, almost forgetting my poetry book. I must've woken up Wendy from all the noise I was creating, because she came upstairs and asked in a groggy voice, "Mikey, why the hell are you in such a hurry this morning?"
"I'm going over to Kat's today," I said, as I grabbed my old and withered leather jacket that had it's place on the edge of my bed frame.
Wendy smirked at me, asking, "Oh, you two a thing now huh?"
"Shut up Wendy. I haven't been over to her house in two years. Plus her dad's out of town for the week because of his new job," I said, as I placed my journal in the inside pocket of my leather jacket.
Wendy laughed, "Alright Mikey, but if you two end up making out, I'm celebrating."
"Wendy," I groaned in embarrassment, as Frosty tilted his sleepy head at me in confusion.
She laughed, "I'm joking Mikey, anyways, I'll be visiting my friend, Stanley, today. I'll be home around five-ish. Don't have too much fun, Mikey."
Wendy left my room and headed downstairs to the garage. Once I heard her car pull out of the driveway, I darted downstairs, letting Frosty outside, then I ran out the front door and into my old P.O.S. car and drove to Kat's house.

Kat lived in a low-income neighborhood close to the downtown area, like me. Her house was a small, white washed board and black metal fenced house, with a light blue front door, off-white iron door that guarded the blue door, iron barred windows, and a cheery front porch that had her mom used to keep very clean, but since her mom died of liver cancer two years ago, the porch just had empty flower pots that hung in a dead way over the front porch steps. Almost like they committed suicide. I wished that Mr. Wells kept the flower beds in front of Kat's house, her mom was a big hippie, but she raised Katrina Wells, who was a hippie mixed with a rocker. I parked my car on the street pretty far from her house, since I'm terrified of her alt-right dad, and I walked down the quiet and peaceful street. 

The minute I rang the doorbell, Kat opened the wooden door, then the iron door, saying, "Welcome to the Bat Cave, Mikey."
I snickered, "Good to see you too, Kat."
She smiled and let me inside, wearing nothing but a Vans t-shirt and a pair of high-waisted shorts with a black belt, along with a pair of white socks that went halfway up her shin and were decorated with red, blue, and yellow stripes. Once the blue door was closed, she grabbed my hand and directed me up the narrow stair case that hid behind a wall that separated the living room from the sun room. 

Once we got upstairs, Kat opened a tall and narrow door that had several Polaroid pictures on it from high school.
She stopped me and said, "Now Mikey, my room looks a lot different than from when you last saw it, so... enjoy yourself I guess?"
I shrugged, "Okay, Katrina."
She opened the door, and revealed the most poster covered room I'd ever seen. Her room was always upstairs, and before she did anything with it she only had a bed, dresser, and small wardrobe, since Kat's room was meant to be the attic space. But now, her room was decorated in hippie wall hangings (like a bronze sun and moon mask and a large NASA poster on the ceiling), movie posters, a Kenny Loggins poster that had it's place where a picture of her dad used to be. And my favorite, a ripped up White Supremacist flag that had writing above it saying, "This whole group of people can go suck a whole bag of DICKS!" Something that Kat would write on a rebel flag or, any hate group symbol for that matter because, out here everyone doesn't give a shit about politics, religion, or hate groups. Then again, there are some rebel flags down near Helena, which scares me because this isn't the '50s anymore, it's almost 1990 and this shit still exists.

"I know that my room looks a lot different, but, Mikey puberty hit me like a train. And it left a wreck because I still have the body of a fucking fourteen-year-old," Kat joked, as she sat on the foot of her bed.
 I looked around and saw a small ash tray that sat on the large window sill.
"Kat, when did you get your own ash tray?" I asked.
 "When my dad left yesterday," she said, as she dug inside her small wardrobe for something. "What are you looking for?" I asked.
Once she turned her head, she pulled out her old Ukulele from high school.
"Still got it, and I can still carry a tune on this, somehow," she said as she sat back on her bed.
I smiled and I took out my old poetry journal and placed it on her bed. We were about to skim through the pages, but the sound of a car parking in the drive way interrupted our bonding.
"The hell? Is my dad back already?" Kat asked herself, as she got up from her bed.
We both stood still near the bedroom door, then I heard footsteps coming up the steps, and a deep, mellow but aggressive voice called out: "Katrina, where are you?!"
"Chill out I'm in my room!" Kat called back.
"Hide!" she whispered, as she held the door knob shut to keep her dad from coming upstairs.