Wake Not the Dead

CHAPTER 2 TOWNIES

Passing kids getting dropped off by their mothers for school, I pulled into our school parking lot and pulled into “my spot”.

“Bye, honey. Have a wonderful day,” I heard one woman shout at her kid.

Punch me in the emotional gut.  Just another reminder that I don’t have one— or maybe that I just don’t have a living one.  Wrenching the car into park, I took comfort that the parking lot’s social microcosm was in full swing and working like clockwork. My group, the nebulous and vague “townie” clique hung out a bit from the center. We townies, oldies, but goodies, were kids that had seen Fairmont grow from a two stoplight rural town to a wannabe urban metropolis, though Fairmont still seemed to cling to its once many, sprawling fields. The fields were inviting little islands that refused to be tamed, civilized, or otherwise swallowed by the urban flood. At times, I’d overhear a conversation between adults, probably deeply-entrenched homeowners worried about property values, that the fields were archaic and outdated.  Occasionally on long days summer days, I’d walk through the deep grass listening to the crickets chirp as the breeze and grass tickled my feet.  In additional to the football field, there was still a field attached behind the high school, a giant grassland behind my house, and another by the senior’s center where I spent two days a week volunteering. I had been born in the next city over and had lived in Fairmont my whole life and had no plans to leave any time soon. I might as well slap a “born and raised” bumper sticker on the back of Nellie.

    Twenty or so kids were townies. Some, as soon as either puberty or high school hit, ditched the “townie” group and  joined other, more specific groups like the ever popular “mathlete” clique. I think you got a complimentary calculator and pocket protector upon acceptance. Gemma Richards, my best friend since diapers, was one of the few who had stayed normal, with the exception of developing an uncanny sense for salacious gossip. Like the Greeks and Romans, once the other kids joined a group, they suddenly adopted all the customs and cultures of the herd. One of the best examples of having a precocious puberty was Staci[Her foil could be that she’s also on debate team. Glee club. Her borther’s the biggest nerd on campus. She’s always sick. ] “With-an-i” Collins.  A seamless transition from child to young woman, Staci used her “Get-out-of-acne-free” card, and it seemed like overnight she had a full chest and lengthy legs. Staci “With-an-i” Collins discovered that when she lowered her shirt and raised her skirt, she suddenly had friends. Or in her case, people to boss around. Naturally, with her newly discovered assets, she had drifted to the cheerleader section and just as naturally she became their leader, aka ice queen. She made Mean Girls look like Girl Scouts. Dirk Bridger, joined the jocks; Joanna went with the bandies adopting a piccolo, Evan went Goth, and Ashley over-nerded and joined the Mathletes. I cringed and couldn’t believe that anyone could like numbers enough to join a club. Über-nerds. Go figure.

As soon as I put Nellie in park, Gemma was there rapping on my window like a large woodpecker.  Her blonde hair, hastily tied into a sloppy bun, wobbled with each tap doing nothing to help the avian image. Gemma’s familiar narrow face and dark-lined eyes peered at me from outside. I smiled. Gemma was the closest thing I had to family, not counting my dad. Being with her and at school, felt like home. She was also one of the only ones who would never question my sanity if I were to mention I was having nightly visions of my long-dead mother. I debated momentarily if I should tell her about the dream. Knowing Gemma, she’d not only sympathize, but suggest getting a dream dictionary from the school library to help me understand my inner depths but keeping my mouth shut about my mother felt somehow like the  right thing to do. I usually dished with Gemma on everything, but this was a something I wasn’t ready to share, like the dream was begging for more time to explain itself. Spilling the details of the dream to Gemma would have felt like I was letting my mom go all over again and the longer I held onto the dream and kept its secrets, the longer I’d have my mother all to myself. I knew that line of thinking was silly. Mom was not only gone, but long gone. But talking about the dream would betray the false reality it had offered.