Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter One

I pushed through the biting cold of Chicago, walking swiftly as the wind struck my back. It was four forty-five p.m. and twenty two degrees out, and the thought that Mr. Bruder had the audacity to hold me after class had yet to sink in.  

He had kept me after the bell to make me retake a test, which took about fifteen minutes, making me miss my bus by a long shot. I had two options and two options only, option one being to beg forgiveness to my mother and have her pick me up, and option two being to walk home, risking hypothermia or even fatality in the dead of winter in the bustling city. I chose within seconds, leaving me wandering the frostbitten sidewalks, looking for any sort of shelter.

The first open business I came across was an adult shop. You know, the kind that boys in your grade would go in, only to be removed by management within twenty minutes.

I used to frequent the bank; my mother would stop there every Friday and Tuesday to make a deposit after school. The bank was right across from the sex store, so I made a hobby out of watching all of the customers that ventured into the scary world of artificial pleasure and automatic eroticism.

I’d seen quite a few oddballs go in, but by far the strangest occurrence was the time I caught Mrs. Mahone go inside.

She was our neighbor to the left of us, and she hadn’t noticed our blatantly traceable station wagon parked in plain sight just across the street. She may not have seen me, but I certainly saw her. She only spent about two minutes in there, which means that she went in knowing exactly what was looking for. She had reemerged onto the street clutching a small dandelion yellow bag, perfectly sized for one object in particular.

Tommy Mahone’s mother bought a dildo.  

She had briskly stridden over to her car, her cheeks flushed, not from the cold, but from the shame of purchasing a vibrating penis mold.

I was desperate, but not in that way. I marched on, ducking into a green building whose sign I don’t take the time to read.

The store had a nice, homey feel to it. I was packed in cozily, flanked by shelves of books upon walking a mere few feet. The air smelled faintly of fabric softener, an aroma I associated with memories of being a young child and sitting on the dryer, watching with curiosity as my mother did the laundry. The scent was comforting and familiar, and when you’re a teenager and you and your life is constantly changing and developing, it’s nice to step back to previously treaded grounds.

I wandered aimlessly for a while, shuffling my legs together with each step, trying to bring some warmth to them. I figured that I should at least pretend to be interested in the books, so as make my way through the aisles, I occasionally stopped at a section, filing through books with a forced interest. I went so far as to pick one up, examining it for a few acted moments before placing it where it had come from. I’m not exactly sure why I decided to stay, what I had intended to do in the bookstore is completely unknown to me. I had to be home by five thirty by whatever means necessary, but those means weren’t going to be hanging around in some store looking lost.

I opted to leave, but only after my toes were thawed enough to wiggle them in the upper slope of my shoes. I was heading for the door when my eye is caught by a copy of my favorite novel, a contemporary piece titled Snow Days.

That book was my lifeline all throughout middle school, my only solace in a world of simultaneous ugliness and beauty. I had clung to it like a child to a monkey bar, desperately and helplessly so. The story was all about adolescence, all about the emotional backaches of growing up. It wasn’t a coming of age story that you’d find at your school library, no. They may have the common theme of growing up, but Snow Days went about their message in a much different way, through tales of heartache and woe, fear and innocence, pessimism and false trust. It was everything that was wrong in the world compiled into 248 pages, and it was undoubtedly the best thing to ever happen to me.

I slipped a hand into my pocket, fingering at the bills present with contemplation. I tried to come up with a single good reason not to buy it, and my only excuse was that I already owned one copy, a dog eared, worn, thoroughly used copy. The margins were tattooed with the scrawling of wistful poetry and pleas to God. The most profound parts in the book, profound being a personalized term, seeing as a significant line falls on nearly every page, were highlighted in orange magic marker, staining through the pages.

I elected to give the business 8.99 for their troubles, not including tax of course. I pushed through the maze of books, approaching the front desk with a steady stride.

The stride disappeared, along with my confidence, when the cashier appeared from behind the back room, standing behind the counter. She didn’t even see me; she was too busy fumbling with her nametag, which I tried to read, but from my distance, could only make out a few incoherent blurs. She still failed to notice me, and her mannerisms proved this; she immediately set her elbow up onto the counter, laying her cheek across her forearm.

On wobbling knees, I dragged myself to the counter, clearing my throat subtly.

Her eyes flickered up to meet mine, and she snapped to a standing position, running a hand through her dark bangs. “My apologies. Did you find everything okay?”

     Her voice was like velvet, pleasant and almost melting against my eardrums. 

     I nodded, setting my book onto the spot where she had rested moments ago.

     She picked up the novel, briefly reading the title, but trying to pretend like she didn’t. She punched in the price on the back sticker, informing, “That’s 9.82, please.”

     With shaking hands, I passed over the money. Our fingers brushed against each other, and I had to fight off the instinct to clasp hands with her. I withdrew my hand sharply, so sharply that she furrowed her brows. I stuffed the offending limb into my pocket, casting my eyes to the floor.

     “Your change is thirteen cents,” she chirped. I held out my palm wordlessly, feeling the coins transfer from her hand to mine. “Would you like a bag?”

     I shook my head, muttering softly, “That’s okay.”

     She set the book before me, glancing again at the cover. She raised her brows, telling enthusiastically, “You’ll like this one, it’s really good.”

     I wanted nothing more than to engage her in conversation over what was most definitely my favorite book to ever be printed, but my shy personality held me back, the fear of her laughing at me overwhelming the thought of her laughing with me. “Thanks.” I turned quickly, bee lining for the door.

     By the time I reached my home and was safe and sound in my room, door locked and window open, I fell back onto my mattress.

     I had blown it.