Teardrops

Chapter 36: I'm A Thief

Chapter 36

The red truck that zipped down the road looked like all of the other cars, traveling down the long stretch of graying pavement, with its windows inched down enough to let in the crisp air that could only indicate autumn.

The only way to describe it was normal. But if you tried to prescribe the same judgment to the passengers inside of it, you would find yourself farther in the wrong than any human had ever found themselves before. The driver, a beautiful, blue-eyed blond princess laughed as if she had never heard a joke before while squinting, trying to see the road clearly. A handsome, dark-haired boy constantly shifted in the front seat, continually looking into the back. He, too, smiled; although it was obvious he had been the butt of said joke.

And then there was me. I looked normal, enough. Or at least, I thought so. But I was as crazy as the rest of them- and that fact was even crazier, to me. That I was like someone. Similar. As in I, Shelly, had something in common with another human being (If I even considered Lexi and Donny to be mere humans, instead of angels).

But that wasn't the only crazy thing. The smile on my face wasn't just because of the 10 pounds of marshmallows I shared the backseat with, the junk food I had eaten, the fact that I wasn't at school. It wasn't because I wasn't in pain, because, in fact, a burning sharpness registered in my chest, just in front of my heart, hovering like a knife already embedded in my delicate skin. My smile wasn't even because I thought that making fun of Donny was hilarious- although, obviously, it was.

It was because I felt loved, and safe, and like I finally had a home. And that is what makes this little red truck different. Not because it had a huge impact on the world, (because, thanks to SMOG checks, it hopefully wasn't) but because it enclosed everything that was MY world.

But there was a world outside my world, too. The red and yellows on the trees were beautiful, and we passed a neighborhood full of quaint houses that reminded me a bit of my old neighborhood. The houses looked like cautiously crafted sculptures, or like they belonged in a painting that looked loftily down at the guests in the living room of some billionaire's house. I imagined that a family lived in each one, that each family was distinct and had different dynamics. Maybe, the blue house had a son that was in love with the daughter of the parents in the coral house, but her parents didn't approve because he wanted to be a programmer instead of a doctor, and her parents wanted her to marry a doctor. And the two girls who played jump rope outside of the white house with the brown trim weren't really sisters, merely friends who lived next door to each other and one of them was always coming over to the other's house because her parents were always drunk and yelling at each other and her older brother did drugs with the gang that hung around the old grocery store downtown. Maybe when she went home that night, she would be the one to open the door and be greeted by the policeman's gruff words.

"Are your parent's home?" And maybe, they would be kind or thoughtful enough to send her to her room, but maybe she would hover, refusing to sit on the couch while the stranger in the decorated blue uniform whispered the words, hat creased in his hands, "I'm so terribly sorry for your loss."

But maybe, maybe it wasn't a loss, for her, maybe she had hated her brother, but they always assumed that it was a loss, because they were related. Maybe being related didn't mean someone was important to you or even if they loved you. Maybe the little girl wouldn't even cry. Maybe, she would only cry if her friend with the flaming red pigtails died, because she didn't know how to love anyone else. Maybe, she wouldn't be told about her friend's death until the morning when she skipped up to her doorway and was told by her parents. No one ever sends a policeman to the best friend's house, only the "next of kin". Even if she was the only person who ever understood-