INAUDIBLE

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

My heart sank. 

The school sign was becoming more visible as we pulled up to the street

I’d overthought about this. 

Imagined how it would go.

I’d thought of every word I would say and in what order.

I was ready for this.

Or at least I’d been last night.

Last night I was more than ready.

I’d stood in conversation with the mirror, waved my hands around as I was making points, stomped my foot, done that curved smile that I’d seen Jean do a lot. That smile that I knew got all the guys.

I’d flipped my hair rather stealthily and let the loose brown curls bounce back across the breadth of my shoulder.

Last night I was invincible, absolutely ready for anything.

Today I was not.

In the moment I was a leaf in autumn.

My thoughts ran amok.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Three Mississippi

Four Mississippi

A knock. 

I’d turned swiftly to see mum walk in.

“You’re still up?” 

She’d asked, she looked worried.

I shrugged.

She’d walked up to me evenly paced.

She’d said to go to bed.

I’d prepared enough, I would be fine.

I wish I had listened last night.

I had pretended to fall asleep and then immediately continued and even deepened my heart felt conversation with the mirror.

I had written down notes in my journal.

Not the one I got for the purpose of course.

Not The little brown leather one.

I’d written the notes in the rose gold journal that I’d just about snatched from the boy that was already holding it at the bookstore. Though I wouldn’t say snatched per say, I’m not rotten. I had just asked to see it and made a run to pay for it first. He didn’t run after me so assume he didn’t need it. The journal came with a pen and had a knob at the top left corner. 

Weird right?

That’s why I’d been drawn to it. Well and also because it had a pocket at the back.

It wasn’t a typical journal. I hadn’t gotten it for typical writing either. I had gotten it for scribbles. Drawings I had no idea how to do. It was the absolutely perfect journal and I had made a race to pay for it to end up using it for scribbles.

And there I was last night anxiously writing away as I had this tete a tete with my mirror.

I eventually went to bed of course.

By 4.

And I was to be up by 7.

I did not care though. I had perfectly prepared myself and I was ready to go.

I would have 3 hours of sleep but it would be worth it.

I would be ready.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Five Mississippi.

Six Mississippi.

The bus stopped.

I watched everyone leave.

I stared out at the window at the several figures walking around ever so casually. 

“Ready to go dear?”

I looked up at the bus driver.

He smiled.

“I’m ready.”, I replied as I got up with my bag and headed to the door of the bus. 

Walking through the doors of school was easy.

Seeing him and actually voicing words was not.

I walked straight up to my locker and got my books out just as the bell rang for first period. 

I had that and another period before I’d see him.

80 minutes to get myself together.

80 minutes of sanity.

. . ………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Seven Mississippi.

Eight Mississippi.

Lunch.

I walked past the lunch lady in the already crowded cafeteria.

The last time I had tried school food I had gotten salmonella and come down with a serious case of food poisoning.

Almost half the school had.

Now I pack my lunch every morning before heading out to school.

Most people had their mum do theirs. But not mine, no.

My mum was too busy being a big time CEO. I only got to see her at night and that’s once in a never moon, permit me to say. Not like I’m complaining or anything, she does get me the latest gadgets and all the best clothes.

And money.

She gets me money.

But I could not afford grateful thoughts at the moment.

I was angry today, or at least I was meant to be.

I walked to the same table I had sat at for the past three years.

The one where he sat.

There he was. Of course.

He looked prettier than usual today, glowier.

I remembered the first time I had called him pretty.

“What do you mean??!!”, he had screamed back, “I can’t be pretty, I’m not a girl. Girls are pretty, men are handsome, or sexy, or hot!”

I had laughed of course. But I had immediately made up my mind to always call him pretty.

A.   Because he hated it so much

and

B.    Because, he in fact, was pretty.

He had blue eyes and pink lips. His skin shone in the sun. He had the curliest hair and he used to braid it back then. It was so long. All the girls in school used to walk up to him and play with the six cornrows resident on his head. I never did understand why he decided to cut that beauty off and join the gang of waves. It’s not that he did not look pretty with waves. On the contrary, he looked stunning, that was exactly the problem, he looked prettier than me.

I walked straight up to the table with my packed lunch of half-eaten stir fry pasta and a bottle of apple juice. That was taken out of too. (Do not judge me, making lunch makes me very hungry and after that, I barely have time for breakfast).

There was a seat there for me.

As usual.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Nine Mississippi.

Ten Mississippi.

“Hey”

I had forgotten how silky his voice was. I don’t know how I had forgotten; it had just been a day.

I heard one word and all the butterflies in me woke up.

“Hey”, I attempted to reply

Of course, my voice was croaked, it always was. I sounded like an untuned violin that a cat had conveniently turned into its litter box.

No, I sounded like a litter box. Calling my voice at that moment, an instrument, untuned or otherwise would be unfair.

To the instrument that is.

I slurped my apple juice.

I needed a firm voice to say what I was about to say.

“Hey I got you something”, he announced as he reached into the pocket of his varsity jacket.

He pulled out his iPod.

The war was about to begin.

“I got you some songs by him to listen to”,

I rolled my eyes. Like that was going to change my mind.

“Come on, you have to at least listen to one”, he insisted

“Okay I’ll listen to one song but then you have to listen to my points on why nobody can sing as well as Arthur”, I replied as I reluctantly took the earphones from his hands and put them in my ear.

He pressed play.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Zero Mississippi.

I don’t know it was the instruments or the melody or his voice, but a minute into the song my eyes were closed.

It was beautiful.

I could see every word; I could feel the melody.

The song was everything he had said it would be.

And more.

And then it ended.

I stared at him. He smiled.

I had spent the day before researching how many albums of my favourite artiste had been sold and comparing him to this person whose name I had just heard of. I was going to destroy him. I would ask how he could even compare Arthur to this nobody.

Here I was holding his earphones and staring at him, my eyes begging for more.

The next thing I knew, I was listening to an entire album of an artiste I had built an argument against.

“No but mum, how could he compare Arthur to someone else? He is easily the best artiste in the world”

I had said that with so much pride last night. If she could see me now.

I had counted down time to this moment. Except I had not gotten the argument I intended. Quite frankly I couldn’t remember what it was.

Time was abruptly stopped peaceful melodies.

There was no noise. Everything else was inaudible.

Words were gone now.

Only art.