But Then I Met You

"The biggest mistake you can ever make is being afraid to make one."

Chapter one: Crayola and Cucumbers

He arrived at precisely 6:24pm. I knew because I’d spent the last fifteen minutes staring at the second hand dance laps around the circumference of my clock. It took three sets of knocks before I managed to peel my gaze from the hazy numbers, but as I did I sort of got sucked back into reality. The rhythmic grunts from through the wall returned, and I remembered why I was staring at the clock in the first place. I was counting down the minutes before my dropkick brother with a permanent weed-high had to leave for his night shift at McDonalds, because that meant he could stop vocally duvet dancing with his girlfriend, who, in my opinion looked like a pasty stick bug with straw for hair and face covered in Crayola. Then, I could have the house all to myself.  And before you start making assumptions about me, I didn’t want to be home alone so I could throw some cliche rager of a party which would end in me being the coolest chick in school, or invite around my boyfriend for my own duvet dancing recital, or even just to have the TV to myself. I wanted to be home alone so I didn’t have to worry about my family questioning me as I walked to the kitchen in my ball dress crying like a horse to get cody’s and cucumber slices.

          The grunting stopped at exactly 6:27pm, ending as the stick bug released a screechy cat-like moan. I shuddered, feeling sick to my stomach. I would have put my ipod in my ears, but the flimsy-ass charger had split, its wiry intestines fraying from the plastic like veins, and getting a new one meant leaving the house. To me, leaving the house was on the same difficulty level as being skinny and algebraic equations. The impossible-do-not-bother-attempting level.

          My brother left with the stick bug at 6:32pm, to make sure he was early to his 6:30 maccas shift. That’s when I emerged from my cocoon of sheets, crawling to my door and pulling the handle. I was greeted by the sickly scent of ylang ylang toilet spray. Brendan sprayed it like a skunk each time he did the dirty, thinking it would cover the sweaty smell of sex. It didn’t work. Each time Brendans dump of a room smelt distinctly of a flowerbed, we all knew what he’d been up to. But, as reef as it is, I have to admit that sometimes I did feel a pang of jealousy when I saw him leading her into his room, mainly because I’d convinced myself that love was also on the impossible-do-not-bother-attempting level. I mean, I barely ever left the house, and it wasn’t as if the love of my life was going to spontaneously appear at the door one evening.

          I descended the stairs in a seal-like manner, thudding down on my stomach while clad in an extremely unattractive pair of lint covered sweatpants and seaworld Australia tshirt that belonged to my mum. I’d never been to seaworld myself. Infact, I’d never even left the North Island of New Zealand. I hit my chin as I flopped onto the last step, feeling the familiar sting of carpet burn singe the underside of my face. I would have started crying, it didn’t take much to set me off, but the tears retreated back as there was, once again, another knock at the door. I blinked. The knock screamed stranger danger. Everyone who knew mum knew she worked evenings, Brendans friends rarely ever showed up at the house, and no one would be showing up for me. I didn’t really have the best contact with my friends, infact I couldn’t even tell if on the odd occasion they did invite me somewhere, if it was an act of friendship or sympathy.

          I stared at the door, the flimsy slab of varnished pine that separated me from the outside, and me from this stranger that seemed persistent on getting a response. We had no windows next to our front door, which was a blessing to me, because I had time to run without being seen if anyone did arrive. Possibilities began running through my mind as I laid on the carpet, nursing my burnt chin. A policeman? My brother who’d locked himself out? A preaching jehovas whitness? I didn’t have to guess for long, because there was another knock. This time, a clangy tap at the living room window. The persistent knocker had circled our house, and was now standing next to the narrow glass pane looking straight at me with a grin. I stared back, but my lips stayed pursed and began to accept the fact that I probably had to make contact with this outsider. It wasn’t that I had a speech impediment or physical abnormality; I just hated conversing with others of my species, pretty much for fear of embarrassment. I’d say something stupid, something idiotic, and then those stupid words would circle my head for days on end, taunting at me and laughing at what a lame excuse for a person I was; a selfish excuse for a person.  I was physically capable of talking and making friends and enjoying life, but I was just a wasted opportunity, and I absolutely loathed myself for it. People would have killed to be me, just a regular, financially supported teenage girl with brains and aside from the freckles, clear skin. I wasn’t what you’d call fat, but the broccoli-like dimples on my thighs told me I could do with a bit of a workout. But I mean, I wasn’t paralysed or abused or anything, in fact I’d loved my childhood. I just had a brain that told me shit about myself that wasn’t true.  If it wasn’t for that, I could have been anything, but I chose to be a social recluse who lived in a cocoon of blankets, full of self-hate and negativity to prevent myself from maturing into the social butterfly I constantly longed to be.