Don't Fear The Reaper

{vii. of thunder and stars}

❝Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.❞

-Marthe Troly-Curtin

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If there's one thing both connecting and separating downtown Ashdown with the outskirts, it's Route 7, a.k.a. Ethan Allen Highway, a winding stretch of interstate that leads over the New Haven River, through The Hundred Acre Woods, and up to the Canadian border. It's also home to Ashdown's franchise of Cumberland Farms, one of New England's favorite convenience store chains and the quickest place for me to get ice cream.

The Monday after the big football game - which ended in humiliation for the Jackals - we had a teacher in-service day, and I planned to spend the Sunday before it finally reading over the script for Ashdown High School's next theater production: Hamlet.

When Mr. Summers, the drama club adviser and my homeroom teacher, announced it at the club meeting on Wednesday, I think everybody was pretty disappointed. Out of every play, every dramatization, every possible act we could've put on... we were doing Shakespeare. A few freshmen were excited at first, but when our resident primo uomo, Jordan Costello, dismissed it as cliché and overdone, the rest of the club quickly followed to agree.

I know if Will were here, he wouldn't care what the production was - he'd just be excited to act. Being a football player, Will was constantly having to act tough and athletic, but he'd once told me the stage was the one place he could just have fun without caring about the results.

His absence in drama club was the elephant in the room, the cause of stale air and stiff expressions, but nobody acknowledged it. And hardly anybody even acknowledged me, and I couldn't tell if they simply didn't like me anymore, or they were too afraid to offend me in the slightest.

Still, I wanted to at least try to be in the play. The thing was - suffering through the script required some fuel. And so, around 1:00 pm, I found myself wandering through the retro aisles of Cumbies looking for the freezer section.

Above me, fluorescent lights fizzle and spark, letting shadows dance over the sagging shelves and cracked, white, linoleum floor. A few other people are milling around, including the high school's stern principal, Ms. Harmon, but I avoid eye contact. Outside, the sky is overcast and gray, perfectly fitting my mood. A draft of cool, mid-September wind blows through the cracks in the store, making the stands of Bic lighters and 5-hour Energy™ rattle.

Today's an "up" day for me, which simply means I don't feel completely lifeless. That being said, I still feel hollow and empty inside. My heart isn't hurting, because I can't feel it. If my days with Will were heaven and my worst days were hell, I'm now somewhere on the deep side of purgatory.

I make my way down the snack aisle, past bags of pretzels and packages of Snickers and Twix, toward the freezer wall of ice cream at the far end. When I turn, my heart skips a beat. In the corner where the coffee sits, apparently getting herself a 99¢ cappuccino, is Macy.

Nope, nope, nope, I think. I'm not dealing with this today.

Ever since she declared the news of the defunding of the music program to me, Macy and I's relationship had become progressively more and more awkward. The last time I talked to her, we only said 5 words to each other. It was on Friday, after a mandatory pep rally, and it was comprised of me saying, "Good luck at the game," and her not even having time to reply before the cheerleading squad dragged her away to do whatever small town high school cheerleaders do.

I duck back into the snack aisle, only to come face to face with Mor, leaning against a display of all-natural trail mix and peering at the Nutrition Facts of a Baby Ruth bar.