bad expectations | jfg

64

I cough three times just for a dramatic effect and start from the beginning, "My life is cold, and dark, and dreary. It rains, and the wind is never weary. My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, nut the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, and the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart, and cease repining. Behind the clouds is the sun still shining. Thy fate is the common fate of all, into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary." I finish and flick my gaze to meet his.

He has a rested smile on his face and he nods, "pretty dark and dreary."

"I'd say so."

"Think it's about depression?"

"Probably. It says cease repining, which means-"

"Stopping feeling." He interrupts me with his own words and picks the folder that lay on his side back up, "let me read this one. It's not a poem and it's not sad."

I lightly laugh and cross my legs before folding my hands and resting them in my lap. I look down the empty hall for a few moments while waiting for him to speak.

"Brown. What a dark, boring color. Boring because it reflects dirt, boring because it's the most common eye shade, but why was it my favorite? It was my favorite because in between the weak slits of her eyes when she woke up, the color rested there and it was never going to go away. It was my favorite because it was what hung down when her hair was up high, it was my favorite because when it hit the light, it turned into something, something beautiful. Brown is dark, and boring. But when it opens up and spreads out, hits the light, it could help a flower grow, or a boy fall in love. Why is it always blue? Blue is the color everyone loves, whether as a crayon, or an eye shade. But blue is openly beautiful, brown is a mystery. Who doesn't love a mystery? To see what's in brown, you have to shine a light on it. That light could either be an actual agent that stimulates sight, or it could be something like, I don't know, love? Love can open brown up, and make it beautiful. Just like the beholder, just like her. She was beautiful."

I listen to the words as he says it very slowly and exaggerates at the right times. He looks up at me with a smile, "blue is better." He concludes.

I squint my eyes and reach my leg out to kick his foot with a smile, "not according to him. I think I'm in love." I roll my eyes around in admiration, obviously joking but it causes him to laugh.

"Of course you are. It says that it wants to be in one of those books with different stories and stuff," he studies the thin cover and back. "Jack Gilinsky, University of Nebraska." He simply says.

My eyebrows pull together and I reach over to snatch it from his hand. I look down the short passage and sure enough, his printed name and school is in the bottom corner. He wants to be published? Why didn't he ask me for help? Why didn't he tell me? I ignore the questions and smile, he wrote this about me.

"Are you gonna tell him to put it through?" Jack asks.

"Of course. It's good." I shrug and he nods.

"Did you ask him about why he told your dad so quickly?" Jack reaches back over to grab the transcript from my lap before sitting back against the wall.

I think back to yesterday and bite my bottom lip. I didn't talk to my dad about it or anything because I don't want to speak to him but I'm still confused about it all, and I don't know if I should be. It could've been a mistake in names but then again, it could have been something more.

"He didn't tell my dad."

"Huh?"

"I was going to tell you. Mr. Sanders was in Chicago, he didn't even know what happened with the two of you. He never called my dad."