Tacit ; Stanlon

I

sweet

aug. 24th. friday

august has always been a pretty month, no, gorgeous month. it was the colors mainly, different warm shades that kept you cozy. 'sweater weather' shades. heated brown hazes, smothering reds, and popping oranges, just the whole season was something special. watching as the trees made their effortless shed of browning leaves only to become bare and hollow. a bit like i feel now, hollow...different. maybe going into senior year would do that to anyone. it was a scary time to say the least, becoming an adult, almost being ripe enough for society to pick you and throw you out into the real world. you never know what the year holds, whether it be ups or downs...but God knows i dont need anymore downs. to look on the bright side, this is my last year of high school, but thats also the bad side. a bittersweet tragedy indeed...
❍
mike looked up from his worn journal, pen stalling as one of the many derry public buses jolted to a heart skipping stop. he snapped the brown covered book shut, slinging his satchel over his arm and making his way off the crowded vehicle. mike had always thought that when he was seventeen he would have a car and be driving himself around, but here he was, taking up the wondrous benefits of public transportation. you have the crowdedness, the easily transmitted germs, judgmental glares, creeps and whatever else life could throw at you. the honeyed boy had to keep telling himself 'its less pollution on the earth' but hell, so was walking and he'd rather do that. mike knew his mother would never allow such a thing, and he knew why. derry wasn't just some place a black, male, teenager could roam happy-go-lucky and free. not a chance. every breath was like a risk and michael knew that. the hanlon family was indeed the only african american family in derry. either the others were smart and stayed away, or derry ran them away. however it went, mike always wondered why his family stayed and why he never felt the dire need to leave either. perhaps it was the influence of the town, an iron grip that grounded people to call this freak show of a place home.

the air smelled damp with the scent of dawn as mike made his trek from the bus stop to derry high. many students were crowding around the front door while others made their way into the building, a prison wrapped in a dainty bow. the conversations of mike's peers surround him and he was starting to wish he hadn't forgotten his earbuds at home, wanting desperately to drown out the buzz with a self-made playlist. the hairs on his arms prickled and the nape of his neck was warm with the electricity of impending embarrassment. it was like all eyes were on him as he made his way into the building, all hushed whispers or fit of giggles ..about him. he knew, deep down, that was ridiculous but he couldn't shake the eerie feeling of people just waiting for him to screw up. it was only the second week of school and of course things still held their juvenile feel.

beginning the year, mike had the slightest bit of hope that being a senior would make him more confident. top of the food chain, y'know? yeah, he was wrong. no matter what year he was in, he still felt the dying nerve to vomit whenever there was too many people near him. the only time he could truly relax and just breathe was band. he had played the trombone since he was in second grade as well as guitar, piano, and he dabbled in the violin. it was the feel of the brass beneath his fingers, the dizzying lightheadedness of giving the instrument metaphorical CPR, the discipline of the art of music itself, and the ability of creativity. it was a rush for mike, a stress reliever as well.

standing beside his locker was beverly marsh, looking as vibrant as ever, waving him over. her once seemingly endless river of fiery hair was cut right below her chin in a wavy bob. she was also supporting a bang that nearly covered her eyes.

"mornin' bev," he grinned at her, already feeling more centered, more content. she gave off the energy of a thousand full moons and mike fed off of it.