The Firefly Field Theory

|13| Red Bulls and Revelation: Part I

PART I:

Omi is a smart guy for sure, as Z had said. He’s sharp and sees through you. Also he’s the first to ask me his question. And I am taken by surprise as to how he reached certain conclusions without even knowing me as long as the others.

He says to me, that he thinks I’m a strong person, which makes me smile a little. He also says, that even though he’s got a pretty good idea that I've had a hard time dealing with bullies in high school, he’s certain that I haven’t broken. So he asks me to tell them an incident that had come the farthest to breaking me. I don’t need to think a lot to come up with an answer.

There was only one time I was inches from breaking. The last day of High School; prom night to be exact. So I begin my story, I start from the cafeteria, and mention tiny Jane Starlet, who crossed the crowd of dull faces, holding her tray to her chest and stopped by our table. She didn’t even sit down, like sitting with Asians might give her cooties or cholera.

I tell the strangers of the minivan everything, how she asked me out thinking I was a guy, how I lost my voice for a second– maybe more, how Maria-my Indian buddy, pulled me out by saying I had already asked her. I tell the strangers, how I was unsure about the consequences of this lie and I kept thinking of Jane Starlet, her possible reaction once she found out. How I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told her plain faced. When I tell them, that Maria arrived at my apartment drenched and a reduced to a drunk, babbling mess the tension in the atmosphere is pointed enough to burst a balloon. The fact that I remember each drunk word Maria hurled at me that night is kind of frustrating and at the same time amusing, because I don’t remember curses my enemies yelled at me or tossed at me scribbled on torn pages of their seldom used note books. But I do remember my friend calling me stone hearted; calling me selfish. And though those aren’t really overly used and worn out slurs people classify as verbal abuse. It felt like verbal abuse, it hurt more.

The whole time Bravo stares at me, like I’m dictating the tale of my time travels. She’s facing me, her sunglasses sitting over her bandana; her elbows perched on her knees and an erect open palm cradling her chin.  When I speak of the drunken creativity offered to me by Maria, she gasps. I look over at her and then at Wall-e, he averts his almost-always-startled-eyes. I continue to dictate the scenes one by one, how she faints after calling me a stone, how mom shows up and we all carry her inside, and once she wakes up she leaves and her boyfriend Rahul rushes after her. And when I reach the part where the truth explodes on me like a paintball, it’s just the sound of me talking, the wind breathing and the rushing past of neighboring cars.

I tell the strangers everything. They listen to everything.

And when the story is over, as an afterword I say; that was the only time I came close to breaking point, and I learned something from it. I tell them I learned that like Rahul said, people will judge you by what they see, they won’t try to look in deeper; skin deep is enough. Everybody is as quiet as a graveyard.

“What time is it?” I ask the too quiet interior.

“It’s nine, just two more hours. I think we’ll be there by eleven.” Z says.

“I wanna sit in the front seat.” I request looking out of the window.

“Yeah okay, it’s been an hour my back is sore. Omi you take the wheel next, kay?”

“Okay.” Omi’s replies.

Z drives off a little further, and then rolls the van into the shade of a sidelined gas station. Z and Omi step out and stretch. I slide my door open and jump out clutching my Granola Bar, the familiar feeling of solid ground makes my ankles ache a little. I cross over to the passenger side door, taking a look at the white crescent and star that I scrubbed. I open the door and land on the soft foamy seat. Omi gets in from the other side and fastens his seat belt.