Creative Writing
Goodwill– Jackie Greene compliments my skirt. She asks where it is from. I don’t blame her, the skirt is a thing of beauty. Soft, white cloth with brown stitching and baby blue details. So short in the back, an Amish lady might have a stroke. Thank god I am not Amish. I tell Jackie I bought it at the thrift store; the Goodwill nestled in the small plaza off of Brick Boulevard. There are perhaps millions of these kinds of plazas in America, where a broken light up sign in the entrance lists the name of a dollar store, nail salon, Chinese restaurant, and Goodwill. In the Goodwill I hunt for clothing. For every hundred articles, there is one good one. But when you find that gem it is like winning the lottery. There are few things more valuable than money itself, one of them being that gorgeous piece of cloth that Jackie Greene would be jealous of.
Grandma’s House– Hanging baskets of dangling fern cast shadows over hibiscus and rose in full bloom. Deep green ivy wrestles a small terracotta pot of unripe tomatoes next to blue hydrangeas amidst brush and vine. The ivy snakes up the sides of the house against red brick and white panels. Chipped paint on shutters, as well as on the loudest garage door known to man. You could be tucked in rosebud bed sheets on the second floor and yet still be awoken by the rumbling open of the garage door. Grandma is in the kitchen draped in her pink gingham robe. She wakes just a few hours after the sun. Her elbows are stuck to the laminated kitchen tablecloth as she peruses the local paper through small lensed tortoise shell readers glasses. The headline: Man Stabbed to Death in Atlantic City. The roses stretch their petals towards the sky. The ivy reaches my window.
Casa de el Verano– In the summer I do not have to face the people I know. I can lie, say I am in Greece and out of cell phone range, gazing at the Acropolis from the terrace of the most wonderful restaurant. I know damn well that I have never been to Greece, but nobody else does! They can’t see where I truly am, swaddled in pink bed sheets in New Jersey till noon. Window open despite the lack of any sort of coolness from outside, because Dad would rather us sweat than pay for air conditioning. In the summer I sometimes talk to my parents in Spanish. I say “Qué vamos hacer hoy,” and my mom says “la playa.” Most days I do not like the beach. I do not like the feeling of sand filled crevices, oh my god the sand. Sand in my hair, sand in my bathing suit, sand in my pillowcase, sand in the bag of chips. Besides, I am a cashier. I am too busy selling overpriced home decor to the elite rich of New Jersey. Customers walk in sporting hundred dollar white jeans and generic looking blouses, raising their designer sunglasses from their eyes. They sniff the candles and test out the couches, then drop my week's salary on a gift for their friends. There is something delightful about witnessing this. I am scanning away and tripling the price of mirrors that come in the mail, while everyone at school thinks I am galavanting in Athens.