Dreams of 18(5)

I hate when my sister giggles. It’s usually followed by a cutting remark.

“Why? Because you deem him worthy enough to mow your lawn?”

She outright laughs. “Oh, come on. I’m agreeing with you. He’s hot. But you’re right to be jealous.” She continues in a sing-songy voice, “Because you know that if I want him, I can have him.”

I can’t even say that she’s wrong because she’s not.

She’s right. Very, very right.

If she wants him or Brian Edwards or any guy, for that matter, she’ll have him. As evidenced by the trail of broken hearts she leaves behind. One of them belonged to our history teacher.

With her shiny blonde hair and blue eyes, Fiona is a complete copy of my mom and a phenomenon. Not only in our school but also on the internet.

My sister, Fiona Elizabeth Moore, is an Instagram celebrity. As in, she has about 50K followers, who moon over her beauty and make-up videos.

Sometimes I can’t believe we’re sisters, or half-sisters.

While Fiona thrives on attention, here I am, totally okay being invisible.

I always sit in the back of a class. I hardly ever talk to anyone or even if I do, the conversation lasts about two minutes. I always have my head down and my face covered by my hair to stay away from people’s eyes.

Honestly though, it’s not as if they’re giving me any attention anyway, what with my colorless cheeks, great, big brown eyes and super full and weird stung-by-a-bee lips.

But it’s fine. I have made my peace with it.

I mean, someone has to be lacking so people can appreciate beauty, right?

“Well, if you wanna get him, now is your chance,” I say at last. “They’re almost done moving in the furniture.”

I get up and move away from the window. Suddenly, my lollipop has lost its taste and all thoughts of me sneaking into the kitchen to get strawberries seem stupid.

Suddenly, my birthday spirit has died.

Fiona gets up, too. “It’s okay. I’ll let you have him. You’re the weird one in this family who’s going to make all the wrong choices and send our parents to their early grave.” She’s almost to the door when she stops to face me. “Which reminds me. Don’t mess this up for me.”

I lie down on the bed, ready to put the music back on. “Mess what up for you?”

“The Brian thing,” she explains. “He’s in your grade. Which means you guys will be sharing classes. I don’t want you to… weird him out, all right? I mean, we’re neighbors now so there’s no hiding that we’re sisters but just stay away from him.”

I put my headphones back on and salute her with two fingers. “Gotcha. No weirding out the new neighbor and ruining my sister’s wedding plans.”

She throws me another sharp look before sweeping her gaze around the room. “And clean your freaking room.”

Then she leaves with a flourish, banging my door shut, and I throw a pillow at it. It slides down to the floor with a sad thud.

“Oh, by the way, Violet! Happy birthday! You’re only sixteen once so enjoy it,” I mutter to myself in Fiona’s high voice.

God, I’m pathetic.

I’m so pathetic that as soon as my sister is out of my room, I rip my headphones off and dash back to the window to get a final look at him.

Why? I don’t know. But I have to see him one last time before he disappears forever.

But apparently, he’s already gone.

He’s not there anymore. The front yard’s almost cleared out and one of the moving vans is pulling off the curb.

I imagine him in it, his strong hands on the wheel and his long thighs sprawled on the leather seat. I imagine him driving with his window down and his elbow resting on the windowsill, all relaxed and loose, soaking in the summer breeze.

He just looked like that kind of a man. Outdoorsy.

Oh well.

I’m being silly. And slightly obsessive.

As usual, it’s about the wrong thing: a man I’ve seen from afar for maybe a total of fifteen minutes. A man I’m going to forget about by tomorrow.

Shaking my head and sucking on my tasteless lollipop, I walk back to my bed.

But for some reason, I don’t wanna forget him. So I bend down and fish out my journal from under my bed. I call it The Diary of a Shrinking Violet.

I open to an empty page and write about a tall man in a soft plaid shirt with big hiking boots and rough muscles.

A man I’m never going to see again.





I call him the Strawberry Man.

In my head, I mean.

Because he makes me feel exactly how I feel when I’m craving the fruit I’m allergic to: restless and out of control, breaker of rules and avoider of common sense. I know I’m not supposed to want it but I do anyway.

But that’s not his name, of course.

His name is Graham Edwards and he’s not a moving guy. Which should’ve been kind of obvious in hindsight since he was the only one, other than Brian, who wasn’t wearing a mover’s uniform.

Anyway, two years ago on my birthday, he moved in next door with his son.

So really, he’s Mr. Edwards – that’s his correct nomenclature.

Or Coach.

Because he’s the coach of the football team at our school. That explains his good reflexes and athleticism from that day long ago.