An Awfully Big Adventure

Hour Two: Dale

2. Write a chapter where your main character meets someone with the name of a Disney character.

Often times, Wendy would go outside to cool off her hot head. Most of the time, the nights in Santa Cruz, California chilled to a decent temperature, so things simmered down nicely. Most of the time.

However, this was one of those occasions that Wendy hated. She hated her mom, but she also hated that her mom hadn’t bothered to check up on her. Ideally, she’d come out and hold her and hug her uncomfortably and maybe even offer Wendy a scoop of ice cream.

Sadly, Wendy is no longer four and such fanciful daydreaming only further reminds her of the days slipping through her grasp. Soon, no one will be there to hold her and soon, she will have nothing to hold onto herself.

But dear God, the stars are so pretty and she really wants someone to hold her. She also wants to cry but she detests the self-pity threatening to consume her. Wendy would rather be angry than miserable and so she reminds herself that she is mad-- furious-- and a tiny spark of anger reignites. She keeps the ember warm and soon her disgust is rekindled.

Still, she wishes for someone to hold her in a hungry nostalgic manner. Feelings, she decides, are such a headache.

Wendy sits there in this devouring desolation because she can’t bring herself to apologize. Especially for something she’s not particularly sorry for, and if she is to recognize her wrongs, her mother must as well. Wendy knows perfectly well that her mom will not confess to any wrongdoings. Taking back blows and attempting to heal the puncture wounds of words have never been either of their strong-suits. Both are caught in an egotistical state of unbalanced self-perfection. Funny how adults are childish in that sense.

Wendy tries to convince herself that the front porch is a refuge from anger. She need only to find solace in it for so long before her fury ebs away, but as the minutes drag on and the sky grows darker, she begins to lose faith.

Filled with that childish wonder, she looks up to make a wish on the twinkling pixie dust stars trailing off to Neverland. If she squints her eyes just so, the only thing visible is the gleam the constellations provide and she can pretend that she is actually being whisked away from home.

She leans on the porch stairs and begins to close her eyes to find just the right angle of light refraction. No sooner has she settled into the appropriate position that she is startled by a “Fine!” and an equally resonant bang.

Never being one to flinch easily, Wendy merely cracks a single eye wide open, slightly angered that her near zen and almost relaxation have been disrupted.

Wendy is slouched on the steps, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie. Her neighbor from the house directly across the street retains a much more agitated posture, one of someone recently released from the arms of a fight rather than one pulled apart with negativity. Concentrated anger and diluted anger mirror each other.

It's not like this is awkward or uncomfortable at all. The situation is not foreign on any standard, but most of the time, they just sit there looking at each other. Maybe they'll give a curt nod at each other and there's an occasional wave here and there.

But not today. Wendy averts her eyes from the stars and focuses on him. He glances with frustration from the ground up to her. Wendy shrugs at him, but doesn't turn her head. They're used to the silent looks, because both aren't overtly clear in speech, often too quick in inflecting emotion. But gestures are simpler, and for them easier to convey. And at night, under the Neverland stars after a fight, the just get each other on an unspoken level.

He shifts over slightly on the porch step, still tensed up, but he doesn't want to look completely unapproachable.

They spend a few more moments, looking at each other before Wendy finally musters up the energy to walk across the street.