The Boy in the Gray Hoodie

8...

8…

I stared at the sunset, taking several deep breaths. I was seventeen. Finally, after seventeen years, I was seventeen.

“Dinner is almost ready.” Aunt Pam said from the doorway. Bathed in warm sunlight, her chin-length, chopped dark hair looked like chocolate against her minty white skin. She had the skin of a cave-dweller who’d never been outside, but it was natural, not intentional. She’d tried tanning booths even. She’d just burn, not tan. She hated it, but I thought it was beautiful. I thought that she was beautiful, and lamented the fact that we weren’t actually related by blood. “Happy birthday.” She added with a grin. She was way more excited about it than I was, and had been all day.

“That has to be the tenth time you’ve said that today.” I said, lifting a brow.

“I wasn’t counting.” She replied, checking her green nail polish with a smile. “The hour has arrived. Ready for your smashing surprise?”

“I’m watching the sunset, actually.” I said.

“Oh good, it did that just for you today. Even a great big ball of burning gas is celebrating your great seventeenth.”

“Ha,” I snorted, shaking my head and letting the tips of my long blond hair brush against the skin of my arms. “As if it matters,” I retorted.

“Of course it matters. You’re old. Old matters.” Aunt Pam shuffled into the room in her bright, pink fuzzy slippers. She looked like a bumble bee in her black leggings and long yellow sweatshirt. A portion of her hair was tied back at the top of her head with a couple of bent pins. She stood next to me, watching the sun as it fell behind the tree tops at a slug’s pace. “They’re going to call.” She mentioned in a quiet voice.

“They won’t call.” I shook my head.

“They will. Love knows no bounds, kiddo.” Pam countered. “And even lazy people like to use the telephone. Pushing buttons is fun.”

“Really, Aunt Pam, I don’t care,” I said, brushing her hand away as I stalked over to my dresser and started pulling clothes out and piling them on my bed. “It’s not like I want anything from them. They already sent me a package and dad gave me a card before he brought me here. They were preparing to not call.”

“I don’t think so.” Pam shook her head and walked over to my bed. As I piled several more shirts on top of the sky-blue bed cover, Aunt Pam started folding them and stacking them back in the drawers.

“Yes.” I argued, tossing a red blouse over my shoulder. It landed on the lampshade. Pam plucked it off and folded it neatly like the others. “They sent me away because they are sick of me. This is their vacation. Calling me would ruin it.”

“No.” Aunt Pam bumped me with her narrow hip, her smile still in place. She was grinning, actually.

“Doesn’t it hurt to smile that much?” I asked, wearily.

“It takes more muscles to frown than to smile. You’re the one who should be in pain. Your facial muscles should be screaming right now. Screaming.” She said, putting her hands on her hips.

“For the sake of my own sanity, I choose to believe that is a myth.” I said as I fell backwards onto the bed with my arms spread out like a bird in flight.

“What are you doing now?” Aunt Pam asked with a smirk.

“Resting my frown,” I replied shortly, tossing the remaining clothes into the air.