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I learned much too early in life just how quickly tragedies come. Like a car crash, the moment before a collision with only seconds to think about your fate, the light before the crash, or the calm before the storm, to put it nicely.
I learned much earlier than I ever wanted to. Then again, I was young and naive, and I would never put myself in such a position I broke my fragile heart for no reason other than realism. I filled my mind with wondrous, fantastic ideas and didn't think twice. That's why Hanson called me a romantic, because I loved to dream of everything good.
But idealism ends, like many other things.
I was seventeen when my heart broke for the first time. Weeks had passed since I shared a dance with Dallas, and I felt a feeling I'd never felt before. It was new and passionate, although I couldn't label it as anything more than infatuation because I was too young to know what love felt like. All I knew was my desire to be by his side, and I never went against my instinct.
My birthday passed. I'd gone to the Curtis house (Darry invited me personally), and they baked me a cake while I opened gifts. I got books since the boys didn't know too much about what I enjoyed, joined by a few personalized things. Steve got me a record, the Stones, cause he knew I dug them a whole lot. They were tuff, something new.
Steve objected but majority ruled and we ended up getting smashed at Buck's later that night. Two-bit had it the worst. He was reeling over, vomiting on the lawn before midnight hit. I was there with my hand on his back, trying to keep it in my stomach while the vile smell wafted up. I crept away shortly after a much more sober Soda arrived. Steve tried his best to abstain from the alcohol for the night so he could keep an eye on me, but I slipped past his gaze and scurried upstairs with Dallas on my arm and a bottle of vodka dangling in my hand.
He was particularity happy that night. His eyes were lit up like the stars and his smile, something he seldom did with genuineness, was stretched from ear to ear nearly all evening. Perhaps it was the alcohol surging through his system; I'd never know. I got a real warm feeling when he held me like he did.
He got me a Polaroid, pulled it from behind his back with a smile like a boy on Christmas morning. He also got me roses, and I kissed him after that. The camera was a meaningful gift. It meant more to me than anything anybody could give me. The roses were flattering, I took them and he admired me, telling me I was beautiful. We were closer than ever, and I spent the night with him, curled up in his bed with my head rested on his chest. I slept like a baby.
Steve was on my ass the next morning, and I felt sort of bad for leaving him like that. He ended up drinking and was almost as hungover as me. We made up sooner or later, we always did.
Hanson was gone for a week like he said he would be. I didn't bother visiting the store; I knew he had an extra set of keys, and if he wanted to hire me, he'd do it when he got back. I waited until Wednesday, to keep the routine. Things were changing so much, so rapidly in my life, I figured it'd do me good to keep a little bit of my old self. Walk the 580 steps to Barnes street to grab a brand new book.
