The boy’s eyes gleamed like crystal as he leaned in and kissed me. He pulled away and started planting small pecks on my neck and cheeks.
I giggled. I pulled my hands through his shaggy, dark brown hair.
The boy looked up at me, his hands brushing my back. “You’re beautiful, Andra.” He smiled, then leaned in again for another kiss.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I get home from school, tired and exhausted as someone can be when everyone hates her. Our house still looks the same; realtor worthy, quaint, a house that would have a good chance of being featured in Better Homes and Gardens.
I open the front door. Mom’s still at work and won’t be back until at least six. Everything looks clean but deserted.
I set my backpack on the coffee table in the den, then rush over to the couch. I turn on the TV and flip hastily through the channels. Soap operas – too much drama. Talk shows – boring. Reality shows – same old, same old.
Something catches my eye. A blonde girl in a sparkly dress is dancing and singing in a music video. She keeps on twirling and winking at the attractive male dancers behind her. The lyrics she’s singing are talking about how the guys want to dance with her. I’ve heard of this girl before. She’s one of those teen celebrities that not only sing, but dance, act, and have their own TV shows.
It’s not exactly the girl that keeps me watching, but how the guys are swarming all over. They’re acting like she’s some radiant, higher being. I sigh.
How I wish I was her. I wish guys thought I was cute. I wish guys could see that those – girls, those makeup covered sluts are crazy. They’re just too easy. If only they could see that girls that have personalities and hearts are the real deal.
I change the channel to a program about Africa, but I still can’t help but feel envious about the blonde haired superstar.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Mom ends up getting home at six fifteen. She sets all her stuff down on the coffee table where I put my backpack. She talks about how she’s on the roll while we’re in the kitchen fixing dinner. She's sold a cheep little duplex to a newlywed couple down by the interstate and got extra cash for convincing the couple to buy a set of kitchen appliances. I make the salad while my mother stirs around chicken noodle soup in a saucepan.
I carefully cut up tomatoes, then throw each and every little square into the mess of iceberg lettuce. Each and every time I slice through the fruit, the knife makes little tinking noises against the cutting board. I compose my own little sonata with the knife, making rhythmic taps on the board every other beat. In my head, I start beating on other cookware around the kitchen, but in reality I’m still just cutting tomatoes.
The sonata I compose turns into a full out orchestra piece. Chefs stand behind me and my cutting board and flail their spatulas in the air. Other people are juggling various vegetables and fruits. Soon, it looks like Stomp invaded my brain. My head is pounding as the music from the kitchen utensils begins to become to loud. And suddenly…suddenly, it all stops. Someone’s talking.
“…Are you alright Andra? What’s wrong?” My mother, her dark brown bob falling at an even part around her face, is looking at me like I just turned into a ghost.
I quickly shake it off and get back to really cutting the tomato. “Nothing, nothing.” I murmur, and my mom goes back to the soup.
After a few minutes, we are done with each course, and we set the salad and soup bowls on the table. My job is to set the rest of the table, so I get some fork and spoons and put them next to the bowls. Mom has already conveniently placed the ranch and the Italian dressing in the middle of our table.
I sit down at my spot and use the ladle to scoop up a cup of the soup. I pour it into my bowl, and the soup swishes and shakes for awhile until it remains perfectly still. Mom sits down at the table, with the Corwin Report again, and starts reading the business section.
This leaves me alone to stare off into space and get lost in a different world. As the warm, chicken broth swims down my throat, I think of life. If only it were different.
* * * * * * * * * * *
A single spotlight.
The rest of the stage is vacant, except for the white baby grand and me.
I somehow know how to play the piano. My fingers smoothly press different keys and make harmonious sounds that only could’ve been written by some classical master. The instrument vibrates, and for a second, I swear I am one with the piano.
The light becomes brighter. I know this is my cue. I open my mouth and beautiful words come out. I hit all the right notes. I don’t look out at the crowd, but I know they’re mesmerized. Mesmerized by me.
My hair is pulled into an elegant bun, and my long, silver dress flows behind the piano bench. My mouth is still singing the words they’ve been instructed to sing. When I hit a high B, the crowd breaks out into applause. I start singing the chorus, in a powerful voice I don’t recognize. This doesn’t sound like me. Not at all.
The second verse is perfect. Then the chorus again, this time better than the first time I sang it.
As soon as the song started, it ends.
I’m done.
I play the last few high notes, then look out into the audience.
The applause is almost deafening.
That’s when I realize where I am. Carnegie Hall. The recital hall is too much too bear.
I faint and fall off the piano bench.
But anyways, the realism of Andra is a warm welcome from all the out-of-this-world characters I see nowadays.
