Young Writers Society

Chapter One

The teenage years. What years are those exactly? Is it from the moment you turn thirteen till you’re eighteen? Or is it more of the physical characteristic of years. Maybe the “teenage years” begin when you get your first pimple or when you realize that its gross to have hair on your legs as a girl. Whatever it is that makes those years your “teenage” years, adults always say it is the toughest part of our lives. They must be right, because I guarantee that I am not the only one who thinks I got more than I bargained for.

The room felt hot. Sticky. A fan blew the few stray hairs from my pony tail but did little to reduce the sweat on my neck. I could hear the rustling of clothes across from me, picturing the attractive young man inside. His smile was genuine and his sandy blonde hair had fallen across his blue eyes ever so lightly. Within moments of meeting him I had noticed that he had the “nod” down to a T. The minute he lifted his chin ever so slightly towards me I might as well have melted with the added sensual heat.

The door clicked. I felt my heart start to race as I wiped my sweaty hands on my high rise jeans and smiled. “How did this work for you?” I asked.

“I’m going to have to pass.” He handed me the pair of cargo shorts gracefully, flashing one more smile at me before walking out of the dressing room.

I

 sighed and my coworker, Jamie, rolled her eyes as she hung up one of the many bathing suits three teenage girls had tried on.

“I guarantee that one, was the one.” I smiled at her but she just laughed. It wasn’t easy being boy crazy while working in a retail story that was friendly to all ages and genders.

“Did you pray for a hot guy to come in today?” Jamie asked. “I only see them when you’re working.”

“They all just want to see me,” I replied, folding the shorts ever so carefully. “Did you know I’m the only one out of my family who has been chasing boys since birth?”

Jamie laughed. “I really hope your brother doesn’t.”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” I said. “I meant out of my other three sisters. I don’t know where I got it.”

“Yeah me neither. Oh look. Its four o’ clock!”

Jamie and I both pumped our fists as we marched out of the fitting room and into the backroom. 

“We’re ready to go home!” I proclaimed to the other workers. “See you guys tomorrow!”

The fitting room had been hotter than outside, but that wasn’t really surprising to us. We were just glad to be out of that stuffy, small cramped space. “Bye Jamie! Have fun on your date!”

“Oh I will!”

Jamie was probably the prettiest, but also the nicest girls I worked with. She always had a date with someone, but she was that type of person you couldn’t hate for it. She was just so… good.

I sat in my car, adjusting my playlist before rolling down my windows and placing my aviator sunglasses over my eyes. And there he was. The beautiful golden haired guy who had refused the cargo shorts. “Oh well,” I muttered, turning on some 70s tunes before rolling out of the parking lot towards home.

“Mom I think I have multiple identity disorder or something,” I said upon arriving home.

“That would be multiple personality disorder. And I don’t think you have that. You seem pretty much the same all the time.” My mom was cute. Everyone thought so. Her and my dad had had me later in life, so they weren’t those fashionista parents with sleek hair and gold watches, but they did look much younger than their age. My mom had gotten her haircut that day along with some new blonde highlights.

“I like your hair.” I said, kissing her on the cheek as she stirred some white sauce over the stove. “I met the most beautiful guy at work today.”

“You say that at least once a week,” she responded laughing. “What did he look like this time? Another tall, dark and handsome one?”

I shook my head, pouring myself some water. “He actually was blonde. And tan. With blue eyes. Oh and did I mention he was beautiful?”

“Pretty sure you did.”

“He smiled at me mom. It was real. We made a connection.”

“Carl made a connection?” My dad appeared in the kitchen from the hallway.

My mom cast him a look. “No honey.”

Carl was my older brother who was entering graduate school for a business degree. We were all rooting for him to get married and the talk of relationships seemed to be reserved only for him. Well, and me. Apparently my “relationships” that weren’t relationships but some other form of connection was as equally exciting as college dating life.

“Dad I think I have multiple identity disorder.”

“I don’t really think that’s a thing.”

“No dad. It totally is. I mean. One minute I want to wear sundresses and cowgirl boots and ride horses and then the next I want to be a hippie with flowers in my hair and traveling the country and it gets more drastic. Other days I want to be in combat boots and join a motorcycle gang and then other days I want to be refined and wear party dresses and diamonds and- ah!” I cast myself on the rocking chair in the corner. “You have no idea how stressful it is.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a part of being a teenager. And having an imagination.” My mom always seemed to be holding back one of two things: Her laughing and her yelling. Actually her yelling she kind of let loose. I was glad I could make my mom laugh though, because at this moment she was losing it with giggles.

“I had a motorcycle,” my dad responded absent-mindedly. “Yep. Rode it all over Berkley and the bay area.”

One of the biggest reasons I think my soul was always at unrest with my “identity crisis” was because of this. My parents had met in the most liberal, yet studious, yet worldly college in the United States, but they were hardly democratic. I would have totally taken advantage of the opportunities they had had. My mom grew up in LA during the 60s, and her and my dad had met at UC Berkley in the 70s. Talk about me wanting to be a hippie. I would have been living the life. They, however, were of the more studious type. Which I guess worked out, because otherwise I wouldn’t be here.

“Mom. Dad. Its been decided. We’re moving to California. Bay area. San Fran. Its happening.”

“If you’re going to San Francisco…” My dad started singing, his voice far off from Scott McKenzie’s.

“How about we sit down and eat?” My mom quickly switched the conversation. “Lizzy, will you strain the noodles?”

“Yes mother dear.” I slowly rose from my seat and grabbed the strainer, watching as the water emptied from the Fettucini. “Maybe I should move to Italy. Live in a villa. Write a novel. Make us all rich.”

“Or we could all go to Germany for three months,” my dad suggested.

“How about we eat dinner?”

And that was basically every evening in the Green household.