maxine delucca had the sort of knees that the boys loved. smooth and creamy with all of the dimples in their propers, the backs of her knees perfected pockets and nary a trace of a blemish. "i bet you she bathes in buttermilk," the other kids would whisper to each other.
she would dig through the earth with her slender fingers and relish in the discovery of discolored rocks, night crawlers, the occasional gopher skeleton, or tarnished coins. she fed the night crawlers to her pet raven, and kept the inanimate treasures in a segmented rosewood box; each category labeled and discrete.
she was hated for those perfect knees, and the plethora of beautiful dresses which all came to that certain length; the length situated in between hyper-von-slutty and nun-ish. she hated every one of those dresses, and would often curse them aloud when she was alone in her room.
she felt most comfortable in the bathroom; the wide bowl of the free-standing porcelain tub, the way the warm sunlight would fill the entire room in the afternoon, the polished tiles-cold and brilliant. at night, she would stare at her flat body in the mirror. she thought everything seemed more reasonable when you're standing alone in your underclothes.
she could feel everyone's hate for her seething through angled glances, and the way they huddled in small groups away from her. nobody saw her intense hurt because of these destructive activities; her insides clenching with sadness. kids are so cruel for no reason. every day after coming back from accelerated art class, where she was exploring photographic ray-o-grams with the bodies of decomposed dried butterflies and leaf-skeletons, she would cry into her sesame street backpack until her eyes were puffy. then she would hit the wall until her knuckles bled.
(dis)satisfied with disappointment
maxine could never figure out why she cared about anything, and felt she had no focus. no one ever understood her and she would forever be doomed to be misunderstood. but somebody loved her and could never tell her.
he would hide in the shadows of the school building, and watch her walk home; her hands full of found objects. he always wrote her short notes that never sounded right, and slipped them into her locker. he never got a reply, because he never signed them. thus, everything remained constant and frustrating. "we are beasts of habit, repetition, and regret," he wrote in his last letter.
in the years that followed, she went through the boyfriend phase, the beer phase, the garage-band phase, the lower east-side phase, and then she became a successful photographer, the young woman with with bruised knuckles and beautiful knees. and just like everything in her life, she felt unsatisfied and confused. the lovely girl with the constant uncertainty just below the surface, breaking the hearts of everyone who got in her way.
crossed paths
- (c) baystar 2005 -
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