Suzi (k00kaburra) wrote,

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Temperature's Rising...

I listen to the radio. "Kryptonite," by 3DoorsDown, is playing. It's hot, humid. Totally icky. If I were to drop an ice cube off the balcony, the water would evaporate and never touch the pavement. I think. I've never carried an ice cube up from the fridge to test my theory.
Marisa says that's my problem. "Sam," she says, gently, "You're all theories. Just ideas. Find something to back yourself up with. Turn your ideas into facts."

She's right, of course. Of all my friends, I think she's the most down-to-earth, the most sensible. I like ideas. The purity of a concept. The shining, unsullied clarity of a thought in transition. To test it, try it, even to write it down - that would ruin its perfect white innocence. But to leave it as an idea...ideas can't be destroyed, or worn down by time. An idea is immortal. But maybe this makes sense only to me. Who knows?

Davy says he understands. I believe him, truly, but sometimes I can't help but wonder what it is he thinks he's understanding...

Jada was furious when she heard about the star adventure. I guess I can't blame her. I'm sure it sounds much worse than it actually was.

I remember being sung to sleep by the stars. An ethreal lullaby. I think I was awakened the next morning by Davy's whistling. You have to understand, Davy will sing, play his guitar, dance, do just about anything because he loves attention. But he will never whistle if he thinks someone else might hear him. It's a personal quirk, I guess. So I lay there a while, with my eyes barely open, listening, thinking about nothing and everything. I watched the golden grass blades bend in the breeze, saw a lizard poke his head out cautiously from behind a rock. An ant crawled up my arm, tickling. I finally couldn't stand it anymore and laughed, killing Davy's warbling midnote.

We met some hikers walking along the trail as we started heading back to Davy's. I waved, but they didn't wave back. They just looked at us funny.

What is up with people being so unfriendly? If someone greets you, at least achknowledge that you noticed...-_-

But anyway, those hikers must've known someone in our circle of friends, because by the time we'd returned from the hill to Davy's house Jada was sitting on his porch, fuming.

But did he even notice? Honestly, I'm not sure. But then, I didn't stick around to find out, either. I wanted to get away from the rising heat and Jada's rising temper, so I told Davy I was hot and went home.

So now I'm typing on my laptop as I seek relief from heat and guilt. I don't know why I feel guilty, since for once I'm innocent. I haven't seen Jada or Davy this past week - haven't even heard from them. Of course, I've not be social. Other than a trip to the mall with Jamie and Katharine on Wednesday, I have stayed on my computer or laptop, refusing to answer the phone. Partly I'm avoiding Davy, but mostly I just want to be alone. I've never been with someone who can hear the stars before, and I feel exposed. Like a private part of my soul has been taken away from me and can't ever be returned.

Besides, if he needs to talk to me I only live a five minute walk from him.


Speak of the devil. He just rang the doorbell. I go down and let him in. He's the same old boy, wearing his guitar on his back. Did I expect him to change? I ask him if he plans to take the guitar to Sydney. He asks me why not.

This is the stuff that make me wonder what he's understanding. Several reasons come to mind, and I tell him each and every one. It could get lost. Stolen. Broken. The strings could snap. I ask him what he'll use it for down there, anyway. If he plans to go to watch the games, when would he have time to play? He tells me I'm beginning to act like my mother.

While I'm recovering from the horror of the suggestion, he drums his finger on the instrument's battered side, thinking of an answer. Finally, his eyes light up and he hands the guitar to me.

"Here," he says, "I'll leave it in the States only if you watch it for me." I'm in shock. Since when did he trust me this much? We talk a while longer, than he gets up and leaves.

He planned that, didn't he?
Tags: friends, guitar

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