Story, An Untitled

Copyright Julia Bydulia

Part V of an unfinished story

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Every night for the week, Michelle told herself she would work on her combined monologue/Humanities assignment. Every night for a week, she neglected it and sat on her computer, trying to convince herself it was valuable use of her time to talk to people online about bands from the 60s and what type of peanut butter they preferred. There seemed to be no way to avoid the lazy side of her that screamed to sit and enjoy some leisure time. "You've earned it!" Her lazy side lied to her. So, she believed it because it was easier.

Finally, on the Sunday before her rehearsal, Michelle decided to take a look at the monologue. She grabbed her tote bag full of her school things and pulled out the tattered yellow folder that held all of her Humanities things. Expecting the paper to be on the right hand side of the folder, she sifted through the papers there, keeping her eyes peeled for the sheet of paper. After three times through the folder, she realized it wasn't there. Her stomach dropped. She felt as if someone had just drop kicked her.

Her first thought was to go to her mom's room, so, she did. She opened the door and saw her mom sitting in the orange armchair they used as a computer chair. "Mommy, I can't find my monologue," Michelle announced, putting her hands on her hips.

Her mom took off her glasses slowly and rested them on the computer table, staring at her daughter in utter disbelief. After a long pause, she spoke. "You've been telling me all week you'd work on that monologue this weekend, and now you're going to tell me you don't even have it? Michelle..." She sighed and rubbed her temples.

"I know, I know..." Michelle mumbled, her brain scrambling to think up a solution. "Maybe I can email someone in the class. I should have Vincent's email." At the mention of Vincent, her mom dropped her hands from her head. It was a well known fact to everyone in the house how Michelle felt about Vincent. She had gone on for quite some time about him in the seventh grade. The word "marriage" had been thrown around like a tennis ball. "I'll tell him to email it to me, and if he doesn't, I'll hurt him."

Her mom nodded and she left the room, running for the laptop. When she sat in the chair, she turned it on and opened her email, flexing her fingers before opening a new draft:

Vincent! I seem to have misplaced my monologue. Be a dear and email it to me, or else I'll punch you in the ovaries and we'll never have babie

She stopped typing and deleted the entire thing, hitting herself in the head a few times and whispering "Think nice, think pretty, think alluring" under hear breath. She rolled the 'r' in alluring a few times and started again:

Vincent. You know how forgetful I can be. Well, I do not have my monologue for the assignment in Humanities tomorrow. I think it's in my locker or some bull. Could you type it up and send it to me within the next millennium or so? Thanks.

She read it to herself in her head a few times before hovering her mouse over the send button for a few minutes and finally pressing it when she convinced herself there was no way to make herself seem like wife material in an email about her own responsibility. This has got to stop, she reprimanded herself. You've got to stop drooling over a guy who shows no interest.

He shows interest, she argued to herself. He laughs at your jokes. And he likes The Beatles!

She wanted to slap herself. You two are friends. Stop it, stop it, stop it. He laughs at a lot of people's jokes. And a lot of people like The Beatles, ok. Your mom likes The Beatles.

That's not the same, her argumentative side said, folding its arms over its chest and slouching in the corner of her mind, pouting alone.

There were a few things Michelle had to admit to herself, even if she could never admit it to anyone else. She still liked Vincent a lot more than she said out loud. She still loved him and would say yes to him in a second if he decided he wanted her. She walked the aisles of Julian's when she went grocery shopping with her family, and she imagined running into him next to the organic cheeses. She would pretend not to notice him and purposely reach out for the same plastic packaging as him. Their fingers would brush and she would whisper "Sorry," just as softly as she could. He would tell her it was no problem. They might laugh, and she would blush, and then...

And then she found a new email in her inbox, labeled with Vincent's email address. She clicked it and found that it was only the monologue. No notes, no "Wow, you're stupid"s, no professions of his undying love for her or for anyone else. She copy pasted the words into a document and printed it as quickly as she could, running back to her mom's bedroom to show it to her.

After she waved it in front of her mom's face for a few minutes, her mom told her. "Congratulations," and waved her out of the room.

Michelle headed back out to the living room to memorize the monologue as rapidly as she could.

The air outside was frigidly cold. As Michelle looked up from the paper, she could see small snowflakes falling and resting gently on the porch through the window. She couldn't help but imagine sitting outside with him, their cold, red hands intertwined as the temperature dropped.