A WHOLE WEEK

WITHOUT POSTING?!

Oh, man, I'm so bad.

But FINALS. And AUDITIONS (I got a part. Not important at the momento.)!

Whatever.
:)

So there's this 'Secret' thing that hit my brain like a truck on steroids, requiring me to write down these so-called secrets that are really heartfelt and meaningful. Some that I've actually had told to me, but not by anyone on here or that I know now.

Anna knows about it, and she demanded that I post one of them, so here. It's not the best by FAR, but it's something that some really old black *NOT RACIST, HERE* woman would say randomly, and helps get the jist of the idea.

Oh, child, it was so long ago!
I was young, prob’ly in kindergarten, and this guy – this old, grandfather-looking guy – he comes out of the house and looks and me and smiles and says, “Lissa, darlin’, you’re growin’ up soooo fast,” and all I could think of was how I could possibly know him, and why was he calling me Lissa.
I mean, my name ain’t Lissa, right? It’s Claire.
Anyway, I don’t say anything and feel stupid for running away like that when maybe I did know him or something and I torture myself with the idea all night about all the things that could’ve happened.
So I vow to myself I’d do it the next day, and end up falling asleep at three in the morning, finally happy with myself, but when I go back the next day, he’s not there; there’s some other kid on the porch; probably around twenty-ish. But he’s drinking a beer, looking out at the street and watching me pass by, smilin’ easy and the like, his yellowed teeth looking bright against his chocolate skin.
And me, bein’ in kindergarten at the time, yell out, “Hey, mister, where’s the old guy that was here yesterday?”
And the guy, you know what he does, he laughs and takes another drink of his beer. “Girl, he don’t go outside.” He says all knowingly and I almost move on, but I don’t. Instead, I say “Yeah he does! He'd been out here yesterday an' called me Lissa!”
When I say the name ‘Lissa,’ his dark face goes somber and he doesn’t seem like he thinks I’m just a mixed-up kid. Kind of like… Like this.
And then he just kind of frowns and says, “Well, is your name Lissa?” and I tell him no; that it’s Claire Hagerston from three blocks down Flower Street. He kinda’ looked at me and shook his head. “Sorry, child, I don’t know why he called you Lissa. Lissa’s been dead for over three years.”
“Who was she?” I ask, curious. Take my advice, child, and don’t ever be curious. Curiousity killed the little girls who ask too many questions, as far as I’m concerned. Nothing that you hafta’ ask ain’t worth knowing.
“She was my sister,” He said, and threw his beer off of the porch, all angry like. “Go away, kid! Scat!” It scared me, ‘cause he started off of the house and chasing me, but let me go about three lawns down.
But now, now that I’ve lost Betta, I know what he was going through when the thought was brought up by that kindergartener from three blocks down Flower Street.


...If you've ever read 'House on Mango Street,' it's something like that except vignettes in other people's eyes, with a kind of forward from the narrator.