Monday, September 21, 2009

Again with the Short Fiction

This was written (by me, duh) for my fiction class. Enjoy. Doesn't have a name, because i'm not feeling too clever today. Suggestions welcome.

I’m laying in bed, the alarm hasn’t gone off yet. I roll over and shut it off before it does, knowing my mom will come barging in here if she hears it. She’s such a freak. Thinks everyone is all rise and fucking shine at 7am.
The night before, I got home late, past my lame ass curfew. But you know what? I was out at Thalia’s, and her parents were gone, know what I’m sayin? I had her begging for it. Straight up begging, like, “Oh Shawn, gimme some!” but no, I didn’t. You know why? Because she’s special. No, I’m serious. She’s not like other girls at school. She’s real smart. She’s always talking about these crazy plans she’s got. Plans to get famous. She wants to be in movies, but, like, serious movies. Not High School Musical kind of shit.
So it was worth it, being late, having mom yell at me. I know she thinks I was over there gettin’ it on and all, but whatever. Let her think what she wants. She knows I don’t get in too much trouble. She’s just mad about curfew because she doesn’t want people to think that she’s a bad, single mom. Thinks all the neighbors are keeping tabs on what time I come home. Whatever. Truth is, she’s a great mom. Just don’t let her know I said that. Don’t want it going to her head.
So I’m walking to school, kinda drifting off, thinking about last night. Heading in through the main entrance, yeah, I noticed a cop car out front, but whatever. I mean, they’re here a lot. Community presence or something. Go to my locker, say what’s up to my boys from the basketball team. We’re getting ready to kick ass in tomorrow’s game against CP South. So I’m looking for Thalia now. I go to her locker, she’s not there. I check out back by the parking lot, I don’t see her car. She drives an old, blue Buick – so it’s hard to miss. I’m thinking, What the hell? She didn’t say anything last night about not coming to school today. If she was gonna cut class, she could have told me and I’d have gone to hang out with her. Whatever. Maybe she’s late. I DID have her up playing around late last night, you know? So I text her and head in to go to my first period English class.
But I don’t get there. Because as I turn the corner in front of the main office, someone grabs my arm. I turn around thinking it’s Thalia, but it’s some big cop, looking down at me like I’m scum. So I’m like, What’s up? Why you grabbin’ me like that? He’s all like some TV cop, talking about, You know why. I’m trying to pull my arm back, but he’s dragging me out the front door. I’m like, Dude, let go of me, what the fuck? I’m trying to pull back and when I turn around, I see Thalia. She’s standing in the door at the office, and she’s crying. So I get away from the jackass cop and I’m calling to her, Thalia! Baby, what’s wrong? And get this. She turns away from me, and some lady cop hugs her and covers her face, like a mother hen or something. So I’m thinking maybe something happened to her parents, or her sister, cause her sister is always sick. She’s got MS or MLS, some shit like that. This fucking cop grabbed me and threw me on the ground! So yeah, I started to fight him because what the hell? My girl’s over here crying and he won’t even let me talk to her.
Alright, so I’m here at the station, and I’ve been sitting here for like two hours. When I asked to call my parents, they said they already called them. I ask over and over why the hell I’m here, and they keep saying cryptic shit like, You think we don’t know what you did? Hell, I don’t even know what I did. They took my keys and my phone. They asked me to write a statement. What is this shit? Are we in China? You want me to write a statement about WHAT??
The door opens, a sloppy looking Indian lady walks in. Indian like, from India. Not like, scalping and tipi kind of Indian. Her hair’s all over the place. She looks like the guidance counselors at school, all business.
“Mr. Thornton, I assume you know why you’re here, so let’s get down to specifics.”
She says while she sets a stack of folders on the table in front of me.
“Look,” I start, as freakin calmly as I can, “I have no idea what you guys want. Some asshole dragged me away from school, and I’ve been sitting here. That’s what I know.”
She looks at me like something she stepped in, and she asks, “Are you telling me that you don’t remember raping Thalia Gomez between 10 and 11pm last night?”

And so that’s how it started. And I guess, how it ended. So now you’re asking me if I think I deserve to be paroled? Hell yes. Do I show any remorse? Just like I told everyone at the trial, and at the court ordered counseling sessions, I didn’t DO anything to feel remorse for, at all. You know, after the trial, Thalia sold her story to a tabloid, I heard she was on the front page. Guess she got famous after all. So you tell me, do I deserve to be paroled?