Suburban showdown

Memories from being a teenager. Some are real, some are not.

Before I share another lightly edited first draft I wanted to let you that my writing teacher/friend/mentor,

Christopher P. DeLorenzo

is now on Substack! About 90% of what I have posted on Fever Dream has come out of the writing workshops he runs. I have been writing with Chris on and off for over 20 years and I don’t think I’d still be writing if it wasn’t for him. I’m happy he’ll be sharing more of his writing here, along with his writing prompts. You can subscribe to his Substack and check out his work right here. 💕 Welcome Chris! 💕

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She has the perfect almond eyes. Cherry red lips and freckles like sprinkles airbrushed all over her pale cheeks. She does not squint when she can not see, she just nods her head like a bird about to take flight. Her eyes are a deep coffee brown, the darkest brown you can get to before it becomes black. And sometimes I wish I was more like her. She has this grace I have always chased.

But I grew up a little clumsy and the doctor always marveled at my big bones and my short, strong frame. He would call me solid and mention how unusual my build was and it made me feel different in a way I did not like. I wanted that ballerina profile. How comical to think of that, my thick calves ever flirting with a dance as delicate as ballet. No, I played the rough sports. Field hockey and lacrosse, wearing shin guards and mouthpieces, I pushed my strong body forward, built up my muscles, and tried to find pride in the bulk of my body.  

I remember Gena squeezing my waist in high school - such a tiny waist she said. Writing it in my yearbook at the end of the year as if it were something to be proud of, one small thing. I toyed with eating disorders but could never stick to them, took lessons from my friends who were so good at it that they landed in white-halled institutions where they would still try to hide their food in napkins and throw it away when they went to the bathroom.

Gena looked so thin when I saw her last month, and I know it’s health complications that don’t have anything to do with eating disorders now but I saw that 14-year-old in her 47-year-old face and I felt so sad for who we were then, those lost girls dating anyone who would give them the time of day, doing all the drugs, driving home high and hoping our parents didn’t notice. They never really did, a benefit of growing up Gen X. And we all have the same problems now. But we’re all also pretty alright. 

We went to a tiny high school with only 90 kids in each grade and 5 of the people from our class have already died, all before 50. When I do the math it’s only 5% and I can’t decide if that’s a little or a lot. We track each other across the globe, in different jobs, comparing ourselves although not maliciously, just in the way you do when you watch other people age who started from the same place you started. Taking note of how their faces fall, is it the kids that have left more marks there, or are your genes just of a heartier stock?

I am looking at Gena across the table from me pick at her food, pull away the bread from the lettuce and I am transported to our suburban neighborhoods, sleepovers in the big bed, running from skunks lurking in the shadows, smoking cigarettes wrong the first time we tried, filling our water bottles with whatever clear liquids we could find in our dad’s bars. 

I am glad we’re still here, far from the suburbs, still muddling through our teenage problems but so much clearer, so much clearer. She has almond eyes so dark they are almost black. Her hair is thick with curls that pay attention to no direction. And her laugh is warm and cozy and it brings me right back to all the best parts of being a confused teenager just trying to get out of New Jersey and never look back.