The Battle of Who Could Care Less

"Congratulations," he told me. "For what?" I asked. He told me it was an honor to join NHS. It wasn't (to me). Like, everyone who applied got in. I mean, sure, you have to have a 3.5 GPA and commit to community service or whatever, but I really didn't care. I actually didn't even want to join. It felt like some weird fake pat on the back club. The point? Unclear. I was leery of what we were "supposed" to do to get into college. The things I really cared about didn't seem to be relevant, and I resented that. The SAT was supposed to be a great equalizer, but the rich kids all took a Saturday class.

I could have dropped it, but I felt spicy. He never congratulated me on anything. Truly nothing. We went to speech tournaments almost every weekend where I went on stage and got trophies and usually only the freshmen marveled. I worked very hard, but I did it alone in my bedroom. I stopped having nerves after my first round of junior year. I came in cool and did my thing and left with hardware. I was cast as the lead in the school play. I narrowly got an A in physics. But he didn't even shrug. It didn't bother me. I accepted that any and all high school achievements were fake. He was punk-ish, so naturally, he would too. But then he said congrats on the stupidest extra curricular activity known to teen. And I just knew, knew, so suddenly and surely it was because he was in it. I wasn't graceful.

"It's interested you told me congratulations for that. Because you don't tell me congrats for anything else." A shadow of disgust before he shrugged and went to his desk. A couple rows from mine. A few weeks later, I, still trying to make good on my philosophy that none of it mattered was talking to a friend. "I guess I don't really care I got a Nationals spot. I already accepted my place at the state drama program." He turned around, from within a separate conversation, feet or miles away, just to say, "Liar." Now I shrugged.

But I did end up skipping the drama program for Nationals. My coach told me either choice was a good choice, but people who do really well usually go twice. The decision makes no sense to me now, and I don't think it did then either. I've always liked theatre more than standing around doing monologues in classrooms. I wanted to badly to go to that program. There'd been a write-up about me winning the invite in the local paper. My friend Jimbo cut it out and gave it to me and everything. I don't remember the day I called and said I wasn't coming. Or why.

Or It Didn't Happen

What would you do if there would never be photographic evidence? My whole job exists because my boss has a phone addiction. I'm not knocking it (totally) but I am wondering how much we do for the proof alone we did it. I know this has never not been the case. Band t-shirts and ticket stubs and just the story "I went to Paris" even when you've got nothing to show for it. An 80 year-old man in my summer improv class never let up explaining how proud he was of his family, his former career, all the old person tours to Asia he went on. I feel bad for people who need to stuff as much as they can into the year and also live by solstice days. I guess I think intention is everything. You don't need to do something remarkable. You need to feel remarkable about the things you do.

I remember leaving a high school party, and right as I got to my car another pulled up. It was a pile of decoys from my exit--the couple everyone "will they/won't they"d, a wild boy determined to streak, maybe music? I knew as I pulled away I was missing all the things that the locker hall would buzz about in the morning. I thought about turning around, but the truth is I didn't actually care about the party anymore. I had decided to leave. I just wanted to feel included, or, honestly, more than included. I had the chance to be in the tightest circle of experience. I remember I drove home with the windows down listening to Imogen Heap. I read through my old text messages and went to bed.

It hadn't been twenty minutes since I made plans with Lo for tomorrow, but the plans were nevertheless made. Tira knocked on my window with news. A secret pop-up concert for an indie  queen. The place to BE. I know what's cooler to do on a Wednesday night. I obviously know! And Lo wouldn't mind rescheduling, but if I was being honest, that concert wasn't for me. I know it would look good in a picture, and I would probably bump into someone famous, and my friends who love that singer would be jealous, but something tugged me away.

What is a gut reaction? Sometimes it's that Malcolm Gladwell thing where your fear moves faster than your logic, sure. But sometimes it seems divine. An idea plopped down from above. I went to my jewelry cup yesterday and a strong voice said, "Do not put those rings on." So I didn't. Why would I argue? This happens sometimes. There have been times I have thought the voice led me astray, but when the dust settles, I find it never has.

Welcome to My High School LiveJournal

The cow as white as milk,
the cape as red as blood,
the hair as yellow as corn,
the slipper as pure as gold.

Dunno

I like thinking about that first improv teacher I had assuming, possibly knowing, so deeply I must be a kid who signed up for the wrong class, and this was going to be one of those once in a weird adolescent lifetime experiences that I try to forget, or do forget, as soon as humanly possible. If there had been anybody in the entire comedy summer school class she would have bet money on to burn rubber and never look back, she would bank it all on the girl who actually refused to play Freeze and could not speak in conducted story. That teacher will never know I was actually observing and thinking about what everyone did, and judging too critically to participate.

I like thinking about that teacher (I would kill to know who it was--we probably have mutual friends) because sometimes you just don't know where what you have said and what experiences you have created and who you are will go as attached to another person.

Cafeteria

I was never temped by the food in the freshman cafeteria. All the freshman at my high school ate in their own secluded mini-caf to...I don't know, bond as a class? Not be intimidated by the upper classmen? The food choices were chicken sandwiches, chicken tenders, some dumb snacks, pizza, fries. My first semester I packed my lunch. I think I ate a lot of pb & j and bags of potato chips. Off-brand Oreos. My second semester I had an early lunch right after swimming. I remember swallowing a lot of chlorinated water and always feeling winded from having to get ready in five minutes after laps. My look that spring: wet slimy hair, a bloated tummy, and hastily applied lip gloss. The only thing I could even imagine eating for some unknown reason were pretzels and Kit Kats. So that's what I ate. For five months. Very occasionally (like, three times) I bought a donut from the lunch line, and I would be given a free fruit cup. Everyone always got a free fruit cup. It had something to do with the school being able to get government funding for balanced meals. I spent around 100 hours total in that dumb room, and I remember very little.

A rando from the town everyone made fun of shared my lunch seat with me for two weeks. He asked me to write him notes but only drew pictures in response. A boy in my history class asked to see my homework "just to check his answers" and I let him have it. I watched it circle his entire table, everyone copying. I tried to drink Brisk Iced Tea like a club of two new friends did, but I thought it was very gross. My friend Smidge and I would quietly sing Les Mis to each other when we were bored. One girl gave up junk food for lent and ate it every day, making tally marks in a notebook. She said, "I'll make it up later."

My iced coffee got warm yesterday. I was at the Writing Center, so I asked around if there was a soda fountain somewhere in the building. There was one in the cafeteria, I learned, so I walked in for the first time and was immediately struck with a flood of nostalgia. It smelled EXACTLY like that freshman lunch room, and as far as I can tell, nothing in my life has ever smelled the same. I wanted to eat all the food even though I hadn't eaten it when I was fourteen. If I ingested that tray of fries, would I be fourteen again? As if being fourteen is so great in the first place.

Part

Last night we closed one of the coolest shows I have ever been part of--a p sweet collab between comedy and opera. I was so fortunate to be cast in such a unique process. New work development, bits, singing, tiny green German hats--these are a few of my favorite things.

Also, what a cast. Also, we were treated with such care--from free opera tickets to the wardrobe guy getting new inserts for my character shoes, I felt cherished? (Gross.) I ate a bunch of fancy cheese and two cookies in my gold sequin dress at the closing party. Walking to the train, I felt relieved in that way that ending anything makes one feel relief and a tinge of sadness, as ending anything makes one feel a tinge of sadness.

For some reason I couldn't shake this feeling of falling back in time to the prop loft of my high school. I was up there putting away stuff from the spring play my freshman year. The boys I idolized for being so hilarious would clomp up the stairs and try to rile me up by flashing their boxers or imitating my squeaky voice. I would have stayed in that final day of strike forever if I could have. "I am part of this thing," I thought, about a cruddy stage-version interpretation of a campy movie. And I could practically feel my insides glow, even sitting in the dust, even alone.

Becoming a Woman

In Bossy Pants, Tina Fey explains that most women, when asked to identify the moment, usually realize they have "become a woman" in some relation to men (either they were hit on, or kissed, etc.). I don't know exactly when I "became a woman." I appreciate the recent movement for ladies above 18 to be called "women" and not "girls," but I would  (myself) rather be called a girl? I guess in the comedy community I don't know, like, ANY people I would refer to as full adults. I call "men" guys and "women" ladies or gals.

I do, however, know that when I was in high school and SNL did a cold open that mapped the FRIENDS finale over George Bush and Dick Cheney in the oval office, I had to explain what all the jokes meant to my mom. I think that was a decent mile-marker entry into adulthood.

Alice in Ship Land: Penultimate

Island of Hamilton!

Guest entertainers only have to attend one crew drill per month. After our last one (first week in July) I said, “At least this is our last!” ZPill said, “Don’t. The ship will hear you.” I corrected to the wind and waves, “I take it back!” But, it was too late. On Monday night, around 10 PM, our manager calls to tell us the new policy is guest entertainers go to two crew drills per month effective immediately. So long Tuesday plans. The deck is on FIRE. I woke up early to workout before hand, which adds to my guts feeling boiled. I had drank about a third of a bottled water. Why? Because there is literally no more water being sold in crew areas. A new policy means passengers can’t bring beverages on or off board, so they’re (understandably) buying twice as much water as usual. Which means all the bottles in crew bar and mart have been brought upstairs. I have two big bottles and I am trying to ration them for the week. I drink two cups every meal at the buffet, but I’m getting increasingly suspicious. I’ve been sickly this whole contract. The men who come on board to work on the purification systems never ever ever drink ship water. Not even through two filters. They’re a strictly Aquafina gang. All this is to say, I almost pass out in the Bermuda heat. The lifejacket I am made to wear for an hour seems to get tighter and tighter around my neck. I sweat profusely. Something’s coming out of my shoulder blade—a bump. I ask MB to rub it and it feels like I’m a hunchback in training. There’s a stress lump growing. The drill ends, and I run to the buffet to guzzle three glasses of water.

The ferry to Hamilton is one of my favorite pieces of life. All the big island houses hiding in green hills. Sailboats. Breeze. Tail says he thinks the seats smell like mildew, but they smell like the ferry to me, so I guess I like mildew now. I tottled to a little coffee shop and had a “normal person day.” I wrote, gchatted, emailed, researched for hours. I almost caught the 6 o’clock ferry, but instead I spotted a teeny wooden restaurant called Devil’s Isle and the pull of a beet quinoa fennel cashew bowl was too strong. I drank a sour cherry soda and journaled about how to love more people. I walked back to the sea, sat on the balcony of the boat, listened to Keegan Michael Key on a podcast. Onboard I went to the gym, showered, and started Sophie’s Choice while eating ginger cookies from the local market. At 10:30 crew spa night started. I started a failed game of Marco Polo in the reflecting pool and closed my eyes in the sauna. It was almost midnight, but I was still up. I put on a skirt and made my way to nightlife. MB was out with a gaggle of peeps who all shocked said, “What are you doing out!” I danced for an hour or so before getting bored and wondering what the choice Sophie was going to make. I was watching Meryl when MB bust in with a gang of several people drunk and hungry. They ordered pizzas from room service and we all marveled at how everyone else sounds smarter to us (South African, British, American, Australian accents flying).

I spent a lot of time thinking philosophically about our sketch show while curling my hair. So many adults don’t laugh on a regular basis. We really get to bring a lot of joy to people. It’s something not to be taken lightly. And then we performed to the most tired, sunburned house ever. The lines fell painfully flat. The scenes barely moved at functioning level without the natural rhythm of pausing for laughs. Ten college kids sat in the front row, totally annoyed, not clapping as we bowed. Oof. But I don’t mind. I mean, it happens. And the show was actually still good—just not well received. It’s great practice to be disliked. And what do you know, the 9 PM was literally our best house ever. We performed the exact same show to roars and screams of joy.

Cruises remind me of high school. Your social patterns and status are so temporary and you KNOW they are temporary, but also, inside the bubble it seems like your whole world is ending if, say, you have nothing to do on a night you want to do something. You have to consciously step back and say, “Wait a minute, there’s only ONE thing to do right now that’s not watch a movie by myself. And it’s a fake dance contest I have seen twenty times. And it’s not really very entertaining.” Or, “I like my cast, but they are not my best friends. So maybe no need to get so upset about one of them hurting my feelings.”

It’s been hard writing my solo show. I have an urgency to do it, but just as much force in the self-doubt column. I need to send my next draft by Friday, and so much judgment crowds in. And so I fight! I fight very hard! I ask for text support from my spirit squad. I read Lean In at the gym. I pray. I do more research. I force myself to recall how I always feel this way and then sternly say, “And was it bad? What actually happened with the last thing you were afraid of?” I ask what will happen if I truly fail. Not very much. I keep writing.

After our first improv show Wednesday I have dinner with MB and Folds. He’s disappointed he wasn’t more productive. In some ways, no one should be disappointed in themselves here. Menial things take way longer, your mental state is stale, you’re lonely. On the other hand, if you haven’t done “it” in this environment, you probably won’t. This job is the perfect backdrop for any major goal. And if you can’t do it here, you probably don’t actually want to. I am relieved to find out I want to be a writer. I want to work out every day. I don’t want to be healthy (I had a free salad bar at every meal and I still opted for candy lunch.) I don’t want to meditate. I don’t want to keep an organized closet. This is the land of no excuses, only the harsh mirror of reality. At 2 AM MB and I are trying to sleep, but I keep starting 90s songs and replacing the key words with “scone.” She’s definitely over it, but I complete the entirety of Jewel’s “You Were Meant For Scone” anyway.

Our closing night show wasn’t good. Our opening was solid, and we closed with a great rap battle. So I doubt the audience hated it. But what happened in the middle was…just fine. It’s tough to shake the stink off. You just have to forget. Watch a castmate practice magic tricks, eat all the sour cream cheddar Pringles in bed with your roommate. Tail explains Native Americans would sometimes go to jail and be told it was for a year, but they had no concept of time. It felt like the end was never coming. They chose to starve.

A few of us walk the windy streets to the next island over to see the cemetery up close. Mostly sailors who drowned or died working on a ship. I whisper to stones I like best, “You can haunt me if you want.” Folds even dares me to lay down in a sunken plot of land. He takes us through a grassy path to a secret beach. It’s full night at this point, and the boys strip down and swim via moonlight. I decide to head back to the graveyard to get more time by the gazebo, but a few steps into the narrow trail I swear I hear someone spit, so I run back and wait for companions. On the walk back to the boat we come across some abandoned condos. I want to go in—fitting with the night—but right as Folds gets to the doorway he yells, “F*ck that, no way.” And we kind of take off, a bit faster than we came.

Being Cyber Bullied

I'm doing research on cyber bullying for a project I'm working on. (Okay, it's a sketch show. Sounds hilarious, right? See you all there.) Cyber communication was a really big part in my adolescent experience. AIM was King, y'all. To be honest, I miss it sometimes. There was something very sweet about having to login and see if that person you were friends with that week was online.

A giant forgotten aspect of AIM was the profiles. Profiles were the blank space under your name where you could write anything. Common profiles would typically be song lyrics, the date you started dating someone, an inside joke for only one person, a funny quote. I was always gunning for being the funny quote in other people's profiles. There is an actual entry of my freshman year diary that reads, "I am in five people's profiles right now!"

I've been grateful while reading these bullying articles that most social media hit the scene after my school years. Maybe I wasn't aware of it, but I don't think there was much cyber bullying with simple chat. Occasionally a rando would talk to you, and you'd block them. The end. But then I totally remember that I totally was cyber bullied, but I didn't think much of it?

When I was 15, a short strange thing occurred while I was at speech team practice. It happened in about two minutes, and I bare considered it, but I guess it probably changed at least one student's life pretty significantly. A Girl asked about some cans of pop in the classroom (no teacher there for about ten minutes). Henne said, "You can't have any," thinking that's why she asked. "I wasn't going to steal any," she said, "Do you think I was going to steal them because I'm black?" Very confusing escalation. I didn't know if she was kidding or not. I didn't know Girl very well, but she was usually friendly. Another guy there (and there were five of us in the room total--the fifth sitting at a computer, her backs to us), let's call him C, said, "Take this" and pulled out a switchblade. Girl took the switchblade and pointed it at me and Henne. "You take that back" (or something along those lines). I don't even remember what happened next. I think Girl started laughing and we all kept working. I literally did not think of it again.

Until a week or so later I was pulled out of a chemistry test and asked to come to the security office. I was told to write down on a piece of paper what happened after school on an arbitrary date. I said, "Nothing." The officers kept pressing me. I had no idea. Finally one said, "No one pulled a knife out after school in a classroom?" I said, "Oh. Yeah." They smirked. I think they thought I was trying to cover up something, but I sincerely had forgotten. I said it wasn't a big deal, and they told me they needed documentation anyway. I was in the middle of a test and eager to get back to it. I wrote down a very simple statement that C had a knife, Girl held it briefly.

So, a couple days later, I find out C is expelled. How I find out is my friend Smidge IMs me and asks what I did to make everyone so mad. Apparently a dozen or so people changed their profiles to "We will miss you, C. Alice _____ will die." I guess C must have assumed I was the only one who told on him? But someone must have first? The girl at the computer? Who can say. Mainly, the result was a bunch of people at my school publicly wrote me a death threat. The weirdest part though...is how I reacted. I asked Smidge to tell me who hated me. I didn't know most of the people--C was in a grade above me. I only knew one guy, and we didn't have any classes together, so I was like, "Oh good, won't be a problem." I didn't tell a teacher or my parents or confront anyone who said they wanted me dead. I avoided those people in the cafeteria, and went on with sophomore year. In hindsight, I'm not sure how I feel about it all. Obviously I didn't feel I was in actual danger, but maybe I was? (Probably not.) It certainly wasn't right for those kids to do that, and maybe they should have learned a lesson? But somehow I was unaffected, so maybe it all worked out just fine?

I wonder how the rest of C's schooling went. I actually liked the guy. I wonder if he remembers me as a person who ruined his life.

Time Traveling Moon: Pt One

My freshman year of high school there was a lot of to-do around the phrase "Get it." It's hard to know if that particular slang was a widespread phenomenon or if it was akin to other phrases particular to my southside Chicago experience. IE "Salt yourself" means you were acting stupid. Usually the phrase would be accompanied by a faux-brush of salt off one's shoulders. "Treated" I still say, which means kind of, "OH SHE TOLD YOU!"

Anyway, people on the Speech team were always telling each other to get it. Broke to finals? "Get it, Erin!" Made cookies for everyone? "Get it, Mary!" You get it (ha, no pun intended). One night Henne was driving me home from something and it was one of those special "we're young and happy" nights. Perhaps spring was just springing. The moon was big and glowing out the car window. He said, "Get it, moon."

Last night I was taking the brown line from downtown to Old Town. I love when I get to do that because I cross over the Chicago River and generally enjoy watching the city whir by. Henne happened to be texting me about our writing processes, the future, etc. when I noticed the moon. Giant, vibrant. I thought to myself, as I often do, "Get it, moon." Then I told him about this that I have kept in my brain for a decade. I took a picture of the white orb over the skyline and sent it to him. You know what he said? He said, "Get it, moon." And sometimes time has barely passed.

Choice Analysis

I auditioned for the spring play my sophomore year of high school with a monologue I cobbled together from a Junie B. Jones children's chapter book. I thought it was pretty funny. Not sharp or anything. I got cast in a small role basically based on the directors (my speech coaches) knowing I was a good investment because I worked hard and had potential once I got more confidence and ripped off my braceface.

I told Henne I was cutting more of the book for my Humor piece for the upcoming Speech season. "Boring," he said. "You can do better." I guess it was a little juvenile. And maybe adult male judges wouldn't have the same sheen of nostalgia for girlhood in first grade. I chose something else and had a successful season.

At the State competition, in the final round, another girl performed a cutting of a Junie B. Jones book. She won first place. I got second. What do I think about this? I think I would have been better than her, but really I don't know. I can't know. I can't help but think if we had both done the same piece, even if we had been the best in the round, we simply couldn't have gotten 1 and 2. Really, if I were judging that round, I think I would automatically bump us down, paired together to 4 or 5. I mean, there's a lack of originality at stake, right?

Moss: Part III

We hiked The Porcupine Mountains, the collective crew of Counselors in Training--big and small, blistered and bouncing. I was afraid to go on the trip because what if I didn't hike fast enough? And I had to carry the pots in my pack. And I hadn't gone to REI like the other girls for those special swishy trail pants. And we weren't supposed to wear t-shirts. Well how was I supposed to know?! I had been wearing a t-shirt for literally occasion of my high school life!

On the third day we made it to Lake Superior. It was too cold to swim, but the water brought a newness. A sense of accomplishment and a marker that we were halfway there (oh-oh-livin on a prayer!) and the trip couselors could use a break too so they basically went to bed as soon as we had put out the fire. Tee, Rench, KHo and I were up, determined to get on that lake if not in.

We wobbled atop a path of rocks just peeping from the water's surface. Tee pointed down at a very mossy one. "Slick," she said. I stepped as delicately as I could but I still flaked for a moment before sticking the landing.

The sun was setting and Rench listed all the schools she visited and which she was applying for and the ones her friends were going to which were just short of disgusting. Rench was the cabin dum-dum but she had a million polos and chacos in the way that made it seem her intelligence would have little to do with where she ended up at school.

"Where are you guys going?" In the distance a tiny boat squatted just under the pinking clouds. KHo came from money too. She pressed her. "I don't want to talk about it." KHo said. "Can't this be the one time in our lives we don't talk about it?" The orange floated away, we tip-toed to shore.

Moss: Part I

Lazz has only been sharp to me once in our decade of friendship. In high school he was the epitome of sweet. Syrup person. His face was always a perfect reflection of concern, and he gave out a lot of backrubs, sometimes for an entire movie. He was my senior prom date (asking me via cookie cake) and gave me a birthday present ( a Christopher Durang collection) even though he couldn't come to the party.

Over the years he remained this magical leprechaun of cuteness even though I saw him once in a blue moon. My freshman year of college I heard from George that he was still working at the candle store in the mall and she happened to see him leaving late one night right before Christmas. He had his headphones in and was dancing on the long long trek from the front doors to the auxiliary holiday staff parking. He sent me a hand-drawn birthday letter one year and even surprised me at college by showing up for the fall play. He's a good dollop, is what I'm saying.

I was visiting him at school a few years ago. It was summer, but he stayed in the po-dunk town to work at a Mexican restaurant and hang out with his frat brothers. We went on a Saturday afternoon walk through the woods by his house. There was a small creek, so we walked across it holding a fallen tree. I steps gently on a stone because I saw it was mossy. Lazz followed behind, stepping less gently, and he slipped awkwardly nearly plunking himself into the water. "It's slippery!" I yelped. "I see that," he hissed. It was so sharp I nearly feel off my current rock for no reason. Then he said, "Sorry." Then he started singing an Aimee Mann song.

This Is My LIFE

Carter was always getting in trouble at the telemarketing center. We were seniors in high school and had the same schedule. Go to school, rehearse for The Glass Menagerie (she was Amanda and I was Laura), grab dinner, work in the dingiest cubicles ever in the tiniest saddest strip mall in St. Louis.

I kinda tried to do the job well, but I really wasn't any good. Carter wasn't good and didn't try at all. My favorite memory of her is one time te automated dial machine hooked her up to a person and instead of pitching the newspaper, she just said "Hey, what's up?"

She was in trouble tonight. This time she was lagging in her response time because she was trying to memorize lines for the musical auditions in two days. It was her favorite musical. Singin in the Rain. She wanted to play Kathy, the chirpy tap-dancing lead. That's not who Carter was, and she wasn't doing anything to curb it. She didn't attend the tap dance lesson prep workshops, she didn't practice an airy soprano voice. It was clear to me, she wasn't getting the role--even though she may have wanted it more than anyone.

Our boss yelled at her for slacking. This was her job. More importantly, this was HIS job. He grumbled away back to his office. She turned to me and said, "How can he not understand this is so much more important? This is my LIFE." My thoughts: you are quite disillusioned about the world. This actual place of business is not trumped by our high school musical.

But I think about this incident years later, and I kind of side with her more and more.  

These Cold Twilights

The last time I was this cold at twilight was when I was 15. So now I feel all these newold feelings each night I'm outside. Everything gets dimmer and you can almost feel the city starting to settle down. Let's go home to the burrow, put on the TV, wait for these branches to bare.

Ten years ago I had long bangless hair and braces. I wore tight American Eagle tees, and I spent the winter doing a lot of math problems and figuring out what was funny about me. Winter twilights were spent on Speech buses. So many cafeterias and auditoriums. I had a pea coat from Old Navy. It was usually covered in cat fur. I go back there when it's night and the planning meeting had ended. I take the 36 home and watch the older crowd navigate the way to Blue Man Group.

I wrote this to get a handle on what it is that I'm feeling. I feel so connected to those times--the winter has snapped me back there. Is there something important back there? Am I supposed to know something? Am I a time traveler with a message? What would it be?

Apology, Apology, Apology

In high school Ty used to come over to my house on Sundays at 7 PM when his parents thought he was attending Catholic night mass. It became our thing. Once we went ice skating, once bowling, sometimes he'd help me with physics homework, and one night we just sat on the floor of my bedroom shedding our biggest fears and explaining why we thought we were the way we were. There was something personal I said, something about how I viewed the world, about what scared me, and he made fun of it. Like, pretty quickly. On one hand it was almost refreshing because my concerns were just a joke to him. On the other hand I felt my safe space had been abruptly broken. I told him so, and he kind of scratched his head and the night wound down, and he went home. He called me there apologizing. "I just realized really how much of a jerk I was. I was asking you all these personal questions and then I made fun of you." Yeah, it was true. I said it was okay.

AZ State Fair, 2011. I miss it.

The next day at school I was attacked. All out mutual friends found me during the day." Ty says sorry," they all explained. Sometimes people were sincere--mostly flippant. He hadn't said why he was apologizing. He just sent everyone he could to say sorry. A girl I didn't know stopped me in the hall and asked if I was Alice. She said sorry on behalf of Ty. I even got a few calls after school. This was before social media, so he must have just announced before his classes, at lunch, etc. "Hey, if you know Alice, tell her I'm sorry." Ty called at night and asked if I had gotten the message. Yeah, I had. I didn't really know how to process the day. I mean, it's not like quantity matters in apologies, but it was such a creative way for him to know he meant it? Maybe? I still don't know for sure I guess. But I held nothing against him. That was that. He went on to ask me to prom, go to college, and we lost track of each other.

Mum's Day

Been thinkin' a couple nice mom thoughts today. I remembered this lil happening from ten years ago (!) scarcely important, near forgotten.

The spring and summer before I moved to St. Louis--end of my sophomore cusp of my junior high school days, the beginnings of licenses, the end of hanging around with nothing to do but watch Degrassi--I was always with the gruesome twosome Liss and Knoze. The three of us were a weird crew, but there were were.

It didn't even matter who was speaking the words at some point. I was going to summer camp in a month. None of us were quite old enough to have jobs. "Hey, let's hang out." "What should we do?" "I don't know." "I don't know." "I don't know." "Let's just go--"

When someone did have a semblance of desire, it was exciting. On this one summer day in 2004, Lissa really wanted to see Mean Girls. I had my license but couldn't drive more than one passenger until I was 16.5. I asked my mom to take us. She said yes because she wasn't working at the time and generally up for drop-offs. My mom never made me feel bad for driving me places, which I always really appreciated. I got ready. But suddenly Alice Sr. was pale, half-opened eyes.

"I'm just not feeling that well." She said. I made the calls. No on Lissa's mom. No for Knoze. We could walk. It was far. I told my mom we'd go another day. She said, "No, it's really okay." I hadn't heard much about the movie besides the Parent Trap chick was in it, so I truly didn't care. But the lady grabbed her keys and walked carefully to her car. She drove at quarter-speed as to not throw up. The theatre was about ten minutes away. She stayed quiet and we respectfully said thank you. I worried a little, but there was kind of a goldenness to the whole thing. She said she's be fine to pick us up, and I knew she would be.

Mean Girls was an important movie for me to see. I would have seen it another time, I'm sure, but maybe not in theaters, maybe not before my move, maybe not before I needed to hear Cady explain the uselessness of judging a mathlete with a unibrow. Thanks to my mom.

Were We Wild And Young?

When we were 16, my friend wrote on her LiveJournal, "I shouldn't be sad. My boyfriend's awesome and the Sox are winning." I doubt she remembers the day or why she was blue. The journal has been deleted, but that line has always stuck with me. And perhaps high schoolers can be myopic and immature, but sometimes they're more keen than any of us could dream to be.

I don't remember, were we wild and young?

All that's faded into memory.

I feel like somebody I don't know.

Are we really who we used to be?

Am I really who I was?

The lights will draw you in,

and the dark will bring you down.

And the night will break your heart

only if you're lucky now.

There's Only One

After a full decade relationship with the series, I finally finished One Tree Hill. In high school a friend lent me the DVDs so I could join in on the lunch table discussion. I was sad that fall. I couldn't sleep one night, so I watched the first episode. There was something right about One Tree Hill. Yes, it's a teen soap. Yes, the main characters got married at the end of the first season (also known as their junior year), but the feel was real. A high school that maybe didn't always exist, but one that sometimes did. Something resonated. I watched until four AM that night. And when I slept, I slept well.

It went from bad to terrible fast. Too many kidnappings, exhausted heart transplant plot lines, a stalker step-brother. You know. It's trash. The last good season was Four. It lasted 'til Nine. But there was always a bit of sweetness at the bottom of the cup.

The final season was fine. The producer must have known. The characters waded around in superficial messes. But I will miss you, One Tree Hill. There is always something about the end television. These people who guided you for more than a third of you life--they no longer exist. These people who once got you through that long night as a confused teenager.

Me at the River Court. Yes, I visited the set. 2011.

It's the oldest story in the world. One day you're seventeen and planning for someday. And then quietly and without you ever really noticing, someday is today. And then someday is yesterday. And this is your life.

No Day But Today

I was very bratty about seeing RENT last night. The music school was putting it on. I had no interest in seeing a college performance 16-year-old Alice's favorite musical. I used to listen to that two-disc soundtrack basically every single day for at least two years of my life. When I first saw it my junior year of high school with Henne, I really enjoyed the experience. I had been listening to these tunes without visuals for so long...it was like, "Finally. Finally!"

The movie came out, and the songs got super popular. They started to grate on me, and after a few viewings of the (eh at best) film, I was sort of over it. Still, that year for More's birthday she wanted to see it live. I looked forward to it, but it was just okay. I was almost done with high school, and I was no longer buying the vapid puppy love. Some of the music isn't good. The answers come too easy. I was hardened by the world, and Mimi and Roger kissing in snowflakes wasn't cutting it anymore.

So when Neige kept making yummy eyes at me during improv rehearsal and saying, "You should cooome!" I was very into making up excuses. But I had no excuse for Thursday night. And Neige and I were literally walking past the box office. And I get a free comp for being a theatre student. I reserved a ticket and thought, "Hey, if I'm lucky, something will come up."

Yesterday my spirits were a little low. No matter, no matter. But they were low. And I finished up my day's tasks two minutes past curtain. I had my excuse. But then it was ten past, and I then fifteen, and something was sort of nagging me to go out into the night. I strapped on my helmet and scooted to the theatre.

I walked in without showing the ticket to anyone because "Today 4 U" was just starting, and who strolls into RENT when "Today 4 U" is starting? Me. I also unapologetically decided, "What the hey" and sat right in an empty seat in the second row. This way I can have no guilt about supporting Neige and leave at intermission. But by intermission!? I was completely smitten.

I thought I was too old to enjoy it forever, but I guess I was just a little too old to be swooned and a little too young to be okay with some plot-holed magic and cultural importance. Sometimes we have to circle back on these things. They don't change, but we do.

I cried during the finale. Because I had plopped my rude butt down so close to the stage, I felt a part of the story more than usual. And the story is partly mine. I applied those lyrics to my friends, my sorrows, my regrets for a long time. A long formative time at that. I floated out of the theatre, into the thin and sweet Arizona air. I sang "La Vie Boheme" all the way home.

Well, this is just the most boring and disgusting blog I have posted in a while. But I suppose the point is this: revisit. Be carried away. Theatre is a special thing. No day but today.