This Star Won't Go Out

Brat raised her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes. “Fine. What is the cost of this bag of chips, and do I know you?”


I stared at her, my stomach lurching from annoyance. “First of all, you were this pissed over a bag of CHIPS? Second, if I know you, it’s from Drama class.” In my head, I laughed at this joke, but I kept my annoyed face on for fun.


2009-Fiction about bullying

“Prologue”


WHO STARTED THE THING that says boys don’t cry? My dad once noted that he had “never cried in my whole life.” But, can I just ask, if a boy is absolutely devastated about something, is he just supposed to hang his head and sit quietly? What am I supposed to do—not cry? Well, I just have to say that if that’s the case, its gonna be hard.


Me and Tom are great friends, you know, always have been. He may be only in 2nd grade, but he likes sports and some other stuff that I enjoy, so we get along good. Some people, like Rufus E. Copan, tease me for playing with a boy that’s three grades below me. Rufus E. is a big football built boy who enjoys terrorizing little kids and kissing up to the teachers. Although his dad, Mr. Copan, owns a big law firm and their family donates a lot of money to the school so everyone—that’s a teacher—loves Rufus E. I mean, I don’t really care that he teases me, but it’s annoying since it makes other kids do the same.

Take today, for instance: at recess, me and Tom went near to the pile of sand that’s near the swings, the one we always go to. Anyway, we were minding our own business, building a sand town and smashing it with our giant feet, when Rufus E. and his “friends” came over.

At first, we tried to ignore them, but they’re idiots who don’t leave us be. They pushed all our tall buildings over and called us babies. I had a good comeback where I could say, “Yeah, I’m a baby because I find playing with younger kids fun, and you’re not a baby because you pretend to be all tough and you tease people for more self confidence, right?” Rufus E. would then go, “Why you . . . !” but I’d punch him before he got to me. Instead of this brilliant plan, I stuttered while the bell rang and we, quickly, ran to our class lines, shouting goodbyes.


DOPP! The sound that could be heard was a soft thud, almost like a rotten apple, falling from a tree, in a dark, scary forest where no one could hear it’s terrified . . .

“Rufus!”

Oh man! I was again awakened by the loud voice of my mom, calling from the bottom of the stairs. (Every time that dream comes, I’m interrupted, I couldn’t help but noting.) I quickly jumped up from my cozy-yet-smelly dung bed, threw on my slippers, and ran down the stairs. The bright morning sun half blinded me.

“There you are, silly!” Mom said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “I was worried you would never wake up, the day’s almost over!”

“Mom,” I couldn’t help debating, “you do realize it’s only 1 hour past breakfast . . .” She looked down at me, her gaze not scorning, but curious.

“I know, honey, but if you sleep away the day, what will happen at night?”

Straining for a comeback, I plopped in my usual breakfast chair and half-heartedly gnawed away at my XXX, all the while thinking of why I slept so late. Sure, lots of people slept late, but I was normally up before even Mom, so why was today different?

Day after day, week after week, it was becoming a routine. For 2 straight months I had slept in every morning until 1 hour after breakfast, when Mom would call me and I’d, grudgingly scooch down the stairs. At neoschool I could barely pay attention, lunch was when I ate and doodled, hardly even thinking, at play-time I sat down, opened a book and pretended to read. When I got home, I’d take a bath, eat supper, then go to bed . . . Then all over again it’d start. Every now and again a jump in the pattern would reveal itself—a walk to Kiko Lake, a visit to the money tree—but other than that, I was very, well, zombie-like. Mom was worried.

“Rufus,” she’d constantly say, “are you eating your vegetables . . . ?”


Ce n’est pas Vrai Tu M’adores

[2010-Fiction, romantic]


AS I SAT THERE, watching her babble gleefully about the shoes she found, I couldn’t help but wonder what her hair would feel like if I ran it through my fingers.

“So, would you?”

“Oh,” I started, my brain trying to remember where I was. “Sorry? I was, um, thinking about . . . supper.”

She looked at me, her eyebrows raised, then laughed, her smile wide. “Well, supper is quite important, right?” she asked, only continuing once I’d smiled. “Anyway, I was saying that on Friday I’m going to see a movie with Renée and Lily. I wanted to know if you want to come . . .”

“Like a double date?” I joked, winking hugely while secretly hoping she would say yes. Who cared if Lily and Renée were both straight?

Looking taken aback, she quickly stated, “No. No, no. Like a ‘hang out.’”