Love Notes

Chapter 2-Charlie



I wake up with the reminder of what today is and I can’t help the heavy feeling that’s weighing me down and the reason for it.

My dad has been transferred so many times that I’ve lost count. We now reside in a small little town north of Atlanta in Nowhereville. I’m starting my senior year at a new school and I have been assured by my mother that this will be the last one. Then I’m off to college. College can not come any faster for me. I can’t wait to get out of here, on my own and stay somewhere for more than a year. A place to finally call home, even if it’s in a dorm room.

I despise starting a new school, although I should be a pro at it by now. That’s what happens when your dad has a job that has him transferred from place to place. Then there’s the constant annoyance of having to explain why my name is Charlie and that in itself always is a conversation and a half. Yes, I have a boy’s name and yes my dad seems to have had a wicked sense of humor (amongst other things) when I was born. Not sure what my mom was thinking by allowing that, but it is what it is. If you ask me, giving your child a funky name is a form of child abuse.

I had joined the school choir at my last school and left behind a couple of friends, but I never get to keep them for long. It seemed like the minute I would get settled into a new school, my dad was transferred and it was moving time again. I’ve always made friends. I’ve just never had great friends, anyone that I could trust and confide in, or felt comfortable with.

I love music. There isn’t a way that I can even articulate in words how much I love it. Music is an escape from everything that’s wrong in my life. I love to sing, doesn’t mean I’m worthy of a record deal but I have a nice, pleasant, what others have called angelic voice. I attended long enough to be part of the school musical production. I'd received a solo and was privileged to sing in front of the whole school. After I had sung my solo, it seemed that everything had finally fallen into place. They seemed to like me for me. I felt comfortable, at least as much as I would allow myself to be. I could be somewhat funny and show another side of myself. I didn’t have to worry as much about the extra pounds I carried because nobody seemed to care. Well, maybe except for me and my dad. Especially since I am reminded of this almost daily. Despite finally feeling a level of acceptance at school, I have never found any one that accepted me completely.

As far as boys, I’ve never had to worry about them either, since I’m not a lot to look at. Oh, I’ve had some guy friends, but I was never more than anything but a mere friend to them. Sure, I would have liked to have gone out on a date, but to be honest I never found anyone I liked enough. There is also the fact that the thought of bringing a boy home to meet my dad makes me feel physically ill. It terrifies me and scares me more than anyone could ever understand. There really is no telling what he would do or say.

I psyche myself into getting my ass up and start getting ready, reminding myself that it could have been worse. At least I’m starting on the first day of school and not mid- year. I try to tame my unruly mass of hair. I'm unsuccessful. It was starting to resemble Medusa, not exactly what I’m going for on the first day. I may not be much to look but I at least want to look my best and give some kind of good impression.

The worst part of starting a new school is the looks you get. I would almost prefer to be invisible.

When I am as ready as I’m going to be, I head into the kitchen to grab some breakfast. Stopping short as soon as my feet touch the linoleum, I spot my dad drinking a cup of coffee at the bar. I inch my way into the kitchen hoping against hope that he ignores me and pretends that he can't see me. My hope crumbles when I hear, “Charlie is that what you’re wearing? It looks like you’re completely trying way too hard.”

Aw, stupid hope.

I glance down at myself. I’ve never professed to be fashionable in any way. However, I do pride myself on wearing clothes that fit and don’t make me look frumpy. I dress for my size and shape. I’m wearing a pair of slimming boot cut jeans with a dressier tank top and a short sleeve cardigan that at least covers some of my butt and a pair of wedged sandals to help me look taller, not to mention my hope to look slimmer. If I was only a little taller I would’ve been better proportioned.

I can’t help but question his remark and try to not let it get to me, trying being the operative word. My mom chooses the perfect time to walk in, still dressed in a robe. She must have heard some of this conversation because she looks at me with indifference really but says that I look fine. I choose this moment to bolt.

My relationship with my mom is strained at best. We rarely speak and she’s like a shadow. She allows my dad his freedom of speech and sits back and let's it happen, regardless of the impact is has on me. I don't know how many times my dad has been on a rampage she has made an excuse to up and leave the room. She wants no part of it. I have tried talking to her about it in the past but it has proved futile. Her only advice is to stay out of his way. The funny thing is…, I do.

It doesn't seem to matter though.

No matter what I do I anger him.

As soon as I climb into my Jeep, I feel lighter. I feel as if the weight of all of the house bull shit falls away and I feel instantly better. You know how some people have a safe haven? My Jeep is “it” for me. Maybe because I paid for it with my hard earned money. A job I had to beg to have. I worked so hard for several summers to save the cash. Summer time was never a fun time for me, like it is for most teenagers.

Or maybe it was?

It meant not being home and enduring whatever would be dished out at me. When most teenagers were out with their friends having fun, I was begging for a summer job. So yes, I love my Jeep, which I've named Lexie. Why Lexie you ask? Because it's girly, simple as that. It’s white and the top comes off. I pull my iPod out of my backpack and plug it in. It’s the first thing I do every time I get in it, like a ritual. Music soothes the soul; at least it helps soothe mine.

Before I know it, time has flown and I’ve reached my destination, pulling into the senior parking lot. As soon as I park, I take a deep breath and exit my beloved Jeep. Shutting the door, I look around and see clusters of groups all over the parking lot. Every school is different. You generally have your skaters, preps, jocks with cheerleaders of course, nerds and over achievers. I also see a herd of rednecks, it’s Georgia after all.

You know that feeling that you’re being watched? You don’t have to have eyes in the back of your head to feel it. You just know. This is what I’m feeling the whole entire time and it has my nerves completely rattled.

I finally spot a huge building that says “Admissions Office” and walk over to it. I never received my class schedule and need to retrieve it. I hate not knowing what classes I have ahead of time. I’m desperately hoping that my schedule includes choir class. That may help me make some friends or at least make the transition a little easier for me.

As I’m walking into the building, I look down to readjust the strap of my back pack and smack directly into a person coming out of the door. Not only do I bump into this person, I fall and I fall hard! I tumble all the way straight down on my very padded ass. This was not the first impression I was going for. Without even looking up I feel mortified and am internally slapping myself for my stupidity. The instant that I look up I’m captivated by a set of perfectly bright blue eyes. I mean like bright blue, the kind of blue that reminds you of the ocean on a tropical vacation. Eyes I can’t help but get lost in. They’re almost magnetic. I quickly pray I don’t look like I’m gawking and instantly snap my mouth shut. I follow the eyes and look at the rest of him. He is by far the best looking guy I have ever seen! He has shiny dark hair and it’s such a contrast to his bright blue eyes. He has a beautiful face. All though something tells me he wouldn't like being called beautiful. The thought makes me giggle and almost makes this fall on my ass worth it. He’s broad shouldered and muscular and looks like he’s an athlete of some kind.

Suddenly, I snap out of my trance when I hear him ask me if I’m okay. As I’m attempting to speak, he reaches a hand down to help me up. I feel a rush of heat travel through me that causes goosebumps to pop up all over my arms. I don’t doubt that this reaction I’m having is solely based on my embarrassment as well as my lack of walking skills. Not to mention he’s very easy on the eye. Point for me in the klutz department and there goes that good first impression of me at my new school.

Fabulous.

As he’s helping me up, I realize he has spoken to me again and I still haven’t answered him just like the dumb ass I am. I look him in the eye and finally find the breath in me, “I’m sorry, I looked down for just a second and I wasn't watching where I was going and I’m just sorry.” I look up to see him looking at me and smiling.

“It’s not a problem. I make it a habit to pick up pretty girls up off of the floor.” He tosses me a wink and walks away.

If it's at all possible being called pretty just completely shocked the hell out of me. I have never been called pretty in my entire life. In my head I know I must be over analyzing things. I am questioning the whole “pretty” comment. Was he making fun of me or did he really mean it? I mentally tell myself to shut the hell up and that it had to be a slip of the tongue.

Because there is no way he thinks I’m pretty.

As much as I don’t want to admit it and as preposterous as it sounds, I could have sworn there was an instant zing when he helped me up.

Could he have felt it too?

That would be crazy though.

He is hot and I’m just not.

I brush my pants off, readjust my shirt and place my bag back on to my shoulder. Holding my head up, I feel determined that this day has got to get better.

It can only go up from here, right?