A Room With a View

The hundred year old glass waved in the chipped wooden frame, softening the view outside as if looking through water. The light poured through the six foot tall windows, illuminating bright pink walls and a teenage girl laying across a worn rug, the pencil in her hand scribbling madly across a page in her notebook.

Her feet tapped along to The Beach Boys, while she paused in her writing, her eyes far away.

The door was closed. The door was almost always closed. In a corner of her mind, she heard the pounding of feet on the stairs, the yells of her sisters, the voices of her parents talking, the creak of floorboards, the click of the dog's nails on hardwood floors.

In the evenings, she could smell dinner cooking. Comfort foods. Southern foods. There were stews and casseroles and roasts. Vegetables out of the garden, piles of yeasty rolls. The scents wafted through the house, making her stomach grumble, forcing her mind to the present. To the four walls surrounding her, to the sound of her name being called up the stairs.

She resented the interruptions, irritated by the sudden pull towards reality.

In her room, she could spend hours in alternate worlds, hours where she was herself, but...different.

In those worlds, her hair was long and thick and straight. No one called her Sally Jesse Raphael because of her large red glasses and short curly hair. She was taller, thinner and boys didn't leer at her boobs, watching her run across the gym during PE, each pounding step sending a humiliating bounce across her chest. They didn't ask her what size of bra she wore, laughing at her bright red face.

She wore clothes that didn't "drape" to hide her shape. She wore acid wash jeans and cute T-shirts that were made for girls, not boys. People laughed at her jokes, understood her puns, thought she was interesting and normal.

Yes. Normal.

Deep inside, in a place she seldom visited was the world where she was normal. Where she talked to boys on the phone. Where she got asked on dates. Where she played volleyball. Where she went to pep rallies and football games and dances.

It was a place where she giggled with girlfriends about boys. Where she had posters of pop stars on her walls, took ballet classes and knew about the party before it happened, rather than after.

It was a guilty, dark place. A place she visited with furtive glances. In that room, she wasn't the Good Daughter. She wasn't the Responsible Older Sister. She wasn't the Good Student. She just was.

She never stayed long in that room. Why bother when reality was so drastically different? Besides, there were other places she could go. Places filled with romance and adventure.

She scribbled those places down in her notebook, willing herself to believe in their truth until, miraculously, the pages transformed into a golden plain where she walked, leading her trusty horse, her long skirts kicking up dust while the boy walking next to her raved about her flaxen haired beauty. She raised her face to the warmth of the sun and smiled.

This was a piece for The Red Dress Club RemembeRED memoir writing prompt. This week we were asked to visualize a room from our past and take our reader there. I hope you enjoyed it and, I'll have you know, I was under the word count this week.

Do I get a cookie? Or at least a gold star?

Per usual, constructive criticism is always welcomed. Just preface so I know to grab a glass of wine.

In totally unrelated news, I'm reviewing the most disgusting spaghetti sauce ever over at Makes Fun.