В колонках играет - рассказ Прозика про пиво и велосипед
Настроение сейчас - позитивное
вот на днях написала рассказ. вообще что-то странное со мной происходит,то стихи на английском пишу,теперь вот рассказы!!!все!!!нужен отдых!!!:pey:+
вот,просто решила выложить рассказик. за грамотность не отвечаю.
SURVIVING SILVERLAKE.
A brand-new school in a brand-new city has Margot feeling like a social outcast. Will she ever fit in again?
“I will survive. I will survive”
I can’t help repeating this over and over in time to the speeding and honking cars as I walk to the end of our block, where I’ll turn left and begin the first day of my new life at Silverlake High. It’s a line from this old disco song Mom used to blast when she was feeling down.
But it’s not picking my mood up. My head is spinning with worry. I wonder who I’ll sit next to in homeroom, who I’ll have a locker next to, who I’ll be crushing on. Are guys different in Los Angeles? Josh’s face flashes in my head, and I feel a pang. I shake it off.
Mom, Ian and I arrived in L.A. three months ago, right before what was supposed to be the best summer in my life because a) I finally had a boyfriend and b) my best friend Danielle and I landed our jobs together at Vic’s Ice Cream. When mom told us she and dad were spitting up, I was crushed. Who wouldn’t be? On top of it all, she decides we’re moving 600 miles away everything I know and love. At first, I was really mad at mom and vowed to stay with dad. Only, it turns out dad’s moving in with a blonde named Heather, an associate at his law firm.
So my parents sold the house. Our house. The house I’d lived in for all my 15 years. The house where I found my cat Sky, wet and shivering, in the backyard. The house where my Dani and I spent hours dancing on the hard-wood floors,singing our guts out to No Doubt. The house where dad introduced me to the Beatles and showed how to Electric Slide. The house where Ian and I beat each other up over the last Oreo (kind of cake) and made up by sharing it. The house where I had my first (and so far last) kiss with Josh.
The weirdest thing was mom didn’t seem as sad as I expected her to be. In fact, she seemed fine. She said she’d seen it coming, that she and dad didn’t get along like they used to.
That was news to me. I wish I had seen it coming. And this threw me the most: mom got all New-Age-y and said maybe this was some karmic message telling her to pursue her goals. Uh, what goals did my mom have?
A lot, it turns out. Among them? Being in a band, going to art school and moving back to L.A. Sounds cool, right? But we’re talking about my mom-my part –time realtor, PTA-going, sedan-driving mom.
Mom went to college in L.A. It’s where she met dad. They married, dad got hired by a law firm in Sacramento, and they bought The House, and then had me and Ian.
Now mom, Ian and I life in a duplex in a neighborhood called Silverlake. Mom says Silverlake is where artists and musicians live. To me, it looks like a lot of people who chain-smoke and don’t comb their hair. If mom starts smoking and looking like she just woke up, I’m bailing.
I push open the heavy front doors and step into Silverlake High. Chaos. Kids are scurrying to class, passing each other notes, laughing, singing, loud-loud-loud. Latino skater chicks with shaved heads and Mohawks, Asian girls with pink hair and leg warmers, white guys with shaggy ‘dos and band T-shirts. This is sooo different from kids look at Sac High, where most wear jeans and polo shirts, or maybe a tank over a tee. Which is what I am wearing today, with a pair of flip-flops and my sandy hair in a ponytail? No one even glances at me. It’s like I’m THE INVISIBLE GIRL.
The bell rings. Classroom doors whisk closed, and the hallway is empty. I should have gotten here earlier.
Back home, I’d be sliding into my desk right now behind Dani in world civ and compare notes on who hooked up or broke up over summer. Them we’d brainstorm ideas for our Environmental Club project (last year, we launched a campus recycling program). My chest tightens- I can’t believe how much I miss her.
I go into the office to get my schedule. A fake blonde with way to much eyeliner sits behind the counter, yelling something Spanish into the phone. She sees me and covers the receiver.
“What do you need, honey?” Then yells some more in Spanish.
“My class schedule,” I tell her.
“Name, honey?” she flips through some papers on the desk.
“Margot Keller.”
She tosses my schedule to me.
“Here you go, Margot-honey.” Then she goes back to Espanola.
I look at my schedule. English is first. Ms. Batrok. Room 601. I have no idea where Room anything is. I feel like it’s the first day
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