Butterflies and Steel, chapter 1
I watched with a half-amused interest as the kids played around. I always liked to do this when I got off of work; and not in a creepy pseudo-Michael Jackson way either. I just liked to watch the kids. The park was always full of them at 4:00. I guess it was because school had just let out. Either way, watching them helped me get into touch with a part of my youth that I thought I had lost. Plus I watched with longing what I would never have.
My eyes rested on one boy in particular. He was around ten or eleven, and to be perfectly honest, cute as hell. He stood off from all the rest of the kids, writing in a little notebook. I smiled inwardly, able to picture myself as that kid. I had been similarly stand-offish, always writing instead of playing.
He must have felt my eyes on him, because he looked up at me and locked eyes. I figured I must have come off as a little creepy, staring at him like that. But to my surprise, he came up to me and smiled.
"Can I sit with you?" he asked. I shrugged and smiled, gesturing to the rest of the bench. He sat down and put his notebook aside, looking back at me with his brown eyes.
"What's your name?" I asked, curious more as to why he had come over here. I could tell I didn't frighten him, otherwise he would have hi-tailed it out of there.
"Joey," he replied. I stuck out my hand.
"I'm Carrie," I responded. He took my larger hand into his smaller one. There was something different about this kid. He seemed so much wiser than all of the others, so much more mature.
"How old are you?" he asked, starting what I recognized as a round of twenty-questions. It seemed I had been a little wrong about one thing; he wasn't shy. At least not to adults, is what I figured. Probably an only child, and if not, he was the oldest. I momentarily cursed my choice to take Psychology in college, and also my already pre-conceived notion to psychoanalyze everything.
"Twenty-five," I replied. I repeated the same question to him. I, too, could play twenty-questions.
"Eleven," he said. He stopped for a moment, as if looking around, and then focused his attention back on me.
"Waiting for someone?" I queried. He smiled.
"Yeah," he replied. "My dad is supposed to pick me up soon. I haven't seen him in a long time."
"Oh, really?" I questioned. "That must really suck. I'm guessing it's a work thing?"
"Yeah," he sighed. "Sometimes I wish he wasn't away all the time, but he loves what he does." He paused, and then quickly moved on to change the subject. "So why are you here? Are you waiting for someone?"
"Not really," I replied. "I just like to come here after work and watch all the kids play." I was going to say 'and watch all of you kids play', but that would have insulted his intelligence. He was young in age, yes, but certainly not a kid.
"Wow, that must be boring," he scoffed light-heartedly. I had to laugh.
"Not really," I disagreed. "I like kids."
"Do you have any of your own?" Joey asked.
It was a question that I had been used to hearing all of the time. I had even built up a defense system against it, to keep myself from hurting. But I guess he caught me off guard, because that cold pit settled itself once again in my stomach, and a wave of hurt passed over my face. Joey frowned, and I knew that he thought he had said something wrong.
"No," I replied weakly. I had been trying to go for a strong, reassuring answer, but instead that pathetic voice had leaked out. I shook my head, more to clear it. "No, I don't have any kids."
I felt a small hand on my arm. "I'm sorry if I said anything wrong," Joey apologized. I looked down at him, and this time his curious brown eyes were full of concern. There was more warmth in that gaze than I had felt in a long time. I thought of how ironic it was to be comforted by an eleven year old.
I patted his hand. "It's okay. I just... well, I can't have kids. And sometimes I get really depressed about it. So it wasn't really you."
"Oh." That was all he replied with. I knew that it was something that I shouldn't have divulged in him, and I knew that it must have made him feel more guilty for bringing the whole subject up in the first place. It was now my turn to change the direction of conversation.
"So what were you writing?" I asked, indicating Joey's black notebook. It was extremely worn out but full with all the pages, and on the cover was a Ramones sticker lop-sidedly placed on the cover. "And great sticker, by the way."
"Thanks," he said, that normal tone returning instead of that concerned voice. "My dad got it for me. And he stuck it on crooked." I laughed at that and nodded.
"Yeah, I noticed that. I swear I'm OCD."
"OCD?" Joey asked.
"Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder," I said. "It basically means doing something repeatedly. For me, I notice stupid things that are crooked and misplaced and I have to fix them all the time. I'm weird, I know."
"Like when you see posters that are taped up crooked and you want to fix them, even if they aren't yours?" Joey asked, clearly having an understanding of what I was talking about. "I don't think you're weird then. I think I've got that, too. And plus, you don't know weird unless you've met my Uncle Tre."
"Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one," I laughed. I checked my watch and noticed with a bit of shock that it was almost 5:00. "Wow, I didn't realize it was getting so late. I'm going to have to go soon."
Joey actually looked sad for a moment. I ruffled his hair, the hair of a little boy who I barely knew. Again, I thought it might come off as creepy, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Can you stay and meet my dad?" he asked suddenly. "He's really cool." I thought about it for a moment.
"Yeah, sure," I agreed. I didn't really want to, but hey, if Joey happened to tell his dear old dad about the strange woman that had talked to him for an hour in the park, that may have made Dear Old Dad worry. Then I would have had to find a new place to sit and unwind. So I figured it would have been easier to just to meet Dear Old Dad and be on my way. No harm done.
"Oh, here he comes," Joey said, pointing. He waved, and I guess Dear Old Dad had waved back, because he smiled. I turned to look at Dear Old Dad... but he wasn't a Dear Old Dad...
...he was a Young Good-Looking Dad. A dad who looked strangely familiar to me. He had longish dyed black hair, a hint of what looked like smudged eyeliner, and not to mention familiar green eyes. Yep, definitely familiar. And that was definitely the lead singer of Green Day.
My eyes rested on one boy in particular. He was around ten or eleven, and to be perfectly honest, cute as hell. He stood off from all the rest of the kids, writing in a little notebook. I smiled inwardly, able to picture myself as that kid. I had been similarly stand-offish, always writing instead of playing.
He must have felt my eyes on him, because he looked up at me and locked eyes. I figured I must have come off as a little creepy, staring at him like that. But to my surprise, he came up to me and smiled.
"Can I sit with you?" he asked. I shrugged and smiled, gesturing to the rest of the bench. He sat down and put his notebook aside, looking back at me with his brown eyes.
"What's your name?" I asked, curious more as to why he had come over here. I could tell I didn't frighten him, otherwise he would have hi-tailed it out of there.
"Joey," he replied. I stuck out my hand.
"I'm Carrie," I responded. He took my larger hand into his smaller one. There was something different about this kid. He seemed so much wiser than all of the others, so much more mature.
"How old are you?" he asked, starting what I recognized as a round of twenty-questions. It seemed I had been a little wrong about one thing; he wasn't shy. At least not to adults, is what I figured. Probably an only child, and if not, he was the oldest. I momentarily cursed my choice to take Psychology in college, and also my already pre-conceived notion to psychoanalyze everything.
"Twenty-five," I replied. I repeated the same question to him. I, too, could play twenty-questions.
"Eleven," he said. He stopped for a moment, as if looking around, and then focused his attention back on me.
"Waiting for someone?" I queried. He smiled.
"Yeah," he replied. "My dad is supposed to pick me up soon. I haven't seen him in a long time."
"Oh, really?" I questioned. "That must really suck. I'm guessing it's a work thing?"
"Yeah," he sighed. "Sometimes I wish he wasn't away all the time, but he loves what he does." He paused, and then quickly moved on to change the subject. "So why are you here? Are you waiting for someone?"
"Not really," I replied. "I just like to come here after work and watch all the kids play." I was going to say 'and watch all of you kids play', but that would have insulted his intelligence. He was young in age, yes, but certainly not a kid.
"Wow, that must be boring," he scoffed light-heartedly. I had to laugh.
"Not really," I disagreed. "I like kids."
"Do you have any of your own?" Joey asked.
It was a question that I had been used to hearing all of the time. I had even built up a defense system against it, to keep myself from hurting. But I guess he caught me off guard, because that cold pit settled itself once again in my stomach, and a wave of hurt passed over my face. Joey frowned, and I knew that he thought he had said something wrong.
"No," I replied weakly. I had been trying to go for a strong, reassuring answer, but instead that pathetic voice had leaked out. I shook my head, more to clear it. "No, I don't have any kids."
I felt a small hand on my arm. "I'm sorry if I said anything wrong," Joey apologized. I looked down at him, and this time his curious brown eyes were full of concern. There was more warmth in that gaze than I had felt in a long time. I thought of how ironic it was to be comforted by an eleven year old.
I patted his hand. "It's okay. I just... well, I can't have kids. And sometimes I get really depressed about it. So it wasn't really you."
"Oh." That was all he replied with. I knew that it was something that I shouldn't have divulged in him, and I knew that it must have made him feel more guilty for bringing the whole subject up in the first place. It was now my turn to change the direction of conversation.
"So what were you writing?" I asked, indicating Joey's black notebook. It was extremely worn out but full with all the pages, and on the cover was a Ramones sticker lop-sidedly placed on the cover. "And great sticker, by the way."
"Thanks," he said, that normal tone returning instead of that concerned voice. "My dad got it for me. And he stuck it on crooked." I laughed at that and nodded.
"Yeah, I noticed that. I swear I'm OCD."
"OCD?" Joey asked.
"Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder," I said. "It basically means doing something repeatedly. For me, I notice stupid things that are crooked and misplaced and I have to fix them all the time. I'm weird, I know."
"Like when you see posters that are taped up crooked and you want to fix them, even if they aren't yours?" Joey asked, clearly having an understanding of what I was talking about. "I don't think you're weird then. I think I've got that, too. And plus, you don't know weird unless you've met my Uncle Tre."
"Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one," I laughed. I checked my watch and noticed with a bit of shock that it was almost 5:00. "Wow, I didn't realize it was getting so late. I'm going to have to go soon."
Joey actually looked sad for a moment. I ruffled his hair, the hair of a little boy who I barely knew. Again, I thought it might come off as creepy, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Can you stay and meet my dad?" he asked suddenly. "He's really cool." I thought about it for a moment.
"Yeah, sure," I agreed. I didn't really want to, but hey, if Joey happened to tell his dear old dad about the strange woman that had talked to him for an hour in the park, that may have made Dear Old Dad worry. Then I would have had to find a new place to sit and unwind. So I figured it would have been easier to just to meet Dear Old Dad and be on my way. No harm done.
"Oh, here he comes," Joey said, pointing. He waved, and I guess Dear Old Dad had waved back, because he smiled. I turned to look at Dear Old Dad... but he wasn't a Dear Old Dad...
...he was a Young Good-Looking Dad. A dad who looked strangely familiar to me. He had longish dyed black hair, a hint of what looked like smudged eyeliner, and not to mention familiar green eyes. Yep, definitely familiar. And that was definitely the lead singer of Green Day.
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