tennille67
There was a little ginger-haired boy, who lived next door to me, when I was 7 years old. He had an abundance of freckles and was mean as hell. For some reason, he always smelled like black pepper. He used to throw rocks at me and laugh about it. He was only about five, I think, but he still scared me, younger than me or not.
I was forced to smile this hideously strained smile. It had a stain on my shirt and frizzy hair. It was horrible. I held my eyes open, trying so hard not to blink that I look slightly insane.This is how I will be remembered in my 7th grade yearbook. Forever.
There is no other smell like wet wool that's been laid on a radiator to dry. The melted snow that dampened the shoulders of that old plaid coat that you wore to school with your navy blue mittens, heating up, the moisture evaporating into the air.
He looked absolutely ridiculous. Mid-life crisis, anyone? Sideburns, black, horned-rimmed glasses, ironic t-shirt and skinny jeans. The world's oldest hipster. "Divorce is a hell of a thing." she thought to herself.
When I was a little girl, we lived in my great-grandmother's house, in her attic. Even though quite frequently, I would pretend I was a princess in a tower, it was much less romantic than you would think, to live in an attic. It was 1985. We were on welfare and my mother had two jobs. One was at a worker's cafeteria called The Canteen. The other was at a convenience store called The Kwik Spot.