March 1997

When I was little, my mother once said to me, “Charlotte, the very best things in life are free.”
At only eight years old, I believed her.
I realized what she said turned out to be wrong on many different levels, two being:
1.
From my experiences, there are a lot good things in life and the majority of them are not, at all, free.
2.
Too many of the worst things in life are, also, free.
* * *
Every night, the first thing that was said at the dinner table was Michael or Lisa asking, “How was your day, Charlotte?” And each night the answer was, “good.” And then that conversation was over.
Over time, I had become to be extremely confused with that question, and my hatred for that single question had only grown since then.

First of all, why would someone care how your day was? They don’t. It’s simply a form of politeness and a conversation starter as an attempt to cover-up the awkwardness silence could bring, especially at a dinner like ours.

Second of all, I never knew how my days were. I didn’t know if my days were “good” or “bad”, but I didn’t bother thinking about it. Not that I’d want to.

So, that was why the conversation went as it did on March eighteenth as we sat at the round dinner table eating spaghetti with marinara sauce.
“How was your day today, Charlotte?” Lisa asked after many seconds of silence.
“Good.”
And me, being the Socially Acceptable Person I was considered, asked,
“How was your day, Lisa? And yours, Michael?” I brought my glass of milk to my mouth, and instantly my face scrunched up from the bitter taste of skim milk. Fortunately, neither Lisa nor Michael noticed.
“Great!” Lisa chirped. I hated skim milk, yet I wasn’t going to tell Lisa or Michael about this. I told myself I didn’t need them, or anyone. I told myself I didn’t need to drink milk, and I told myself I didn’t need to be helped.
“Nice, actually. Mr. Harris and I finished that project we were working on. I told you both about it. The project took…”
I stopped listening.
Michael liked to talk about his job. And with me, especially. I pretended to be interested. I was pretty sure he was a lawyer, but it could be someone other kind of businessman. I think he wanted me to have whatever job he had when I was older. Yikes.
I nodded my head to signal I was listening, as I looked down at my bowl of my spaghetti-turned-red-from-the-sauce. I reached for the water pitcher and poured myself a glass of water.
* * *
Everyone has a place. Or maybe everyone doesn’t, but I liked to think they do. And mine, mine was the small park on the corner of Sunset and Maple street. No one went there much.
Sometimes I wished more people went to that park. I always felt so alone, sometimes being with people was nice.
It was unseasonably warm for the end of March. By March twenty-second, it was already sixty-five degrees outside. I walked the three blocks from Lisa and Michael’s house to Seven Hills Park. I didn’t know why it was called “Seven Hills”—there sure as hell weren’t seven hills there.
I arrived at Seven Hills, slipped off my flip-flops, and walked over to the swings letting my feet dip sink into the sand. I frowned once I saw no one was there; although I shouldn’t have. There was rarely anyone there; I needed to stop getting my hopes up.
I drowned myself in my own thoughts.
We were alone in this world. There wasn’t any reason why we were here. There wasn’t a God. There wasn’t anyone telling us what to do; people spending their hours at a church every week were wasting their time. I should know, I wasted enough time myself.
Silence filled the air.
I liked Seven Hills, but I hated the silence. Everything was always silent, it got tiring. By now, I was used to the silence. But over the years I learned just because you were used to something, didn’t mean you liked it anymore. I told myself I needed to stop getting my hopes up and expecting things that wouldn’t happen.
Yet, I continued to be disappointed.
* * *
By April, Mrs. Sitez was one very fat and very pregnant math teacher. With her golden curls and tan skin, she stuck out like an orange balloon.
“When you’ve finished the test, place it on the table here,” she explained as she pointed to the only table in the room. “Calculators are allowed.”
I wasn’t sure why she talked to us like we were nine years old, but then I also didn’t care. She passed out the tests and told us we could get started.
I rolled my eyes the second she looked away.

After any test, Mrs. Sitez didn’t care what we do as long as it was quiet. People read, people did homework, people talked.
Forgetting my homework from the period before, I silently swore to myself.
When I got bored in math, which was pretty often, I wrote song lyrics in the back of my math notebook. I didn’t write my own songs, or anything, just lyrics of my favorite songs. It was like game with myself, seeing if I could write the whole song. It was a stupid thing to do, really, it was pointless. The only reason I kept doing it was solely to have something to do when Mrs. Sitez went on about trigonometry and “What it’s like to be pregnant.”

I started writing the first song I could think of.

Drink up baby, stay up all night
With the things you could do
You won't, but you might
The potential you'll be
That you'll never see
The promises you'll only make

Drink up with me now
And forget all about
The pressure of days*

I forgot the rest.

The bell rang; I gathered my textbook, pencil case, and notebook.
I walked out saying nothing.
* * *
It had been a week since I was last at Seven Hills. I played with my feet in the sand as I swung slowly and sadly on the swing. My head was focused down at my feet.
By 7:20, the sun was setting. My hair was up in a messy bun with a scrunchie, and my flip-flops were dangling in my hand as my other hand held onto the swing handle.
I looked up from the ground and saw a butterfly fly across the view. I was confused as to why a butterfly was out—sure, it was warmer-than-usual, but it was still only April. Daydreaming in my thoughts, I thought of my mother.
“Mommy, why do people kill themselves?” I asked as I looked up from the newspaper. My mom and I always read the newspaper together; it was our thing, something we always did. But this morning my mom was busy making breakfast for the two of us. I decided to read it myself.
A suicidal notice was in the paper this morning. At ten years old, I was only innocent and curious.
My mom walked across the small kitchen and knelt down beside me.

My mother then said something I would never, ever forget.

“Charlotte, some people don’t know how beautiful they are. Butterflies can’t see the color of their wings, but that doesn’t make them any less beautiful. You are beautiful, Charlotte. Even if you can’t see your own wings, they are still there. I love you, don’t forget it.”

I bit my bit to keep myself from crying. She died almost five years ago; get a grip, Charlotte, I told myself.
I walked back to Michael and Lisa’s house alone with my hands in my pockets and head in my hood, my blonde hair out of it’s scrunchie and flowing everywhere in the light breeze.
* * *
It rained for three days straight. I didn’t visit Seven Hills for two whole weeks; the weather wasn’t cooperating, and I didn’t have the time or energy.

When I finally went to Seven Hills, I walked up to the sign which read SEVEN HILLS PARK in big, bold capital letters. I sighed, shaking off my flip-flops. I expected the usual no one-here-but-a-lonely-park feeling, but it didn’t come. I expected no one to be there—just me and my lonely thoughts.
I was surprised, though, as I saw something I told myself I’d never see.
Someone else was at Seven Hills. Someone looking down at their feet while slowly and sadly swinging on a swing. Something I've done for so many years, but now someone else was doing it, too.
I wasn’t alone.

*Between the Bars by Elliot Smith