World of Hope (Excerpt)

Article from Meadows, Nevada Local Newspaper

“ST. MEADOW’S MIDDLE SCHOOL STUDENT OF THE YEAR WINS $2,000 HIGH SCHOOL SCHOLARSHIP. Hope Miller, a recent eighth-grade graduate of St. Meadow Middle School, has been awarded a $2,000 scholarship to the high school of her choice. Ms. Miller’s teachers describe her as a hardworking, intelligent young lady with great potential. Her greatest skills include writing and analyzation of the English language. She is speculated to be using the prize money to attend the elite St. Elizabeth High School.

Part 1: A Way Out

     What am I doing here? To tell you the truth, I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. It’s a Saturday night. You’d think I would be out partying, or with friends, or at least doing something worthwhile. Homework, maybe? But no. I’m sitting alone in my room, listening to music that I’m slightly embarrassed to admit is completely emo. Following the sad girl stereotype that I’ve cruelly thrusted upon myself, a book of self-composed poems is open on my lap.

     Every day, I try to write about my life, to make it sound poetic and meaningful. I write about my lack of friends. I write about the people I wish were my friends. I write about Daniel. I write about my parents and their expectations. I write about how hard my life is, even if I am a privileged white girl going to private school in Meadows, Nevada suburbia. I write and write, but I could honestly care less if my writing is bad or not. All that matters is that I’m writing, granted it is just a lot of bad poetry.

     My dream is to write professionally, but obviously this can never happen. As I have been repeatedly informed by my parents, writing is a passion pursued only by those who wish to make little to no earnings and die destitute and lonely. I think they forget sometimes who they are taking to. I’m Hope Miller, and if there is one thing I love more than writing, it’s proving people wrong.

     My dad wants me to be a lawyer, and maybe it’s because he knows I love arguing so much. They’ve always set me up so that I would have an easy time getting a job that pays top dollar. Everyone expects me to go to Harvard, or become some company owner. But I know I wasn’t born to do a typical desk job and raise my own white, suburban family. There are so many things I want to do, but my parents’s expectations are definitely standing in my way.

Today is the day I finally do something about it.

     My parents are out to dinner, and my sister is occupied in her room with one of the annoying brats she claims is her new best friend. This means I finally have a way out. My escape plan is simple: I take my mother’s stash of money hidden in the fake jelly jar, and I walk away. For the entirety of my fourteen pathetic years on earth, I’ve followed the rules that my parents, teachers, and peers have pressed upon me. No one would ever expect me to just disappear, but that is what I’m doing.

     You’re probably wondering where I’m even going. The obvious answers would be Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, or somewhere equally as fabulous, but I have something even better in mind: Portland, Oregon. Ever since my family went there on vacation, I’ve had somewhat of a secret obsession with that beautiful, emerald city. Just kidding. Would I really have such a pretentious destination? I’m going to Portland because they have the cheapest bus rates.

     Meadows, Nevada is a desert wasteland that borders Las Vegas and its famous strip of casinos. The trees are all either fake or imported, foreign people who can’t afford the steep Vegas hotel rates get wasted on street corners, and whenever an elusive rain does shower down, there are hundreds of car wrecks because desert people cannot drive on damp pavement. Its an accepted fact that desert people are all crazy because of the intense heat we have to bear in the summer, but most of the people in Meadows are just messed up, including yours truly.

     You wouldn’t guess it from the emotional sludge you’ve just read, but I’m considered pretty popular at my middle school, St. Meadows (Which, if your wondering, is named after the made-up patron of our city, but my guess is you don’t care). The only reason they like me is because I’m vaguely attractive and people find me funny for some reason I can’t comprehend. I’m not really close friends with anyone, though, because I don’t really see myself fitting in with those people. They like to pretend they’re high schoolers with moderate drinking problems, I don’t. It’s as simple as that. Basically, it’s my own fault that I’m so distant from any other people my age, but being alone is a better alternative to stunting my growth with stolen prescription drugs, so I mostly avoid the immaturity of my peers. My only real friend is my aforementioned sister, Megan, but sometimes she drives me up the wall, too. I would bring her along on my little detour, but I think she may squeal to the parents if I do.

     I’m only bringing a backpack with me. It has all the essentials that make up my world: my sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, two shirts, my diary, my phone and earphones, a copy of Jane Eyre, an umbrella, my camera, and my stolen cash. I should be all set.

     I quickly look into my sister’s room, making sure she’s occupied enough to ignore the squeaky opening of my window. I’m met with the awful wailing of Megan and her friend attempting to sing along to the radio, so I’m guessing I’m good. I run back into my room, and open my window. I cringe as the frame makes noises similar to that of a pig being slaughtered, and sigh in relief when Megan doesn’t come running.

     A few years back, my parents bought me a fire escape ladder that I could use to get out of the house in an emergency. I grab it from where it is stashed behind my dresser, and latch it to my window frame. The flimsy string of rope sways in the breeze, and a wave of nausea washes over me as I imagine falling two stories onto the ground. I quickly swallow my doubts and convince myself that the ladder is safe, even though my parents got it online. I make a mental note to sue eBay if I do end up falling to my death.

     Before I go, I should probably leave a note. I mean, that’s what they do in the movies. I pick up a pad of sticky notes from my desk and scribble a message for my family. “Don’t worry, I haven’t been kidnapped. I just need a break for a while. I’ll be back later. Don’t miss me too much. -H”. Sticking the note on the open window, I grab my bag and crawl down my escape ladder (without falling!!). When my feet hit the concrete, I felt suddenly lighter with the knowledge that I wasn’t going to have to go to court over that dumb ladder. I wasn’t yet out of my neighborhood, but I already felt free.

Passage from a note found in Locker #29 of St. Meadow Middle School

“To Hope: we graduate soon, and that means I won’t get to see you every day anymore. I wish there was a way for me to stop time so that I could stay with you here, in St. M’s. You’ll never get this note, but I still want you to know that you are meant to do amazing things. Don’t forget me. Love, Daniel”

Part 2: Daniel

     I walk out of my neighborhood and down the street for a while. According to my phone, the nearest bus station is only two miles away on foot, so it won’t take me too long to get there. I wonder if my parents are home, and if they’ve noticed I’m missing. They probably haven’t. I reach into my backpack and pull out my earphones. I turn on some music, then start running along the pavement. I want to be in Portland as soon as possible, so I’m trying to make the four o’ clock bus.

     Let me just say, Converse high tops are not exactly the ideal running shoes. My feet have already started to cramp a bit, but I just have to keep pushing forward. I stay with the beat of the music, then soon forgot about the pain in my feet altogether. Time seems to stop for a minute. The sooty clouds freeze in the sky, and the hot air hangs like a veil around my face. I blink and suddenly I’m at the bus stop. Maybe joining the cross country team wasn’t such a bad decision after all.

      I check my phone clock. Five minutes early! Breathing heavily, I walk quickly up to the kiosk to purchase my ticket to Portland. I did my research ahead of time, so I pull out $89 and hand it to the greasy cashier. He takes my mom’s stolen money, and gives me a crumpled bus ticket in return. I could hardly contain my excitement upon receiving that ticket. Walking away from the kiosk, I did a little happy dance. Going on this adventure is something that Daniel would have loved to see me do.

     Thinking about him still hurts me. Before we’d graduated from St. Meadows, he and I had been best friends. Our lockers, #28 and #29, were right next to each other, and I sat by him in every class. I’m young, but I think I loved him. Obviously, he only thought of me as his best friend, so I never let him know my true feelings. I mean, you’ve seen every movie made in the nineties. Yeah, the budding romance of two pubescent fourteen year olds is definitely the stuff of dreams.

      But honestly, I don’t even really know how to describe what I felt when I graduated, knowing I’d never see him again after he went to boarding school. I mean, he was my best friend. Most of my crappy poems are about him, and I always remember his quirks when I see the pictures I took of him.

     As I wait for the bus, I pull out my copy of Jane Eyre. Pictures are stuffed into every other page, and I flip through them until I find the one I‘m looking for. Daniel’s green eyes and laughing smile stare back at me. One of his thin arms was draped around my shoulders, and the other held up the camera. We both looked so happy.

     I was startled out of my reverie by the hissing sound of the bus. It’s plexiglass doors gaped open like a mouth, and suddenly, twangs of fear ran through my heart. I had always been such a rule follower. Who did I think I was, running away from home like this? I glance back down at myself and Daniel in the flat plane of the picture, and tell myself that this trip is going to be amazing. This is my chance to finally change my life!

I stuff the photo back into my backpack and dash into the bus as the doors are closing. The bus is almost completely empty, except for a woman in a business suit and a boy who looks around my age, maybe a few years older. Looking around, I decide to sit towards the back, nearest to the boy. I move confidently, hoping no one notices the trembling in my steps. Suddenly exhausted, I collapse into a seat and stare out the window.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART THREE: THE POETRY BOOK