Everything is grey.
March is always foggy in Seattle, and today the clouds cling to the earth, creating a world of blurred lines. A girl trudges down the sidewalk with headphones in her ears and a black Ballard High Cheerleading sweatshirt in her arms. The journey comes to a stuttering stop near a telephone pole plastered in faded neon advertisements fighting for attention. A yellow paper with clear black letters screams “Pregnant? We can help!” before giving way to an ambiguous grey mess. The girl stared, fingered the cross at her neck, paused, and hurriedly stuffed the paper in her pocket.
The 1999 Nissan ground to a halt in the school parking lot. The boy looked around and thanked whatever was listening that he didn’t have to walk any further than the door in this gloomy fog. Once in the hallway, he was invisible. The black and white tile lines on the floor match the black bracelets covering white lines on his wrist. She told him lines didn’t matter that night, but there was a clear one between them now.
Not a glance. She walks away, a faded yellow piece of paper sticking out of her pocket.
I lived to 20!