Something more

Stories have a funny way of taking on a life of their own. There comes a point where the writer is captive to what needs to be written. The task is never easy and the writer is never satisfied. Such is the case with my creative nonfiction piece. I started pulling a thread and before I knew it, I was unraveling a sweater. The piece has become a little too large to post, I think, so we'll see what I decide to do with the finished work when it gets there, if it ever does. Tonight I'd like to post the first paragraphs, with an open invitation to constructive criticism.

The student government roped off Main Street for the Homecoming dance that year. They strung white lights from the saplings that lined the streets. And from the lights, they hung white Chinese lanterns. In the September evening, the lighting was a beautiful sight. The dance had been long anticipated, heightened by the gossip and drama that come with all high school dances. Practically everyone was going, myself included. I don’t know why then, I was surprised to see Frankie there too.

Frankie wasn’t his real name. How strange and sad I can’t recall his name. In my mind he was always Frankie. I had to correct this idea every time I had a conversation with him, which wasn’t often, and now I’ve forgotten entirely. I’ll likely never have another conversation with him again. He was just another student, another face in a class of over four hundred.

Frankie-- if it is alright that I refer to him as such-- was not like the rest of us. Everything about him was crooked: his stance was slanted, his smile lopsided, and his gaze cockeyed. The baggy clothes he wore hung awkwardly on his wiry body, never fitting just right. His mannerisms were peculiar, alienating him from the mainstream crowd. He didn’t say much-- or maybe I just wasn’t listening.

And there he was at Homecoming. He stood the side, alone. Frankie had on a pinstriped suit, a good looking suit, but it was just a size too big and hung askew on his thin shoulders. He wore a Fedora, like one the Rat Pack might have worn. It was a classy hat, that be sure. In his hand he clutched a gorgeous red rose, a perfect, gorgeous red rose.