I remember thinking that Juliet Wolf was, by far, the coolest person on the planet. She swore like a grownup, not like the rest of us who tried it on for size, overdoing it or stammer-blushing-stopping because we just weren’t ready. Not Juliet.

She did awesome impersonations of her mother. I knew this even though I’d never met her mother, because clearly other people we rode that bus with had, and knew Juliet was spot on. She was self-aware, self-conscience but confident at the same time, loved Sting, was sarcastic and honest.

I wanted to be Juliet more than anything.

I remember being on the bus and talking to Juliet about Italy. I was surprised she was going… it was a Chorus trip. I’d heard Juliet sing.

Lying across the last seat of the bus, feet out the window, head hanging into the aisle she bitched about the dress code while keeping her cigarette hidden from George, our bus driver. I never could understand how she smoked in that position.

We’d been told of the expectations for dress; and that jeans were verboten. To not even pack them. Juliet was thoroughly pissed off and began plotting her revenge on Brother.

She plotted her revenge in that weird way she had; you never knew if you were a part of the conversation or if she was speaking only to herself. I’d experienced this enough times to know the potential outcomes… you had to do your risk-assessment quickly. She’d either snap that you had no business listening to her (it’s hard to ignore a school-uniformed barefoot girl smoking upside down), or bring you in and make you feel like you were on her level. But you had to be quick… otherwise she’d call you slow, stupid, snap her fingers in your face.

Juliet quickly tired of plotting revenge, stubbed out her cigarette on the bottom of the seat then tossed it out the window. I was amazed she didn’t set her hair on fire or burn her leg-foot-ankle-thigh-knee-God-forbid-it-ricochet-and-land-you-know-where. Suddenly she was sitting up, flipping through her bag, “You want to go to the mall Thursday?” She couldn’t be asking me.

“NAAAAAAAN-CEEEEEEE…” she bellowed. She was asking me. More than that: she’d just publicly invited me to the mall. Thursday. After night practice. I was going to the mall with Juliet (who was seventeen and had her license). Of course I said yes.

What I didn’t like was that she said she thought he had followed us in from the parking lot. I didn’t like that at all. It was completely ruining my after school special experience of being at the mall with the cool older girl. After some more shopping, though, he wasn’t in sight. We relaxed, started laughing again and finally decided it was time to get home.

**********

“Why won’t it start?” Juliet asked after the third time she turned the key. “Why won’t it fucking start?!” the fifth time.

We froze at the same moment, knowing we saw the reason.

He pounded on the hood with gloved fists. While I couldn’t understand the words he screamed, I understood that he was angry. And violent. He pounded on the hood, punched the windows, grabbed the back bumper - shaking the car. Around and around… over and over.

Neither of us spoke.

Barely able to breathe I grasped onto hope in the form of an intermittent flash on the side of the mall; the security truck making its rounds counter-clockwise around the mall. As the truck approached he would roll under the car next to ours. Security would leave; the madness return.

We were a shaking, terrified mess. He’d circled the car for nearly an hour: a pounding-screaming-spitting mess. I was convinced I was going to die. Right there in the Walt Whitman Mall parking lot.

The plan was to wait until security came close again, then throw open our doors and run screaming toward the mall.

I didn’t want to do it.

The guards calmed us down and called our parents, who arrived twenty minutes later. We spoke with the police, who finally caught him. Apparently they’d been trying to catch him – he’d done this before, but never to this extreme.

The School Board consolidated transportation of non-public school students. While responsible for those students, there were different rules; no limitations on how long students could sit on the bus. The mornings weren’t bad, as the two schools had similar start times, but the afternoon was hell for the Reese School students. After being picked up from their elite, rigorous school, toting books containing hours of homework, they would sit at Desmond for close to an hour. Juliet and Nancy were the last stops, often getting home from Reese nearly two hours after leaving. It was only a twenty minute drive.

Lying on her seat, head hanging into the aisle, feet out the window, Juliet smoked a cigarette while sitting at Desmond. No one could tell to whom she was speaking, but she mentioned the upcoming chorus trip. Nancy decided to take the chance, “You’re going on the trip?” It was a chorus trip; Nancy had heard Juliet sing. In one fluid movement Juliet pulled in her feet, pivoted on her ass and flicked her cigarette out the window. It was amazing she didn’t screw this move up… it didn’t appear humanly possible to the rest of the world. “Yeah… you?”

Juliet complained about the dress code incessantly for five minutes. Jeans forbidden? She understood the whole ambassadorship thing, but wouldn’t it be a more accurate representation of America to wear jeans? What could be more American than jeans?

Upon boring of the subject Juliet immediately stopped speaking and began rifling through her bag. No one, not Nancy, not Natalia, the resident bitch, nor anyone else knew how to transition into new conversation. Juliet appeared to find the desired object and promptly tossed the golden ticket at Nancy, “You want to go to the mall with me Thursday after Night Practice?”

The scene… auditorium dark, uniformed students polished and shiny, vocals perfect. When the final note of the last song was broken off, students quickly packed and began to head out facing the many hours of study that remained. At 2:15 classes ended; students headed to clubs, sports, home. Night Practice began promptly at 5:30 after a dinner break. Tonight, Juliet and Nancy changed quickly and then walked to Juliet’s car. The younger girl caught herself smiling when she heard Juliet say, “Yeah, Nancy and I are going to the mall to shop for the trip.” They got into her car.

After the quick drive to the mall, the two were immersed in shopping. Corduroys were also on the “no way” list, so khakis in a variety of colors it was. The conversation was nonstop, until Nancy noticed a man appearing outside of every store, “He’s a little creepy,”

“I think he followed us in from the parking lot…”

“You what?!”

“I didn’t want to say anything; didn’t want to freak you out,”

“Too late,” Nancy rolled her eyes.

Half an hour later they noticed he wasn’t around anymore; chalked it up to a coincidence and headed back to the car.

Juzch-juzch-juzch… “Shit,” Juliet muttered as the car refused to engage, “Why won’t it start?” Juzch-juzch-juzch… The fifth time, Juliet yelled, “Why the fuck won’t it start?!”

The impact scared them; looking up, fear oozed into the car. He had pounded both fists into the hood. Slowly, he raised both fists and did it again, at the same time letting out an animalistic howl.

He started a circle around the car, first on the passengers side, where he side-punched Nancy’s window, “Fuck you!” he belted out. He circled the car, grabbing the bumper and shaking, pounding windows, screaming all the while.

Nearly an hour of terror passed. The man kept up the circling except when the security truck reached them on their circuit. Then he would roll under the car next to them, hiding.

It was Juliet’s idea to run.

They’d wait for him to roll, then throw open the doors and run screaming toward the mall, not looking back until they were safely inside.

The plan went off without a hitch and inside the girls were met by a security guard who called both their parents, and the police.

After giving statements and being checked out, the girls were released.

“God I hate having to sit at the fucking school for so long every day. And it’s even more annoying because Juliet insists on being so nice to that fucking redcoat,” Natalia whined as she quickly buttoned her uniform shirt back up properly and smoothed here skirt.

“Explain to me again how this works?”

“The school district where I live doesn’t want to spend more money on transportation,” she stopped quickly to grab him and kiss him once more, making sure she left him wanting more, “so we share a bus with three schools… ours, the retard school, and Desmond.”

“George, seriously, come on! Let me on!”

“Natalia, you know the deal, you can’t come on the bus unless you get on at school,” George reminded her, “I can’t let you on.”

“George, come ON!”

“Fine, but next time cut your last class to make out with your boyfriend,” he said looking at the telltale missed button on her uniform shirt.” She huffed her way past him onto the bus where Juliet was laying on her back, feet out the window, having a cigarette. She rolled her eyes as Nancy vacated her seat, sat, then pulled out her French text.

“Welcome back, Princess… have a nice walk?” Juliet shot at Natalia, who was appeared flustered by George’s bluntness.

“You know how it is, Juliet, somet—“

“No, I don’t. Anyway,” Juliet stopped Natalia and turned back to Nancy, “It’s stupid that we can’t wear jeans.”

“You know,” Natalia tried to wiggle back into the conversation, “Jeans really aren’t in right now. According to –“

“Shut the fuck up, Natalia, no one cares what your mom’s personal shopper thinks,”

Natalia shut the fuck up.

“Thursday night after night practice?”

Natalia eavesdropped while faking interest in French. Why wouldn’t Juliet ask her?!

“Sure,”

“My mom wanted me to drive Thursday, anyway… then she won’t have to drive out here so late.”

Natalia spotted another in, “an you drive me in that morning?”

“Nope -- picking up Kit and Ryan. They can’t stand you.”

Natalia turned back to her French text, waiting a few minutes then asking, without looking up, “Nancy, what’s up with you and Kevin?”

“nothingreallynotanythingbig,” do not fall for this, do not fall for this, do not fall for… Nancy repeated to herself.

“Oooooooh… because I saw him –“

“—Shut the fuck up, Natalia,” Juliet stopped whatever was brewing.

“Ready?” Juliet appeared next to Nancy in the hallway after practice.

“Yup, let’s go,”

“’Kay... I’m in the back lot,” it was a quick drive to the mall; fewer than five minutes. “I guess it’s going to be a rainbow of khaki for me,” Juliet pointed out as they shopped.

“I’m thinking about black pants from Banana… with a fitted denim top,”

“Good luck with the denim,” joked Juliet.

“That guy is kind of creepy,” Nancy pointed out a man who seemed to be outside each store they visited.

“Yeah, I think he followed us in from outside,”

“You what?!”

(25 minutes later)
“I haven’t seen that guy in a while… so weird,”

“Yeah, I guess he found someone else to creep out,”

“Whaddaya think? Done?”

“Yeah, I think I have enough…”

The girls walked to the car, buckled their seatbelts and then sat in silence as Juliet unwrapped a tape they had purchased.

“I can’t believe we bought this, well, maybe I can…” Nancy laughed.

“It’s Ah-ha! We’ve got to listen to it! And you can’t beat a dollar tape,”

The intro to “Take On Me” began, the girls dancing in their seats. The revelry was interrupted suddenly.

--BOOM--

“Ohshit, ohsit, ohshit…” Juliet started rocking in her seat.

“Fuuuuuuuck yooooooooooou!” he screamed while beating on the hood of the car.

“fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,”

“Juliet, what the hell are we going to do?!”

“Shit, stay calm… we need to stay calm,” Juliet reasoned, something out of a Lifetime movie, “Okay, he keeps hiding when security comes, next time that happens you throw open the door and fucking run!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nancy, you throw open that door and you run toward the mall, make a fuckload of noise and don’t look back. We’ll be fine.”

“GO!”

They ran, screaming.

1988... somewhere in the Midwest. A kitchen. Summer. A woman stands at the sink rinsing breakfast dishes. Glancing through the window she sees her four-year-old, Kate, playing with her 2-year-old, Sam. The children run through the backyard maze of sheets-hanging-from-clotheslines, laughing and enjoying themselves.

Smiling, despite the fact that her husband still hasn't returned home from the night before, she places the last dish in the dishrack; it glistens in the ray of sunlight pouring through the window.

Smoothing her hair, she goes outside to enjoy a few hours playing with her children. She'll be angry about her husband later.

The door slams. Husband enters. His smell of stale cigarette smoke and wrinkled clothes familiar to his wife, “Hey, hon… I know, I know…” he starts the conversation without her, “Let me shower quickly, then I’ll join up with you, Kate and Sammi… we can talk about this later. Had a great jam session; had to stay and network,”

“No,” his wife says while gathering up a tray with some fruit, lemonade and crackers for her playing children. She figures she’ll give them a snack for lunch and an early supper –- she doesn’t like for them to see the fighting.

“No?”

“No. I am going to go outside and play with the kids. When I get back I want you gone. I’m done with this.”

“Honey, come on,”

"No! I have told you time and time again… you’re a man, a father, and you need to start taking these responsibilities more seriously. Disappearing for a night, hanging out at the club, it’s irresponsible and sends a terrible message,”

“It’s the business!”

“You’re a PLUM-BER! A PLUMBER! You’re not a musician. It’s something you do on the side, a hobby. It can’t take precedence over your family and your real job!”

“Honey, calm down!”

“I will NOT calm down! I’m done. Finished! Pack your bags and get out. Follow your dream. I’m sick of being the neighborhood fool!”

He’d never seen her so angry. Trudging up the stairs like a sulky child sent to his room, he looked at the framed photographs on the wall. The anger rose; hot bile in his throat. Resentment for this mundane life, these prison-like choices.

In a moment of pure id-driven emotion he decided. He packed his bags, called a taxi, rode to the bus station. Without thinking he bought his ticket to New York.

His seat was torn with a big stain, but near the window, he sat scowling; it kept people away. He hated how cold busses were; the smell of recycled, air-conditioned air. But today it was all worth it – he was going to show her.

Hours later he woke and stretched-yawned-cracked-every-joint-he-could-and-some-he’d-thought-he-couldn’t-rubbed-his-eyes to the lights of New York’s Port Authority. He’d brought the numbers of a few friends and would call them once he got settled in a hotel. He’d take the first day to sleep off his trip, check out the city – do all the New York things he’d never done.

1992. New York City. A cracked-alley-pavement-bed somewhere in midtown. The air smells: nut vendors and city juice. He sits, eyes clouded, hood extended over his head, shadowing a face chiseled by the harshness of life.

It didn’t work out as he’d planned. He’d come to New York to show his wife; to make it big… to capture his dream. A few years of playing led to nothing. No connections. No network. No steady gig.

He’d lost track of time and memory. He’d started losing track of his memories, his sense of time. Two things controlled him now: hunger and anger.

Anger coursed through his veins raising his temperature. Where was his life? What had happened to his dream? He thought about his girls, Kate and Sammi and wondered how old they were now, what they looked like. He hated the people who visited the mall he called home now. Hated their fancy cars and clothes. Hated that they won’t home to family and warmth. Clean beds and hot dinners.

The girls were too happy, had it too well. Watching them made his heart swell with hatred. They had no idea what it was like to live in the real world.

Jenny, Lisa, Claire and I all did the same March 100 words… a watered down version of the exercise “Explode a moment”.

My favorite week is a tie between 1 and 3. Both allowed me to work on aspects of my writing that need improvement: character and dialogue. The character of Juliet was strong from the start, love the way she comes across. Week 1 I focused on that. Week 3 I threw in Natalia so that I could have another strong presence (I couldn’t focus on myself… not sure how I’d characterize myself) with whom there could be dialogue.

Week 4 was challenging. I had the idea come to me when I sat down to write Sunday; the issue was getting it to come together. In the earlier weeks it felt like I had to be incredibly strict about sticking to a timeline in order to get to the action soon enough. In week four I had to fill in so many gaps and I feel like the week ended too soon and I hadn’t enough days to write. However, upon reflection, people will read the climax three times prior to week four, so maybe they’ll welcome the difference?

I think there are some things in these twenty-eight hundred words that could be used in later stories; bits of description and dialogue that will find their ways into future prose. A good month indeed, although in my “Writing Outside of 100 Words” I failed miserably. I didn’t write every day. I don’t even think I wrote once a week. I did some stuff for Creostilus and one exercise from my book of matches. So a goal for April is to write four days/week so that I can start getting into better habits. To strive for seven is to fail.