I've added more to the Melodie Winters story. It's untitled, but for now it's saved as winters.rtf on my computer.
“Thanks Mom. I'll be home by eleven.” Exit well-adjusted daughter to her bedroom.
I open my bedroom door, pausing to note that I should change the "Do not enter or else" sign on my door to something a little more creative. I marvel at the organized chaos that I lovingly accept as my living space. My room's not messy you see, it's just not clean. Viewed by an outsider the clothes strewn across the haphazard stacks of paper, books, notebooks and more clothes is what constitutes a danger zone. Something akin to the debris left in the wake of a tornado. But it's not, really. I've used many excuses to get out of cleaning my room. Feigned illness is a good one, a classic actually. "If it ain't broke don't fix it." I read that somewhere. Feigned illness was great until my Dad realized that I was getting "sick" everytime I was told to clean my room. He took me to the Doctor's office for a check-up and full physical as payback. That was the official breaking point of the feigned illness excuse. My new favorite: hide everything. It works so well. I go in with a whole box of trash bags and pull out two. Into one I put actual trash, stuff that missed the trash can because it's been full since the last time I "cleaned". Into the other bag goes everything else. Once that's full I tie it up and hide it somewhere, and then start a new bag. Then I continue filling and hiding bags until there's no where to hide them. Use the words "work in progress" and throw in a few "I like it so much better like this" type statements and I don't get bothered again until dirty laundry starts trying to crawl under the door. But like I said, my room's not a dangeer zone. It's just not perfectly clean like Melodie's. And oh, how I have heard about the cleanliness of Melodie's room. "Melodie keeps her room clean, get's straight A's and plays sports. Why can't you do the same?" My mother asks frequently. Well, because I'm not Melodie. My Mom blames my "horrid lack of cleanliness," as she says, on laziness. I'm not lazy. Keeping my room less than tidy is a strategic move on my part. If my family is afraid that the contents of my room could eat a person whole then they'll never feel the need to come in here. It also makes it easier to hide my diary from my parents...and myself. It's not lost, I'm hiding it.
I have a plan for this packing thing. Step one: Put all clothes (and other washable objects) in the laundry. Step two: Pack everything else before laundry is finished. Step three: Pack laundry.
I quickly put my plan into action by hauling loads of dirty laundry into the laundry room. With every load I bring I deny myslef the pleasure of starting with step two just for the sake of being different.
With all the clothing that had been in sight now clogging up the overly small laundry room I start sorting out books, notebooks, loose paper and CDs from my belongings.
The boxes that have been in the garage since the invention of cardboard suddenly become very useful and I am able to fill one with the stuff I had sorted out. I leave the box open in another display of winning strategy. I'll add more as I fill boxes with other things.
After two and a half hours of using my packing method all that I have left in my room are the scattered items that didn't fit in with the things I'd packed away in the other boxes., and the big things like my bed, bureau and computer (with desk and chair). I'll get my Mom and Dad to help me take those apart closer to when we're moving.
I sit on the corner of my bed and survey the product of my labor with disdain. It no longer looks or feels like my room. The posters and other assorted pieces of art that had adorned my walls had gone into a box as soon as I'd cleared enough stuff on my floor to be able to reach my walls. This is not my personalized living space anymore. Now it's just a room that I'll be sleeping in and that would make me sad if I were a drama queen like Melodie. But I'm not, so I deal and move on. I remember packing up and leaving California. Melodie complains, but I loved it there too, ans I also had to move away. It's not all about her after all.
I pick up my phone with the hopes that the time I spent packing was long enough for Melodie to call every person she's ever met or talked to and complain about the move to Maine. She's on the phone when I pick up and I quickly make up a story so that I can have the phone. I don't want to use my cell phone, when I can easily use the home phone.
"'Scuse me. Melodie, the cops are at the door. They want to talk to you about your driving." I hear Melodie gasp and excuse herself from the call, and then the line dies as her friend hangs up as well. I smile in satisfaction and give myself a mental pat on the back before hanging up and calling one of my friends.
My conversation is short as I invite Jules, and Lani who is hanging out with her, to see a movie with me.
I hang up the phone and at the exact moment I hear my name screamed from the living room. It's my sister.
I've only taken one step into the room before she starts her accusations: "You lied. The police aren't here to talk to me."
"Really?" I sound so innocent and sincere. Go me! "It must have been my imagination. I thought I saw the blue and red lights. Sorry to interrupt your call then. You can have the phone back." Turn, walk away calmly. Don't look back, and above all don't start laughing until the music is playing loud enough to cover it up.
She doesn't stop me and I am able to start up my CD player before breaking into hysterics. Messing with her is like teasing a kitten. She gets all mad and then never does anything about it.
That's all for now. A little over a thousand words (just like the first part).
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