I trudged over to The Bobcat at the 50-yard line. Time to practice my glockenspiel, also called the “bells” or a “metal xylophone,” and brake drum, literally a car brake, for Burley’s marching band show, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I ground my teeth as I picked up my mallets, snapped at anyone who dared cross my path, and scowled at my heather-gray shoes, now covered in fake grass and small pellets of rubber bandbands kids callcalled turf turds. As another unfortunate soul walked up, I prepared to snap with all my 16-year-old might, but smiled a smile that makes everyone else grimace in fear and run for the hills. It was my good friend, Matthew.
“What’s the matter,” he asked. His eyes clouded over with concern filling his russet coloredrusset-colored eyes tinted with honey gold streaks.
“Nothing,” I said quietly, trying to hide in my favorite lifeguard sweater.
“What’s actually going on?” he said, still prying.
“Nothing,” I said again, putting on my fake smile (the one that makes most people run away in terror, crying for their mummy).
He raised an eyebrow and simply stated, “I don’t believe you,” with a sassy grin on his face, scrunching his features. He stared at me, his lip jutting out ever so slightly, until I started to speak. I playfully stuck my tongue out at him, and proceeded in tellingto tell him I wasn’t okay.
“Fine, you caught me. I feel terrible,” I said in a quiet voice.
“I told you so,” he said, still with his usual sassy smile bunching his face and making his eyes look like fresh almonds dipped in nectar.