I finished my final year of high school in New York. More specifically in a small, depressingly rural, probably inbred town in New York. My extra brother was an Indian kid and was treated to all the racism with none of the interesting history of African Americans because that is what the town had to work with. I had the privilege of receiving “pre-counseling” because I was goth and had tarot cards taped to my locker and some sorry excuses for parents let their children PAD LOCK THEIR ROOMS to hide the GUN COLLECTION and said kids shot up some of Colorado. I told them that I would never be so unimaginative as to copy cat and would spend my time coming up with better ideas. This was either A: Me being a teenage prat, or B: Me still being a teenage prat wanting to get back at the world for my not living in Japan with my friends anymore.
My mother loved it when the school called. Also, Mom: I am so sorry.
*Extra brother is known as extra brother because he was best mates with the Fox and would constantly be over at our house playing Magic: the Gathering, D&D, horsing about in the pool, or just participating in the family LAN parties. Said parties consisted of Unreal Tournament and my father being fragged repeatedly by the Fox and I. Head shot! Respawn. Head shot! Respawn. Head Shot! “GOD DAMMIT, STOP IT!”
The one thing I remember mostly about the actual kids I went to school with was this one boy who showed up occasionally and looked stranger than I and the two other goth kids who refused to speak to me did (to be fair, we were different goth flavours and at that age, it did seem to matter.). He was Nordic fair and possibly an actual albino individual, which would make him the only one I have met in person. He always wore shades and mostly wore kilts to school. He refused to speak in class and read copiously from novels he hid in his textbooks. I was SMITTEN.
I pictured making him mine every time he actually showed up for class. Had the school work been hard, mine would have taken a considerable nose-dive, but it was half way through seniour year and everyone (including the teachers) had given up. I pictured hordes of vampire like babies, bathed every day in oceans of sunscreen, and never being teased for not having a tanning salon membership by a boy ever again. I pictured a lovely flat with curtains perpetually closed and dark fabrics gracing every surface–every school girl’s vampy fantasy come to life. Looking back on it, it was a cross between whorehouse chic and basement apartment, but then it was magical. Home sewn clothes made from patterns in the “Costume” section of the Butterick catalog would grace our backs and I would be a stay at home wife and mother who would spend her days reading and practicing her make up and spell work.
I have grown up and have my own man who is of Nordic descent but is MAD furry with a sandy blond mane and two babies (furry). Only one of us religiously wears sunscreen and throw blankets to catch doggy footprints have replaced the velvet couches of my dreams. Lack of light worsens my depression, so the blonde wood blinds are mostly open in my home. Sacco refuses to even THINK about wearing a kilt, even though Dad and the Fox ROCKED theirs at our wedding and were quite manly indeed. My religion has progressed to a comfy point that does not involve daily spells read religiously out of books penned by Adjective Animal Noun Adjective Name.
Every once and a while I catch a glimpse of a blonde, blonde, BLONDE man and wonder: what if? However, I am sure the memories I have of the great love affair that never was are far better than anything that could have come out of it happening. Odds are just as great that the gent was a small minded prick who exsanguinated small animals for fun as they are that he was actually worth a “hello” and some sharing of DNA.