Board Thread:Clubs/@comment-44390494-20200109205641/@comment-43957690-20200208183121

Hey guys I wanted to know what you think of this. I posted the syopsis a while back, i think only one person read it. I'd like helpfull tips and criticism, please!

Chap.1: Dreamers and Doers

Mark

My Dad is always telling me that there are two types of people: the Dreamers, and the Doers. His opinion on the matter: “Screw the Dreamers.”

Always blaming things on the dreamers. God, if the mail comes late, it’s the Dreamers’ fault. I’d pretend not to understand his obsession, but it’s easy to see where he’s coming from when the trash man misses our street and I have to clean up the raccoon damage.

Maybe it’s all just a bunch of old people junk. Sayings that don’t really mean anything.

The point is: if my dad hadn’t been so viciously against Dreamers, I might not have been stuck working my summer away at Marty’s 24 hour diner.

“Don’t be a Dreamer.” He’d said. “Be a Doer. Do your part, work hard, contribute to society.”

After three oil spills in the kitchen, an old lady who’d insisted on letting her miniature Pom Pom use the sink in the bathroom as a urinal, and waiting on a few beefy guys I was certain were part of a biker gang, I’d rather be a Dreamer.

Sorry, dad.

The bell at the bar rang, and not just once, like the polite people do. Incessantly. I guess I should be thankful that there’s some way to warn me I’m about to deal with living hell. Thanks, bell.

“Hey! Hey Mark!” the bell keeps dinging.

I don’t bother to look up from where I’ve been organizing the menus. I know it’s Hector. “For the last time, you don’t get free stuff just because you know me.”

Which doesn’t surprise me, because this place is infamously cheap.

“C’mon, Landmark!”

There’s the nickname-and it’s not because I’m a sinch in geography (which I am). It’s because I happen to be the tallest person in Eleventh grade. Six foot two. Believe me, it’s not as great as it sounds. You know what would be great? If I had the muscle that’s supposed to come along with the height.

If that were the case, they’d call me Landmark when I made a slam dunk for Dennis Freeman High, instead of when I’m pelted with basketballs in dodge ball. What can I say? I’m an easy target. Anyways, I can’t seem to get past my natural 140 pounds, which Is pretty pathetic for a tall guy.

“The only free stuff you can get around here are the leftover crayon wrappers and fat from the grease traps.” I tell him.

Hector drums his fingers on the red countertops, not saying anything- just being there, and being annoyingly there.

“You know you’re loitering right?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re making me look bad.” I tell him, stacking the menus vertically in my hands and straightening them against the counter with a satisfying tharump.

“Aww, sorry buddy. Just trying to keep my best friend company!”

Hector is not my best friend. My best friend is Robert Dratting, who’s in summer school right now, and probably will be next year, and the year after. One of the comforts of this job is that I know that when my shift starts, from nine to noon me and Rob are miserable together at the same time. And after I’m done with my shift, I have nothing to do until two, when Rob is dismissed, so I’m STILL miserable.

It’s freaking magical, really.

Hector does his best to entertain me some days, but he can’t change the fact that he and I were probably arch nemeses in a past life, and awkward second cousins in another.

“Hey, you need some fun.” Hector tells me, leaning against the bar and throwing his head back, so his boy band hair tosses back.

I sigh. “I’d agree, but that would be illegal.”

“Huh?”

“Fun is for Dreamers.”

“Okay then. Be that way.” He propelled himself against the bar, pushing himself back onto his feet. “Talk in cryptic metaphors and act like an old person. What do I care?”

“You care because you have nothing else to do.” I say, sliding the menus into their cubby behind the bar.

He nodded. “Summer sucks.”

I would have disagreed- my summers used to be heartburn med add worthy: rolling green hills and biking to the pond, all of it passing in slow motion, our smiles pasted to our faces, Rob’s and mine.

And then I remembered that I’m stuffed in a Marty’s T-shirt with a drunk cartoon pancake on the front, taking orders from bad ladies and breathing fryer oil fumes.

It had to suck for Hector, too. No soccer team meets, or games with everyone cheering his name, or pretty cheer leaders lining up outside the changing room to ‘Congratulate’ him on his seven goals.

Summer did suck.

Chap. 2: Dead Meat

Kelly

I hate my life.

That’s what I thought when I came home, and saw my dad in a bad mood. For other kids, this might have been the cue to go upstairs, and play video games, and forget about the whole situation…

That would have been nice.

An hour later, I am in my room. But I don’t get to be kicking butt with Nintendo. Actually, I’m fortunate enough to only need the wet rag for the bruises… no blood this time.

What’s a girl to do?

If it were still the school year, I might have told Maya and Wendy and Edith that I had an injury during one of my quote unquote soccer games. I’m not altogether sure if I do need a cover story now that school’s out. I barely see them anymore- all away at camp.

And they didn’t even think twice about leaving me here, alone. Well, not alone, which is worse.

God, I hate my life.

No escape, unfortunately. Except for checking the mail and taking painfully slow walks around the block, which I’ve been trying to do as much as I can. Anything to get out of the house.

I’d join clubs, or meet friends, but my dad has made one thing clear: “I’m not driving you anywhere once school’s out, Sarah. If you want to go someplace, get a ride, or walk.”

Get a ride. Psh. He knows full well that I don’t know anyone with a car. Uber? As if he’d let me borrow money. Get a job? Fifteen is too young around here.

I dab at a particularly tender spot on my upper back: I can already see a bruise forming. A nice purple-y lavender color that would have been pretty on a dress, or as an accent for my hair. The lights are out in my room, a tactic I’ve found usually helps him forget that I’m even here.

It also helps that I’m small for my age (or short, at least). Only 5 foot one. Maybe I’d be taller if I ate more. I don’t know.

Some days I wonder if I’ll ever snap, but I just wonder. I don’t contemplate, or at least I didn’t used to. It’s gotten worse lately, and sometimes I can’t remember the last time I felt like I loved him- or felt like he loved me.

Jesus Christ, I hate my life.

I need to leave-just for a little bit.

That’s what I’m telling myself for now, and that’s what I’ll tell myself right up until the last moment, when I get to escape, once and for all. But for now, I’m just going to be gone for a few minutes.

Just a few.

I put on an old shirt, a graphic Tee that my mom probably used to wear. That’s what I want to be in when I escape. When I die.

For a few minutes, I just stare at myself in the mirror on my closet door, wondering if I’m actually about to do this. The mirror’s got a nice layer of dust screening it, but I can still see myself through the tainted glass.

I might have been pretty if I smiled once in a while. My mom used to tell me that I could have been a princess. Dark raven hair, caramel skin, almond eyes… I see it now. Maybe I’m fantasizing. But I should be allowed to fantasize, right?

Okay. Time to go for a walk.

It's just the first couple chapters but i need want to know if it's good before i keep writing.