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Tragedies Stranger Than Fiction - Chapter 1
"I think we are afraid of ourselves. . . .of seeing ourselves clearly and without disguise."
- Shirley Jackson
Coney Island, New York
September 2nd, 1996
11:30 a.m.
Someday, I'll write everything I see in my journal and turn it into a best-selling novel. I went through dark shit and saw the kind of things that would make you shudder every time you turned the page.
But then again, I'm no Toni Morrison. I doubt my story would get published in The New Yorker, let alone be recognized by my peers. Besides, even if people read my book, I can imagine the skepticism on their faces when they read the part about me dropping out of St. Hawthorne in the middle of the fall semester.
If you've never been to New York, St. Hawthorne is this fancy college where young witches, warlocks, or people with supernatural talents are trained to defend the world from predatory threats.
Every student is accepted here, regardless of race, gender, disability, class, or sexual orientation.
Though the school has courses ranging from Dark Arts to AP Greek Mythology, the students could watch shows like Hey Arnold! or All That in the breakroom, eat unbelievable food, and sign up for extracurriculars as long as they complete their assignments at the end of the day. However, if you're a broke nineteen-year-old with a shitload of student debt and rent, then you're forced to do things you hate.
Around ten thirty p.m., I roll my car window down and peer through the transparent glass of Sweet Mae's Diner. Inside, I notice all the booths are coated in this blood-red color.
Ceiling fans spin, but they rarely perform a perfect 360°. Cynical culinarians operate in the kitchen while depressed patrons abandon their red cushioned chairs and head outside.
My ears heighten as the luminous red jukebox plays songs by Janis Joplin, Emerson Brothers, and Patti Smith. As I sit in my green Volkswagen Beetle, savoring the creamy taste of my vanilla milkshake, I can't help but notice a handsome college student making his way into the diner.
The dark-haired boy stands out in his indigo-blue letterman's jacket, paired with a dark green flannel and an eye-catching orange Ringer tee. His Anchor Blue and his Converse sneakers are drenched in mud and water.
The guy is Jake Nesser, son of future District Attorney Eli Nesser. His mom, on the other hand, wanted no involvement in Jake or her husband's life. So, every once a week, she'd fly to Costa Rica to sunbathe, drink Piña Coladas, and flirt with every guy she saw.
At least, that's what I heard from my ex-college roommates.
Gazing out through the windshield, I observe the slender, blonde server placing two slices of pie in front of a young couple. Jake catches her gaze and playfully winks, flashing a charming grin.
My deep brown eyes widen with interest as I unbuckle my seatbelt and inspect the boy closely.
He's no older than twenty, or so I think. His green eyes can easily gyrate you into his orbit. Even though he has acne scars here and there, they're a bit tamer than mine. Brushing my greasy hands against my torn black pants, I grab my backpack from the floor, open the car door, and head to the retro diner, where I see Jake happily scrape his dessert off his plate with a fork.
An elderly server attempts to take his dish away, but when Jake washes his dessert with a glass of milk, he politely asks her if he could have another slice of pie.
The kind waitress smiles. She goes into the kitchen again to request cherry pie à la mode. I watch Jake's green eyes brighten. His fingers...
- Shirley Jackson
Coney Island, New York
September 2nd, 1996
11:30 a.m.
Someday, I'll write everything I see in my journal and turn it into a best-selling novel. I went through dark shit and saw the kind of things that would make you shudder every time you turned the page.
But then again, I'm no Toni Morrison. I doubt my story would get published in The New Yorker, let alone be recognized by my peers. Besides, even if people read my book, I can imagine the skepticism on their faces when they read the part about me dropping out of St. Hawthorne in the middle of the fall semester.
If you've never been to New York, St. Hawthorne is this fancy college where young witches, warlocks, or people with supernatural talents are trained to defend the world from predatory threats.
Every student is accepted here, regardless of race, gender, disability, class, or sexual orientation.
Though the school has courses ranging from Dark Arts to AP Greek Mythology, the students could watch shows like Hey Arnold! or All That in the breakroom, eat unbelievable food, and sign up for extracurriculars as long as they complete their assignments at the end of the day. However, if you're a broke nineteen-year-old with a shitload of student debt and rent, then you're forced to do things you hate.
Around ten thirty p.m., I roll my car window down and peer through the transparent glass of Sweet Mae's Diner. Inside, I notice all the booths are coated in this blood-red color.
Ceiling fans spin, but they rarely perform a perfect 360°. Cynical culinarians operate in the kitchen while depressed patrons abandon their red cushioned chairs and head outside.
My ears heighten as the luminous red jukebox plays songs by Janis Joplin, Emerson Brothers, and Patti Smith. As I sit in my green Volkswagen Beetle, savoring the creamy taste of my vanilla milkshake, I can't help but notice a handsome college student making his way into the diner.
The dark-haired boy stands out in his indigo-blue letterman's jacket, paired with a dark green flannel and an eye-catching orange Ringer tee. His Anchor Blue and his Converse sneakers are drenched in mud and water.
The guy is Jake Nesser, son of future District Attorney Eli Nesser. His mom, on the other hand, wanted no involvement in Jake or her husband's life. So, every once a week, she'd fly to Costa Rica to sunbathe, drink Piña Coladas, and flirt with every guy she saw.
At least, that's what I heard from my ex-college roommates.
Gazing out through the windshield, I observe the slender, blonde server placing two slices of pie in front of a young couple. Jake catches her gaze and playfully winks, flashing a charming grin.
My deep brown eyes widen with interest as I unbuckle my seatbelt and inspect the boy closely.
He's no older than twenty, or so I think. His green eyes can easily gyrate you into his orbit. Even though he has acne scars here and there, they're a bit tamer than mine. Brushing my greasy hands against my torn black pants, I grab my backpack from the floor, open the car door, and head to the retro diner, where I see Jake happily scrape his dessert off his plate with a fork.
An elderly server attempts to take his dish away, but when Jake washes his dessert with a glass of milk, he politely asks her if he could have another slice of pie.
The kind waitress smiles. She goes into the kitchen again to request cherry pie à la mode. I watch Jake's green eyes brighten. His fingers...
