SO. Here is the month of August. Which is starting soonly. Next week, actually.

Let me tell you about it. For me.

That first wednesday? I fly to Long Beach. Get picked up by some friends I've had for over 10 years now. And spend the night in a hotel room in Anaheim.

That thursday?

DISNEYLAND! The land of my dreams. If I could, I'd have my wedding reception there. I'd just rage around in a white dress and do what I want. And little girls would see me as a princess for a day. Maybe they'll forget about the animated, unrealistic princesses of years past, and dream to be me.

Oh, and club 33. Going there. JOY!

Then, on that friday, one of my best friends is having her rehearsal dinner in Santa Monica. Only 3 of us left standing! Stand strong, ladies!

On the 6th, i go to that wedding.

Then, 3 days later, on the 9th, I fly to portland. YAY! Blackberries, blueberries and huckleberries OH MY!

On the 10th?

I cross my fingers.

I fly back to Utah the 17th, to go back to work.

On the 20th, I'm still crossing my fingers.

And on the 25th?

Oh, the places we'll go.

I'm going CRAZY!

I thought I had gone through most of my life without getting jaded by thing. Without having really "lasting effects" of things. Basically I thought I could go into any situation without worrying about "last time".

I was wrong

I'm trying so hard to convince myself that nothing good can come of this. That there is nothing to hope for. Or look forward to.

I just feel like I'm going crazy. I'm trying so hard to not think about him. But of course, then I do.

Relationships only end in 2 ways.

I'm ready to try method 2.

Things Change

Things Change

Leah Pettit

Period 3

Mr. Ellis

When I was seven years old, a new family moved in around the corner, They had 5 kids, whose names all started with K – Klara, number 3, was just my age. The following Sunday, I met Klara at church, and we were fast friends. We spent tons of time together. After all, it was summer, so every day and most nights we spent in each other’s company. We were exactly the same – rowdy, hyper girlie girls who only talked about the 6 handsome Benson boys who lived down the street.

Klara and I were troublemakers. We’d climb trees in other people’s yards, play in the mud in our new white socks just to make our moms mad, eat disgusting combinations of food such as a cookie, toothpaste, and ketchup sandwich, play in the sprinklers wearing her mom’s high heels and petticoats- you think of something random and crazy and we did it.

Klara and I wrote, directed, and starred in plays. We would come up with silly non-coherent plots and expect our parents and a few select others 75 cents to see them. We would act out ridiculous scenes and expect laughter and applause. We had so much  fun, even my older sister (who was “too cool”) got jealous and insisted on acting with us.

Our families mostly got along as well. All except for Keegan, Klara’s 14 year old brother. We’d lock him out of the house and raid his room, and when he’d finally catch us, he would drag us outside and mercilessly peg us with water balloons. The worst incident by far occurred was when I was about 9 years old. Klara and I locked Keegan out, and he shocked and scared us by gasp flipping us off. We let him back in the house out of terror, and he was so angry he carried us outside, a kicking and screaming 9-year old under each arm, and used cheap yellow rope to tie us to the splintery wooden poles that held the aluminum panel over her patio up. He left us there for 3 hours, until Klara’s sister Kelsey rescued us. Periodically during the 3 hours, he and his doofus friends would walk by, point, and laugh. I had rope burns for 3 days.

Klara and I had officially become one person. That is, until the day that Klara told me that her father, who was a sergeant in the United States Army, was being relocated to Oklahoma. I cried. So did she. Over the next month and a half, we cried alot. But the day finally came that Klara drove away, and her once busy, happy house was empty save for the memories we shared there. I was devastated.

But Klara and I wrote each other every other week. I felt so special, addressing a letter to “Edmond, OK”. In every way except for physical distance, we were closer than ever. But then she started moving on. And I hated her for it.

Four years of bi-weekly letters, and semi-annual phone calls. Then, in the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I found out she was coming to visit. I was ecstatic. Two whole weeks with Klara – what could be better? At the airport, I was so exited that I told my sister to drop me off at the wrong terminal – I ran halfway across LAX in sandals and a jean skirt.

When she came off the airplane, I looked right past her. She wasn’t the Klara I knew, but I eventually recognized the tan, freckly face, brown eyes and big smile of my best friend. She dropped her bags and hugged. She cried. We were together again.

But Klara was different. Or maybe the problem is that she wasn’t. She was still sloppy, naive, rude, obnoxious, and self-centered, but I had changed. I was hyper, yes, but I was now a neat freak, flirtatious, and entirely focused on school, swimming and my music. She still only talked about the 6 handsome Benson boys, and I had moved on to the high school boys I so eagerly flirted with. By the end of the two weeks, we couldn’t stand the sight of each other.

We drove to the airport, listening to the beatles very loud to avoid conversation, and right before she boarded her plane we hugged – for the last time. We exchanged a few half-hearted “I’ll miss you”s and said we’d write. We never did.

It’s three years later, and thinking about Klara still makes me want to smile and cry. We grew apart. That’s all. And now, the only thing to do is look back and remember picking honeysuckle, writing plays, a tearful goodbye, and a disappointing reunion.

Tease

Tease

Leah Pettit

Period 3

Mr. Ellis

It was a summer night – the kind that are so warm that a single touch can overheat every inch of your body. I was in a park, playing hide and go seek. I was wearing red dickies – the red that you would still be able to see even if you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. I was sweating – my parents though I was at my house in Newbury Park; they told me they trusted me.

The streetlamps were close – close enough to cast strange shadows around the jungle gym, where I was curled up at the top of a tube slide, my head resting on my knees. He hid at the bottom of my slide. We talked, casually, laughed, he told me my face looked orange next to my pants. We were alone. the person who was it was searching 500 yards away. I stood up in the shelter of a plastic tower. I remember how hot my mouth felt and how tight my muscles were. he started climbing up the slide. Seeing his arms flail and his white socks scramble with the effort he put into reaching me made me smile – it still makes me smile. he put so much effort in to getting to where I was.

he emerged from the slide, his knuckles turning white as he lugged his bulk up towards me. he was about 2 feet away. I suddenly had the urge to fan myself, but I stood still.

We stood near each other, talking, for probably 3 minutes, though I don’t remember a word we said. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, all I could feel was my boiling insides. The conversation died. he put his hand on my stomach – I could feel his sweat through the thin layer of white fabric stretched over me. My hands started sweating.

he got closer, closer, and just as I could feel his hot breath on my mouth, I turned my head, winked, smiled, bit my lip, and walked away.

Running out of Gas

Running Out of Gas

Leah Pettit

Period 2

Mr. Ellis

My headlights pierced through the otherwise pitch dark night... it was just my luck to be stranded in a stretch of road that was void of streetlamps. Like a racehorse that had run out of steam from being ridden for too long, my noble steed – my blue 1987 Toyota pickup – was quiet in defeat; it had run out of gas.

After dialing my house, and learning what triple-A was for, I did the only thing I could do: sat back, locked my doors, and turned up my radio. If there was anything threatening outside my car, I didn’t want to know about it. Simply knowing that I was within 15 feet of a ravine shrouded with mystery – or was it bushes?- was enough to keep me rooted to my seat.

A few pairs of lonely headlights passed; no one seemed to care much about the blue truck parked with its headlights on. Well, one person: a police officer. Yes, a car pulled up behind me, and when the driver’s side door opened my heart skipped a beat – what was this person planning on doing? It was only when I saw the uniform that I felt, for the first time in the presence of an officer, relief. I rolled down my window, and the kind officer shined a not-so-kind light in my face. After a few questions, a few unwanted tears, and a reassurance, Officer Dean offered to stay with me until either triple-A or my parents showed up. I accepted his offer, and settled in for what I thought was going to be a ten minute wait.

Half an hour later my parents showed up, in all of their pajama’d glory. Officer Dean left, with only one “you should be more careful”. A full hour later, a big greasy man with a big greasy truck pulled up beside my now dwarfish looking pickup. He said he worked for triple-A, so, against my better judgment, I opened my gas tank. Weren’t repair men supposed to be young, attractive, and look nice in white shirts, like in the movies? This man had yellowing fingernails and teeth, bad breath, and enough chest hair to satisfy all the rogaine users in the world. Despite my distrust, he did fill my gas tank with enough gas to get me to the nearest gas station, and with a toothy goodbye and a final glance at the neckline of my shirt, he and his “must-be-compensating-for-something” truck were gone. Following  a quick fuel-up and a lecture from my parents, I felt like I had run out of gas.

Prism

In response to D.H. Lawrence’s “Bavarian Gentians”:

Prism

So distracting

there’s rainbows everywhere

I am in my own palace

crystal floors reflect rainbows onto the crystal chandeliers

Mahogany furniture in a grand, golden hall

everything reflects color onto everything else

my eyes never focus

thousands of colors

blushing reds, sinful crimsons, fabulous fuscias, opulent oranges

yellows that blind me – make me squint

what thoughts those greens inspire!

sexy purples, calming lavenders, blues that bring serenity, peace

A chandelier with candles is the only light

besides the windows

windows of cut let crystal

windows viewing a kingdom unlike any on earth

A banister that is cool to the touch

stairs held up only by rainbows

a floor at the landing made of pure platinum

a bedroom with a glass bed

curtains of sheer, diamond – inlaid netting

blood colored, satin sheets

pure goose down mattress

a sea of pillows

I could suffocate in this bed

A crystal fire place burning logs of scented flowers

overstuffed, golden armchairs with fluffy pillows

like the ones I hug while slumbering at home –

Home?

My dirty, glass windows come into focus

windows that view my neighbors yellow curtains

I see my mahogany furniture

my satin and goose down bed

my sheer mosquito net

my sea of pillows

my scented flowers on my windowsill

            My Prism.

My name

My Name

Leah Pettit

Period 2

02/02/04

I am a mutt. No matter how much I try to be an individual, I will always be a mutt. I am not original, I am just a combination of everyone I’ve met. You see, I don’t really have a set personality. I sort of just snatch the personalities of different people at different times. I can be a nerd, a flirt, a athlete, a Mormon, a dumb blonde – you name it, I can be it. See that’s what happens when you’re the youngest of five children. Nothing really belongs to you- not even your personality. I am my sister Jen’s blondeness, my sister Debby’s musicality, my Brother’s swimming ability, and my sister Rebecca’s stubborness all rolled into one “travel size” package. When you’ve met me, you’ve basically met my entire family. That brings me to my main point; my name.

My name classifies who I am – both in it’s precedent and it’s meaning. My mom wanted four children. I’m number 5. Maybe that’s why she named me Leah, the name of the lesser, unwanted sister in the bible. She claims that’s not true, and I want to believe her, but just hearing and responding to that name my entire life has made me believe that I really am just an accident. I have no talent that an older sibling hasn’t already mastered, and I’ve never done anything that would set me apart from my siblings. I don’t know whether that’s because my name is Leah, or my name is Leah because of that – I haven’t quite figured that out yet.

Now according to name books my name means contentment, and if that doesn’t fit me, I don’t know what does. Even in knowing that I am an accident I am content – some accidents turn out for the better. I couldn’t be happier with my situation in life, being the spoiled youngest child and all, and I couldn’t ask for anything more than I have right here, right now.

So the moral of the story? I guess it’s that no matter how you identify yourself, how others identify you, or who you are, life is grand. It’s scary and hard, true, but the experiences I have had have taught me that life is what you make of it; and I choose to be unwanted, unoriginal, and yet be completely content.