The blades of my little white ceiling fan spun languidly in the heavy July air, throwing humidity down at me as I lay on my bed watching them turn. I shifted uncomfortably on the zebra stripes of my comforter, wishing for about the hundredth time that summer that we could afford an AC. Some wishes just never come true.
Rolling over on my side, I grabbed my little IPod off my nightstand and scrolled through a well-worn playlist of my favorite songs. I wouldn’t settle for a song that was anything less than the best of the best for a day like today. The first day of eighth grade was no joke, and well, I needed all the superficial confidence I could get heading into that snake pit. Coming to the bottom of the playlist, the veteran songs, I finally found what I was looking for: “18 and Life” by Skid Row. I smiled to myself, watching those helter-skelter red letters pop up on my screen as the first moody chords of the song hummed to life. I cranked up the volume and let myself transcend into a world of angsty guitars and even angstier lyrics. And in that brief moment I was Ricky, I fought like a switchblade, my veins burned gasoline, and I was eighteen years old. Middle school was nothing but a distant memory, floating in the hazy fog of my past. Nobody dared to cross me, Ricky, nobody had the guts. I was wild, driving too fast down empty streets at midnight, talking trash, placing bets I knew I wouldn’t win, getting fired from a job I hated anyway, breaking up fights, it was an agonizing, glorious life. My life.
And then the song ended, and I opened my eyes. I rolled off my bed and wandered over to the mirror hanging on the back of my door. I studied my nauseating blue uniform shirt, my hair cropped too short, my lanky arms, my lanky legs. Still just a thirteen year old girl. Still at the mercy of whoever decided to ridicule me next. Still just a half an hour away from starting the eighth grade.
A knock on my door resonated in the now silent room.
“Are you ready to go, honey?” My mom’s muffled voice followed. A flutter of anxiety radiated suddenly from my chest.
“Yeah, I’ll be right there.” I replied, quickly grabbing my backpack and shoving my books into it haphazardly. “I’ll meet you in the car.”
I never get to sit in the front when my brother’s riding with us. But he’s a year older than me, so I guess it’s only fair. And besides, he’s in high school now, so it would be pretty lame for him to be caught in the back seat of his mom’s Honda. We drove down the busy streets to the sound of my mother quietly singing along to whatever was on the radio. I sat alone in the backseat, fiddling with my school ID, watching the cherry red taillights of mid-morning traffic blur as I focused my eyes on a dusty speck on the window. I would have liked to talk, but I couldn’t think of anything good to say.
We pulled up to the highschool too soon and I watched as my brother got out of the car alone to join his new high school friends in their new high school world. The classroom buildings towered over them, morning sun melting on their turquoise rooftops. It smelled like freedom and new beginnings. And in that moment, all I wanted was to be him. To be rid of middle school, and bullying, and friendlessness, and low self-esteem, and my stupid haircut, and my stupid awkwardness, and to be a high schooler. Just a high schooler. Was that really so much to ask?
I thought about possibilities and longed for life as my mom pulled away from my future and drove towards the last place in the world I wanted to go, my present.
I cut the engine in my Subaru, letting the key hang in the transmission as I leaned back lethargically in my seat. For a moment, I did nothing. Chewing a piece of cinnamon gum, I sat back and listened to the sounds of the daily Hick Engine Revving Contest ensuing from across the lot. I rolled my eyes. So it begins, I thought to myself.
Today was day seven of my Senior year, still an entire year left in this hole. It was only the second Tuesday of the whole school year. And also my eighteenth birthday. I watched out my windshield in silence as students shuffled past my parked car toward the school, some anonymous, some I knew. To the ones I knew, I threw a few casual waves. But I wasn’t ready to go inside yet. I had a full eight, god-awful hours to be trapped in that prison yet today, and I was going to squeeze out every last drop of freedom I could get. Picking up my phone from the center console, I flipped back and forth through my pages of apps, nothing in particular really vying for my interest. But I stopped on the second page suddenly, my finger drawn to my Amazon Music app. I opened it up, and suddenly remembered it was my birthday. Eighteen years old. An old song I once loved manifested itself from the shadows of my memory. I smiled, thinking years back to middle school and my infatuation with 80’s rock music. In the search bar, I typed 18 and Life Skid Row.
And then the song was playing. The familiar ballad poured through my speakers, warming the cooling September air with its sinuous, unapologetic melody. It was like seeing an old friend for the first time in years; old and brand new and happy and sad all at the same time. As the lyrics unfolded, I was reminded of the dreams and possibilities and power they had held for me in those three painful years. I guess I was Ricky now. The eighteenth year of my life was something I’d put on a pedestal in the past, a beacon to look towards, to pull me out of life’s doldrums and convince myself that better days were a promise, not just a hope. Maybe this really was the year that everything would change. Maybe this was the year I’d finally be the person I’d always wanted to be. Maybe there was more Ricky in me than I’d ever thought possible before today. Maybe, just maybe.
The song faded into its final sultry chords, and I watched as His white Mazda pulled into a spot in the row across from mine. I saw Him get out, slinging his backpack across his shoulders and laughing at something His brother said in the passenger seat. I felt my pulse quicken. He locked the car after His brother clambered out and they both started walking slowly towards the front doors of the school. He passed in front of my car. Like usual, his eyes shyly met mine, but this time I smiled instead of looking away. He smiled back.
Yeah, maybe.
The rain drizzled down in cool sheets as I looked out over the slate gray river. I shifted my phone over to my other ear.
“Not much, yeah I’ll probably just try to get to bed before midnight for once tonight.” I laughed, brushing a few raindrops off the lip of my umbrella.
“Good deal,” Dad laughed along with me, “Well, I hope you have a good birthday tomorrow, honey. Enjoy being a nineteen year old.”
“Thanks, I will. Tell Mom I said hi.”
“Of course, she wishes you a Happy Birthday too.”
“Thanks Dad. I love you.” I shuffled slowly down the wooden planks, avoiding a few rouge puddles.
“Love you too, babe. Talk to you later, bye.”
“Yep, bye.” I hung up and angled back in the direction of my dorm.
It was unusually cool for early September, but I’d never been one to complain about the coming of colder weather. I even took the long way back to Bergstrom, rounding the GMS parking lot as I did and gazing back out over the river. Cool air floated past me as I walked, soft and earthy in the humidity. All was quiet except the gentle drumming halo of raindrops that played on my umbrella.
Not a bad way to spend my last day as an eighteen year old, I thought to myself. Tossing my backpack on the floor, I plopped down on our futon and stretched languidly. I stared off into space, mentally shuffling through the list assignments I knew I had to get done. I sighed.
“I could be productive tonight, which certainly wouldn’t be a bad idea.” I reasoned with myself out loud. “Or, alternatively, I could simply sit here and do nothing for four hours.” The AC kicked in on the window sill.
“What?” My roommate hung down from her loft bed, an air pod in her left hand poised a few inches from her ear.
I laughed quietly. “Don’t worry about it.” I said, “I’m just trying to decide if I want to be lazy and worthless tonight or not.”
“Oh right,” She paused a minute considering. She shrugged, “I say be lazy and worthless tonight. Join the club.”
I laughed as she flopped back onto her bed, without a doubt watching Tik Tok on her phone.
Fine with me, I thought. I stood up and walked to my closet, grabbing my half-eaten box of Golden Grahams off the shelf. I snatched a plastic cup and some almond milk from the top of the microwave and settled down at my desk.
My last day as an eighteen year old. The words echoed in my mind for the hundredth time that day.
I popped my headphones in, and scrolled around till I came to an old favorite playlist: The Best of 80’s Rock. I hit shuffle absentmindedly and started to open up my cereal box when the first few notes of the song stopped me in my tracks. I smiled. There it is.
That old familiar rhythm poured through my headphones. I let myself float away on each nostalgic chord and thought back to all the years in my life this song had been a part of. I was there. I was back in my room that first day of my last year of middle school. I felt the heat on that July morning, I watched my brother get out of our mom’s car. I felt the pain and hopelessness that had permeated each day of those three horrible years. And I remembered the escape songs like this gifted me.
I was there. I was sitting in my car again, on my eighteenth birthday, watching an unfulfilled dream pass by my car. I felt the knife go through my heart again as he said no. I felt that old desperation I once knew so well as I tried to convince myself that I was someone I was not. As I tried to personify a goal I knew I could not reach. I relived that whole year. My failure, my success, my growth, my new perspective, my self-acceptance, my new beginnings as I entered the next chapter of my life.
The AC shut off and the room was enveloped in a rare silence. Standing up from my desk, I pulled back the ancient, plastic curtains on the dorm window and gazed out at this new life of mine. College. My dorm room. The river. My life. My future. The product of nineteen years of living.
I saw my past, I saw it morphing into my present and shaping my imminent future. In that moment I was grateful for each and every experience I encountered in my life. The joy, the sorrow, the ups, the downs. I understood that all of it had made me exactly the person I am today. I understood that the perfection, the ideal version of me I once sought was already here. I didn’t need to change to be happy. Afterall, I’m not Ricky, and I never will be. I’m me.
And then my song ended. But this time, I knew it was only just the beginning.
Breeana Zubrod is an English major with a creative writing focus. As with this story, some of her best work is often written on late nights spent in the Mulva library or sitting out by the Fox River. When she’s not on campus, Breeana loves baking, reading, and spending time with family at her home in Hartford, WI.
