Semi-memoir. Not sticking to the complete truth and making up things as I see fit. This is the beginning of a first draft that I wrote for a journal for class. It's easier to write and I like it better than my story about A Certain Someone's Dad (probably not the certain someone you are thinking of if you are thinking of anyone at all), so depending on what my teacher says at our conference Thursday, I will probably be sticking with this. Downfall= I suck at plot and I have no idea what the plot could be for this. Something very loose, probably. Oh well. This is what I  have minus the workshop suggestions that I haven't put in here yet. Let me know what you think,arigato gozaimasuuuu.
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We made out in the Randall's parking lot. 


His mouth tasted like old milk and taro tea and grass jelly. I broke away first. 


"What, do you want privacy? We can go to my car if you want. I just got the new Cat Power album," he said. 


His arm was still around my waist. I eased myself away from him and shook my head no.
He dug a pack of cloves out of the back of his corduroys and lit up. Nodded at me over his thick-framed glasses as the cigarette paper crackled to life. I looked away. There were three guys messing around in front of the teahouse. They were playing dubstep really loud and eating a pizza out of the back of a Suzuki Samurai. I don't know car names. Maybe it was something else.


"No, it's not that. I'm just not sure how I feel about you yet," I said. 


We were quiet. I watched as his ash got longer and longer. The guys changed the CD or playlist or whatever they were using. 


I do know how I feel about him, and I don't like him, at least not like that. We kept running into each other at shows this year and he messaged me on AIM the other day asking if I wanted to hang out. He was down for Christmas from that mining school in Socorro and wanted to get away from his parents. He's friendly, I thought. And tall.  


"Ellen called me yesterday," he said. He finally flicked it. Good. Let's talk about this other girl.


"Did you tell her how you feel about her?" I asked.


He said a lot of stuff about being unsure and being afraid that he would ruin their friendship and her being in Austin still to finish up her last final. I nodded a lot and said "yeah" a few times. 


"When I saw her at that Broken Social Scene show she held my hand for a little while. I left for a minute to get her a cup of water because she said something about being thirsty and when I got back she was all distant and quiet." 


He dug one toe of his ratty All-Stars into the concrete, mashing out his cigarette. The filter was a dark amber. You're going to die of emphysema one day, I wanted to say. My mom works at MD Anderson and was always bringing home lists of newly discovered carcinogens. Or if it's not from that, then at least from the BPAs in that straw from earlier.


"Maybe she's afraid of the same things as you," I said. "Maybe she doesn't want to mess up your friendship. Hasn't it been a really long time?" 


It was getting cold. My hands were clenched, trying to grasp at the bodily warmth, in the pockets of my jacket. I had only met Ellen once, at the House of Pies late at night. I brought along my friend Rachel to make the numbers even and spent the night feeling self-conscious about wearing a beanie indoors. It was warm inside, but my hair was messy underneath the alpaca wool and I didn't want to scare the stranger. One of her dorm-mates had a big sister whom an acquaintance had lost his virginity to. There wasn't much to talk about.