Story (In class, part 2)

Perhaps I was already falling asleep. Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe the girl that was stepping out of the car was Gilda approaching me, or something. But this girl had blond hair, unlike my sister. She was fast, and angry. She headed to the back of the car, and opened the trunk, took out her bag, surprisingly not as big, and closed it with rage. She screamed at the driver, something that I couldn’t understand. All I knew was that she was mad, and that she had stopped in front of my house, and she was going to stay here.

They shouted some more at each other; the driver was a man, and his age seemed similar to the girl. They were just a bit older than my sister Gilda. I pictured it: Gilda could’ve been the one driving the car.

The guy said something else and then, left. He actually left her behind. Now there was someone standing in my front yard—if you consider it to be a yard—, looking at me. The expression I first saw in her eyes, worry. That was probably because of the fact that she had just been left here, in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know was it is that she was going to think about this place, cause to be honest, not many people plan on visiting us. My mom and dad rarely speak about their families, and so we have only our neighbors and ourselves.

I was instantly worried, too. We had no space, time, or food for another person, especially someone like her. I had a chance to see her better, once she was standing up, out of the car. Other than her long and blond hair, she looked different than all of us, like the first person I’ve ever seen with light-colored eyes. She was sweating, and so I could conclude that from where she came from, the climate was not as hot as this place.

She started walking towards the entrance, where I was. She stopped, and looked at me again. I didn’t know what was it that I was supposed to say. We might not even speak the same language, anyway. So I waited, trying to seem patient, but I was actually holding my breath and thinking about mom and dad. Why would they think about this?

“I’m sorry for that.” She spoke, and I was surprised I understood her. Looking so different, and yet speaking the same as us. It was a start. I nodded, and looked down.

“I just couldn’t stand another second in that car with him.” Him. The other guy, the driver. What had he done? Yet I still had no sufficient strength and confidence to ask her this. “So I told him to stop a couple of times before he really did. And he didn’t know what I was doing. I actually don’t, either.” She sighed, and smiled nervously.

Neither do I, I thought, and tried to smile. “What are you going to do?” I asked with delicacy. Personally, I didn’t want her to stay here. I didn’t want her to disturb my family, and I certainly didn’t want—think my parents wouldn’t, either—another mouth to feed.

She chuckled, and looked down. “I don’t want to go back, that’s for sure.” She said. But it didn’t help. “You’re focusing on the plans you have for your future. You know, there isn’t going to be a future if you don’t think about the present.”

*The first part of this story is written in my notebook.