Character Sketch: My Cousin Tony
His skin is dark, like he’s been in the sun too long, but not enough to burn red. Dark, tousled hair frames his face, accentuating those dark brown eyes. He used to wear his hair long, back in a short ponytail, but cut it off when he got sick of it. There’s always a smile on his face; sometimes I think that it’s frozen like that. He laughs so carefree, probably something my sister said, as if there’s nothing negative inside his head. Then he makes us laugh, and the atmosphere gets a little brighter. He hums while he cooks, I notice. Just a soft hum, not the obnoxious kind you can hear from across the room. He immediately goes for the frozen chicken nuggets, but I know that he’s itching to grab the ice cream bars. It’s always been like that; me having to be the one to tell him to leave some for the rest of us, while he stuffs his face with all the ice cream. I swear, sometimes I’m the older one. He blatantly ignores the fruit bowl; we set it out so we could grab those for snacks instead. If he hogs all of the chicken nuggets as well as the ice cream, there’s going to be an all out war between us, me and my siblings against him. Today, he’s decided to wear his t­shirt and shorts, although we all tell him it’s too cold for that. But he doesn’t mind. He beats my sister at Rock Band, but it’s not fair because he plays the guitar. I’m surprised he stayed focused on the game for that long; even I drifted off to do other things at that point. We turn on a movie, and he sprawls himself on the couch, so we all sit on him, like all good cousins do. The movie’s halfway over when I look at everyone. While my sisters are all attentive, he’s lost again, somewhere deep in his head, and I let him be. He’ll be back soon enough. Then it’s time for dinner, and we all gather around the table to make our tacos. He overloads his with meat, both chicken and beef, plus the refried beans, lettuce, and tomatoes, topped with sour cream. I mean, geez, who even needs four overstuffed tacos? We turn on the tv while we eat, watching the Food Network, because why not? He sits in the middle of the couch, all of the sisters beside him. I think it’s because he subconsciously wants to be the center of attention all the time. Not the bad, snobbish kind, but the kind that likes to make everyone smile, no matter the cost. We all get into a conversation about how good all the food looks and how no one is ever going to beat Bobby Flay. He makes a joke about how he could beat Bobby Flay in chicken nuggets, but I tease that his would be frozen and Bobby's would be homemade. He scoffs, but laughs nonetheless. When we finish, he volunteers to take care of the extra food, because he hates it when we do all the work. I think it’s because he knows we’ll make him do something worse later for being lazy.
No Place Like Home
The walls are white, white and bare. There’s no posters, no pictures, nothing, just how I like. The doors are light brown to accentuate the windowsill. Purple curtains block out the outside light of winter, but not quite the draft, which always leaves my room a few degrees cooler than the rest. There’s a dark wood dresser to match the desk, rocking chair (my grandmothers from her younger years), and the bed frame. There’s black blankets and purple pillowcases on the messily made bed, with three stuffed teddy bears lazily tossed near the top. Papers are scattered everywhere; on the desk, near the trash bin, on the nightstand. Books are in a sloppy pile in a bin beside the bed, along with loose notebooks and water bottles. The crate is purple, to match the curtains and pillows. The nightstand is a small table, wood and chipped. I’ve had it for years now, since I was six, I think. There’s a glasses case, and my pencil box that my grandfather (father’s side) made for me when I told him I needed one. I’ve finally gotten around to painting it. It’s nearly overflowing with pencils and pens, and I have another three plastic pencil boxes hiding in my closet. The dresser holds everything on top, everything from hair accessories to jewelry to makeup to lotions and perfume. It holds my homemade vanity, which my stepmother painstakingly made. It uses my old headboard from when I was four that my late grandfather (mother’s side) made for me. She saved it for me; got it from my biological mother when she had it held for ransom in her basement, then hid it from me in the garage to surprise me on my sixteenth birthday. She painted it purple, and attached a mirror, cork board, and dry erase board. Said it might help me remember things better. It was the most sentimental thing I’ve ever received. The closet has become a wasteland of clothes. There’s a tote of stuffed animals in the corner, along with a tote of porcelain dolls. There’s three winter coats and seven spring jackets, all waiting with baited breath to see if I’ll finally tear off their tags and wear them. They’ll have to wait a few seasons more. I have comforters and throw blankets folded neatly on the top shelf, in case it ever gets unnecessarily cold. An old paintbox is up there as well, holding not only the sixty acrylic paint tubes I own, but oil pastels, and water colors, and extra colored pencils. It flips it top up, so that it stands as an easel for artists. I’ve used it about three times; even though I love to draw, I hate when the drawing stands up.
The Woven Essay
It’s cool under the shade of the tree. At least it stops the sun from tanning my face even more. My book, long since forgotten, lays peacefully on my lap, waiting for the moment I pick it up again. Everything is peaceful in my secluded spot, but I’m getting sick of sitting on the ground. Stuffing the discarded novel back into my messengers bag, I hike back up to the pavilion my family has overtaken for their reunion. Snagging a few Doritos bags, I sit at the table my sisters have decided to call their own. I think they're fighting over who should sit with the kids at the nearby playground. I volunteer, if only to be rid of the monotonous drone of chatter that surrounds us. I swear, reunions are not my thing. There’s an unoccupied bench near the kids, so even though it’s in the blazing sun, I capture it. I don’t understand why they were fighting over who watched the kids; Tony’s right there playing with them. They’re a little too close to the river, so I call to them, urging them away. The kid’s are unhappy, but Tony heeds my warning for once. Reading my book again crosses my mind, but I push it aside. I’ve done enough reading today. There’s Doritos in my bag, and my tea thermos, so I’m set. That’s a few extra hours of avoiding the pavilion. I sip at my tea, still hot, and I cringe at the bitterness. Alright, rosehip tea is not park tea; should have brought the jasmine. I think the sweet taste would suit the park better. But I needed the roses to wake me up this morning. Didn’t have time to make coffee. As crazy as they call me, they just don’t understand. I hate the taste of iced tea, sweetened or not. Even if 85% of Americans drink iced tea, I need the floral or fruity taste of herbal tea, or even the subtlety of oolon or white. But then again, 84% of hot tea is made with black tea, so I’m kind of the odd tea drinker. I don’t care if it’s the middle of summer and I’m drinking hot beverages, iced tea is gross, even if it is convenient. There’s other people around the park, and my natural curiosity kicks in. There’s three little boys playing around the tire swing, two blonde and a redhead, immersed in whatever they’re doing. The redhead seems to be the leader of their trio, pointing extravagantly and waving his arms excitedly, enrapturing the other two. There’s two men playing catch over in the field, and judging from their looks, maybe brothers. The taller one, dressed in shorts and a tanktop, just can’t seem to give the other one, dressed in a sweatshirt on a day like this, a break, throwing the ball too high every time. There’s a young couple on a bench across from me. Her head’s on his shoulder, hand in his, talking quietly. They seem content to just sit there all day, enjoying the mere presence of the other. It’s so adorable.