Je Connais

“If I could choose anyway to tell my story it would be through the voice of an aquaintance I once had. In the telling of it all her voice might strain, but it will mainly be sweet, like thick honey, and she could be a jazz singer.” I look down from my daydream because I know I have said too much. I look into the gray eyes of the boy in front of me.

“What’s your name again?” I ask for the fourth time after a long silence.

“It’s Preston.” He lets out a long sigh before he speaks again. “I think the best way to record a story is through extensive, and effective journal writing.”  Now it’s my turn to sigh. I start flipping through the textbook to find something to talk about. I hate working in groups. There is a third party to this group and his name is Thomas. I know I would like Thomas, because he just sits there, through the whole discussion like he doesn’t give a shit about life. I like that, even though it means I have to sit here and work with Preston alone.

“So fine, let’s write this paper about journal writing then.” I quietly say. Pretending to dive into my text book I check and see if I have a text message. It’s 9:37 a.m. and no text mesage. I look back up to Preston and see he is starting the first paragraph to our essay. The professor had us grade our peers and I gave both Preston and Thomas top scores. Preston put down his peer evaluation and I saw that he had given me a straight “C” while Thomas got an “A”. Putting all of my papers and books back into my backpack I just stand up and leave those two boys. Maybe next week I will be able to help, and I find myself thinking that Preston is sexist.

I lived in the same place for eighteen years. Before I moved one year ago, I never appreciated how much that town was a part of me. It wasn’t until I left, did I realize exactly what I was leaving.

My name is Sierra Copeland. The most significant thing about me is that I can think, and I can think to anyone or anything. Everyday I walk through the largest cemetary I have ever seen to get back to my apartment from campus. When I’m in there ninety-nine percent of the time I am thinking, and the other one percent is spent practicing my french. I have been in that cemetary at night a few times. Once to see about a Halloween legend, that a young girl buried there cries at midnight. She doesn’t. She is happy she is dead. Another I spent running and crying, my nose running heavily becuase it was below freezing. I was running to change what I never could. And if those dead people could, they would have been running with me. “Je connais, je connais, je connais.” I whisper to myself over 127 times.