A New Kind of Notebook
Cameron Kingston didn't want to stick out. Didn't want to be noticed, and especially didn't want anyone to sneak peek of the notebook that held his entire life together. But when his brothers fame reached its peak, Cameron realized what he really wanted in his life.
And it wasn't to blend in.
Birds chirp, the sun shines high in the sky, and dewy droplets of sunlight fall across the freshly cut grasses. I can sit and stare out the window at everything that I ever thought was beautiful, with the only person I ever thought was beautiful sitting right next to me. I can fit in. Feel happy.
Life is satisfying. My mother was picked up by social services about a month back, carried off in a huge white van as they disappear over the road. My brother has come out with a brand new single that has exploded the charts. His life is good, too.
Sure, Zavierâ€™s parents werenâ€™t ecstatic about bringing in a homeless boy. So they are letting me rent out the attic of their huge house, where Iâ€™m staying now. Zavier is always up here. Iâ€™m never really alone.
As of school, Iâ€™m no longer a laughing stock. The notebook has become somewhat of a legend, though, and almost everyone has read it. Some of the little poems Iâ€™ve written have been featured in the school newspaper. Iâ€™ve been asked out by several girls in the past three weeks.
I never accept. Ever since Zavier came into my life, itâ€™s no longer the notebook that Iâ€™ve used to cling to sanity. Sheâ€™s always there. Always beside me, always holding me up when I slip. She doesnâ€™t ask many questions. But she knows almost all of my secrets.
Staring out the window, now, my hand entangled with hers, the warm spring sun on my face, the glass cracked just enough to let in a fresh new breeze, the feeling is something of entire new proportions. Itâ€™s sweet, salty, fresh, and new. And I love the idea that my old life is behind me.
There have been letters from government, saying I need to go into an orphanage until Iâ€™m adopted, because Iâ€™m not legally old enough to live on my own. But if only they knew, how Iâ€™ve been living for my entire life, I think they would understand. Understand that Iâ€™m perfectly capable of holding myself up.
My story has spread since the first incident. People all over the USA have heard of the heart-warming story of Cameron Kingston, the young boy who has lived his life in anguish. Iâ€™m supposed to speak at a life conference in New York next week.
Yeah. Life is good.
Zavier shifts her position in front of the window and leans back against the wall, pulling her feet up next to her on the curved window seat. Her eyes sparkle in the fresh spring light, and a gentle breeze blows her hair back from her face.
â€œI guess things always turn out pretty good, huh?â€ She asks.
I nod. Since winter, my hair has lightened and my eyes have lost the bags beneath them, and Iâ€™ve become accustomed to shaving more. Iâ€™m not handsome, but Iâ€™m not unattractive. Which is satisfying. â€œMost of the time.â€ I say. â€œBut I canâ€™t stress the fact that itâ€™s all because of you.â€
She turns her head to look at me and grins, showing off her perfectly white teeth. â€œItâ€™s fate.â€ She says.
â€œI think itâ€™s something more than fate.â€
I tilt my head back to look at the ceiling and point a hesitant finger. â€œLike that guy.â€
She sighs. â€œHe works wonders, you know.â€
â€œHe certainly did for me.â€
I stare across the floor at the attic. Itâ€™s filtered with light across the soft wooden floors, which are plastered with a single light blue knit carpet. Thereâ€™s a bed in the corner under a slanted wall, and about seven windows along all the sides. On the window sill of one, thereâ€™s one of those picture props, that holds the notebook. The legendary notebook.
â€œYou know, Zavier?â€ I say, pulling my legs up to my chest, â€œI used to think I was content.â€
â€œAnd youâ€™re not?â€
â€œI wasnâ€™t.â€ I say. â€œI didnâ€™t realize how bad things were.â€
She sighs. â€œAnd you do now?â€
â€œYeah.â€ I say. â€œAnd I know now that Iâ€™m perfectly content.â€
And staring across the soft light of the attic, down at the freshly manicured grass of Zaviers lawn, and at her soft, pale face framed with those familiar black curls, I know that I mean it this time.
I take one last glance back at the notebook and can't help but smile to myself.
"Perfectly content." I say.
And for the first time in my life, I know that it's true.
The End. Hope you enjoyed!