Shifting Paradigms

OVER THE NEXT FEW MONTHS I read every book in my mother’s sub-mattress library including a self-help book on finding your inner power and another one titled A Call to Action on how to take charge of your life. (Books she’d gotten, no doubt, to help her get over my two-timing dad.)

But it was A Crimson Kiss that I kept going back to. It was A Crimson Kiss that I read and reread. The other romance novels didn’t have any layers to them; no real guts. It was like pop versus rock. Some people like the pure tones of pop, but to me it’s just gloss. There’s nothing behind it. Give me the heart-wrenching gritty guts of blues or rock any day.

Not that A Crimson Kiss was written in a gritty way, but it sure was heart-wrenching. And the kissing was incredibly passionate! I dreamed scenes from it at night, waking some mornings still feeling the breathless transcendence of a perfectly delivered kiss.

Once I was fully awake, though, reality would strike.

It was just a dream.

Just a romantic fantasy.

Then one morning, I found a book on the kitchen table beside an empty bowl. (A bowl with telltale signs of midnight bingeing on chocolate ice cream.) The book was splayed open, spine up, and the title was Welcome to a Better Life.

I looked it over as I ate my usual before-school bowl of cereal (in this case, Cheerios). The section titles were things like: “Re-envision Your Life!”; “The Time Is NOW!”; “The Change Is Yours to Make!”; “Living Your Best Life!”; “See It, Be It!”; “What Are You Waiting For?”; “Shift Your Paradigm!”; and “Four Steps to Living Your Fantasy!”

Four steps to living my fantasy?

This I had to see.

Too many anecdotes and testimonials later, the author finally put forth step number one:

Define Your Fantasy.

Okaaaaay.

I poured myself a second bowl of Cheerios and defined my fantasy:

I wanted love. A love like Grayson and Delilah’s.

But something about that felt wrong. It was too heavy. Too serious.

I took a bite of Cheerios, and as I munched, the image of Grayson kissing Delilah drifted through my mind.

That was it.

The kiss.

I wanted my own “crimson kiss.”

I went back to the book and discovered that step number two was easy:

Speak Your Fantasy.

“I want a crimson kiss,” I whispered into the quiet of the kitchen, feeling more than a little silly.

Step three: See Your Fantasy.

I closed my eyes and pictured myself as Delilah, pictured Grayson sweeping me into his arms, looking lovingly into my eyes, his mouth descending toward mine, his lips brushing against mine, warm and tender, full of smoldering passion….

Oh, yeah. I could definitely see it.

I shook off the shivers, then turned the page and discovered that step number four was: Live Your Fantasy.

Live my fantasy?

How was I supposed to do that?

All the book really offered by way of explanation was, “See it, believe it, live it.”

I snorted and slapped the book shut. What a rip-off!

Then I noticed the kitchen clock.

7:30?

Already?

I flew around the condo getting ready for school, and despite some unintentional banging and clanging, I managed to slip out the door without waking my mother.

I hurried toward school, and as I walked, my flip-flops seemed to slap to the rhythm of the steps outlined in Welcome to a Better Life.

Speak Your Fantasy.

See Your Fantasy.

Live Your Fantasy.

The cadence of it was catchy. Like the chorus of a song.

Speak Your Fantasy.

See Your Fantasy.

Live Your Fantasy.

And as it repeated in my head, I suddenly realized how much my life had been dominated by my parents’ breakup. When was the last time I’d even thought about my own love life?

Speak Your Fantasy.

See Your Fantasy.

Live Your Fantasy.

Maybe it could be that easy. I could just live my own life! Get out from under their dark cloud! Have some fun.

Speak Your Fantasy.

“I want a crimson kiss!” I shouted into the sky.

See Your Fantasy.

I spun in a fantasy dance across an intersection, adored in my mind’s eye by my own dashing Grayson.

Live Your Fantasy.

I hurried onto the Larkmont High School campus. My life was going to change!

3

Adrienne Willow

I MADE A BEELINE ACROSS THE QUAD—hurrying past the outdoor stage, zigzagging between cement lunch tables and across patchy grass—to reach my best friend, Adrienne Willow, who was perched on “our” brick planter, organizing her binder.

I hopped up beside her. “I had an epiphany this morning.”

“Really?” she asked, snapping the rings of her binder closed. “What’s that?”

“I’m done being dragged through the knothole of my parents’ life. I’m going to start living my own.”

She looked up, blinked, then whooped and jumped off the planter. “It’s about time!”

“Do you know how much I’ve missed this year? I didn’t go out for volleyball, I didn’t join link crew or help with the warmth drive… all I’ve done is live under their dark cloud and study.”

Adrienne had been bouncing with excitement, but she suddenly stopped, so I followed her line of sight across the quad.

It was Tatiana Phillips.

“It wasn’t her fault,” I said quietly. “It was her mom’s. And my dad’s. I shouldn’t have let it stop me.”

“From playing volleyball?” Adrienne asked, giving me her trademark squint. “No one could have played under those circumstances!” She snorted. “Her mother and your dad sitting together at games? Please.”

I looked down. Adrienne has an uncanny way of putting her finger on the heart of the hurt.

The warning bell clanged. “The point is,” I said firmly, “I’m through letting it ruin my life. I need to have some fun. I need to shift paradigms.”

“You need to what?”

I laughed, then spread out my arms and looked down at my baggy John Lennon “Imagine” T-shirt and frayed jeans. “I need a makeover!” I caught her eye. “And I need you to help me.”

She collected her things. “Anything,” she said. “You know that. Anything.”

Then she gave me a tight hug, and we hurried off to our first-period classes.

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