Midnight and I (Roderick)

Chapter One

Everyone's asleep right now. I think. It's about eleven and I'm not even tired.

Hello, I'm Roderick, the insomniac.

This, this is normal. I don't sleep much, not really, don't need to. Who needs sleep when you've got caffeine? Believe me, I've tried, yeah, I've laid in the dark for hours staring up at the ceiling and nothing has happened. I don't know what I was expecting. A miracle, maybe? That's probably what it would take.

Hello, I'm Roderick, the screw-up.

Was late getting home again today, Mom was pissed. Whatever. It doesn't matter. A year more and I'll be out of here. She doesn't know it, but I'm going to college. Got my UCLA acceptance letter in the mail months ago, scholarship pending, to be a medical engineer. Yeah, I've got secrets, plenty of them. Kinda wish I could tell her sometimes, you know? Tell them I'm not the nightmarish problem child they think I am. That I have a future beyond living in the attic forever. Wish I could tell them about college, maybe even about Bea…

Bea is…different. Don't think this is me being a sap, because that's just not me. I'm not madly in love with her. I don't dream about marrying her, or having a family with her, even sleeping with her. No, that's not how I roll. Besides, she's too classy for any of that, she's not with my group. Not one of those trashy girls who listen to my music and wear lingerie instead of clothes. She's never spoken to me. Her locker is across from mine, has been since sixth grade. I've kept an eye on her, but never said anything. This person I am at school, Roderick the ladies' man, Roderick the jerk, she wouldn't be impressed, no. She's got too much respect for herself, and what she's going to do with herself. Don't tell anymore (ha, of course you won't), but I'm jealous of the people who have her in their lives.

She's not tall, not really short. She's not stick thin or anything, hardly anything glamorous or spectacular. Her hair's an unassuming shade of dark brown, skin a bit darker than average, extraordinary brown eyes. She's Spanish, Mexican I think, I met her in eighth grade when the teacher assigned her to be my Spanish tutor. Man, can she ever speak the language. It made me want to learn just so I could hear her tell me I was doing good, or maybe just so I could sound like that.

Look at me, practically drooling over her. Now, this is the first time I've ever tried something like this. Diaries are for girls, that's what I said to my brother. Girls with sob stories. Here I am, with this plain black spiral notebook, spilling my guts. It's good, really, sharing the secrets I can't tell anyone else. There was one, here's another.

I hate the band. Always have. There, I said it. The music, the people, the crowd that comes with it, none of it's what I want. But that's not important, not a bit. It's just something I do to find a space. High school sucks, plain and simple, but it's easier when people think you're bad. They don't mess with you, not to your face. It's convenient, to say the least.

So I'm failing all my classes. How did a screw –up like me get into a college like UCLA? It's complicated, like everything else. Truth is I'm not out partying or anything like that, like my mom thinks. I've got two part-time jobs. One at the diner, Angie's, one at a hole in the wall music store downtown. Calls itself Nameless, or, at least, the employees do. Truth is, the owner never gave it a name before they died. They died a while ago, no one's quite sure what happened. Anyway, on to why the jobs are needed. I'm taking a couple of online courses for college already, got a few associate's degrees. Decided it would look good on my application.

College…is a touchy subject with my parents. They don't think I'm going. They don't really think I'll amount to anything, not that they would say that to my face.

Alright. This is getting dangerously close to an emotional, girly sob story. I'm going to stop now. Before I turn into Greg.

Later.