Glass That Had Not Shattered
Evangeline Thomas actually thought she could be the difference in her family; she was so used to the same thing from everyone: boring, lifeless, and self-centered. But she wanted to be their opposites by being peppy, interesting, and someone who cares about other people. As she turns fifteen in the year 2022, she realizes that her dream is at stake right before her eyes.
I pressed the big red STOP button on my Techy-phone. Just about everyone has a Techy-phone, except for those few whose grandparents and parents still used iPhone 10s.
I was very excited about my audition for the Miss Teen Technology contest. I fit the two simple requirements to be eligible; I was not yet fifteen, and I was of the female gender.
The winner of Miss Teen Technology would get to move to New York City, the city officially named the technology capital of the United States of America, after traveling all around the country to endorse all new Techy-bot products. It was every girl's dream to be Miss Teen Technology, and it was every boy's dream to be dating Miss Teen Technology.
If I was MTT, boys would like me! The thought bounced around in my mind until a new thought arose.
If I was MTT, I would be noticed.
I thought about the two for a while, until my mom knocked on my bedroom door. "Evangeliiiiiiine!" she called in her high, nasally voice. My mother's voice was the most interesting thing about her. She seems to own only a pair of black sweatpants that are three sizes to large, and a black tank top. My mother loves the color black. Everyone in my family seemed to love black.
I didn't exactly hate the color, as it appears in my wardrobe often, and I am exposed to it, but I love neon colors. Neon blue (which many people didn't even know was a color) is my favorite. I discovered it once when I was playing ColorCreator, an app on my Techy-phone.
"Come in," I said. As my mother walked in to my bedroom, her appearance made my room look only that much brighter. I had color everywhere you could imagine; I had a neon purple ceiling, neon yellow walls, a carpet that was a deep purple, bookcases and chairs that were deep reds and light pinks, a bed that was the brightest possible orange with a bedspread, pillows, and sheets to match.
I loved my room. It was a reflection of me. But with my mom standing in the middle...I love it even more, as my room seemed to radiate from the center that was my mother.
"Yes?" I asked.
"Your friend Mya just called. She's flying over; she'll be here in five minutes." My mother's voice rang in the air. After about five seconds of "silence" - if it could be called that - I tilted my head to the door and said, "Okay."
Mya and Raelyn are my best friends; they fly over here all the time. I usually just open my window, and they'll fly straight into my room.
So why shouldn't that have happened today?
I was sitting there, on my bed, playing on my Techy-phone. I practiced my typing for a few minutes; I typed a little poetry, some song lyrics, a short story or two. I did some voice recording, and worked on my photography by taking random pictures around my room. One or two looked like they could have been the work of a professional, but the rest were junk. I deleted all of them.
I downloaded some new apps, and listened to some music. My favorite singers were currently Lillie Smith and Lucas Scheffler, both teenagers. Lillie Smith was once Miss Teen Technology. She's my idol.
History is my favorite class. During history, we - if it wasn't obvious - learned about the past. Once, people used to do something called "writing". It's very similar to typing, as people typed then, too. They would use their hands, and writing utensils called pens and pencils to write with. One day in class, we were taught how to hold pens and pencils. The objects felt so wrong, so foreign, so out of place in my hands, and I couldn't help but wonder how everyone could write and type. It seemed like a lot to learn in a lifetime, and to use so often in everyday life.
There were two common different types of writing: cursive and manuscript. Cursive was much more fancy; there were swoops in the letters, and the all somehow flowed together. The other was manuscript, personally my favorite. It was less complicated; easier to read. In manuscript, though, you could make it more customized; kind of how you can choose different fonts on typing programs on Techy-phones. There are so many ways you could do some of the letters. Like a's, r's, q's, k's, y's, i's, and z's are the ones I've seen done so much differently.
I was thinking about that day in history when I heard a loud noise and I saw Mya falling to the ground.
I gasped. "Mya!"
She couldn't hear me. I rushed over to the window and tried to look out, but I banged my head on it. Then the realization hit me; this was my fault. I had forgotten to open the window, and Mya had assumed it was open. I quickly threw it open and jumped out. It was a good ten, fifteen feet to the ground, and I fell directly on my butt. I had put myself in excruciating pain - why hadn't I just taken the elevator? - but I was concerned more for Mya than myself.
Her brand new hot pink Flier-Bike that she was incredibly proud of was crashed. Her head was twisted into a position that was uncomfortable for me to even look at. There was no blood. I put my hands around her wrists, then her throat, her stomach, and a hand on her forehead.
She was not breathing.
I, Evangeline Thomas, am the reason one of my best friends just died.
I took a picture of Mya where she laid. I looked up at my room, and took a picture of it, too, the window still open, and the bright curtains fluttering in the wind, calling my name, seemingly punishing me for my crime.
One deep breathe.
With a picture of my friend, dead, and my window, I swiped my head back and forth and observed my surroundings. As it was about midnight, no one was out, and I'd be surprised if anyone in the neighborhood was even awake to hear the red-head crash into glass that had not shattered.
I closed my eyes.
With intentions to never return, I started running into the black-blue night.