Akting Out

Seven in the morning is a great time to be up. The city isn’t quite awake yet, it’s not warm enough to be uncomfortable, not cold enough to be chilly.

It’s a good time for a run.

I originally started running because I was told it was the best way to keep type two diabetes in check (and they were right), but as I’ve gotten more into a routine, I’ve come to enjoy it.

For about forty-five minutes, my feet beat the pavement, my heart pounds like a hammer in my chest, and my lungs expand and contract as I regulate my breathing. For just forty-five minutes a day, I’m Busterwolf all over again.

I begin the run from the rear of my apartment complex. It’s a gentle downhill slope to start before crossing to the left and beginning the incline through a small suburb, just west of an old abandoned shoe factory. I’ll run over the highway and make my way to the park before doubling back.

I’m thirty-two years old. I’m physically past my fighting prime, but any fighter will tell you, you can’t just turn your instincts off and on, even if your body won’t keep up anymore. Although I can still fight, it’s not like it used to be, and it never will be again. I may never accept this.

I also use the morning run as a chance to brace myself for the coming day. When I walk in that door, and approach my desk, I’m stepping into the ring. My opponents are going to be the hundred-plus people I call that day. I secure a victory by out-thinking and outmaneuvering them, getting to the heart of their objections so I not only sell them something I believe is of better value than what they’ve got, but make sure that they are comfortable with it when I hang up the phone.

This is how I fight now.

So maybe, when I’m running, I’m not bracing myself for work. Instead, as I run, and my breath quicker, and my heart rate accelerates, I’m preparing for that one last fight. The one last fight that every great fighter has; where they step up against an opponent who takes them to their very limit before falling to the ground, defeated.

And then I realize I’ve been legitimate for two years now. I always feel as though I’m standing above this great abyss, peering over into what my life was, and could be again. I look back behind me at the rising sun and the endless land that represents everything I’ve done, and I know that my last opponent is, indeed, Busterwolf – taking me to my very limits, threatening to pull me down into defeat by tempting me into going back to the old ways.

Quitting this job, stuffing what will fit into a single bag, and heading back into the wild blue yonder.

But I won’t do that. I can’t do that.

And so I turn around, head home, and get ready to get on the phones.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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I went into District 9 with high hopes and emerged from the theater greatly disappointed. I nearly fell asleep on the film in a couple of places.
This is supposed to be the summer’s big hit; while I try to live against the grain, failing to understand why some things are popular could be detrimental to my future. So I sat down and tried to figure out why, exactly, I didn’t like this film.

District 9’s plot is simple; alien refugees find themselves stranded over Earth (Johannesburg, of all places, one of the films high points). The country’s government gives the aliens asylum in the slum-like District 9. As the aliens are forced to live in impoverished conditions (I laughed aloud seeing alien gang signs in the alien ghetto), crime breaks out, and humans soon grow tired of it. Two decades after their arrival, MNU plans to evict these aliens (referred to derogatorily as ‘prawns’) to a “better” location—two hundred miles away from civilization.

So what didn’t I like about this film?

1). Predictable
The film revolves around two characters—one human, one prawn—as they work towards individual goals that coincide with each other. There are many ways this situation can play out, and District 9 paints by the numbers from beginning to lackluster, predictable end.
In my humble opinion, stories are a lot better when protagonists have to sacrifice something, maybe everything, to achieve their goal. In the case of two protagonists, one, usually the more oppressed, accomplishes their goal while the other protagonist sacrifices their own to aid the lesser character. In doing so, the sacrificial protagonist becomes a better person/thing/whatever in putting aside their own needs for a greater good. District 9 follows this formula as though it’s the first time they’ve ever heard of it. The film is set up so that midway through it, you know how it’s going to end.  When you figure it out, you’re on your way to bed.

2). Same old Aliens
I’d like to know why aliens in modern movies are all pretty much designed the same way; sure, most of them don’t look like anything you’ve seen before, but most still have at least two eyes, two legs, and two arms. They’re also freakishly strong. I wonder if this is meant to prey on subconscious fear; something that looks like you, but is way beyond you. I imagine it was cool back when Alien first came out, but in the year 2009? It seems a bit campy.
The prawns weren’t so far removed that I couldn’t tell that people may have been playing these things in costume. While one can speculate on the prawns’ origins (another high point of the movie, driven home after the ending), in the end, it felt more like a cop-out.

District 9 isn’t a bad movie, it just wasn’t worth what I paid to see it. My main complaint is that it lacked any originality. Everything in this movie is something you’ve seen somewhere else. At some point, I’d like to see some new ideas on the big screen.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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For this blog, let’s pretend your imagination is an apartment—and within reside your characters.

When your characters and story are new, the apartment is empty, but you’re looking for things to fill it up with. So you hunt for inspiration (furniture).

Building a home takes time, dedication, and hard work. The same can be said of a good story and believable characters. You sit, you make the time, and you flesh out your characters. The more time and energy you invest, the better your world turns out. Soon, you have a couch, recliner, flat-screen TV, and anything else you need to make your story shine.

Your characters still have to pay rent, and they do so by telling you their story. When you give time to them, they give time to you. To me, this is how the writing process works.

Now, if you’re a bad landlord, and you’re not taking the time to keep the apartment up and running, well, tenants tend to move out. Don’t spend any time with your characters, they stop talking to you.

I’ve had Universal Warrior in my head since I was eight years old. I know these characters and their stories back and forth. I’m grateful for the success of the story, but to be honest, I had come to take it for granted. I’ve been living with these characters, and this ‘epic’ plot between good and evil for so long that I was able to think of Uprising’s plot within a couple of weeks. Suddenly bound by restrictions and deadlines, I was almost relieved when the site went down. I needed the break.

I didn’t think about Universal Warrior at all for about six weeks. I wrote the returning chapter without any planning or foresight—and man alive, am I dissatisfied with it. While I accomplished what I wanted (reintroducing the main character and his motivation) my execution was sloppier than last year’s Detroit Lions.

The lesson I learned is that if you value your characters and your story, regardless as to how you present them, then you have to invest time into them. I never should’ve taken so much time away from Universal Warrior. I could’ve kept things going with short stories. I could’ve planned out the—surprise. I could’ve done anything other than drop the project.

If I leave you with anything, invest time and energy into your creations whenever you can. They’ll reward you for it. Neglect them, and expect the same in return.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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I passionately despise traditional salespeople; and telemarketers in particular. In this I’m not alone; general loathing for telemarketers tends to range somewhere between the Third Reich and the LAPD. I don’t blame anyone for feeling this way. Occasionally, I receive calls on my cell phone (my freaking cell phone?! Are you serious?!) from my cable company trying to get me to pay for something I don’t need. Often, out of sympathy, I’m polite. But I don’t want to hear it and get off the phone as quickly as possible.

What I hate most about traditional salespeople/telemarketers is that they reek phony; the plastic smiles, the fake camaraderie, the façade that they care about you when they’re more interested in what’s in your back pocket. I may be many things, but I am not phony.

Now, I should probably take this moment to say that not all salespeople and telemarketers have a personality as appealing as something you just stepped in. I’ve come across quite a few genuine people who work in the profession and honestly care about the people they deal with. It is these people who never seem to last, though.

One of my hustles was to get a telemarketing job, usually while I was healing. I would stay at this job until my bosses realized that I had no intention of selling strangers, and then bounce—usually with a nice little piece of change in my pocket. Truthfully, I expected to do the same thing at this job. Although it’s still very much a sales job, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how differently they do things. They invest more into your training than any other job I’ve been at. Thanks to the training and access to the product I’m selling, I’m not so bad at this job. There’s still no sense of security, but at least I’m succeeding.

Telemarketing is a tricky hustle; you have five seconds or less to convince a total stranger, sight unseen, that you are worth their time. What fascinates me about this job—and the people I work with, all of whom were kind enough to allow me to use their real names in this blog—is how we manage to get our customer’s attention. So many things factor into the initial five seconds; tone, inflection, and pace of voice. Being able to accurately read the customer’s reaction and respond appropriately. The real challenge—and where I fail—is convincing someone to spend more money than they need to. I do my best when I am able to save people money.

We all have our reasons for doing this. Me? Same reason I do everything else; I love the challenge. I tend not to participate in the promotions (unless they involve time off) because it’s just one more thing to keep track of. If it’s meant to come to me, than it will. I’m in this for the fight. The moment I live for is when I am exhausted, usually dealing with the beginning of a headache, and I’ve had someone on the phone for ten minutes when they finally agree to buy what I’m selling. That’s what I live for.

We take over one hundred calls a day. On average, we sell a tenth of them. The rest of the time, we’re being called every name under the sun and told to do very bad things with our mothers.
In this job, I have also spent more time around people than I have in a long time. I can listen to some of the people I work with forever, because they’re natural salespeople. I can’t tell if they’re being genuine or they’re just after the bottom line, but these are the ones who keep my attention the most.

Dorothy is someone I actually look forward to seeing at work. She’s the only person who doesn’t seem to ‘switch modes’ when she gets on the phone. Her technique is happiness; no matter what, she’s always smiling, always goofy, and her customer’s pick up on that. It is the cheerfulness in her voice that either disarms or infuriates the people she talks too. She seems to do well with female senior citizens, probably because she’s so endearing. The thing I like about her is that when she gets of the phone, she’s the exact same way. She’s one of the genuine people I know at the job, and she can make anyone laugh in any situation.

Brad is arguably the best salesperson we have on our team, and to be honest, the boy scares the hell out of me. Brad chases his money down harder than any hustler I’ve ever come across. If he’s not on the phone at work, he’s on his cell phone, either buying something he intends to sell or selling something. Always, always, always about the bottom line—and he’s damn good at it. What scares me is that as hard as I try to read the kid, I can’t tell if he’s genuine or the world’s greatest con artist. Off the phone, he’s a nonchalant, easygoing country boy who doesn’t care what others think of him. I like him; I’m just not sure what to make of him. I’m never sure what to make of anyone who never appears to get upset.

Lacey…Lacey is something else. Her weapon is her voice; she has a very singsong, hypnotic, melodic voice that makes you feel bad if you insult her. Her other weapon is that she is very, very good at making people see what she wants them to see. This isn’t to say that she’s a bad person, not in the least. In fact, she’s a very sweet young girl. But the innocence is an act that hides a new bad girl’s fledgling curiosity.

Ray is a younger, less angry version of myself. He carries his contagious energy onto the phone, barely keeping it in check long enough to sound professional—and he puts numbers on the board. He has the stress of a young player, taking nothing seriously, very popular with the girls in the office (if they don’t want to kill him). He was among the first to reach out to me, and I’ve actually had a couple of adventures with the kid. Occasionally I see flashes of seriousness in his eyes—he knows reality is closing in on him, and his playing time is limited. I think it’s this knowledge that impresses me most about him; he’s not stupid.

These are just four people who have the biggest impact on me at work. The fifth one I’m not mentioning—Reya—I’m staying quiet about until I figure out how to sum her up. Mostly, she’s a kindred spirit and a little sister.

We all come from different backgrounds, and we are all on this job for different reasons. The tie that binds us is that when we get on the phones, we become single-minded in our dealing with the customers. None of us, not even Brad, have an easy job. You have to be a little crazy to do it. I think we lean on each other in times of weakness, brag up our successes, but in the end, we’re all just trying to make it.

Telemarketers are people too, and we’re just trying to earn a living. Keep that in mind if we happen to call.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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You put a pot of water on low. It may take a very, very long time, but eventually, it’ll boil.

I don’t deal with pain very well. It’s what made me a good fighter; I can isolate it, put it away, and carry on.
But I can’t forget it.

I thought about Julie every single day for three years after she died. As I grew up, I would pass people on the street and smell her perfume, or see someone who looked a little like her and turn. Every so often, I would chase someone down just to get a better look, just to get shattered all over again just to find that it wasn’t her. I loved her first, and I loved her before I loved almost anyone else.

But one incident in particular made me realize that I had to deal with this.
Come back with me to May of this year, when I started this job.
As training starts, in walks a statuesque blond that stands about five foot six. I glance—and do a double take. It couldn’t be.

Truthfully, I hadn’t thought about Julie in months—she still crossed my mind, and the memories made me smile, but I figured I was past all the hallucinations. After all, it had been nearly twenty years since she had been killed.

But this girl, more than any before her…it was relieving and horrifying at the same time.
The way she walked, the tone of her skin, even the length of her hair. All you had to do was add red highlights and this was Julie!

Of course, the girl had to sit right next to me…sat next to me for three weeks, and be damned if she didn’t seem to wear the same type of perfume as Julie had. I couldn’t look her in the eye, can still barely look her in the eye now. So many times I wanted to blurt out, asking if she had family in Northern California. The resemblance is uncanny—scary. I keep my distance from this girl—and I avoid physical contact.

And somewhere along the line, I realized that I had never dealt with Julie’s death. The girl who so strongly resembles my first love is not Julie. No one will ever be Julie. There will never be another Julie again.

I’ve spent most of my life alone—by choice. I’m great at the short-term encounter, not so much at getting to know people because the idea of loving anyone and losing them is my greatest fear.

Julie’s gone, and nothing will ever bring her back. I’ve known this all along, but writing this will help me accept it, I hope.

I’m tired of feeling angry and scared all of the time. I’m tired of only looking for reasons to push people away. I’ve had people genuinely reach out, and honestly, I’ve had no idea how to accept it because I’ve always been so damn afraid.

I’m hoping that writing this story will allow me to finally put this to bed, maybe develop a real life, real friends…all of that crap that comes with being normal.

A small part of me is always going to love Julie. The whole of me now has to move on.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Julie had begun to arrive at school with more and more bruises, some on her arms, others on her legs. One day, she was limping. As always, she managed to laugh, make up some well-conceived excuse as to how she had gotten them. Mostly she fell. Other times, she had fallen off her bike “trying something stupid.”

Just after my thirteenth birthday, I was no longer buying it, especially when she came to school with a black eye. Julie had a way of making everyone laugh, so she could charm her way through anything. The school nurse never followed through with any investigation. It’s as much their fault as it is mine…

The closest we ever came to fighting was one of our last conversations. Sitting on the wooden fence of the REC recent on Castro Valley Boulevard, I pressed her until she told me the truth. She didn’t cry. She even managed to keep smiling.

“My dad.” She finally said, “He doesn’t like the idea of me, you know, being your girlfriend.” She made a circular gesture with her hand, trying to drive her point home. I didn’t get it. It’s not as though the man had ever met me. “Why not?” I wondered if I had done something wrong.

Julie chuckled an angry little laugh with closed eyes, the gesture belying her youth. I wonder how long she had to deal with it. “Because you’re black.” She stated.

It was like I was hit with a wrecking ball. Sure, I had seen movies about this kind of thing, and to give them credit, my parents had warned me that this stuff happened…but this didn’t happen in real life!

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I was angry, but not at her, and I think I yelled at her. I didn’t mean to.
She shook her head, looking away. “Nothing. My dad’s a fucking moron.”
I had never heard her cuss before. This was serious.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. A breeze hit us. It suddenly hit me that I had never been to her house, and she never talked about any family except her grandmother.
“Why don’t you go stay with your mom?” I asked, not liking what that meant. She shook her head, still smiling, lowering her eyes. “She died when I was born.”
“Oh.” This was getting better and better. I didn’t like what this meant, but I didn’t want to see her take another beating, especially it was because of me. “We could…you know, we could always—“
I’ll never forget any of this. She whipped to face me. “No. I’m not gonna do that. You’re my choice, not his. He’s just gonna have to get used to it.”

She hopped down from the fence, looking back to me. “And don’t think this gets you out of taking me to the dance. I’ll just meet you there.”

I chuckled, because I didn’t know what else to do. “Alright.”
She rode off, and I watched her go. I stayed on that fence until the sun went down, turning the sky red. Then I went home.

A week later, the night of the dance, I got a call from Julie’s father.
He had a dark, gravelly voice, as though as he had just gotten out of bed and picked up the phone. He told me that he wanted to meet me, but if I wanted to take his daughter to the dance, that would be just fine. He gives me the address and tells me that I’m free to come over.

I thought things had gotten better. I rode my bike to Julie’s house, and truthfully, I hadn’t thought about how we would get from her house to the dance. Probably would’ve taken the bikes…

I get to her house and leave my bike on the lawn. It’s a quick hope up three stone steps, and the door is open; all I have to do is open the screen.
It’s a small front room, I remember thinking. He’s sitting in a recliner, drinking a can of beer, watching a football game on a little black and white TV. The TV is sitting on a long milk crate. The house smells like old cigarette smoke and urine. There’s a couch directly in front of me, an ugly yellow thing—

Julie is on the couch, in her dress, although I barely recognize her. She’s covered in dried blood, her face is a purple, horrible mess. She’s not smiling. She’s not moving. Her eyes are closed.
Even writing this now, I feel my muscles seizing up. My stomach turned to stone. I felt like throwing up and crying. I had never seen a dead body in real life before.

I walked over to her and lifted her by her shoulders—she was already stiff. That was something else I learned that night; rigor mortis takes about an hour to kick in after death. She was no longer soft, and her skin was hardening. I held her, I lowered my head to her chest—she still smelled like exotic fruit, but it was fading—and I sobbed. I’ve never cried that hard in my life, not before that, and not since. I pleaded with her to wake up. I would’ve done anything. I would’ve sold my soul.

But she didn’t.

The emergency crew showed up within five minutes—the bastard had already called 911. She was dead on arrival. I watched them take her away.

Then they took me away.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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My twelfth year on the planet was easily one of the best years of my life. Julie and I were inseparable most of the time. We established a mental link quickly (maybe it was already there). Whenever she was sad about something, she would lower her head, but maintain a small smile. She was always smiling, no matter what. She would keep her head down, not looking me in the eye. She would reach for me, gently wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me close. I, in turn, would embrace her around the waist and pull her close. I’d hold her as long as she needed me too. When she pulled away, she’d kiss me, thank me, and that resolved her problem.

After a particularly violent night at my house, I showed up to school that following day with an extremely sore shoulder. It hurt to hug Julie, and she immediately went into paramedic mode. She nearly threw me to the ground as she pushed me away (she was always very forceful) as she went up and down my arms, trying to find out why I winced. When she touched my shoulder and I flinched, it was as close as I’d ever seen her to tears. Her eyes were on fire, but not the same fire as to when we first met; this was murderous rage, and I honestly thought she was capable of it as she stared at me.

She didn’t ask who did it, merely asking if it was my mother or father. I didn’t answer.
“Avery.” She declared, “No one deserves to go through this. Not you, not anyone. Do you understand me?”

I had never seen her so serious before. Mesmerized, I could only nod. She grabbed my arm and shook. “NO.” Her voice was quivering, “You fight back, do you understand me? You fight back!”
As usual, I didn’t know what to say. Unable to break eye contact, I shook my head, “I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

What she said next will stay with me forever.

“He’ll kill you anyways.”

The words hung there like an unwelcome presence. She suddenly threw her arms around me and held me as though I was anchoring her in a hurricane. She shook the entire time.

About a month later, she was depressed about something—she never told me what, but I know now. We were over skinny Mike’s house, and she was sitting quietly (a rarity), completely relaxed in a red beanbag chair. Her head leaned against the wall, and she was smiling as though thinking something up, but her eyes were in a faraway place. Neither Mike nor myself knew what to make of the mood.

Peter Cetera’s “Glory of Love” came over the radio. I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I stood up from the couch and walked diagonally across the living room towards her. She didn’t raise her head to look as I approached. Standing in front of her, I extended my hand.
She looked to me as though noticing me for the first time. She looked to my hand, and then raised her eyes to mine as if to say “Are you serious?” She chuckled, blushed, smiled, and accepted my hand.

I closed my eyes for the entire song as I drew her close. I heard the volume raise; Mike had been good enough to turn up the song. Julie began with her arms around my neck and slowly lowered to hook beneath my arms…she wanted it to go on forever too. My face was at her neck, and I took in the exotic fruit fragrance I had begun to associate with her. We stepped together, in rhythm to the music, turning in a circle.

Her fingernails dug into my back as she whispered it, barely audible. “I love you.”
My eyes flashed open; I had never heard that before, not from anyone that wasn’t family. When I tried to look her in the eyes, she held firm, not allowing me to see her face. But in my stomach, my heart, hell, my whole body…I knew no one else on the planet meant as much to me as she did. She was worth everything to me, and there was no reason to even get out of bed in the morning if she wasn’t going to be there, sometime throughout the day, waiting for me. “I love you too.”

But…to all things, an end.

When school resumed, the first time I saw her, as always, I held her tightly. When I pulled her close, she grunted, wincing.
At first, I thought I had hurt her. I had touched the small of her back, which seemed softer than the rest of her.
When I looked into her eyes, I knew. The still waters had been disturbed, and she was fighting to restore them.
She said nothing as I discreetly pulled up the back of her shirt to reveal a bluish, Rorschach-like bruise just to the left of her spine.

The rage that came over me was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I felt as though my insides were boiling as I looked back to her. “Who did this?!”

She quickly pulled her shirt back down, chuckling to restore her composure. “I fell down,” She smiled, “practicing one of those kicks you taught me.”

You know what? I believed her. Why shouldn’t I?
I laughed, asking her why she wasn’t holding onto anything as she practiced. She was happy to be laughing again, saying that she was, after all, part blonde. But she wouldn’t repeat the mistake again.

Yes, we would see each other at lunch. I asked her to a dance that neither of us would ever attend.

And then I said goodbye.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Julie and I had met in March; as school was winding down, it didn’t leave us much time to get acquainted, but we made the most of it. Even though my friends turned away (since I had betrayed them for a girl), nerds can’t really afford to lose friends, so it didn’t last long. Once they gave Julie the time of day, she seemed to fit right in; probably because she was a bigger nerd than the rest of us.

Julie knew more about Star Wars—and everything else—than the rest of us combined. Although we all remained friends, Julie’s fiery nature intrigued me—she could argue about anything. Mostly we would hang out in the library (jocks were allergic to books, we found) and debate which ship was faster; the Millenium Falcon or the Enterprise (she held fast to the Enterprise and broke down scientifically why she was right).

By the time school got out, the two of us were virtually inseparable; I remember one time, early in the morning, she called out my name from across the campus (Julie was never shy). I was hanging out with skinny Mike at the time, but with loads of other kids around, everyone turned to first look at her, and then at me. By now, they were used to it, and went on their way. Julie was never shy.
Anyway, she had her hair in pigtails around that massive head brace, and with the oversized glasses, she epitomized the word ‘nerd’. Even I was embarrassed. Mike chuckled at me and put some distance between us.

Anyway, Julie walks up to me with actual blueprints that she had drawn that previous night; these blueprints actually broke down the propulsion system of the starship Enterprise, which she pointed out as she explained to me why exactly the Enterprise could wipe the floor with the Millenium Falcon.

I liked her, but having a girl so overwhelmingly prove her intellectual superiority at age eleven can be a bit humiliating. But she was a girl with a personality I couldn’t get enough of, so I dealt with it. As always, we ate lunch together that day.

Just before school got out, she told me in casual conversation that she was going up to her grandmother’s in Seattle. She would be gone for the entire summer, but she’d be back before school started; plans we had drawn up for a new lightsaber would have to wait. I didn’t think much of it at the time; she had become part of the routine, and I took her for granted…

Over the summer, I was surprised at how much I missed her. I was thinking about her almost every day, debating whether or not to call her. She never called me, I figured that she was enjoying herself up North, and I would be intruding. I always think I’m intruding with people.

That summer, I stood up to my father for the first time.

When school resumed, she was nowhere to be found.
As time went on, my heart sank at the idea that she might’ve chosen to stay in Seattle. I couldn’t blame her; there wasn’t a lot going on in Castro Valley for kids.
Shortly after I turned twelve, I was at my locker before the first bell in the main hall. I was never sure why that hall, wider than the others, was so dark. I liked to think that since there were so many people passing through it, they just sort of absorbed the light. I was a kid, and I always had a runaway imagination.

I always, even to this day, note a pretty girl walking by. This one was walking directly towards me. Even more disconcerting was that she was looking right at me. And smiling at me in a way that I wasn’t used to.

She was wearing a white short-sleeve shirt that revealed her flat, bare stomach. Her hair was a perfect strawberry blonde that almost looked as though every other strand of her hair had been dyed a light red. Down to her neck, it had the illusions as though she had just gotten out of the shower. She was a little tan, wearing light blue jeans that were tight on her upper legs.

I immediately looked away. Girls like that don’t look at me.
“Hi!” She said brightly, stopping right outside my locker. She surprised me; I jumped as I closed my locker, looking to her and nodding casually. “Hello.” I stepped past her, preparing to go about my business. “What, that’s all I get?” She said immediately, turning and gesturing as though unsure.

I turned back to her, not sure what to say. “Um, I don’t mean any disrespect,” I said, trying to sound meek, not wanting to get this girl’s linebacker boyfriend a reason to fold me up. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“Avery.” She said, chuckling. “It’s me.”
I frowned. Suddenly, I knew that voice. And yet…I was looking at this stunningly gorgeous girl, who was looking at me with those big blue eyes…wait a moment…

My mouth fell open as I studied her. If you added a head brace and glasses, she would’ve been…

“Julie?!”
She laughed out loud, overjoyed that I finally put it together. She took two big steps towards me and jumped into my arms, wrapping her arms and legs around me. As I embrace her, I wonder if this is some kind of dream.
We make seven minutes of small talk, but I freeze when it comes to girls, and I find myself unable to stop staring at her. She picks up on it and giggles occasionally. Where did this girl come from?

The bell rings, signaling that we’re both late. “Well,” she says, her voice having picked up a sultry tone that wasn’t there last year, “We’ll catch up at lunch, okay?”

“Yeah…” I remember forcing the word out. My throat was dry. As she turned to leave, and my eyes wandered a little further south, I called after her. I don’t know where the courage came from. “Julie.”
She turned, still smiling, raising her eyebrows as a silent inquiry.

“I will…see you at lunch, right?” I don’t know why I was so scared to talk to her suddenly. The Julie I had known was a ratty-headed little nerd. What stood before me was a supermodel. And yet…the eyes, the voice, even the walk…it was her. And I…me…I was this girl’s best friend!!

She shook her head, chuckling as though the question was stupid. “Of course, stupid.” She replied. She glided back up to me and quickly kissed me on the cheek, whispering, “I really missed you, Avery.” Before turning and leaving. I watched her go, a million questions flooding my mind, my mouth failing to ask one of them.

That day, at lunch, I asked her if she wanted to go out with me.

She said yes without hesitation.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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It was a traditional California day; sunny and seventy-two. My friends and I, ostracized by the more popular crowd, had taken refuge behind the school during the lunch hour, where we were free to indulge our Jedi-induced fantasies without fear of persecution.

There were four of us; me, two Mike’s, Keith, and Chris. (No matter where I’ve gone, I’ve always known someone named Mike). Of the two Mike’s, one was scrawny and lightning quick. He had endured stomach surgery as an infant which made taking a blow to the gut deadly. He was young, short, tan, and always happy; the kind of friend who always stepped in when his friends started fighting. He would say something stupid and self-deprecating just to lighten the mood. I miss him.

The other Mike was big, slow, and strong as an ox, but not nearly as smart. He had a heart of gold, but we lost contact over the years. Chris, I don’t remember so well; he just always seemed to be around, and we used him to do things we didn’t do, like mess with the big kids.

Keith was our unofficial leader; truthfully, he only ran the group because he was the only one of us who owned all of the Star Wars films. I think I knew more than he did, but Keith was someone who could throw the ultimate bitchfest if he didn’t get it his way. It was easier to just let him think he was right.

Our lunch breaks were spent beating each other up with wooden lightsabers. These long sticks were about two and a half feet long, about half an inch thick, and an inch wide. We would use markers to color the sticks to mimic our favorite Jedi. Mine was green, modeled after Luke in Return of the Jedi.
Funny thing; we never thought to turn these on the big kids when they chose to mess with us. We beat the hell out of each other, though.

We had been doing the Star Wars thing for a few months when a skinny, ratty-headed redhead began to hang around. She wouldn’t say anything to us—back then, I doubted that she could’ve spoken through that monstrous head brace. I also wondered if she could see Venus with those glasses. The first time I ever saw her, she was wearing baggy, faded blue jeans and a horizontally-striped pink-and-white wool sweater. She would look to us longingly—and truthfully, I was curious about her, but Keith would always snap me back to attention.

About two weeks after she started haunting us, she worked up the nerve to approach. Her voice was shy, but forceful, as if she was restraining something (she was. I know this now). She asked simply; “Can I play?”

Keith looked at her incredulously. “Are you kidding? No girls allowed!” And he turned his back on her. I held eye contact with her as Keith commanded us to move away. She didn’t cry, didn’t show any type of emotion. She simply turned and walked away.

She didn’t ask again after that. She simply sat beneath the lone tree and watched intently as we went to work on each other. I remember thinking to myself, wondering what she was doing. Now I know she was studying.

About a month later, she approached again. This moment, I will never forget as long as I live, because it was the most courageous thing I had ever seen up to that point.
She had a “lightsaber” of her own, this one with bike handle frillies hanging from the end. Hers was a deep purple. “I have an idea.” She said, the quiet, yet authorititave voice booming from this mousy little girl. “I bet you that I can beat every single one of you.”
I remember chuckling when I heard that. No way I was about to beat up a girl.
“If I can beat every single one of you,” She said, “Can I join? Please?”

I really didn’t know what to think. I had never heard anything like that before. Keith started laughing. “Sure, okay.” He said. He practically shoved chubby Chris towards Julie. “Here, you go first.”
She stood rigid, feet at shoulder-width. Her eyes were on fire, her mouth closed as tight as it could over that damn metal brace. Her arms were straight, lowered to about her stomach as she held the stick diagonally upwards. Again, I’d never seen that kind of focus before.

She beat Chris in two moves. To this day, I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. The first move deflected his attack, the second was a clean swipe across his midsection that collapsed him and sent him crying.

Skinny Mike was next. He didn’t fare much better, but he lasted longer. She must’ve known about his sensitive stomach, because she tagged him in the back. Fat Mike went down in three moves, and she only took that long because his swings were so powerful.

Keith, rattled, told me to go next. I was scared, but at the same time, I was looking forward to it. I mimicked her stance, hoping to take something from it. She had absolutely no fear in her face as we squared off.

When I came at her, she tried to take me down with the same move she used on Chris. I held my sword level with my stomach and allowed her to pass by me.
The rest of the fight was a blur. Neither of us ever stopped moving, I remember watching her feet, trying to get a bead on her next move even as our sticks thwacked off of each other. She was almost defying gravity; her feet were never on the ground simultaneously. As one touched, the other took off, and her offense began anew. It was safe to say that throughout our first fight, she was the aggressor. Sometimes our sticks struck with such force that the clash reverberated throughout the school. It transcended a simple sparring match and became something epic—igniting my love of physical combat. I wasn’t even aware of some of the motions, I just knew they were right.

And then I hesitated.
I saw an opening at the top of her head as one of her attacks went wide, forcing me to lunge back. I was immediately coming back down, delivering the ‘killing’ blow to the top of her skull…and then I realized I was about to hit a girl…and I exhaled. I froze. In that second, she brought her stick up to mine and knocked it cleanly from my hands. In that same motion, she leveled her stick with my neck.

She was red and nearly hyperventilating. It was the first time we ever looked into each other’s eyes.
Again, I exhaled; “You win.” I conceded.
Of course, Keith had to get his two cents in. He ran off a string of expletives, mostly about how I froze and if I had just hit her, I would’ve won. But that’s not the way I work.

Keith had no intention of letting a girl join our ranks. He commanded the others and they all left.

I stayed with her, apologizing for Keith’s actions. I asked her where she learned to do that, and she smiled through metal and mentioned a few books she had checked out. She loved to read.

I extended my hand, which was still quivering from the battle. “I’m Avery.”

She cocked her head, smiling and accepting the gesture. “I’m Julie.”

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Well, let’s see.
Through writing, I was able to retire Busterwolf, launch a writing career, and even make peace with my father. So, if I can do all of that…

When we met, I was eleven. She was a ratty little nerd back then, like the rest of us, and she wanted to be in our little Star-Wars group (oh yeah, we got ALL the girls, let me tell you). She made us a wager–her victory guaranteed that she would be accepted. She then fought her way in, beating us all one at a time.

She came back to school that following year absolutely gorgeous, but blessedly, still a nerd. We hooked up shortly after that.
She was always happy. I only once saw her sad, only once did she ever cry in front of me. She took joy in life itself, grateful just to be able to get up that day.
She had big, green, penetrating emerald eyes. She put her hand on my shoulder and looked through me, as she always did. She said; “Avery, just go for it.”
She taught me not to waste time complaining. She taught me that actions go further than words. She taught me to take joy in the little things.

She didn’t care where I came from or what I endured. She didn’t care how angry I was. She wasn’t afraid of me. She always knew exactly what to say. She was the first girl I ever loved. She was the first girl who ever looked at me, told me she loved me, and meant it. She was the first person who made me believe I was worth loving.

She taught me that it was okay to fight back.

She taught me that it was okay to be myself, no matter what anyone else thought.

We never fought. I think, because of what we both went through, we knew life was too short for that.

Our best moment was when we were both hanging out at a friends house. Peter Cetera’s “Glory of Love” came over the radio. I walked up to her, and extended my hand. She accepted (looking at me as though I was a dork), and wrapped her arms around my neck as I pulled her close. I held her as tightly as I could, my eyes closed, my head lowered to her shoulder as I memorized every inch of her; the perfume she wore, the freckles on her skin, to the gentle way her hand ran down my back…

I could’ve died happy, right then and there.

When I was thirteen, she was murdered.

Life got…very interesting after that.

A lot of how I live my life was inspired by the way Julie lived hers. It’s been almost twenty years, and I still think of her pretty frequently. It was the first experience I ever had with true love, and it gave me something to look for later in life.

I’m going to start telling her story; how we met, the times we had together, and her death which still haunts me to this day. If I can put everything else to bed, then I can put this away as well.

I loved her. A part of me will always love her. But I need to let her go now.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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