𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐗 𝐎𝐂

𝐢𝐢. ✭ 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔

AUGUST, 1959; CHARLIE

𝘞𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮,
𝘐 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘳,
𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
𝘖 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘣,
𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘰,
𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘣'𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

- Walt Whitman

Background Music
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-Bang Bang by Dizzy Gillespie-
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"Charlie...where's that first-day smile?" My mom lilts in a sing-song voice. A cheery smile sits on her face as she shifts her gaze over to me, expectantly waiting for my response. Her colorful fingernails click against the steering wheel. They are painted blue, yellow, and light pink. Each nail alternating in shade.

Looking out and up through the car's front window, I eye the loudly ringing bell tower. Boys from eleven to eighteen are ambling into the stony hall built beside it. Each one wearing the standard prep boy uniform.

"Oh, I don't know." I shrug, sighing in a tone that contrasts Mom's sunniness. "Somewhere back in 1953 when I was a sweet child, before I had to attend Hell-ton."

My mother is the only person in the entire world with enough sarcasm to match me. "A sweet child, Charles? Are we talking about the same preteen who let loose the dissection frogs the second day he arrived here all those years ago?" She wears the same smirk I do yet her eyes are soft. I can tell she's thinking about the past. "My Charlie is hilarious? Yes. Witty? Of course. A shit starter? Absolutely."

My lips are turned in a wry fashion and I can feel the corners of my eyes crinkle when I gaze at my Mom. She's an old bird. Forty-something. A lovely forty-three. That's what she calls herself.

My mother was a single one after I turned twelve. That's when she left my father, got a neat-o cottage about an hour away, and started painting. She paints stuff in her garden mostly. Although, The Charles, is her specialty. I've sat for her portraits at least three dozen times.

"I can be sweet." I can't help but challenge her. It's too fun. I demonstrate my sweetness with dramatics, clasping my hands together and pinning them to my chin. "Me, oh, my, my mother so dear and wonderful and amaaaazing."

She narrows the brown eyes we share and coos,   "I stand corrected. Charles Fitzgerald Dalton,  the angel." Mom reaches over and ruffles my hair up.

"Woman!" I cry, pulling the rearview mirror down so I can fix the mess she's caused. "The 'do was perfect!" With my palm, I flatten down any stray hairs.