Fictional Narrative

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I spent the majority of seventh grade looking at the back of Ryan Caneda’s head and sighing wistfully. He had all the trademarks of the Myspace generation and I loved him for it. Admittedly, the way his shiny brown hair swooped over one eye like an Anime hero was what intrigued me at first, but I knew I was caught: hook, line and sinker by the way he radiated mall-bought tween angst from every pore of his being. All the Spencer’s Gifts and Hot Topic stores in the world could convince me less of his profound individualism. I often spent my allotted hour of Internet searching for, then copying and pasting song lyrics into my online profile in order to trumpet the depth and anguish of my troubled soul, hoping to impress him. I dyed my hair pink and purple to match my “edgy” new style of dress, one akin to Ryan’s ratty band t-shirts and tight jeans. I noted with quiet fascination that he sometimes smelled like weed and beer, which made me fall even deeper in love with him because how dangerous. It was safe to say that 99% of my actions and reactions during this time were based on what Ryan would think if he were there with me. Conversely, there were a few people in my life who did not feel as enamored with Ryan. While my parents saw my burgeoning pubescence as a time that they should allow me to engage in self-expression, my best friend, Nicole and her mother, Robin took it upon themselves to point out that my recent interests were of the devil. Of course, Nicole and Robin

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