TRACES SPRING 2016 - Page 55

Ryan, a boy whose hair sticks out of the back of his helmet, his head shakes when people tell him good game or nice goal, and tiny feet gracefully hit the rink. As soon as a passerby comes to say a simple hello, he flees to the outskirts. Eyes that resemble a puppy, warm and welcoming, but a face you can never remember.

As his favorite Nirvana song blasts on the alarm clock, he drags himself out of bed at the crack of dawn, just to get through the next few hours. A red henley and jeans, grasped off of the tower of clothing next to his bookshelf, covered in dust bunnies and shut books. Walls plastered with medals and plaques, hitting his shoulder as he brushes against them. The rumble of a school bus disappears into the distance, and he is late yet again.

Walking down the creaky stairs, he’s peering around the corner to see a tornado in the works. Two teenage twin sisters, whining over what to wear, his dad, in his W.V.U. sweatshirt and jeans. Plates in the sink up to the ceiling, hockey equipment scattered across the floor, and and his mother, hair put up into a sloppy bun. Saying nothing, he scavenges for his Vans, laying under a chair; silently slipping out of the door, he trips over his shoelaces.

A backpack half on his shoulder, he begins walking toward the dungeon, in which, he calls high school. Just like any other normal day, he walks on the edges of the halls, where he gets empty glares, and goes to sit in the back of class. He stares out the window, envisioning himself, not at school, but at hockey. The one place he belongs.

By: Lexi Loughner

The hockey player