Only Two Hours       by: Jillian Mandelkern

    Jim dreamt that his whole body was covered in a scab. He awoke
scratching his arm furiously. He examined his body, and realizing there
was no scab, exhaled.
    Jim was fully awakened by the dream, although it was only six on a
Saturday morning. He put on a T-shirt and walked to the window of his
bedroom. He pressed his face against the foggy glass. No one was outside and
the street was quiet; but then again, thought Jim, the street was always
quiet.
    The windowsill felt wet but it was just cold. Jim breathed and made a
hole in the fog. He smiled so hard that he almost laughed.
He switched on his stereo, plugged in the headphones and turned it up as
loud as it would go without being heard by anyone else. He listened to the
music his mother hated, the CD with repetitive choruses and cusses. This was
the only time she wouldn't bust into his room with something to dust and ask
him if he was listening to trash.
    Jim cracked his knuckles as he thought about his friend Derek. Derek was
one of the few friends he actually liked. He was kind of quiet and never lied
or harassed him about Patricia, the girl Jim liked for two years without ever
asking out. He would never tell Derek that he was glad to have him as a
friend, but he imagined telling Patricia about it if they hung out in his
basement sometime. He just wanted to hang out with her and watch movies and
talk. But she wasn't that kind of girl. She was the kind that went to parties
all the time and laughed really loud about nothing just so the whole crowd
noticed. But in some way she was aloof and that's why Jim was interested in
her. He hoped some day she'd let her guard down. That's why he couldn't get
over her.
    He took off his headphones and walked to his mirror. He smiled, then
raised an eyebrow, then ruffled his hair with gel. He curled his toes in the
carpet and saw a pimple on his forehead that wasn't there the day before. He
started to squeeze it but it hurt too badly.
    Jim noticed the scent of Old Spice deodorant and the pile of socks by the
door. His room was the only place that seemed totally his. Technically, his
parents owned it, but it was still his room. Just outside his door was
another place with a different smell, different sounds and a different
atmosphere.
    Someone was in the hallway. As the footsteps came closer, Jim could tell
it was his father headed for the bathroom. His mother shuffled to the kitchen
for coffee and his sister switched on her own radio.
    The sun was bright and shone through Jim's window sternly, as if warning
that it was time to get out of bed. Jim closed the blinds. He pushed the
pillows around his bed and sat down. The TV was on in the living room. He
heard his father rustling the newspaper. Everyone was awake. Jim climbed
back into bed and yanked the covers over his head. Early Saturday mornings
were the best part of the week, but they only lasted a couple of hours.
    He tried to fall asleep again but he was annoyed. He knew that when he
came downstairs at one o'clock his parents would call him a lazy bum and ask
him how he could sleep so late.
    Jim clutched his blanket. His parents didn't get it. It was their world
most of the time. Jim only had it for two hours a week.

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