the SEVEN-FIVE project

2003-04-12 - 12:06 p.m.

"Seven, huh? That's kind of interesting. There's probably even a story behind it."

"I wouldn't call it much of a story. Seven was Mickey Mantle's number. My dad hoped I would play Major League ball one day, but I grew up hating the game.
"He telling the story of his name? God I hate that story." Natalie put our drinks and cheese fries down as she spoke.
"Thanks Natalie, you're somewhat encouraging."
"Only for you, little brother."
Nikki just sat there in silence during our little exchange. She played with the straw in her coke until Natalie walked away. I noticed her eyes darting around the room, trying to take in every bit of movement, every little bit of noise. But when someone caught her staring and began to stare back she quickly moved her gaze back to her drink.
"So Nikki, since we're sharing, why don't you tell me something about you."I grabbed a few fries after I spoke.
"Nothing much to tell. I'm stuck here in this town for a while because my parents decided I whould be punished somehow and the only thing they could come up with is to completely cut me off from everyone and everything I know. And no one in this town will help me out, let alone talk to me, just because of who my family is. You're the only one who has actually made any type of attempt with me." She said, slumping back in her chair, a slight pout crossing her lips.
"Well, that sounds like something of a story to me. Since I'm oblivious to most things, why don't you tell me who your family is?"
"You know the car plant in town?" I nodded. "Well my parents are Vice Presidents in the company that owns it. Their divisions are the ones who keep throwing around the idea of closing down the plant and moving it to Mexico. Well, all of that and they seem to be scared of they way I dress and look.
"I don't think that many people know who you or your parents are. I think its just more of you being different than what they're used to. Anything different make people around here a little leary. Hell, I've lived here my whole life and I still get stares. Mostly because of these." I raised both my arms over the table and turned them over slowly.
She reached up and ran her hands over my scars, feeling the texture of each one. She leaned forward some and looked closer at the tattoos that attempted to cover the scars. After a few minutes of looking and feeling I pulled my arms back and leaned forward on the table. Silence hung between us like a curtain. We just stared at each other for a few moments, then she spoke.
"Can I ask what the scars are from?"

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