LJ Idol: Why I and My Two Opponents All Deserve to Win

[drippedonpaper]

"We were young and we were free
Unsure of who we had to be."

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The neighborhood changed once Gary moved in. He was different. Creative. Full of ideas for competition, whether it was who could arrive at the bus stop first or who brought the best lunch. He was popular at first because he was new. Where did he come from? All the girls wondered, was he single? (Some of the boys wondered too, but wouldn't admit it.)

But Gary's popularity lasted long beyond the typical "new kid" time of shining. He had a random mind and a charisma that somehow, you kept coming back for more.

For Gary knew how to draw us in. How? No one can quite explain how his ideas of ways to compete made us all want to succeed.

The older we got, the more our sleep patterns changed. Our parents complained how we could "sleep away half the day, why are you so lazy?" What our parents never realized is we weren't lazy at all. We were up at all hours due to Gary, always Gary.

Gary's yard was huge and somehow he persuaded his parents to let him build a fire pit in the backyard. And this wasn't just any fire pit! Gary found one made of old wheels. It was ingenious really! It had a crank so as the wheel turned, the fire was fed. The more the wheel turned, the higher the flames.

But this was Gary. So it wasn't enough to have the coolest fire pit ever! No, Gary was full of ideas. One night while we were sitting out, watching the flames, he spun an amazing tale of the magical origin of his fire pit, how it was forged by elves and witches, magic beaten into every bit of metal. For this was no ordinary fire pit, this was the Wheel of Chaos!

Gary had a way of whispering intensely, his voice building as his story grew. When he finally shouted, "The Wheel of Chaos!" suddenly a log fell hard into the fire, sparks jumped and we all screamed! The girls clutched the nearest boys (which the boys actually really enjoyed). Gary laughed. He said, "It's not just a wheel which runs of wood and charcoal. This Wheel of Chaos demands sparks of creativity and the chaotic competition. We all must feed the flames or the fire will consume us all!"

There was a wildness in his eyes when he said that. For one second, I wondered just how far Gary might go. Would he truly set the neighborhood on fire if we didn't enter his crazy competition? He was new. Was testing this theory worth a chance?

But we were young. Gary's ideas were fun. Why not? That's the stage of our lives, we followed any wild idea and we had the time to do so.

Our parents started to wonder what was up with us though. "Off to Gary's wheel, we'll be late tonight!" we'd yell, "Gary's what? A bonfire? What are you kids smoking over there? Maria? Maria, get back in here!"

But I didn't hear that last part. The fire beckoned. The magical dancing flames where, in the embers, anything seemed possible.

Gary was the Wizard of the flames. His competition to keep the fire going was simple. We would meet, encircle the fire, and tell stories. What shape they took didn't matter. But Gary as Grand King of the flames got to pick what our prompt was each night.

The words and phrases he came up with were never easy. And there we were, every other teen in the neighborhood staring at us as we tried to invent a story or poem on the spot. Fiction or not, the form didn't matter, but when Gary called your name, you had to be ready to stand and say something.

It was like the world's most twisted version of truth or dare. Sometimes, under the pressure of recitation, we would end up saying the only thing the prompt could make us think of, how that word reminded us of an abuse in our past or a bad break-up. I learned so much through the Wheel. I wasn't alone. Even the popular kids wondered if they belonged. Even some of the pretty girls felt ugly. Sometimes I felt it was less a Wheel of Chaos and more a Wheel of Truth, every night, cranking out to me, that in our fears, we are all the same.

I often worried I would get teased at high school for the ways I bared my heart before the flames. Even fiction was a window into my soul, for I, the composer, couldn't help but tint a story with my thoughts, my hopes, my fears.

But somehow the Wheel was sacred. What was spoken there was only for the Wheel.

Teens told their stories. Some ended up offering confessional love poems. Couples were made and couples broke up based on what was offered up before the wheel. And somehow the wheel stayed a separate space. A shyer girl, I truly hoped by offering the best story I could conjure at the Wheel, that somehow I could become part of a group. The Wheel drew so many at the beginning. They were clap for my stories when, if Gary felt it was due, he would solemnly turn the crank, drop a log and boom! I would move on to the next week of competition. My pride in that moment was boundless.

If I could win the wheel with creativity, surely I could win a spot in a social circle in our high school. I offered the best I could of my heart, praying a log would drop, cheering in my heart when it did, and hoping I could see results the next day in the cafeteria. But the Wheel was sacred, was separate and sometimes the only time we shy ones could shine.

Competitions are tough. Some teens had a true life, so they would "bye, Gary! I'm out" and leave on dates or for a shift at their jobs. Every evening we lost more and more until, one night, there were only 3.

Around the Wheel sat only K inkstainedfingertips ("Call me Inkfingers"), Lolita l0lita (the prettiest girl in school), Gary, and me.

I couldn't believe it. That Inkfingers and lolita remained, I could believe. Both had endless wells of stories to retell. Somehow Inkfingers' stories were always perfect for the shadows of a bonfire, often ending with someone dying or being mained. His stories often made it hard for me to sleep at night. They would start common enough, with a story anyone could assume was true, but somehow the world of his stories contained demon, magic, ghosts and spirits. I wondered if violent stories were due to the pulsing testosterone of all teen boys or if they hid love and pain and longing. As a guy, did he feel the only acceptable emotion was anger at injustice so he gave himself villains to vanquish, to spill upon them what he could no longer hold? I wanted to ask, but he seemed so talented, all I could do was clap at the end, hoping my eyes betrayed the admiration his talent deserved.

I envied his talent. I wanted to become Inkfingers. I knew one day he'd be the Stephen King of our times. I felt the best I might could hope for is a mention an acknowledgement page of one best seller he would one day write. I hoped he'd remember me, if I was lucky. Maybe my name was the only part of me to ever make it to print.

Lolita, ah now she was marvel. She moved here just before school started. The Wheel competition was already in full swing, but somehow she lucked out. I shouldn't say "lucked out." She took her rightful place as her talent deserved. Gary opened the floor to new contestants and if she didn't stand up and steal the spotlight, quickly establishing that not only did she desevere to tell her stories, she deserved to shine. It was a hard call who was the best among us. Inkfingers, Lolita or ... me (Maria)?

Maria. I always wondered why my name was so plain. Lolita, why that was straight out of literature, edgy literature to be honest. And Inkfingers, what a title. I couldn't tell if it echoes of creativity or creepiness or something in between. Why couldn't I come up with something like that.

I often felt I somehow found myself standing at the end of our weeks of competition just due to lack of a social life. So many who were better story tellers had to "Bye, Gary" early in the weeks of our competition. I felt sure if they had stayed, there were be no way I was one of the three left standing.

But here we were and "It's almost the New Year, you hippies." Gary drawled, poking the fire. "And you know what a New Year demands? A sacrifice!"

Lolita and I jumped.

Gary laughed. "Not a human sacrifice. I think my parents would draw the line at that. I think. Probably shouldn't test that. I mean, it's time. Tonight's the night. Last stories and then the wheel decides who ends this year the Keeper of the Flames."

"The Keeper of the Flames?" Lolita asked.

"The winner. The ultimate conqueror. The only one who has to dance naked by the fire ...I mean, never mind, did I say that outloud?"

Inkfingers laughed. "I'm hoping you hope it's one of these ladies, dude. Seriously!" He dug his elbow into Gary and they both chortled.

"I mean, it's time. January 1st is a New Year. Next year will be a new competition. So it's time to close it out. Which one of you can turn this Wheel for the last time?"

I trembled. I wanted to win so bad. Inkfingers was suave, talented and bound to be famous. Lolita with brains, beauty and endless versatility in story presentations, both of them would go far but me, me, I'd almost be willing to do that naked dance by the fire. Anything to win, to feel a spark of approval, to feel I actually accomplished something someone else cared about before I snuck back into the shadows.

"Are you...You will have more competitions, right?" I tentatively asked Gary.

"I will. But will you be there? Will you be there?" He turned around the fire in his menacing, charismatic way, pointing at each of us in turn.

Would we be there? The few, the faithful. We could try again, but as Gary pointed I remembered Luna, story-teller extraordinaire. She told the best stories of all until that one night she wasn't by the fire.

We thought she was late or maybe sick. I am forever ashamed that I was glad that night as we never had enough time for everyone to tell their stories. There was a complex system of turns that Gary alone kept track of. Luna wasn't there so somehow I move up in the queue.

My stories were always my best, but I felt the contrast with others sometimes shaded mine in shadows. Luna wasn't there that night, which built my confidence. It was a shining memory, until we learned of Luna's accident.

The next time we met, the only stories we told were of Luna. At the end, for the first time, Gary extinguished the flames while we were there. "I pour this water in memory of Luna, may her creativity forever flow" Gary proclaimed solemnly.

He then had us line up, as one by one he drew a crescent moon on each forehead with an ashy finger. "For Luna," he intoned.

"For Luna," we each responded.

As here we gathered, around the fire of our youth, adulthood lurked within the shadows. With three of us still standing, I wondered if I could ever find significance in my life. If I didn't win tonight, perhaps the best I could hope would be that Gary would continue to hold bonfires, that one night the fire could be doused in my honor.

I wondered, as teens often do, would he draw an "M" of ash on everyone's forehead? I shuddered. I think Inkfinger's stories had me seeing death in every shadow.

Some people get happy endings right?

What did our adult lives hold?

I only knew that if tonight was the end, if there were a way, I never wanted to leave this fire. It was chilly, forecasters said it would snow tomorrow but tonight, tonight I felt seen. I wasn't sitting alone in my room. Tonight, I had a story to tell and actually had people to listen. Tonight, someone would hear the voice in my head that was never quiet.

There was Lolita, smiling at me. I watched the firelight shine on her long hair. Her stories were genius, we all thought so. I loved listening to them. In a way, Lolita and Inkfingers were the yin and the yang. Two types, so different. Light and darkness, a perfect contrast. And me? Why was I there?

I was glad I wasn't Gary. I didn't know how he would decide the winner tonight, but I knew I never could.

As much as I wanted to be seen, to be known, to have it whispered around school that "Maria won! Maria? Which girl was that again?" I also couldn't see taking it away from Lolita or Inkfingers. Inkfingers wasn't a school athlete. Though he beat the heck out of others in Quizbowl, I knew he would love to have his creativity acknowledged. Competition and winning matter, but especially, it seemed, to the guys at school.

Lolita was new and winning could launch her into the popular crowd probably. She just needed more people repeating her name. Her talent was undeniable.

I strongly thought about not taking my turn that night. If I refused, then Inkfingers or Lolita would win.

But we had come too far. I'd come each time, reciting my story one night when I probably had the flu (I did try to stand away from others at least) and spinning a tale even the week that Mike stood me up for prom. As I reminisced on our year, I realize what a gift Gary had given us.

What happened that year had shaped my stories, even the fiction ones. Mike standing me up for prom hurt so much that I was able to spin a passionate story of love, betrayal and revenge that week. Somehow Gary, giving us these times by the fire, helped me (and probably others) cleanse our blood in the flames. Our hurt and pain and anger dropped away beside the fire, 'til we crept into the shadows, quietly walking home, moving on, contemplating what we might compose next week rather than lingering on our past pain.

The Wheel of Fire was something to look forward to. Terrifying, electrifying, full of uncertainty, but a reason to get up in the morning. No matter that (still) I rarely had anyone to sit with at lunch.

As long as the Wheel endured, I had my place by the fire. And maybe that meant we were all winners, after all, thanks to Gary.