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by Shaara
Rated: E · Short Story · Teen · #754508
She wanted to please her boyfriend, but then everything went wrong.
Prompt: Use the following objects: toothpick, plastic crate, model paint
situation: house guests coming
Words: 465

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Painted Crates



         My boyfriend from high school was bringing a couple of his friends to check out the university -- no cause to get all excited, but I was. I wanted, for some mad reason, to impress them all with my new room. Since it only consisted of a bed, a rickety card table, and a couple of cardboard boxes full of clothes, that wasn’t going to be easy to do.

         So, I did what any impoverished college student does; I jogged over to the Salvation Army in search of a couple of pieces of furniture.

         They had nothing but huge, ugly couches. I picked up a couple of plastic crates, thinking they would be an improvement over my tired moving boxes. They were starting to look like a gorilla had sat on them and mouthed their edges.

         The purchased crates were old dairy milk carriers, gray and ugly. I figured that in a pinch I could throw beach towels over them and call them chairs. The only problem is that I didn’t have any beach towels.

          I shrugged and decided to carry the garbage out. On the way downstairs, I saved Lydia from tossing her red model paint. That would come in handy!

         Back up in my room, I used a rag and painted some polka dots and stripes on the crates. When finished, the crates looked amazingly good.

         But my window wouldn’t stay open, and the fumes started getting to me. I could have propped the window open with a textbook, but I needed to resell the books when the term ended.

         Luckily I remembered the toothpick I’d grabbed at a fast food restaurant. That would do it!

         Well, I have to tell you, toothpicks aren’t made the way I thought they were. The window bent that one like it was a melting snowman. Then it snapped it in two. Meanwhile my head felt like an angry hammer was trying to get out. The room was starting to spin. I lifted up the window and carelessly jammed my textbook under it. Then I got out of there.

         Outside in the lawn, nausea hit me. I lay down, waiting for it to pass. Next thing I knew, my landlady was shaking me from side to side.

         “What?” I said bolting upright.

         “I sent them upstairs.”

         “Who?”

         “Well, one of them said he was your boyfriend. Didn’t you tell me. . .?”

         I jumped up without answering her and ran up the stairs to my room. Dirty laundry was still lying all over my bed, halfway sorted into piles, and David was sitting on one of the newly painted plastic crates.

         David stood up to come give me a hello kiss, and, of course, the crate came with him. The others all laughed, but they were sitting on the crates, too!

         “You’re hours early,” was all I could think of to say.

         Now there's no more pretty polka-a-dots and stripes on my plastic crates, and, also, no more David.


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