If I'm Good For Anything by K.B.F. (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📕

that would forever remain a part of my memory. She had long dark hair, and striking bone structure. She was wearing a lot of black also, and was kind of obnoxious. Her name was Vivian, it appeared fitting. Her boyfriend was bald, dressed in oversized jeans and a vintage tee. He looked at me and smiled. He was in the band with Clay, and he played the drums.
“I want to hear,” I tried to sound chipper, but I was a little scared of them to be frank.
Clay picked up his guitar and asked me what I wanted to hear. I told him to surprise me. After talking with the bald guy, who I later learned was Jack, he told me to take a seat next to the girl and listen. It was Lithium by Nirvana.
During this time I had somewhat of an obsession with Kurt Cobain. Clay introduced me to his best friend, a huge Nirvana fan. His name was Nolan.
“Your kind of weird” I said to him, and smiled.
I liked that, but I didn’t say it out loud. He was handsome, not just cute like Clay, and a jock. I wondered how on earth they had become friends. He winked at me. I began to feel a little guilty.
Time passed, and Clay began to introduce me as his girlfriend. We grew closer, and closer. His friends became mine. I picked up smoking, a nasty habit he’d acquired from all the late night bar gigs. I also began wearing a lot of black, and replaced my earrings with gages.
Clay became my partner against the world. We were mad, and artistic. He saw things in a different light. I was addicted to more than just the cigarettes.
When I was sixteen he told me that he always imagined love to just be something people did because they had to. He summed it up that night on my front lawn. “Get married, have sex, and grow old together.” He was leaving. The cold air was burning my lungs, but I didn’t care. We sat for a long time before he spoke. He said he was wrong. I sat silent. He loved me. I smirked. His words became distant as I imagined what a life with Clay might be like. Three kids, broke, and a double shift flipping burgers. There was a bitter taste in my mouth.
I watched as his car disappeared around the street corner. For the first time in my life I realized what it meant to want to be alone.
Every day of the past summer had been nothing but pure bliss with him. Thinking back now, I know it was nothing special. Isn’t that how all young summers are spent in the south? Some days you can just hop in the car, wishing it could end with a ring on your finger, or a skinny dip at Copeland Mill. There is something about the smell of honey suckle that causes the eyes to wonder.
I could almost feel the warmth of the sun beaming down on me as I recalled one day in particular.
My black Mary Janes on the dash, his hand in mine, and I couldn’t have been more content.
“Where are we going?” I smiled.
“Who cares?” His big brown eyes flashed.
He could have ruled the world with those eyes, that smile. Charming. He played his guitar for me, changing all the lyrics to add in my name. He was a bad boy with a good soul. Not everyone got fair chances in life, he believed. His dad left when he was little, his mom shot at gun point in a parking lot in Atlanta.
I felt sorry for him. I listened to his troubles, his ideas and theories on life. He believed in a lot of the supernatural, and easy living. He pretended not to have a southern accent.
He wrote me love letters. Amazing love letters with beautiful words, and song lyrics in the margins of the paper. He kissed my hands, and told me I was the most remarkable woman in the world. He believed in waiting for marriage.
He needed something in his life. I remember him saying this sometime in the fall. I was turning seventeen and he, being a year older, was thinking a lot more about college. I thought he wanted to make a commitment to me, and surprisingly I found myself a little excited.
He had joined a church. They were like his family he said. He said he could play his music for more than just an audience. He said he could play for the Lord. He went on to tell me that I was the object of his sins.
“There are things about you that will never change,” he frowned.
I wanted to be a part of this. I wanted to feel everything that he was feeling. So I went.
Everyone was nice. I had been to church a lot when I was younger. My family had “raised me Baptist.” I knew the ins and outs. I was polite and listened, bowed my head and closed my eyes during prayer. I even knew when to say Amen.
Months passed and there wasn’t a day to go by when the church had its’ doors open and I wasn’t there. During the course of the few months I had become a member, started volunteering in the nursery, and even raised money for a youth trip. I had finally found a purpose. But at night, when I laid my head down to sleep, I still cried.
I had seen it all. My Sunday dress felt like a costume. My fellow Church members went about like a company, and I was just another actress. I had been down every road and back only to find at the end of the day that I was hollow.
One Wednesday night our pastor called a member’s meeting. His wife had cancer. She needed treatments. The medical cost were going to be insurmountable. He explained to us he had two options. He first began by stating he needed an increase in salary. One older deacon barely let the pastor finish his sentence before jumping out of his seat.
“You know we don’t have that kind of money!” He proclaimed defensively.
“I do know,” he responded kindly. “That is why I am asking the church to allow me to take a second job. If I do not have your permission for this, I must leave.”
There was a quiver in his voice. I felt a flutter in my stomach. I just knew we could all pull together and help his family out. Brother Hammond was the best thing to happen to this tiny church in a long while. His wife and daughter had more generosity and consideration for others than Mother Teresa herself. I knew that although her pain may be great, God only allowed it in order to fill others with compassion.
“We can’t spare your time,” an elderly woman called from the back.
“We would just have to pay someone else to fill in for you!” mentioned the music director.
My heart sunk. When the votes were tallied and announced, I was not surprised. Brother Hammond walked out the front door crying that night. I lost hope.
My mannerisms began slipping with the loss of spiritual inspiration. I couldn’t help but think wicked thoughts about the promiscuous girl in our youth group. Curse words started to fall out of my mouth like an avalanche. I had no interest in the morals of our new pastor’s stories. I began catching myself taking long glimpses of Nolan during prayer. I couldn’t wait for service to be over sometimes just to speak to him. When lunch was mentioned after church I prayed that Clay would invite him. Guilt over my growing crush began to fade with my faith. It seemed as though everything I had worked so hard to change was merely a fleeting phase. Life began to grow more harsh. My view of the world slowly reverted back to the belief that society is ruthless, and forgiveness is nonexistent.
My mom had begun to receive disturbing phone calls. My grandmother was going to die. She had been ill for years, there wasn’t much more they could do. At the age of sixty-five her kidneys had failed. She was ready to go, wanted to go. Her parents were in heaven, her brother too. One Saturday night in late spring, she marked her Bible, and went.
When my alarm sounded the next day, I pulled the plug and watched the sun rise. I wasn’t going to church this morning.


Chapter 3
I can see the outline of seagulls beginning to skim the water, circling the beach for a morsel of food. I can’t help but notice there is a small, but rather loud, bird hopping around the shoreline on what appears to be one mangled looking leg. I cringe and tell myself it is only an illusion of shadows cast under the rising sun, but the image jars my memory so aggressively that I am now holding my breath.
I could never understand why my mom had invested so many years into caring for her mother. She told me the horrific stories of her childhood. I heard tales of things I couldn’t fathom a woman ever doing to her baby. The physical mistreatment was bad, but the mental abuse was unimaginable.
My mother was an intense woman, still is to this day. There was never a time I felt she couldn’t fight for me. Whether it was a callous teacher or a malicious ex-boyfriend my Mom always had my back. I suppose that is why I always felt in-debt to her, and even terrified at times.
Lura Glynn Moore, my mother, grew up on a farm. Her father left when she was young. She didn’t mind, because the things she had heard of him were scary. Her mother, known by most as Dot, was one of nine children. Dot was thrifty, crafty, and a little off her rocker. She loved to bake, and to garden. She saw beauty in the most unlikely of places. She had a temper.
When Lura was eighteen her twelfth grade councilor told her she wasn’t smart enough to go to college. So, she married her high school sweetheart,