Remembering Summer

I am taking long bike rides over giant hills with wet hair and golden sun. I am rhyming a la The Princess Bride and sipping smoothies and playing on playgrounds. I am taking goofy cell phone pictures and wearing sunscreen and wearing T-shirts and shorts with beaten-up flip flops. I am lying in bed and searching the house top to bottom for things to do, and I am exploring the neighborhood. I am taking tennis lessons and pottery classes and swimming lessons and cooking classes and babysitting courses and soccer lessons. I am going shopping and swimming and swinging in the park and accumulating more freckles on my face and arms.

I am swimming across the lake, and balancing on a wooden beam, and making a spastic, yet still enthusiastic attempt to shoot a target with a bow and arrow. I am making hemp bracelets and friendship bracelets and lanyards and dream catchers. I am eating mostly edible mess hall food and playing ping pong and dressing up. I am crammed onto a bus going up into the mountains, and I am sitting at a campfire and singing and laughing. I am having the rag tied around my neck, and promising myself to make things better.

I am sitting in the sun and getting my feet cut up in the pool, and I am walking the dog and going for frozen yogurt. I am fighting with my cousin and reading in the closet under the stairs and sprawling out on the long, narrow couch. I am walking through smoky hotels and watching the flashing lights, and I am watching movies and playing tennis and solving puzzles. I am waking up early and laying with my grandparents, and I am seeing the sights and living the dream and watching it all with my mouth agape at its sheer splendiferousness.

These are my summers, at home and at camp and with my family. These are the endless summers that make up my childhood, and when all else fades to years and stages and decades, these are what will remain.

Poetry - Apology of a Heartbreaker

His heart was in my hands
It looked shiny and pretty and sweet
I was a toddling child, young and innocent
I didn't want to break it, to hurt him
But I did
I couldn't see what he saw
And now he's left in the dust
I'm sorry.

You Wonder Why We're Friends

It all began with two preteen girls, both convinced that the other was stupid and not worth her time. One was happily grouped with her older sister and best friend; the other, all on her lonesome, forced to interact with others because of her mother's penchant for sending her to summer camps. And thus, the two were shoved together, albeit unwillingly. The friends isolated the newcomer from their exclusive circle for two long weeks, at which point she had fulfilled her stint as a "happy camper" and departed, ecstatic in the separation from her peers.

The summer passed, and it was back to the school that had chewed her up and spit her out in the sixth grade. Despite everything, she remained optimistic for a better, brighter seventh grade. The first days went by in a blur of new classes and poorly concealed excitement. And then, sitting alone in the cafeteria, eating a burrito and reading, a muted thump alerted her to the unthinkable: someone sitting with her. She raised her gaze, unsure of what to expect, and her heart immediately sank; it was her old tormentor, back to haunt her when things had finally taken a turn for the better.

But, she noticed, the other girl looked tired, and perhaps even a bit lonely. Like I was, she thought viciously. "Can I sit here?"

"I can't stop you," she replied, more than a little bitter. They sat there in awkward silence for a moment.

"I apologize for not believing you when you said you were going to be in Algebra," she said earnestly, "you just didn't seem all that smart." The other girl glared. So much for the apology. Content with her voiced confession, she began to make idle chat, with her rather displeased companion shooting her down at every opportunity. Despite her usual inability to hold grudges, this girl had done too much to fall into her good graces so quickly. And so the weeks went, a tireless "friend" following her, sitting with her during lunch, and beginning, however slowly, to wear down the girl's dislike for her.

They began to go on a walk together every night, lingering at the stop sign at the corner between their two unnervingly close houses and talking about everything from food to politics to boys. They learned near everything about each other, and agreed that they were indeed "best friends". They fought on occasion, as friends are wont to do, but always made up. They followed each other through the sordid details of their miniscule love lives, one learning how to break a heart and the other getting her heart broken. They talked about religion, life, and the future, wondering what it would hold for them.

And then came high school. The two went in with little knowledge of what to expect, with only the vague memories of older friends already long integrated into the melting pot that was high school. They met a person who they began to refer to as their best friend as well, and countless others whose antics provided many hours of entertainment. They cried together at Challenge Day, and talked for hours about college and expectations and dreams.

Over the course of two years, one became more toned down, and the other became more bold. They both learned to open up to others, and to take things as they come, but, most importantly, that there was always someone that they trusted more than anything.

This is why we're best friends.

Service With a Smile

Plaster on your pretty grin
No one knows about your sin
Or all the trouble that you're in
Hide it away and smile

Joke and laugh and play and run
No one knows the things you've done
But for the sake of everyone
You just shut up and smile

Never show that you are shy
No one knows how much you lie
And time's started to pass you by
Yet all you do is smile

Leave your heart and lock the door
No one knows you anymore
But it's not you that this is for
It's service with a smile

The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie

Lately, I have taken to sitting in the window seat in the corner of the library, gazing out the window at the people walking by, unaware, or reading a good book. Having come across the name of the author Jaclyn Moriarty, I only remembered one word: reverie. I immediately sought out the book The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie, and immediately got lost in reverie among the pages. This whimsical novel about high school, musings, and murder, set in Australia, tells the story of Belinda "Bindy" Mackenzie, a proactive, intelligent, and inadvertently pretentious Year 11 girl and her issues with her Friendship and Development, or FAD, group. As the pages turn, the story delves into Bindy's past, conspiracies, and the struggles of high school.

Now, let me give you my brief history with this book: In the sixth grade, I faced many of the same social issues as Bindy, despite being several years younger. I was socially crippled due to five years in a small private school, and often took refuge in the school library. Even when forced to be in the company of others, my nose was always buried in a book. Eventually, one of the books I came upon was The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie, and I instantly related to this quirky character. Looking back on it now, I still see the similarities: social awkwardness (although not to such an extreme), an overwhelming desire to succeed, and perhaps even a bit of the pretention. However, I can also laugh at the sheer comedy of such unoblivious social faux pas.

To sum it up, this book is a great read, and I highly recommend it.

(Warning: The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie gives the reader a tendency to think in short, clipped sentences and get lost in reverie)

Poetry - Chaotica

Observation 
Consternation
Trepidation
Pure elation
Apprehension
Nervous tension
Condescencion
New deception
Peace and trinity 
No serenity
To infinity
Pure acidity
Loose denial
Fire by trial
Poison vial 
Final mile
And
I
Just
Smile.

Wild Night

We're all in the burger joint, crowded around two tables, smiling and laughing and sipping our milkshakes. It's the epitome of teenage wasteland, complete with awkwardly trying to talk to the "cool" kids and little groups of people all caught up in their euphoric little worlds. It's picturesque, like a lot of things seem to be these days. I can see an identical scene sixty years in the past, with an abundance of poodle skirts and leather jackets and hair gel, with a jukebox blasting Buddy Holly in the corner and the Fonz teaching boys to unhook a girl's bra in the restroom. It's what I always pictured the stereotypical high school weekend to be, staying out late with friends and not caring about homework or expectations or consequences.

Except that there's still that nagging little voice inside my head. You're too young. Go home to Mommy and let the cool people, the normal people, have their fun. Stop pretending. And I can't ignore it, because somewhere in the self-loathing the truth is hidden. I am too young. But it doesn't matter.

Maybe this teenager thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.