Who We Were Yesterday

II. To begin

...

Sometimes I found myself wondering how someone could manage to fail so spectacularly in the span of forty-five minutes.

But then I stopped wondering and realised that I, Meritt Vaughn, exist. For instance, in the sixth grade, my school hosted a science fair. I, amongst everyone else who had no science-oriented mind (which was a lot of people), made a model volcano expecting to leave the event with a shining participation award on my chest. But as the judges walked up to me, hiding their disappointment at seeing the fourteenth volcano that day very poorly, and I added all the ingredients needed for the messy spectacle, nothing happened. A good thirty seconds had passed, and nothing but a hushed whisper filled the hall. And then, as I was beginning to give up, it exploded.

Not erupted. Exploded.

Long story short, I didn't leave with a participation award. Or any award. Just a giant cleanup task and face bright red with shame. The only good thing that really came out of that day was my Dad's hearty laughter as he ruffled my clay-speckled hair, very identical to his own as he was right beside me the entire time. He said that in the real science world, this happens a lot. But just like a scientist, I needed to keep trying. 

Why I'm recounting a page out of the long, long book of my misfortunes in life? As I sit on these stone steps, under the shade of the ever so familiar orange trees on each side and a peak of the ocean through the small wildflower fields to my left, I can't help but feel just like I did in sixth grade. 

Today's job was to rake the leaves. Why rake leaves at the start of summer you ask? Twelve-year-olds. The little menaces found some sort of sadistic joy in climbing the orange trees, picking the blossoms and a few oranges and discarding all the leaves they managed to rip away from their home on the highest of branches. They'd also drop some oranges as well, leaving me with a rotten mess of sticky, citrus-smelling juice and discarded green leaves. 

I had started the cleanup pretty well. There were piles of leaves settled on one side and trash bags of rotting oranges on another. And then by afternoon, the wind picked up and took all my hard work with it. The only thing to be salvaged was the orange bags, but the leaves had scattered even more than when I had started, now some even entering the road. And when I tell you I felt like crying, I did.

That was when I decided to screw it and sit on the steps, taking an impromptu break. Because I deserved it (at least, that's what I told myself). That's how I spent a good ten minutes sitting on those steps, listening to the faint roll of the waves, the bristle of the trees, the rumble of a car or two and the song of birds that you'd rarely catch sight of. With the promise, that I'd start in the next minute but then ended up wallowing in the fact that I couldn't even rake leaves right.

I really couldn't do anything right. Not even finish a dumb list.

And that's when it hit me. Literally. For a split second, a sharp, searing pain struck the side of my face, blossoming into a dull ache and a promise of another bruise to join the one on my chin from yesterday and Durah's shop. I clasped my hand over my cheek, wincing at the crimson droplets that painted my palm as I withdrew it. The projectile had nestled itself in the nearby greenery by the steps, and it was no other than my notebook. 

"This is either a really bad day or someone has cursed me with misfortune," I muttered, picking up the book and almost checking for the wings it used to fly away from the safety of my bag, did a full round possibly around the town and finally finding its way back and colliding with my face. Only one name appeared in my mind at the thought of who might do such a thing as throw a book at me. Mainly since she has done it before. Several times.