The month of June trembles terribly with the winds of anticipation, and I am but a petal whisked away on the whims of adventure.
Except I'm not adventurous, but I am a terrible poet. Something about long car rides turns me into a terrible poet, but one can't help but feel wistful, staring out at miles upon miles of nothing for hours on end. It's that or think about the inevitable, which is to say my summer words list. Come the first day of school, everyone has to hand in a list of words to describe their summer break. It's a district tradition, one I remember partaking in since first or second grade. At first, the other kids scribbled down words like fun and awesome in brightly colored crayons.
This progressed to more sophisticated descriptors, including crazy, relaxing, magical...it goes on. Then there's always me, frowning down at the lined piece of paper with a frustrated crease in my brow and a look of utter displeasure twisting my lips into a mask of disgust. I've never experienced crazy; I've had a set summer routine since the age of seven. Before anyone asks, yes, it's totally thrilling. I like to live life on the edge...of certainty, that is.
Magical? The only summer romance I've ever experienced has been the tension between me and my college prep books. Relaxing? Freedom and wild, uninhibited fun are not the exact words that live at the forefront of my mind when I think about summer.
It's more along the lines of hot, sticky, tedious, and organized. I map my break out with militaristic precision that's better suited to a frazzled middle school teacher trying to plan lessons to keep hormonal preteens' attention.
It makes it easier on everyone, knowing where I'm going and who'll be taking me there. Suburban society is built off the backs of organized carpools and calendars penned in permanent ink. There isn't much excitement in doing the same things every single day, every single year, without fail. My older siblings are the same way, though they have a much better balance between work and interesting summer words.
My teachers never quite know how to respond to my lackluster paper, a gray spot in a sea of shimmering colors, but again, it's expected. Just like my title as "girl you should call on when everyone's avoiding the teacher's pleading gaze because she'll probably know the answer." I'm reliable. A kinder word than predictable, maybe, but both carry the same connotation of boring.
above average contributions in class, grades, and extra credit work. I'm reliable. Predictable. Not exactly known for my creativity, unless it comes down to constructing the aforementioned answer when I've only read about half of the required chapters. It's not as though I mind the mundanity of it all. If it were up to me, I'd be home right now, preparing for another sweltering summer tournament with the youth team.
Instead, I've been in the car for nearly twelve hours.
It's a long drive down to North Carolina: Mom and I switch off when she lets me, if only to allow her to get some rest. She's been up at all hours coordinating this trip, making her customary checklists, and ensuring my dad and siblings won't burn our house down. She always feels nervous leaving someone else in charge, especially after that minor incident involving a frozen pizza and the convection oven four years ago.
I've already received about twenty messages from my siblings, complaining about the lack of food in the house, peppering me with rhetorical questions about how to make pasta, and being general nuisances. Losing service is an unexpected blessing, but I refrain from telling mom any of this. She's been white knuckling the steering wheel for the better part of five hours, stressing about the work she left behind and all the work that lies ahead. I distract her with new playlists curated for oddly specific situations and debates about the most far-fetched rumors circulating in the town gossip mill. There's never a shortage of that in our lives.
