For however long the earth turns before all of mankind is blasted to pieces, I hope to Allah or Krishna or Jesus that our skies stay blue and our sun shines eternally. Wicked winter winds could hold a soul captive in perennial winter, but you and I might never dream ourselves ending up in a hell like that. We are sunshine and beer and everything in between. From plaid picnic tables to apples and peaches, as long as my sundress reaches, I will love you.
Summer was long that year. But it was a summer no one at the Corona Alps Resort will ever forget. We all figured out who we were, except maybe poor Leon, but Leon never had much to offer anyways. Sitting outside at a lopsided picnic table with enough wood sticking up to give a person splinters deep as stab wounds, we drank beer and swatted mosquitoes off sweaty shoulders. Picking at a plaid tablecloth, each one of us was silent. In weather as hot as it was that day, you keep your damn mouth shut.
There was Ginny, preachers daughter and lover of all things forbidden. She was an exuberant ginger thing with whopping brown eyes. Never could keep her trap closed, or her legs for that matter. Then Leon who was dumb as a pile of horse shit, and always knew just what to say in the wrong situations. Leons sister, Jessie, was as smart as Leon was stupid. For everything that Leon got us into, Jessie got us out (or her switchblade did). At the end of the table always sat Ralph, caramel skinned and thick chested, he was surprisingly kind for a guy with long dark hair and a cigarette behind each ear. Then Vince, the resort owners son. A good looking kid, smart as a whip but with a tougher side that was revealed when the situation called for it. Last was me, Monica, a lanky teenage girl with sunburnt cheeks and soft blonde hair. I had an attitude, but with heat like that and the same handful of kids as any other summer, it was hard not to.
I wake up to Ginny poking my cheek with a sticky finger,
"Monica, wake up jesus, it's nearly nine in the morning."
"Quit it Gin, it was a long night, if you can even remember that much."
"Ah shut your trap. Your moms making eggs."
Rolling out of bed, I set my feet on the unforgivingly cold wood floor of the outdoor veranda. My clothes and hair still smelled like smoke and vodka from the night before. Pulling a sweater off the porch rail, I yank it over my head and duck through the door into the kitchen.
"Morning, sunshine"
"Good morning mom"
My mother is a tall, curly haired woman with a smattering of faded freckles on her face. She's standing barefoot in the small, old fashioned kitchen with a spatula in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. Handing me the juice, she wipes her hand on her apron and scoops eggs onto a plate.
"There you go baby, best hangover cure in the world is a good breakfast."
I'm only 17, so legally not allowed to drink alcohol. Here though, my parents make an exception. So long as I'm not going crazy getting completely high off the liquid courage.
