Someday The Waves ✔ *Wattys15 Winner*

Chapter Two

Sunday, early June

I took off in the morning before the sun had fully risen to its highest, most insufferable point. Outside on the driveway, Poppy carefully loaded a decorated box into the front basket of my newly acquired, outrageously pink bicycle.

As usual, she was fretting, attempting to tie more pieces of colourful ribbon around the package, attentively curling each strand into loose spirals.

"It looks fine, just leave it and let me get this nightmare over with." I pleaded, tired of holding the bicycle upright, the jagged foot pedals attacking my shin and leaving tread marks.

"Alright, I'm almost done." Poppy exclaimed, taking the scissors and expertly coiling it. Such was her precision and determination to get this plain old cardboard box looking perfect, that she hadn't even noticed the beads of sweat forming on her forheard. For somebody as impeccably presented as Poppy, it was quite astonishing and rare to witness.

Putting the scissors and odd ends of ribbon back into her craft hamper she clapped her hands together and stood back. "There, it's ready to go!"

"Finally." I sighed, not having the patience to watch any more artistic demonstrations; I only wanted to get going.

Taking a picture on her phone of her handiwork, Poppy asked if I had the directions she'd printed out. I tapped my back pocket and pulled down my shades.

"Your hair looks better today." she said approvingly before tutting at my choice of attire for the journey.

"You didn't specify that I needed to adhere to any dress code, so this is what I am wearing." I scoffed back.

"Don't you own any nice dresses or perhaps a smarter top?" Poppy asked. "Something a little more, well ladylike."

I hated the way she patronized me. "The shorts and T-shirt are staying." I declared resolutely, trying to get one leg over the saddle and almost falling over.

Surely no eleven year old was big enough to need the saddle raised so high, I thought as I tried once more, Poppy chuckling the entire time.

"You sure this was a little girls bike?" I asked, still struggling.

"She's tall for her age." Poppy said stifling laugher. "Unlike you Titch."

"Cheers." I grumbled back, adjusting the seat down to a more suitable level. "Thanks for the confidence boost."

When I eventually found my footing and could safely touch the ground with the tip of my foot, I circled the small front lawn and then took a deep breath.

"See ya." I shouted back to Poppy, my hands gripping the spongy bars with all my might. She gave a pathetic wave and went back inside the bungalow.

Crossing over onto the other side of the street, I pictured the snaking roads and drawn out directions that sat in my pocket. I needed to take the second junction and make a right once I came to Ocean View Avenue, which would then, on paper lead to the coastal boardwalk that stretched along by the beach all the way to Hillside. The supposedly superior town next to Pesmo Beach, that wasn't rundown and dull.

Poppy hadn't apologised for not finding the time to take me there, because she was always too busy, but she did tell me that she wished our Grandparents had bought a home there, instead of here. Apparently the shopping and restaurants were to die for, far exceeding the tiny little burger joint that sat at the end of the Ocean Drive in Pesmo, and more sophisticated than our only Grocery Store.

Taking the corners of each street carefully, I came to the oceanfront and the winding path that would lead me to my destination. The breeze was cool and pleasant, something I hadn't much come across since I tended to sleep all day.

The view was quite breathtaking, with the hazy sunlight creeping up over the waves and the tall weathered palms that lined the boardwalk. It felt different to cycle across the wooden planks, set into the sand, the pink bike juddering over each one.

According to Poppy's explicit directions, the ride to Hillside would take 45 minutes each way, if I didn't stop. She stressed that I needed to be at the pretentiously named, Clever Coastal Creations before it opened and that I mustn't embarrass her with any chit chat, that I could only smile and politely thank them for their order and leave. It was a good thing Poppy's lack of faith in me was well worn.

As I peddled on, taking in the sights and salted air I felt a rush of relief coarse though my fingertips, rising up to the top of my head. For the first time in weeks, I was free. The walls that closed me in each day seemed far away, the bed covers that wrapped me in uncertainty and doubt were left behind. At least for a morning, the longest moment I'd spent away from my new home.

With every seawall break I passed, and with each loop of the pedals I began to forget I was riding along on a child's, disastrously adorned bicycle because it was now my accomplice in the fight against boredom, and desperation. I watched as the rows of beach houses merged into a luscious green hilltop, a road snaked within it and Pesmo beach disappear with it. There were now cars on the road, a bright yellow campervan riding into the sunlight and onto the long stretch down to the preferred town.

It also felt strange to see young groups of boys and girls, surfboards and volleyballs in tow, marching towards the sandy beaches. I wasn't used to other people, my only interactions since arriving in Pesmo being an awkward exchange in the Drugstore for tampons with a middle-aged man and the USP delivery guy who thought I was breaking into the bungalow when I had taken out the trash, and forgotten my keys.

These boys, and girls seemed happy and carefree, close to one another and it made me bitter. I missed the friends I had so easily cast aside for a shot at the big time and those I'd neglected who had carried me through the last years of high school and given me friendship.

Now the joke was on me. My insistence that college was a waste of time and a basic, predictable transition had backfired because they were now the ones, enjoying freedom. Relishing the parties, and the hook ups, and everything else I had once turned my nose up at.

As all the regrettable mistakes swirled around, I felt a sharp bump under the saddle.

Before I could look down, a loud pop vibrated throughout the metal frame and the force pushed me forwards. I squeezed tight on the breaks, the looped chain jamming against my foot and cutting into me.

All too quickly my view of the sandy beach had rolled onto its side, flipping over and over until all I could see was a blinding white light.

Then came the sound of my bones hitting the hard, solid ground.

. . .