Vanilla

Chapter Nine

Dedicated to ToastedBagels but I can't remember the reasons I put in the previous version of this chapter. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with being sassy on ask.fm, so let's go with that one.

This is a RE-WRITE of the previous Chapter 9. I took it down because I didn't like it. You may notice some similarities, particularly at the end.

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                For the first time since I’d moved to Walden, it was hot.

            Even here, with the sea breeze feeling at least slightly cool on my sticky skin, the air  was humid and I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead and the back of my neck. Needless to say, the brief sunny spell over the south coast had sent tourists flocking to the beach in their hundreds, and right now, I was sandwiched between what seemed like the rowdiest groups in Walden. While the parents to my left were doing absolutely zilch to stop their kids shaking out their towels downwind, the couple on the opposite side were rolling around on the shingle in a way that was totally inappropriate for a family beach, and the group in front of me seem to have just given up on trying to quieten their screaming toddler.

            It was, to put it plainly, chaos.

            But I was here, out of sheer desperation that a spot on the beach would be even marginally cooler than Gram’s place. Her cottage seemed to trap the heat and hold it hostage; every room could be likened to a greenhouse. Though such heat was rare, especially in this country, today was unbearable.

            Once settled on the beach, I’d stripped down to my shorts and bikini top, though I could still feel the layer of uncomfortable perspiration settling over my skin. Cross-legged on a towel, I now had my head bent over my sketchpad, the grey strokes of my pencil slowly taking shape across the page. Every so often, I’d switch to a brighter colour, filling in the white gaps until the picture began to take form. I’d always found it sort of fascinating, how a movement as simple as the swipe of a pencil tip across paper could transform blankness into something so alive; this, I guessed, was the reason I always came back to draw more.

            I was so absorbed in my creation that I managed to tune out most of the background noise, reducing the sound effects of the busy beach to a dull buzz around me. Hence why, when a set of footsteps and their owner approached me from behind, I failed to notice until they bent right over me, craning their neck for a good look at my sketchpad.

            “What’s that, then?”

            I recognised the voice immediately; I snapped the book shut with a resounding slap: an automatic reaction. Maybe I was a little too jumpy, but the thought of prying eyes on my half-completed sketch was too much to handle. It was private: the snapshot of a moment I’d been afraid to forget ever since it happened. It had been much easier than I expected, actually, to illustrate the wild flailing limbs, the wind in our hair, the reassuring clasp of Daniel’s hand around mine.

            Foreign sets of eyes were unwelcome, particularly those of the girl hanging over me right now.

            “C-Collette,” I stuttered. My hands involuntarily tightened around the book in my hands; I wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t try to rip it from me herself.

            She stood tall above me, her cropped brown hair brushed backward by the pair of sunglasses that sat atop her head. I could barely contain my envy at her tanned skin, leaving mine to pale in comparison, and the way her denim shorts hung effortlessly on her hips. Already I could feel myself shrinking, halving in size each second Collette’s eyes stayed lingering on me.