The War Of Carlico

Meteor Shower

as·tron·o·merəˈstränəmər/noun

an expert in or student of astronomy

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"Elizabeth Angel Wright, you were supposed to be up hours ago! You told your father and I that you would help set up for the party!"

I groan and lazily grab my pillow. I wrap it around my head and over my ears, blocking the high pitched shouts. I hate when she calls me that. It's Lizzie, how many times do I have to say it? I forgot about that whole 'help' thing. I mean, I hate their parties. There's always so much commotion. What's Labor Day even for? We already have Independence Day and Memorial Day. They're basically the same thing.

Usually for me, Labor Day is just a day where I get to skip school. But tonight.... tonight was different. Tonight was going to be amazing.

There was a rumor that tonight, there would be an epic meteor shower. People said that it would be the biggest shower since '97. I'd already set up my 'think tank' last night before dinner. The thought of it excited me.

After a few minutes of browsing social media in bed, I took the initiative and begin to get ready for the long day ahead of me. I start with wardrobe. It was supposed to be cool tonight, mid 60's, so I wouldn't want something showing too much skin. But, there is my mom's party, so I want to look presentable, but also appropriate. You know how parents are.

I decide to go with a large, grey sweater, some leggings, my pair of riding boots with knee socks, and a white, knitted scarf. My granny gave the scarf to me before she was taken by lung cancer. The thought of her hurts.

My granny and I weren't very close, actually. We did the usual granddaughter-grandmother bonding, like making cookies and watching soap operas and making fun of their stupid decisions, but I never really knew too much about her. I miss her because she reminds me of Dad.

Then what about that guy you heard about in the beginning you ask? Well, that's my step-father, Andy. Emphasis on step. I don't like him very much. He drinks way more than he should, he is too strict, he is too needy, and, as if there wasn't enough complaints, he is too messy. I don't whine to my mom about him, though. I know how happy he makes her. After the accident, I never thought she would smile again.

My father was murdered. From what my mom tells me, he was on his way to the grocery store, Fred's Food and More, when he was intentionally hit by a car. He was on the highway so his car flew off and landed in a suburb. My dad immediatly died, which comforted me. He didn't die painfully in a hospital bed, unable to speak or move. He died a happy, loving man.

The man who crashed into my father admitted to the crime and is in jail for life. I got to visit him once. I was 8, so I wasn't totally aware of what 'dying' meant, but I did know that my dad was never coming back and that the man who sat before me was responsible for that. Needless to say, I went up to him, he said sorry, and I punched him in the face. They didn't do anything because I was so little, but my mom did give me a highfive on the car ride back.

After getting dressed and putting on my makeup, I went downstairs. I was greeted my a huge plate of blueberry pancakes, crispy bacon, and eggs, sunny side up style. I hurry and sit down, ready to devour everything on the plate. Then, just as I'm about to take a bite of savory bacon, Mom plops down in the stool next to me.

"So, how's the food?" She looked at me, smiling from ear to ear, waiting for an answer. It's hard to believe this woman used to be so broken. I thought she would never heal. "Yes mom, it's so great. I bet it would taste even better if I had actually gotten a chance to eat something!" She rolled her eyes playfully and set her elbows on the table.

"Are you getting ready to help?" My mom gestured over to a busy Andy, who was cleaning the swimming pool. "Uh, yeah. Of course." My mom estatically clapped. "Yay! Just meet us out here when you're finished with breakfast." I nod and she disappears into the backyard.

I quickly finish eating and clean up. I start to make my way outside. Once I get out there, I find a to-do list on a side table. I pick it up and start to read through it.

To Do: Labor Day Par-tay!

*make snacks

*tidy house

*tidy outside house

*clean pool

*find music

*activities

All of the goals have already been met, except for snacks. I make my way back inside and start my search for the food.

After a few meer minutes rummaging through the fridge, I found a cheese and cracker platter, some crab-cakes, which are by far the best thing my parents have ever invested in, and a platter of mini sandwiches. I grab a few bags of chips just to be safe. We are also getting pizza so, as far as I'm concerned, snacks aren't an issue.

I bring everything outside and set it all on the serving table. I take a quick look around only to find the backyard empty, excluding me. I sneakily take a ham and cheese sandwich and run to my 'think tank'.

My 'think tank' isn't actually a tank. It's my treehouse in the corner of my backyard. When we moved in, the agent said the previous owner planned on taking out the treehouse before the sale. But, being the stubborn child I was, I made Dad make me a treehouse. It's now where I keep my telescope, microscope, and textbooks. It's my lab, per se.

Of course, I have grown a lot since the making of my little lab, so it gets very cramped. But honestly, at times it is comforting. I can be alone with what I love around me, enclosed between 4 walls. It makes me feel safe.

I eagerly check my watch. 6:45. The party is supposed to start at 7. I finish up my sandwich, which, might I add, was extremely delicious, and I grab Tractus and make my way down the house's step-ladder.

Tractus is my telescope. It means 'space' in Latin and for some odd reason, the name fit perfectly.

By the time I set up Tractus, touched up the decor, and washed up, it was time to party.

Most people expect for a girl like me to be all over parties. You get to have all of your friends over, you get to dance and eat great food. But I, Lizzie Wright, am not a huge fan of parties.

People look and me and they see pretty and popular and social. Though really, I'm an outcast. I don't have friends and at first, I am very shy. People don't bother understanding who I really am because they're too busy thinking of how I'm supposed to be.

So, instead of waiting at the door for my abundance of friends to walk through the door like most girls, I'm sat here my backyard waiting for the beautiful, extravagant meteor shower to begin.