The Boy With The Motorcycle

0.1

June 10, 2015

Arriving at travel destination

"Here we are," mom announces, as if expecting us to burst into applause. Instead, I roll over in my seat, moaning, feeling carsick. We pull up at a petite looking cottage. Across the street a lavish forest, full of bright green and yellow leaves. You'd think it was fall if you couldn't feel the weather.

It's a hot summer day, my body sweltering in the layers I wore here. The sun was just starting to set, and the soft pink of the sky kissed each leaf, leaving all with a different shade. The grass a fresh green, and the dirt a copper brown. A stream poured down, near the gutter, resting by the forest side of the street. At one part of the stream, a patted down dirt pile creates a path from bank to bank. The path continues up the forest in a zigzag pattern. It's narrow, but not too thin. The river is a dark blue, and murky. But somehow, it is still beautiful. Flowers burst from the ground by the forest line, all unique with different colors and shapes. A splash of pink to the right, and a mess of blue to the left. Yellows, oranges, and reds lay in between the farthest flowers I could see. The brighter colors were shorter, all nestling themselves in a patch of darker ones.

I scan the area, realizing the seclusion of the lake. We are enveloped by the forest, and only the sound of animals in woods and our footsteps can be heard. I open the car door, eager to escape my nausea. I slowly lower each foot to the ground, inhaling the fresh, dank air. I look around me, to make sure I didn't miss anything. I love detail, everything about it matters to me. I have to see everything, inhale every smell, and feel all things around me.

Looking to the right of the cottage, I notice we are not quite alone. Another cabin, a bit smaller rests there, as if waiting for something.

My parents have already unloaded the car in my time of observation. Over the years, they have learned when we travel I need a second to recover from my nausea. I hear the screen door close behind them. My parents have given me a lot of freedom. I have only got the "be home by seven" rule. Being an only child, I can guess this summer vacation will consist of my exploring--alone. Not that I'm ungrateful for it, I appreciate it, actually. I prefer to be alone. It's easier for me. Whenever I am near someone else my mouth grows dry, my breath gets caught, and my throat tightens.

The nausea passes, and I take another step towards the house. I am caught off guard by a zooming noise, and my ears start ringing. I look behind me, to investigate the sound. A motorcycle speeds down the dirt path of the forest. Dirt erupts behind him, and his foot presses down on the gas harder as he approaches.

He must see me? Right? He must see that I am here. I move out from behind the car, and wave at him. He doesn't notice, and continues, faster and faster, the zooming sound getting louder and louder.

I stand stiff, too afraid to move, realizing he is headed right towards me. My brain shouts at my legs to sidestep out of the way, but they refuse. I freeze, as if a spotlight has just appeared on me and I am so nervous I forgot all of the words I am supposed to say. The only thing I can get my brain to say is, "Stop!" but he doesn't. He is practically on me. This is it, if you don't move, you will die. But my body is too afraid, my hands shaking, and my eyes staring. The black and red monster halts, just a few inches away from me.

The guy removes his helmet, angrily. "Tess?" he looked as if he was about to shout, but he changes his tone when he recognizes me.

"Patrick ?" I respond, my eyes widening as I remember.

"What are you doing here?" he asks me, his tone rising a bit.

"Summer vacation, I should ask the same for you."

"Same. My family is staying right over there." Patrick points to the only other cottage in sight. "Coincidence, huh?" he tells me, smirking. I raise an eyebrow, unhappily. Exploring is sure going to be fun with this jerkwad around.

Patrick and I have an interesting history. We were friends in middle school, from sixth grade to eighth. But when we got to high school, everything changed. Middle school was small, only about thirty people. There were no cliques there was just friends and not friends. But high school was different. It was huge, and the cliche plastics that I had read so many books about, and seen so many movies about turned out to be real. The first six months of ninth grade were a blur, at one moment we were in it together, the two musketeers. But in a flash it was all gone, and Patrick was sitting at the ever so worshipped table, that everyone wanted to sit at. Well, everyone except for me.

Patrick has never particularly targeted me to fit in, but he's gotten close. And that was enough. We just stopped talking. We didn't tell each other we didn't want to be friends, it was just over. Just like that.

I used to like Patrick , until then. "Need any help with your bags?" he asks politely, as if we were friends.

"No thank you," I spit the words out like venom.

"Good, because I wasn't planning on helping anyways." he smiles at me, then waves goodbye. There is the Patrick I know.