Impulse Control (ON HOLD)

Chapter 11

What does it mean? I ask myself. Why Sierra?

For as long as I can remember, my dreams have meant something significant. Most of them had turned out to be premonitions. So what does this one mean? Why was Sierra in a nightmare I've been having since I was sixteen?

Shoving aside my worries, I rise to my feet. There's no time to puzzle out dreams now; I have to get the campsite cleaned up.

Making my way outside, I take in the sight before me. It's worse than when I got here. The raccoons must have found the garbage bag that was ripped off of the post I had tied it to during the storm, because trash is all over.

I gather a plastic bag from inside and begin the painstaking task of picking up all of the trash the raccoons scattered.

The only other thing I have to fix is the awning. It's been partly ripped from it's rod, so I rip it the rest of the way, trash it, and roll the rod up.

My campsite didn't get hit too hard by the storm. Sierra's, however, is a different story. Like mine, her trash was ripped from the post and the raccoons got into it. But her mat that was stretched across the gravel was carried to the top of her camper, the magazines left on the stone picnic table are God-knows-where right now, and the beach towels they left to dry on the railing are now ripped and dirty from the wood in the fireplace being hurtled at them.

Looking at the damage done to Sierra's campsite, a sudden, romantic idea pops into my head. What if I cleaned up the campsite for her and left a sweet note?

That's exactly what Bree would tell you not to do, I think to myself. I push the thoughts of Bree aside. Besides, I'm a hopeless romantic, and this is something I'd do back home for whatever girl I was dating at the time.

So, smiling, I go inside my camper to grab what I need. I get a plastic bag for the trash, some spare beach towels, wood from my fireplace, and a ladder. I set them outside while I go back inside to write the note.

I want something sweet, simple, and very subtle. I mean, this isn't usually me. I haven't even asked Sierra her sexuality yet, and here I am writing love notes!

Chuckling to myself, I grab a pen and a small square of paper. Tapping the pen against my cheek for a moment, I wait for the words to come to me. When they do, I eagerly begin to write.

When I'm finished, I cap the pen with an air of satisfaction, reading over what I wrote once again.

Dear Sierra,

You're welcome. Love your smile, by the way.

Sincerely,

A Special Friend

I smile at my handiwork. Perfect. Sierra will probably guess that I'm the one who did it, but I'm hoping the words 'special friend' might mean something to her. I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should leave something with the note, like a rose. No, I decide. A rose is too unsubtle. A plate of cookies would be nice, though.

I smile, grabbing a box of cookies from the pantry. I arrange them nicely on a plate, putting tinfoil over them so they'll stay warm and tying a ribbon over the tinfoil.

Then, satisfied with my gift, I grab them and the note and head over to Sierra's campsite.

I brush the trash off of the stone picnic table and put the plate of cookies on it. Then, I put the note beside the cookies, using rocks to weigh it down so it won't blow away.

Then I head back over to my turf, inhaling the fresh, clean scent in the air. Call me weird, but I love how the air smells after it rains. Seriously. I love it.

Gathering the other things, I trek back to Sierra's spot. I lay the three spare beach towels I brought on the table beside the cookies.

Then I set to work, gathering up all of the trash that was flung about and putting it in my plastic bag.

You wouldn't believe how much of it there is. Soda cans, paper plates, paper cups, plastic forks, spoons, and knives. I'll say one thing for Sierra and her family: They are definitely not eco-savvy.

After I've finally picked up all of the trash, I add the ruined beach towels to my trash bag. Suddenly, a thought strikes my brain. Sierra's brother might not like having a different towel, and he won't understand why he has to have a new one. Looking back down, I inspect the towel I know to be his, the red Transformers one.

It looks like it wasn't damaged that much. Maybe I can fix it. My grandma taught me to sew before she died, and although I wasn't very good at it, I would probably be able to fix the little tears and rips in his towel.

Setting it aside to be dealt with later, I move on to my next task: Getting the mat down.

I drag the ladder to the side of Sierra's camper, stacking the spare wood I brought beside her fire pit on the way.

It takes several tries to get the mat down, but I finally do. I spread it over the gravel, making sure to fold the corners down like I saw Mrs. Burke do when they arrived.

Then I take a few minutes to sweep the ashes that blew from the fire pit out of the campsite.

Looking around, I smile. It looks as good as new; Maybe even a little bit better.

Gathering David's towel in my arms, I start off at a brisk walk towards the laundry/shower house.

The crunchy gravel hurts my feet slightly as the lumps poke through my flipflops, and a cool, pine-scented breeze wafts through, gently lifting my long hair. My belly shirt leaves an exposed slice of skin, and the cool air kisses it in gentle waves. I take a long, deep breath, smelling the lake and the pines and the smoke from people's fires. It's very comforting, and makes me feel safe and warm inside. It feels like I'm home, truly home, and I hang on desperately to that feeling.