Summer

Chapter 1

I've never cried about a boy before. It sounds like a rite of passage, something that teen girls must do 

before they can phase into mature women. It seems like every girl has cried over a boy at one stage, 

except me. But I saw a quote on the internet one time, and it said 'A boy that is worth your 

tears will never make you shed them.' Which sounds very deep and intelligent. So if 

anyone asks me if I've cried over a boy, I'll just say that. Which, in reality is a fancy 

way of saying no. Though no one has actually been so interested in my life to ask 

me if I've ever cried over a boy. Maybe one day someone will be, and they might 

ask me

'Have you ever cried over a boy?'

The likeliness of this is slim, but at least I'll have an answer. 

It’s summer. Sticky, sweet summer. I’m Summer too, but neither sticky nor sweet. The only relation I have with the season summer is our shared name, and our laziness. I’m not considered to be particularly fun, and nobody looks forward to seeing me, unlike the season called summer. I’m more like autumn in personality. Autumn is just a season that fills the gap between summer and winter. Nobody particularly hates autumn, but nobody loves it either. It’s just an unremarkable gap filler, with no real purpose or point to it. Sounds harsh, but that’s my personality and my life.

So anyway, it’s summer where I live. It’s one of the hottest yet, with the sun soaking up any moisture that was floating around in the air. It’s been one of those weeks that dry out everyone’s skin and their energy levels too. Doesn’t help that it’s the first few weeks of our new school year, and I’m already reaching the end of my patience.

How is that even possible? One week in and I’m already feeling like I’ve done this all before. It’s like a big déjà vu trip. But then I just remind myself that I am in Year Twelve now, so only two more years of the same ole bullshit. Thinking about school makes me feel tired. But I realise that I always feel tired. I’m eternally tired, it’s hard to fight. Maybe it’s a deep spiritual problem. Maybe I have low iron.

So anyway, I’m on the school bus, feeling tired. Welcome to week numero dos. The bus is old. That’s all. You can probably picture the bus anyway. Ripped vinyl seats, with foam frothing out of the gashes like bus seat rabies. Steel poles, placed there to aid our gracious standing passengers. Windows that only decide to open an inch, if you’re lucky. In the afternoons everyone gravitates towards the opening windows, silently begging to be the lucky recipient of a gust of cool air. I applied six layers of deodorant this morning. But on days like this, you’d need to bathe in deodorant to stay fresh.

But today the bus to school is surprisingly silent. Probably parents taking pity on their poor children, their poor children who have to ride in a bus without air con (gasp!). So half of the normal bus population are right now sitting in silver SUV’s, making awkward conversations with their parents about school work which they don’t do, silently thanking God/Allah/Buddha for the invention of air con in cars.

So only fifteen or so of us were seated in this barely legal vehicle of transportation, staring out the bus windows in a way that makes us look as though we are filled with teenage angst. Opposite from me is this red head guy called Geoff, we take Spanish together. He always picks his braces, he seems to be fascinated by the food morsels he finds in there. In fact, he’s doing it right now. At the back of the bus are a few pipsqueaks. These ‘barely pubescents’ sit in the back of the bus because they are attempting to show the rest of us their social relevance. I’m still not sure how being able to walk to the back of the bus and sit down is a way to prove one’s social dominance. Normally these little sweethearts are full of extremely boring conversation, but the heat has shut them up. This just leaves all the more silence for the tinny noise of Stefan Broderick’s emo grunge to float over us bus folk. He has earphones in, but I can still hear the drumbeat and emo whining of his song. It’s so loud; I think he’s trying to deafen himself. I have a little fantasy for a few minutes, in which I run up to him, and tug his earphone out. Then I lean down into his ear and scream,