Sort of wondering if I should continue.... comment if I should
-- Avinne
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Navy blue knit gloves, damp with snow flurries, covered my shivering fingers as I grabbed my Cardinal Fitness bag and stepped out of my mother’s pearl colored Honda minivan. The door was still open while I threw my bag over my shoulder.
“I’ll pick you up at three. I might be fifteen minutes late, Collin has a dentist appointment.” My mother continued to ramble on about the unpunctuality of our dentist’s office when I shut the door and began to trudge through shin deep snow.
Finally. Hemmerson Writing Camp. The ‘camp’ took place during winter break, and about sixty kids from fifth to twelfth grade apply; but, there are only thirty slots. This was my first year here, away from my psychotic fiend of a mother, Marjorie. Pure bliss. Paradise. All synonymous with Hemmerson.
Finally. Hemmerson Writing Camp. The ‘camp’ took place during the little slot of winter break from the 26th through the 30th of December. About sixty kids from fifth to twelfth grade apply, but there are only thirty slots available. This was my first year here, away from my psychotic fiend of a mother, Marjorie. Pure bliss. Paradise. Amen and halleluiah.
My trudge up the sidewalk into the house had filled my brand new black Vans with snow. I should’ve sucked it up and worn some boots, but I was reluctant to dress out of my comfort zone. Vans would draw the right crowd to me, was my thinking. ‘My people’. The gloves had been my mother’s request, and at seven in the morning, I was too tired to argue against her. Before I got all the way up the drive, I quickly yanked them off and shoved them into my bag.
I pulled open the creaking front door with the seemingly out-of place-antique handle to reveal a vintage little house, sans the vintage furnishings. It was truly sort of miserable. All of the little-kid-room sofas and chairs stuck out against the elegantly painted cream of the walls and watercolor masterpieces that bejeweled them. A card table was set in the middle of the room; two neat stacks of composition notebooks were placed next to a set of peel-off name tags and black Sharpies. The whole organization of it reminded me of my mother, OCD with a splash of over-enthusiasm.
Two kids were already sitting across the room from one another, purposefully avoiding eye contact. One, a Hispanic girl a little younger than myself, absently twirled her curls on her finger. The other, a boy of around thirteen, played on his latest model of an iPhone. I assumed it was Temple Run because he was swiping up and down the screen and occasionally tapping around at the bottom after sighing to restart the game.
“Hi, there, camper!” A voice broke the awkward silence. This must be the culprit responsible for the card table. His comb over was, to say the least, pathetic. His green khakis and his white button-up (buttoned up to the last button) complimented the shear misery of it all. Although, I must say that I appreciated his consistency.
“Just grab a Sharpie over there,” *insert over-enthusiastic point*, “and grab a name tag there,” *insert over-enthusiastic point*, “and a little notebook right there,” *insert over-enthusiastic point*, “and take a seat wherever you like.” *insert grand-waving-gesture-to-the-seating-area*.
I complied grudgingly, still grasping onto a thread of hope that this winter break will be worth it. I stuck my name tag on the black shirt beneath my grey and blue checkered flannel, threw the Composition into my bag and pulled out my laptop. The way my seat was angled, I could see into the kitchen of the house. It was totally 1940’s from what I could see: yellow walls, a pretty clock mounted above the stove, and polished floors. It reminded me of when I was really little at my grandfather’s house. Four-year-old Eidlidh had toddled into the kitchen, the smell of pancakes was wafting through the small house. My grandfather was at the stove, whistling. The scene was like a novel, happy and quiet and sweet. But of course, like all happy/quiet/sweet novels, something was going to happen. For me, it was age. Age happened. Circumstance. Awakening to what the world really was. From birth to forever, we’re constantly being jolted with revelations, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.
