Flippers

• one; and it all started with a big bang •

                            O N E : and it all started with a big bang

               THERE WERE EXACTLY four humiliating moments in the whole eighteen years of my existence, where I yearned for the Earth to fissure open and swallow me as a whole. And that too, was generous, since I seemed to have an exceptional affinity for making myself stand out like a sore thumb— given my poor motor coordination skills and just plain, sheer luck. (Or lack, thereof).

         The first— going through an entire field trip with a huge piece of parsley stuck between my front teeth, all whilst conversing for a whole of ten minutes with my then-crush, Elijah DuPont. Ironic and fitting, since my name, indeed, was Parsley. The second— walking through four flights of escalators in the mall with a wedgie stuck between my arse. And the third, releasing gas that turned out to be a loud disguised fart while attempting to do crunches during the annual fitness test in eight grade.  

          But none of it outsmarted the fourth one; the very embodiment of the term 'embarrassment'. So much so that the Merriam-Webster Dictionary could include this event as one of their example. 

em.bar.rass.ment (pronounced: /ɪmˈbarəsmənt,ɛm-/) : a feeling of self-consciousness, shame, or awkwardness. Like when you skedaddle in front of an epitome of hawks waiting to pounce on you and — Parsley Hayes' fall — flashing underwear — episode takes place. 

I think it was pretty safe to say humiliation, injured pride and mortification all added to the above definition, too.    

          'The-Great-Earthquake-Incident of 2017', everybody called it. Block B, Year 11. It was Professor Krestovozdvizhensky's request to fetch one of her attendance sheets from the staff room that caused it — my eventual downfall (heavy pun intended), my misery, and the event that brought me in the radar of the two most notorious celebrities of the quaint town of Hawke's Bay. The Great Fall, one that would even put Mr. Humpty Dumpty to shame.  

          If you were to force me to replay it, this would have been the version that my defense mechanism would birth into existence...Even though it was a small trip, the world circled around, paralyzing me. Every single minuscule was in slow motion, and it was almost as if every second of my life flashed before my eyes...the blooming smell of honeysuckle and the synchronous hum of the bees, my beautiful-yet-deranged mixed culture of a family, Angus and his constant meowing...only to catch myself just in time and thankfully, dust my skirt and pray to the Lord that it escaped everybody's vision...

          However, unfortunately for me, this is how it actually happened. All I knew was:

          a. I was rushing through a throng of students, one of which was seventh grader Woody Allen adjusting his well, wood. Among their midst was a silent Alexandra Carlton — the queen bee, and her posse with their annoying high pitched squeals; one that would one day shatter the windows of Taradale High.

          b. Somewhere along my periphery, there was a foot and a grey shoelace involved, that caused me to lose my foothold. Perfect, crisp; and not one of those shabby ones with frayed ends and half bitten aglets.

           c. The staircase seeming endless and even more intimidating than Professor Krestovodevsky's stares, along with my arse kissing every inch of the well polished twenty seven steps;

           d. A continuous eleven second dum-dum-dum-dum motion, that I believe, could as well as be equivalent to an elephant nose-diving (I swear I could hear the floor vibrate into seismic waves underneath with every dum); 

           e. The students parting ways like I was the female embodiment of Moses crossing the Red Sea;

           f. A sudden sharp pressure on my ankle, along with an indescribable concoction of nausea inducing emotion consisting of shame, societal pressure and mortification that made me want to puke.

           g. Along with a sudden rush of refreshing cool air up my leg; until realization hit that it was due to my skirt turning over, with my underwear on display for everyone to see. An underwear with a tag line that was supposed to be a private joke (very, very private, infact) 'I Fart: What's Your Superpower?'

          Of course, as usual, the Gods seem to be off on a jolly good holiday that day, since nobody answered my prayers to swallow me up whole. I could not bring myself to face the crowd that was slowly forming, evident by the numerous huddling of the sneakers and stilettos, torn jeans, beautiful and bald, waxed and unwaxed limbs, funny polka dotted socks.  At a distant, I could hear the murmurs being passed along the grapevine, the rumour mill already churning out the week's hot gossip. Some voicing concern, but the majority eyeing the entertainment unfolding infront of them. Everything had happened in a second, yet it did not feel like it. Moments seemed to stretch. Seconds into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours into days. 

          All I could seem to think of was how grateful I was to have shaved the previous day. Down there. 

          Alexandra's comment had been the icing on the cake, though.

          "Of course everybody knows you fart, that's no secret. It's a wonder why you don't get carried away with all the gas in your stomach...Blimp." She had sneered, her crisp taunt piercing the claustrophobic air. I did not have to look up to know how she would have seemed. Beautiful porcelain skin, muddled with a constant sneer resting across her face. Crimson lips, with a beauty spot just above her left lip. Arched back, accompanied by a confident stride. Her mere presence indicated her seniority. The posse walked past by, their stilettos clicking away to glory. Humiliated, I suddenly was interested in the speckles of dust collected onto the floor. 

          Along it, followed a grey, crisp shoelace that I faintly recalled being involved somewhere during the fall. They were perfect, crisp; and not one of those shabby ones with frayed ends and half bitten aglets. Blood still rushing to my cheeks, I looked up, wanting to find out its owner. The pain had started to shoot up my ankle, but mortification and tears fought to dominate expression.  

          I looked up, only to find a blurry figure with a mop of curls, donned in a black coat disappear into the throng. Along with it, passed a faint undertone of Jack Daniels and Avon Black Suede. Of course, I knew who it was. Everybody in this bloody school knew who it was.

          Benedict Anderson. That motherfucking son of a bitch.