Camp Bluelake

Charpter 1

Hi, my lovelies. This is a new series I've started and with the quarantine, I'll be looking to update at least a few times a week. Diablo is currently under some reconstruction, but that will be back out at some point hopefully 🤞🏻 for now, please enjoy (and stay safe!)

-Mel x

I stepped onto the yellow school bus that had transported me from my home, to Wolfridge Middle School for the past three years. It isn't perfect, and with its old, rickety bones, and seats that looked as if they had pissed off the wrong pit bull; it wasn't very pleasant either.

The windows are hard to see out of at the best of times, the countless claw marks of children engrave the cheap glass, and the floor under the seats are a turtles worst nightmare. Old tootsie roll wrappers and chewed up bubblegum are hidden away like forgotten treasure.

I passed by my bus driver, Tracy, giving her a big grin in greeting, her frizzy, black hair bouncing with her usual nod, and then made my way over to my seat, walking slowly behind the plodding girl in front.

Three years and two stumbles later, I finally made it to my spot. I turned up the volume on my device — my best attempt at drowning out the gossip of the other children at the back.

I placed my ten tonne bag onto the seat next to me, trying to avoid contact with the older kids, who always made me nervous. It's not that I don't like them, or I'm selfish for not sharing my seat, I'm just socially awkward around authoritative figures.

I haven't been officially diagnosed, (with social awkwardness that is) but my mum will give into my persistent nagging eventually.

'You're being a drama queen,' she says
'Such a hypochondriac,' she repeats.

She doesn't understand — I love her — but she doesn't understand. I break my arm and all I get is "you'll be fine. Stop going on that phone so much." It doesn't make any sense is what I reply and she just ignores me.

Here comes the sun, blasts through my headphones, filling my senses with the wonders of the Beatles, older music, having always been my favourite, curing my negative thoughts of the day ahead and arousing my interest in the scenery passing by — also because it drowns out the cackling of the witches behind me, their awful voices making my ears bleed.

I rested my head against the window, the slight bumpiness of the windy road causing my body to vibrate like a jackhammer, though when you ride the bus for so long it just slots into routine.

I live in the countryside and get taken to school via a thin stretch of tarmac, weaving in and out of the cattle fields. The grass seems to change colour with every few metres we go, showing which farm animals have the biggest appetites.

The bus slowed down as we shifted to the right of the road to allow the oncoming cars passage and passed a plot of land, the farmer leaning against the fence that looked just about ready to die.

He had a typical country bumpkin look about him, with his checkered shirt on and suspenders, stopping his baggy trousers from licking the floor.

A smaller boy came running down the hill beside him, wrapping his arms around the mans shoulders in an iron grip, his legs following suit as they hooked themselves onto his torso like a lion pouncing his prey, which was overall quite amusing considering the child was the smallest thing on this earth.

They reminded me of my family. My parents have been together for over 30 years now, and my two brothers (one older, one younger) are just about the funniest people I know.

I have a good home life, all things considered. My mum is alpha: she works, cleans, cooks like an Italian chef and owns more calendars than I've ever cared to count. She organises everything.