"Sometimes there’s a part of me, has to turn from here and go, running like a child from these warm stars."
- The Eagles

I don't know very well what the lyric means, but it sounds an awful lot like escape. Escape is such a very, very rare thing and when you do find it, it's usually when you need it least. I try to place myself back in '68 when the Eagles wrote that song and imagine what Alabama's southern skies really looked like, in their most honest form, offered from the foot of your doorstep. Whenever you wished, you could just step right out. Now isn't that the dream?
When I was little, I had my dad build me a tree fort between these massive cedars that hung over the ditch on our street. They were the only trees on our lot worthy of my wooden tree fort and the soft green grass of the ditch below was hardly uninviting. I even built a little wooden bridge across it (more literally, an old plank) so that my neighbors across the street could join me for a jungle outing. Within days, that fort had earned my childhood love and adoration.
To this day, the names of my friends and I still remain written upon the weathered bark and beneath the planks. Desperate to make my own contributions, I would crawl and swing through the branches above the roof of the fort with a bucket full of tools hanging from my wrist and a friend standing far beneath, passing up washed out wood - it’d probably be Lucy. After my parents introduced me to Disneyland, I was determined to resurrect the Swiss Family Robinson. Within a month, I had all different perches throughout the trees. It was a masterpiece, complete with a bucket and pulley, a multi-purpose oven/fridge (who knew hot and cold could mesh so well?) made out of firewood and moss, and a small window for spying on old Mr. Rogers as he hobbled past on the street below, his cane swinging gaily. In spring, Lucy and I would steal daffodils from my sister’s garden and transplant them carefully into the soil at the base of tree trunks. Green thumb or no, they flourished.
Soon came a day when the tiny hut between the cedars could no longer fit four (now teenage) girls. Elbows in faces, overlapping hips, and overhanging toes, and we looked at each other in collective agreement. Leaping off the rickety ladder, grabbing hold of and swinging off that one lonely branch was no longer fun when airtime lasted less than a millisecond before, wham! Touchdown. So we'd grown. Reality quickly replaced that euphoric dream I call being a kid.
Then one day Lucy and I were just chilling in my room, when we glanced out the window towards the somewhat abandoned fort and saw two neighbor kids. The unwelcome neighbor kids. They just marched right into our fort, hands on hips, acting like they owned the world. I was outraged. How DARE they. Thinking back on it, I realize a ditch is community property, not ours. But WHATEVER - we had obviously marked our territory. Lucy and I watched in angry horror as the two tyrants bent down and ripped our lovingly planted daffodils from the soil. I gasped. Lucy may have fainted - can’t quite remember - and the two monsters just skipped back home, stolen flowers in hand. It was an omen. I wasn't a kid anymore, and no, the fort couldn't comfortably fit four teenagers, but it more than accommodated me. It was my escape.
When the duckling my sister had rescued from the lake during flooding season died between the jaws of a neighbor’s dog, I crawled into the fort and shed some tears about poor Lucky the duckling who, in the end, wasn't so lucky.
When Lacy passed away, taking the misfortunate foal with her, I would sit eternally beneath the shelter of those cedar bows and listen to the rain fall all around me.
Finally, came a day when my dad told us we were moving. The concept swept right over my head - I didn't understand why you would ever want to leave a home. Nonetheless, it took four rungs up the ladder before it hit me.
Nobody would come to look for me, because at the lakehouse, it was common knowledge that you were in good hands, no matter where you went. When the time came, my dad would appear on the patio and call me in for dinner. The feel of a warm summer evening between the cedars never left my skin. Looking back, it appears I was smart enough not to take those things for granted. The irony is, I've never ached so much to just walk across seven bridges and find my own Alabama skies waiting for me, when three years ago, I had them outside my doorstep all along.

Come Together
- the Beatles

I can't remember, so refresh my memory... did I or did I not mention this one little characteristic that sadly defines me? A hint - it's one hundred percent unwelcome and eternally infuriating.
I have a chronic blushing problem.
No bullshitting. I blush at any and all attention diverted upon moi. And no, for the romantics out there (myself included) it is not the cute, irresistible type of blushing honed by models - the one that flatters your cheekbones and catches the eye of all the sensitive, good guys. It's a horrible and all out ghastly infliction that results in a purple-red representation of a disproportioned M&M. But the worst of it? I don't even realize what's happening! I won't even be mildly embarrassed and that familiar tide of heat will rise to my face, causing my friends to giggle. It really pushes my buttons. It grinds my gears. It rolls my wheels. It fuels my freaking engines.
This may come as random, but I promise there is wisdom behind the whining.
Case one: In art class I sit beside the most esteemed potheads Hatzic High has ever produced. If those burnouts could ever be classified as such. Obviously, I have nothing in common with the dregs, along with being a complete stranger to every single person in that classroom. So, naturally, my being a loner has intrigued them. The only verbal communication I emit in that class is a dutiful “here” during attendance, but often I catch them curious for more. So when I left my seat to go ask the teacher for more paper and was waiting across the classroom for her to stop yapping with some clueless student, I caught the dregs going through my sketchbook. I wasn't annoyed, really. I was amused.
At the precise moment I looked over, the two culprits looked up, caught blindly in the act. Their expressions were so hysterically guilty that I just laughed and lifted my arms in question, like "What the hell?".
Dreg One lifted his own arms in return, feigning innocence, while Dreg Two snapped my sketchbook shut and mouthed an "Oh shit!" behind his hand. The innocent one laughed, saying "they're very good drawings!" from across the classroom and flashing a thumbs up. I just shook my head.
Here is where the blushing comes into subject. When I walked back to my seat, new paper in hand, I could feel a strong flush rising on my cheeks, despite barely being embarrassed under their dubious glances. I have no idea whether the dregs noticed, but what if they did? Why do I blush like such an idiot, for no significant reason whatsoever? It is such a waste of blood, when other areas of my body could put it to a much better use. How will I ever meet people and interact normally, if my red face spoils any first impressions?
Case two: In Spanish class, my teacher has this thing for addressing each person individually with questions, or inquiries, in attempts to morbidly embarrass his victims. Plus, he adores me. And I have no clue why. Anyhow, delving into one of his old stories of the Latin-American culture, Senor Romero began to address the issue of dating. He recalled how that back in the day, the ladies would never let on that they liked a guy and would shriek at the idea of asking said guy out. It was all in the man's hands. Of course, my teacher wanted to know our opinions - or more specifically, my opinion. (Insert massively massive sigh here.)
Get ready, because this one's a classic. So, speaking hypothetically, the completely oblivious Senor Romero used me and this other boy in my class as examples. Problem is, this certain boy used to revolve around the center of my thoughts and he knew it, because I fessed up last spring. Let’s call him Jack. Sure, Jack.
Luckily, we're friends, both having come clean about how we felt via unintentional coincidences (this fiasco may be documented when I sum up the maturity). Therefore we were both able to look at each other and laugh when Senor Romero asked in his heavy Spanish accent, "Senorita Vesper, let's say you really liked Jack. Would you let him know how you feel?"
For a moment I was frozen. For a moment, only two people existed in that classroom. I leaned over in my seat to share a look with Jack. He was ready to burst with amusement, looking ridiculously smug. Asshole.
I was so surprised by Senor Romero's complete obliviousness and Jack being used as my so-called crush when in fact, he used to be, that I couldn't answer... I think I recall fumbling with the words "I don't know" and "it depends". The irony of my situation was not lost on me. Truth is, telling Jack the truth had been rather difficult and he himself had to wheedle it out of me. So one can understand now why the smugness and extreme amusement from his side.
Immediately a blush began to rise, more heated then before, as I realized this enormous secret had been thrown out into the open. Like a bone. Only - when it comes down to the bare facts - I’m the bait. Jack's knowledge of how I felt was humiliating enough, but since he already knew and we had made amends, he wasn't my prime concern. Realistically, I wasn't all that embarrassed. I was surprised. I was caught off guard.
I think that's what triggers my chronic blushing most - the inability to handle bad surprises.
The situation only worsens when people acknowledge it. I remember ducking my head and laughing along with the class when Senor Romero exclaimed, "Oh, if you could see her face now! So red!".
I have to laugh, I mean, seriously? Now my entire Spanish class probably assumes I have this massive thing for Jack, when in fact, I just got over him.
So, the conclusion is, I unwillingly have no secrets. Or people misinterpret my red face for something totally wrong. Awesome.
So far I've spoken of many things, but I guess I haven't really touched the subject of my friends. Jack is kind of one of them, but sorry for him, he pulls up way short next to my best friends. My relationship with my best friends is basically as good as it can get before warping into sibling-ship. So instead of the love and hate relationship that I have with my sister, it's the love and temporarily-get-really-pissed-off relationship. I love ‘em. Each and every one.
All four of us have gone to school together since nearly kindergarten, for Lucy and Clara, they set the record at pre-school. Grade eleven has arrived with only a few impressive fights between us, whereas the arguing is ceaseless. But what can I say? We argue because we care. I'll begin alphabetically, so that when they read this, the legendary "What the hell? You mentioned me last?!" argument can be avoided.
Augusta. Destined to be lead actress of Oscar winning movie, both script-writer, director, producer, and author of that same book the movie would be based on. Not to mention the artist of all rough sketches required. With sights already set on a bright future and a confident air only found amongst the naturally blessed drama queens, how can you not admire Auggie? Sure, she is a wee bit crazy on the dark side, but only we know that, and only we can appreciate that craziness for what it is. Geniusness? Most likely, because never have I managed to beat Auggie's consistent straight-A's, throughout both elementary and high school. Her indistinct eyes change colour almost as frequently as her moods, but then again, maybe they coincide. I'll regret the day that Auggie and I will have to be separated in science class, due to inappropriate laughter from inappropriate jokes. I've known Auggie since grade one, when I secretly despised her for her tree-drawing abilities - which were far more advanced then my shaky seven year old hand. We fought a lot throughout elementary, but that was only due to our equally stubborn personalities. Despite all grudges, I love Auggie unconditionally. And I think both Lucy and Clara can agree, we love her for being so unique. Rather eccentric, but one of a kind. It's something hard to come by in school, and even if you do manage to find it, individuality can be hard to hold on to. For that, Auggie, I salute you. Nothing can match your vivid dreams, retold in weary detail on Monday mornings, nor the alien-quality doodles I find etched throughout your binders. Every summer we have to spend two months without Auggie, as she scampers off to Barriere, Kamloops to work for a horse camp up in ye bush. I can't decide whether to be jealous, or sorely disappointed when she's gone again. In the end, it's the disappointment that wins, because nothing can be more dull than two whole months without Augusta present in our everyday lives.
Clara. Another independent, kick-ass gal that seems to have no trouble staying true to herself. Back in elementary school, Clara was our peacekeeper. Whenever Lucy and Auggie and I would have our notorious, inconsequential arguments and refused to move from our separate spots amongst the playground to converse, Clara would travel in between the swings and slides, trudging with our stubborn messages. To this day, she still is the mediator. We turn to her for advice and listen when she tells us to "Quit arguing or I'll come over there and slap ya'll upside the head." You see, the most amusing, irresistible thing about Clara, is that she has this unexpected twist to her personality. Once shy, and polite to strangers or honest and attentive to you, she will get that glint in her eye that clearly says, "Back off, compadre." Though almost a foot shorter than me, nothing can be more intimidating. And we love it. She's smart, she dances without a care, she's dedicated to the equestrian world, an expert in sarcasm, holds the record of subway-sandwich-scarfing, and she's got the whole world ahead of her... despite not learning to cut her pancakes until she was thirteen. As we three terrors run off to scope out trouble, Clara will always be waiting to tell us "I told you so", and I'd be truly lost if that ever changed. At least when I travel the entire world in search of my great adventures, I'll know there'll be some uncut chocolate-chip pancakes and an attentive ear to hear about my tales when I get home. That is, if she hasn’t given up on me.
Finally, we have Lucy. Back in the day, our older sisters were pretty good buddies, and it was at one of their autumn soccer matches that Lucy and I first met. A cute little picture of us holding hands and grinning like sweet lil' doves was even taken to document that momentous day in history. It was the day two of the world's most genius minds met their counterpoint in another, resulting in sisters from another misters... a.k.a. twiddledee and twiddledum, dumb and dumber, clown one and clown two, homedog and homeslice, or just the basic Lucy and Vesper. Seriously, Lucy is one of the most fun and/or funniest people I have ever met and the best part is… I somehow manage to keep up with that. Our minds, as I just mentioned in a roundabout way, run along the same tracks. Maybe it's because we've known each other for so long, but nonetheless, one smug glance equals equivalent laughter, one exaggerated sigh can explain so much, one song brings back the same memories, one word finishes a sentence. Lucy has a rockin' attitude, however sarcastic, and is guaranteed to bring out the fun in un-fun. Something I envy most, is her ability to be herself with anybody. Effortlessly. If there is anything I could ask for, it'd be that freedom. Not only does she have that win-win personality, but that girl could be a model, with those pretty blue eyes and pearly skin. Hence, she gets all sorts of guys trailing after her, from strange to stranger. It's only a matter of time before the one will catch her eye and we can all breath easily again. That is, in the absence of laughter.
Lastly, there is me. I am me. Yours truly. I think there’s enough unnecessary info in this thing to summarize who I am - but don’t assume that I don’t have any secrets. I cherish those secrets.
An ode to mi mejor amigas, may we down our first shooters together come age nineteen and trash at least one more kitchen by means of gingerbread, before going our sad separate ways. Offer another game of Nertz though and I might not be able to pull myself away. Add a tub full of Hagen-Daaz's Rocky Road ice-cream and your stuck with me for life. Throw in a few Beatles songs, and I'll forget the prospect completely. With the Fearsome Foursome, it's all or nothing - anything in between and we're out of balance.

Chlor O'Phyll

April 10, 2011 at 4:50 PM PDT

You must be a published author doing this for fun.