1. Opal
ONE
Opal
Age Twelve
T he sun rises slowly over the flat Texas landscape, illuminating everything in its path in a warm yellow glow. This is my favorite time of the day, probably because it’s the most comfortable. The thermometer on our wall says it’s currently seventy-two degrees, that’s about the coolest it gets here in Willow Grove in the middle of August. Despite living here all my life, I’m still not a fan of the blistering hot summers.
In the early hours of the morning the air has a slight chill to it that isn’t present any other time, the birds are singing, and most of the neighborhood is still asleep. Not Mamaw and I, though. Every Sunday morning I join her on the porch while she sips her coffee and reads one of her romance novels. I guess most southern grandmothers would be reading the bible on Sunday morning, but Mamaw has never done that. She says she doesn’t need a rulebook for believing in god.
I lay here on my belly, scribbling words into my notebook. Sometimes people ask me what I write in it, and I never know exactly how to answer that besides, words . They’re not songs, nor are they stories, they’re mostly just thoughts. But for some reason, I can’t stop myself from writing them down. I feel like they’ll suffocate me to death if I try to keep them trapped inside my head.
“Have you met that new boy down the road yet?” Mamaw’s blue eyes, ones that match mine, look up at me from behind her book.
“Nah,” I say without returning her stare.
“He looks like he’s about your age, might as well go and welcome him to the neighborhood.” Her eyes return to the page she was on and she doesn’t say anything else.
I certainly don’t plan on welcoming anybody to the neighborhood. Today or any other day. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“Lord only knows. She’ll be back soon I’m sure.”
I’ve always lived with my mom and my grandma, but for some reason my mom isn’t around nearly as much as Mamaw is. She works a lot, but even on her days off she hardly ever seems to be here.
Mamaw is always muttering things under her breath every time my mom walks out the door again. Things like “irresponsible” and “immature”. I miss her whenever she’s gone.
Sighing, I close my notebook and shuffle into my room to shed my pajamas and trade them for a pair of denim overalls and a yellow tank top. Summer is almost over, so I might as well try to make the most of the last dwindling days I have leading up to the first day of middle school.
The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. School has always been easy for me, I’ve been a straight A student since kindergarten, but the social aspect makes me wish I could crawl in a hole and live there forever. And from what I’ve heard middle school is going to be even worse. People were already mean enough in elementary school.
It feels like my childhood is slipping through my fingers. Some of the girls at school have already started getting their periods and wearing bras. Lucky for me, depending on how you look at it, that hasn’t happened yet. Looking into the mirror of my old wooden dresser, I think I still look like a kid, but I know that something inside of me is changing. My thoughts aren’t as carefree as they once were, and I wonder if they ever will be again.
The screen door creaks and slaps back against the hinge as I step out onto the porch. It’s starting to get hotter now, and the sun is higher up in the sky. The muggy air is filled with the sound of cicadas buzzing, and somehow that makes it feel even hotter.
There aren’t many trees where we live, so there isn’t much shade. Luckily we live right down the road from a little swimming hole that stays pretty cold year around. I’ve never seen anyone else use it, so I kind of consider it my own secret little oasis. There aren’t any other kids in my neighborhood, and I’m an only child, so I’ve had to learn how to entertain myself over the years.
I guess technically there is another kid that lives here now, but I’m pretty positive he wouldn’t want to hang out with me. I don’t know why he would. Boys are mean, they’ve always been mean to me. A lot of girls aren’t much better.
“I’m going for a ride,” I tell Mamaw as I climb down the steps of our little screened, wooden porch. The white paint is chipping off the stairs.
“Be careful. Don’t go far, Opal, stay in the neighborhood.”
Mamaw would probably freak if she knew how far I ride my bike some days. Most of the time I just visit the swimming hole, but sometimes I’ll ride all the way to my best friend Maisie’s house or downtown to borrow a book from the library. I know I shouldn’t, but it gets so boring and lonely here.
“Yes, ma’am.” I pick my bike up off the grass and swing my leg over it. It’s getting too small for me, I think, and the blue streamers hanging off the handlebars make it look like it’s meant for a toddler. Mom keeps promising she’ll buy me a new one every Christmas, but it never happens.
I take off in the direction of the swimming hole, and sweat begins to bead and drip down my neck. Somewhere to my right I hear a man’s voice, he sounds angry. I swing my head in that direction, alarmed by his tone. Is he yelling at me?
In the driveway at the end of our block I see a boy, and an older man I assume is his dad, standing a few feet apart from each other. The dad has a deep grimace carved between his brows and is pointing at the house behind them.
It’s a cute little house, similar to the other ones in the neighborhood. One story, tan brick, red shutters.
The boy looks annoyed, he shakes his head and harshly opens the back door of their car. He looks over at me, and only then do I realize how long I’ve been sitting here staring. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. Even from all the way across the street I can see that he’s cute. I’m not attracted to many boys, most of them still strike me as being gross or annoying. But this one is definitely cute. Blond shaggy hair, tan skin.
I look away quickly, feeling my face heat up because I know he must have noticed me staring. I place my feet back on the pedals and continue my trek, putting as much distance between the boy and I as possible.