By Spring of my Junior year of high school I had already burned out. The four main reasons, I had thought, for my state of being were: my lack of social drive, my mother, my grades, and the fact that I had no drive to do anything unrelated to music. I, of course, knew of this problem, but continued on, as if everything would work itself out in the end. After all, that is how it had been working so far.
On the last day of my Sophomore year, I asked a guy out. And it wasn’t just any guy that I asked out, because his name was Walter, and we had history. He has the most fantastic smile I’ve ever witnessed. He’s a percussionist and a former piano prodigy. He likes puns and Star Wars. He’s Cantonese, Canadian, and American. He’s probably around five foot seven or so. Black spiky hair, he’s got. He’s got these brown eyes that I could’ve gotten lost in for hours had I gotten the chance. He’s intelligent and extremely funny. He like legos. He doesn’t like strawberries or crackers. His birthday is December 20th. He makes me so happy. He thinks Hogwarts houses are arbitrary but respects that I’m a Ravenclaw. He’s fluent in Spanish. He likes Dungeons and Dragons and Magic: The Gathering. He’s patient. He’s a weeb. He’s a runner: Cross Country and Track and Field. He likes soccer so much, and I sat through an entire women’s World Cup match because of him. We’ve known each other since we were both three. He used to wear these really dorky goggles in middle school. He gets his sense of style from his dad. He always goes along with my shenanigans.
He’s amazing and my dumbass had to have help asking him out over discord. I didn’t even know whether he was interested or not. I knew I was pathetic, but I didn’t know it was to that extent.
Later in the day I was riding my bike around the neighborhood. I was becoming rather comfortable with the route I had been riding for the last few days, so I tried something new. I decided to ride down the hill. On my way down I gained too much speed and couldn’t make the necessary turn. I hit a forrest green SUV. The impact made a me-sized dent on the door, but I didn’t realize that yet. I don’t remember this too well to be completely honest. Upon impact my eyes became blurry and I lost focus on what was going on. After the impact I rolled six or ten feet and just kind of laid there in the street for a bit, not really realizing what had happened. I moved to get up and felt pain in my neck, head, thighs, knees, and my right elbow. I still have scars from the incident, the most pronounced of which being the one on my right elbow. The SUV was parked on the street in front of a house in my neighborhood. Two people came from the house behind the SUV. A younger woman, which I later knew to be the daughter, came running. An older man, which I later knew to be the father, came walking. The woman was concerned for me rather than for the car. I couldn’t get a read on the man. I later learned that the SUV belonged to his late wife.
Up until this point I hadn’t taken a look at my bike. I looked over to it. The bike was totaled. I still have it for some reason. The woman offered to clean my wounds but I declined. She asked if I wanted to call Mira Costa from her landline. I’m not a college student, nor was I at the time. Again, I declined. My phone was a few feet away from where I landed. I picked it up, hoping it wasn’t totaled like my bike was. It wasn’t broken. I sat down in the middle of the street and called my mom. The impact site was only two blocks from my house but she still wanted to pick me up. My voice was going vibrato. She asked me again if I wanted to be picked up, again, I declined. The conversation was over and she hung up. The woman gently told me to sit on the curb instead of the street, and then asked for me to write down my insurance information. I told her I didn’t know what it was. She didn’t press it any further and focused on keeping me calm. It was a good attempt. The man was looking at the SUV until now, when he looked at me. “How could you do this.” “How did this even happen?” I was having an incredibly hard time stringing together coherent sentences. “Where did you come from?” “Did you miss a turn or something?” I wanted to cry. “Yes, sir. I missed a turn. I was riding down the hill.” He continued. “How could you be so irresponsible?” “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve only known how ride for about a week and a half.” The woman signaled for the man to calm down. He stopped talking. She asked if she could drive me home. Like before, I declined. She asked where I lived so she could check on me later to see if I got home safely. I told her where I lived. “Roselle. Second from the intersection.” I picked my bike and tried rolling it alongside me. The front wheel was completely misshapen from the impact, and the forks were bent as well. My mom arrived. She had walked over. I carried the bike alongside me on my way to her. She greeted the man and woman. I told her not to tell dad. She told me he wouldn’t be mad. That wasn’t what I was worried about for the most part. I repeated myself. She repeated herself. We started walking home. I switched sides. We walked another twenty or so feet, and I couldn’t hold myself together any longer. I started sobbing. She repeated herself once again. I repeated myself and added some other words. I was louder this time to try covering my voice which had gone completely vibrato at this point. She repeated herself for the third time, with steady dynamics. The way I carried the bike was making me uncomfortable, and she noticed. She offered to carry the bike. I said nothing and instead put the bike over my shoulder. We walked like that for the rest of the way.
I can’t even remember where we put the bike at first. I sat on our couch sobbing. My mom consoled me, and I stopped. My dad got home from work. I started crying again. I told him. He wasn’t mad. That wasn’t what I was crying over; I thought he’d be disappointed. He wasn’t that either. The woman came over to see if I got home safely. The woman and the man got our insurance information from my parents.
I wondered what Walter would think of this. I didn’t want to bother him with this while he was thinking about the answer to the question that I had already asked.
I cried almost nonstop for the next two days.
This was the beginning to my junior year of high school.
On Monday I went to work. My summer job was working as a counselor for various summer camps held at my school. The first week consisted of various field trips, the first of which being to the San Diego Safari Park. I got off the bus and Bob handed me water bottles to hand out to the kids. I also handed out snacks. The kids were great, if not a little bit obnoxious.