Pirate Summer
Chapter 1
Love wasn’t my whole story. Was it supposed to be? I don’t know. That’s what Amanda said. She said I was supposed to love him the way he loved me. But I wasn’t sure if I could. I wasn’t sure if I could love anybody. Mainly, the story was about heart break. Everyone’s but my own. Or, my own in a small way. But not really.
That summer, I was a pirate. I wasn’t concerned about his affection for me. Amanda was. Amanda also seemed to question my devotion to him. It was fun, my relationship with him. She needn’t concern herself. Yet she was also asking. She loved him more than I did. But he chose me. It’s not my fault. Was it? I could’ve said no. I didn’t say no. Because I had liked him. I had felt it was my turn for a romance. But that summer I was a pirate. I was there, but not really. He was there completely. I was the guilty party. I was the flower that floated away in the breeze or down the river. He was the rock. I painted him with glitter glue and my paint and yet he just smiled. I floated away, skirt flowing and bare feet brushing the grass. He followed. That summer was about adventure. About fun and the lack-there-of. It was about unconditional love for my friends. We were only a few short months away from separating. They wouldn’t admit it. But I knew. We had to paint the sky and sit in the clouds now. That summer, we ran away from reality. We ran too far, I think. Because when fall came around, we weren’t ready to give up our adventures. We had ran so far, but accomplished so little. We had the tans and the freckles and the dye to prove our summer had been an adventure. We smelled of grass and incense and cinnamon. We smelled of sweat and apples and chlorine.
Summer was an addiction. My eyes turned from brown to green. We were free. There were flowers and bugs. The night was not a limit. The night was warm and dark and like a blanket. There was no need for a fire. I could wear my dress, the black one without sleeves. And he would kiss my shoulders. Jeans were in a pile in my room, useless. That summer was organic. We didn’t sleep and we didn’t wake up. We shed our mature selves and we told stories and we wrote poems and we drew in the sand with sticks we had found. iPods were useless that summer. Music was outdated. We wrote on napkins. I have a whole collection. That summer was a summer that could never be captured on a post card or a photograph. We had the kind of summer pirates have. We pioneered our own summer plans. We took what we wanted and gave nothing back.
That summer, I was a pirate. I wasn’t concerned about his affection for me. Amanda was. Amanda also seemed to question my devotion to him. It was fun, my relationship with him. She needn’t concern herself. Yet she was also asking. She loved him more than I did. But he chose me. It’s not my fault. Was it? I could’ve said no. I didn’t say no. Because I had liked him. I had felt it was my turn for a romance. But that summer I was a pirate. I was there, but not really. He was there completely. I was the guilty party. I was the flower that floated away in the breeze or down the river. He was the rock. I painted him with glitter glue and my paint and yet he just smiled. I floated away, skirt flowing and bare feet brushing the grass. He followed. That summer was about adventure. About fun and the lack-there-of. It was about unconditional love for my friends. We were only a few short months away from separating. They wouldn’t admit it. But I knew. We had to paint the sky and sit in the clouds now. That summer, we ran away from reality. We ran too far, I think. Because when fall came around, we weren’t ready to give up our adventures. We had ran so far, but accomplished so little. We had the tans and the freckles and the dye to prove our summer had been an adventure. We smelled of grass and incense and cinnamon. We smelled of sweat and apples and chlorine.
Summer was an addiction. My eyes turned from brown to green. We were free. There were flowers and bugs. The night was not a limit. The night was warm and dark and like a blanket. There was no need for a fire. I could wear my dress, the black one without sleeves. And he would kiss my shoulders. Jeans were in a pile in my room, useless. That summer was organic. We didn’t sleep and we didn’t wake up. We shed our mature selves and we told stories and we wrote poems and we drew in the sand with sticks we had found. iPods were useless that summer. Music was outdated. We wrote on napkins. I have a whole collection. That summer was a summer that could never be captured on a post card or a photograph. We had the kind of summer pirates have. We pioneered our own summer plans. We took what we wanted and gave nothing back.