Those Things Beautiful.
SUNSHINE
The day after having moved, the sun was out. Dad said that he didn’t doubt it would be, since we lived in Huntington Beach; in Orange County, the temperatures never got much below sixty degrees, and the sun was almost always out. “All of the odds must have been against us for it to be raining the day we got here,” was how Dad put it.
Mom and Dana seemed to like the idea of being here as well. I don’t think I heard them complain once about the weather, or even about leaving our family and friends back home. All they cared about was their newly-found allowance to go swimming every day, not having to worry about finding someone with a pool when we lived a few blocks from the beach. They were out the very next day, taking in the sun while baking their skin into a comfortable tan.
I refused to join them. I was still refusing to have any fun, and was refusing to descend to their level of conformity. It just wasn’t in my chemical makeup to give in so easily.
“At least get out of the house, then,” Mom told me. “You’ll turn into a vampire if you stay inside all day like you do.”
What was wrong with staying inside for a few hours? Absolutely nothing, I told myself defiantly. The first time Mom ever insisted on me getting out of the house was the day after we moved. It was almost as if the perfect weather of southern California had changed her into a completely different person, one who enjoyed the outdoors and made sure that everyone else within a 50-foot radius of her did, too.
But, somehow, I let her dress me up in a tank top and a pair of Bermudas, lather me in sunblock, and shove me outside.
My God, was it hot out there. It was like the heat was radiating off of the pavement; if I looked hard enough, I could see waves emitting off of the cement at the end of the road, wavering in the air and tainting the clarity of my vision.
I’ve always been a really pale person, so I always make sure that I put on extra sunscreen whenever I have to brave the out of doors. What I didn’t know was that in Orange County, it doesn’t matter how much sunscreen someone with my level of paleness puts on: you will burn, and it will be painful.
That day, I went for a two-hour-long walk. I didn’t see much, just a little bit of the city and subdivision, but not much else. I didn’t see anyone that looked like me there; everyone seemed to have walked out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, possessing perfect bodies with their perfect hair and skin. Even the little kids looked like miniature supermodels.
I felt really out of place, to be perfectly honest.
When I got home, my entire body was red and itchy. Dad didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I knew exactly what it was: sunshine. I loved the sun, but I had a level of zero resistance toward its rays. I guess even my family of sixteen years didn’t know I had a tanning deficiency.
The night of my sunburn was one of the worst of my life, as I could barely sleep on my skin. It hurt to touch anything against it, even my cold sheets.
When I awoke the next day, I realized that my stay in California would be worse than I had first anticipated.
Much, much worse.
Mom and Dana seemed to like the idea of being here as well. I don’t think I heard them complain once about the weather, or even about leaving our family and friends back home. All they cared about was their newly-found allowance to go swimming every day, not having to worry about finding someone with a pool when we lived a few blocks from the beach. They were out the very next day, taking in the sun while baking their skin into a comfortable tan.
I refused to join them. I was still refusing to have any fun, and was refusing to descend to their level of conformity. It just wasn’t in my chemical makeup to give in so easily.
“At least get out of the house, then,” Mom told me. “You’ll turn into a vampire if you stay inside all day like you do.”
What was wrong with staying inside for a few hours? Absolutely nothing, I told myself defiantly. The first time Mom ever insisted on me getting out of the house was the day after we moved. It was almost as if the perfect weather of southern California had changed her into a completely different person, one who enjoyed the outdoors and made sure that everyone else within a 50-foot radius of her did, too.
But, somehow, I let her dress me up in a tank top and a pair of Bermudas, lather me in sunblock, and shove me outside.
My God, was it hot out there. It was like the heat was radiating off of the pavement; if I looked hard enough, I could see waves emitting off of the cement at the end of the road, wavering in the air and tainting the clarity of my vision.
I’ve always been a really pale person, so I always make sure that I put on extra sunscreen whenever I have to brave the out of doors. What I didn’t know was that in Orange County, it doesn’t matter how much sunscreen someone with my level of paleness puts on: you will burn, and it will be painful.
That day, I went for a two-hour-long walk. I didn’t see much, just a little bit of the city and subdivision, but not much else. I didn’t see anyone that looked like me there; everyone seemed to have walked out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, possessing perfect bodies with their perfect hair and skin. Even the little kids looked like miniature supermodels.
I felt really out of place, to be perfectly honest.
When I got home, my entire body was red and itchy. Dad didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I knew exactly what it was: sunshine. I loved the sun, but I had a level of zero resistance toward its rays. I guess even my family of sixteen years didn’t know I had a tanning deficiency.
The night of my sunburn was one of the worst of my life, as I could barely sleep on my skin. It hurt to touch anything against it, even my cold sheets.
When I awoke the next day, I realized that my stay in California would be worse than I had first anticipated.
Much, much worse.
♠ ♠ ♠
thank you SO much to all of my new subscribers and commenters!this one is for all of you. (:
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