Within The Bottle Of Daisies

Chapter O N E

Summer, a beauty, a bliss, a finite of days awarded to students after 10 months of projects, assignments, exams, reports, and many, many more to be included that usually is associated with school. It is a time for frolic without having the constant thought of school work looming over one's mind. A time when the town's beach held an influx of individuals, sun beaming overhead in an expanse of blue, waves rolling on the golden sand in a heap of white foam, women in jean shorts, translucent shirts, and bikinis, men, with bare chests, in swimming trunks, ogling at girls, exchanging a series of jokes, drinking cans of beers, and blasting music through twin, gray speakers.

Summer, a witness to sweet, ephemeral flings between infatuated teens, beholding how a childish relationship grew in a sea of lonesome souls, only to have it wither and shrivel as the end of relaxation drew nigh. It had glimpsed a multitude of both bad and good events in a span of 61 days, like the catfight that had transpired at the beach a year ago due to uncertain reasons involving a guy, or that day at the beach when Michael Myers lowered himself to one knee, produced a ring from his pocket, and had romantically proposed to his five-year girlfriend, Catalina Detavino, after singing to her in front of a charmed audience, the women in the crowd sighing dreamily, the men cheering him on.

In our humble town called Dayonan, summer was sacred, as most of the residents, myself not an exception, had conceived it to be. We were people of crashing, sea green waves, of golden sands and distinctive seashells, of heat-filled days, candescent sun, heavens in blue, and ocean breezes. We cherished our single beach, watched the sun dip behind the horizon as it painted the sky in shades of red, pink, and orange, danced and sang around a campfire beneath winking specks of stars and the washed-out moon.

All of these, from leaving the house with a two-piece underneath to arriving home smelling of adventure, glee, and the ocean, I treasure them, like significant items comprising most of the memories stowed in my mind.

Summer is both a giver of remedy and a creator of tragedy.

And it has arrived.

•••

Through the speakers attached on the corner of the walls, away and well out of everybody's reach, most especially seniors who had a tendency to descend harmless pranks upon students and teachers, a woman's voice spoke, more or less monotonic, declaring, what each and every one of us had been anticipating, the official end of our school year, the start of summer vacation, the beginning of new haps, new drama, new mirths. The announcement was met with an innumerable amount of jocund cheers from lips of students, a crescendo of delight as girls began establishing plans for the summer and boys starting to collaborate, suggesting activities, such as hosting parties, drinking 'til dawn, singing campfire songs by the beach, and, which I would propose myself, stargazing.

The hallways were crowded with individuals, heads of various of colors and types bobbing up and down alone, in pairs, or in groups. Voices intermixed in the air, some high-pitched, some gruff, others sweet, cute, and low, while there were those that were gravelly, and yet in this fusion of assorted sounds, words blending into one another, it all expressed a certain joy and excitement that originated from their hearts, traveled through their throats, and out of the lips to structure a sentence or phrase in glee. Dark blue locker doors were shut and locked, shuffling of feet were heard, and, somewhere in the hallway, amidst the hilarity, a particular person sneezed.

I won't be missing school, because I know that it is lingering right around the corner, never leaving, remaining in its usual spot, and I know, more than anyone, that summer has its end to make way for the start of another school year. Why would I miss something that will eventually return when I could relish in on what has arrived? Besides, I achingly want to visit the beach, which I had done countless of times and had done so five days ago. But that's the thing about Dayonan people, the beach is our siren, we are the sailors on land, and how much effort we may put into evading it, we are still being lured by the song of the siren, bewitched to be near of its presence.

Yet, strangely enough, I love being entranced by our sole beach. And, strangely more, maybe it's because I, myself, am one of the many lovers of our siren.

I gently shut the door of my locker, the dark blue hue painted over it reminding me of midnight skies searching for the twinkle of its bright, tiny stars, and, instantaneously, an idea slipped into my mind, so beautiful that I fear I might turn obstinate if it is not done so into existence. If I could successfully coax our principal, receive her permission, I might just be able to customize my locker door into a midnight sky, now with its shimmering stars, and, if I'm not quite satiated, then I shall paint gloomy clouds as an addition.

Wondrous.

"What are you thinking about now?" A person inquired beside me, voice set into a playful tone, hearing his voice enough for me to conclude that a smile had appeared upon his lips. My speculation turned out to not have been a mistake, and it wouldn't be despite the lack of confirmation, because through the years, I am one of the handful that has come to know of Winston's personality. He was leaning sideways against the locker next to my own, one shoulder against the metal surface, the other carrying a strap of his backpack, which I doubt had anything in it.

Winston is one of my closest friends, before my circle of friends grew and expanded as I ascended in high school, and he had been the person who had introduced me to astronomy, which he is deeply passionate about. I would say he is cute and handsome, as most girls think of him here in our school, but I care little for looks and the such. Winston makes me happy, makes me laugh, protects me as if I'm his only little sister, and personally, that is enough.

He is enough.

"I'm thinking of painting my locker door," I answered his question once I had secured my locker, sure that it won't ever be opened by another individual, me as an exception. The conversations, the voices, that floated through the hallways gradually reduced in volume, students ambling away to reach the front doors of the building, finished with grabbing the items in their lockers, free to head home, to begin their summer vacation. There were still remaining students in the hallway where my locker was located, although I mentally counted to have a result of thirteen individuals, Winston and I included.

"Painting your locker door?" Disbelief crossed Winston's features for a moment. "I don't think Principal Leah would be happy with that."

"She's rarely happy these days. Like a walking storm of forlorn."

"Forlorn?" Winston scoffed, crossing his arms. "I say fury. She gave Jack detention today, because he had tried to give her a carton of milk in exchange for the guarantee of Taco Tuesdays next school year."

I laughed lowly, bag heavy with books, binders, and sketchbooks, the weight a liability and a t*****e, making me feel like a hunchback. I do not intend to have it be stored in my locker, unlike most of the students belonging here, for I treasure these items as though gifts, presents that were offered to me after hours of writing, hours of sketching decent poses, recognizable objects, must-see tourists spots, and my love for books is at a particular point where I cannot simply forsake it in the cold umbra found inside my locker. A burden they may be for my back, but it is temporary pain I can manage in fair trade for the transportation of my things from school to home.

"Do you need help with that?" Winston, voice coated in a layer of sincere worry as he watched my struggle, asked, pushing himself off the locker, finger pointed at the bag on my back. "Let me carry it for you, Ivy."

"I got it," I insisted, before I gripped both straps slung over my shoulders, showing him a smile to ease his apparent disquietude, but it had only made him stare at me more, calculating whether he should choose to respect my decision or to aid me then and there. "I can handle it, Win. You don't have to worry about me."

"Don't tell me to not worry over someone I care about," Winston stated, but displayed no attempt whatsoever to grab my bag as a form of protest against my refusal to his help. "You do not tell a caring man to stop caring."

I blew a strand of raven hair away from my face. "I can sustain the weight of my things."

"If you say so," he shrugged, but I knew Winston agreeing with me when he had the capability of lending a helping hand to a friend troubled him, as though he was not quite ready to give up his side of the argument yet but had to in order to ensue peace between both parties.

I abruptly moved my head to the side, hoping to keep a strand of my hair out of my face once it had returned to its position in front of my eyes after my first try of pushing it away. Annoyance prickled my chest. "If I managed to gather enough courage to shave my head, I would."

Winston, once again, stared at me, which I didn't find odd since I had caught him doing it one too many times during our classes, and when I would try to smile as a form of friendly greeting, he would quickly divert his attention, a soft shade of red creeping into his cheeks. Beckoning, he softly said, "come here."

I took a step closer to him and slowly turned around. "Where did you get that tie?"

"I asked one from Coleen, since you keep on losing your tie." Winston told me, hands gently gathering my hair, long fingers running through the strands as he clutched them altogether, and, unexpectedly, the tip of his finger brushed my nape, quick, accidental, a touch that would not have fallen into my attention, only if I had been daydreaming or had been engrossed on something far more distracting. But I wasn't daydreaming, something I did often, nor was I distracted. I was fully cognizant, and I inhaled a sharp breath, eyes widening. "Why? Does it hurt? Am I pulling your hair too hard?"

"No," my response was produced by a low voice.

"Okay," he whispered, silent in his work, before he successfully tied my hair into a ponytail, which, I thank him for, was not slovenly done, as if Winston had completed the task countless of times unbeknownst to me.

I faced him, unable to hide a bright smile of gratitude. "Thank you. Now I'm not visited by urges to have my head hairless. If I cut my hair short for the summer, would I look alright?"

"You'd look beautiful," he answered without a moment's pause, corners of his lips outstretching to assemble a smile of his own, a product of sincerity. "You always do, Ivy."

"Thank you." I grinned, like a little girl. "Maybe I'll cut it for summer."

Winston winked. "Then I'll have something to happily look forward to for this particular summer."

And hearing the statement filled me with joy. For summer was already here, and not knowing what events it will bring into my life made it all the more exciting.

Unexpected isn't terrifying. It is an art of the unknown, a mystery, and it is beautiful.