I am stressed.
I have a lot of theories on why that could be such as lack of sleep and a few B assignments (don't laugh at me) and a stack of tests that want to be graded. But I do not want to talk about such things. Instead, I need to take a few minutes and write. Because that is how I abolish stress. And right now, the stress is overflowing. Except for in the boyfriend department. I feel pretty excellent about that one for the first time in like, ever.
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This is the first page of my book, tentatively titled When Fireflies Fly. You'll see why:
When I was a little girl, my brothers and I would sit in the backyard with my mother and my sister and watch fireflies sparkle. We'd stare as they stoically suspended in mid air and giggle peals of laughter when they zipped from one end of the never-ending backyard to the other. Most of the fireflies we watched had yellow lights, but sometimes they were orange and sometimes they shimmered pink. Once, my brother Andrew captured a blue one. We gathered around him and peered into his seven-year-old cupped hands. I was enraptured.
I called them Twinkle Bugs, and sometimes Mama let me catch them. I was amazed every time I held one between my childishly excited fingers. Every once in a while, I'd sneakily touch their lights when Mama turned her back and powder would trace the palms of my hands. It glowed and glittered even after I set the firefly free and I would hold my hand up almost to my nose, captivated by the swirl of light.
Before Mama gave me free range of the yard to trap Twinkle Bugs, however, she would punch air holes in the top of jars. As she did this, I collected grass and leaves to shove in the bottom. Then I would run around in the dark, cramming as many fireflies as possible in the jar, shrieking with delight. Afterwards, I'd take them to my room and climb on my bed. I'd lie on my stomach, the sticky Southern air settling in around me, set the jar at eye level and stare through the thick glass.
They were beautiful.
They shined bright, blinking as often as I blinked. I thought they were magic. Eventually, though, if I did not let them out in time, their lights slowly faded. Their sparkle stopped shining, and their blinks became far apart. Eventually, they got tired, laid at the bottom of the jar, and quit gleaming altogether.
I could not bear to see the Twinkle Bugs stop twinkling. I could not bear for them to look normal. They were extraordinary and beautiful and I wanted them to be that way forever. So, on nights when I felt adventurous, I'd wait until the whole house was silent and then I would crawl through the window of my first floor bedroom or creep through the back door. I'd set my tiny toes on the cool grass outside, walking as far away from the house as I dared. Then, gently, I would unscrew the cap from the glass jar, lifting the fireflies as far as my child arms could reach. And then, in an instant, the fireflies would swirl all around me. And when they flew, they were free. They were free in a way I craved to be.
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This is nowhere near the front of the book:
When I was in fourth grade, Ava and I would rush to finish our work early so that we could sit in the bean bag chairs. They were next to the bookshelf lining the back of the classroom and over the books, our teacher had one of those banners. You know what I'm talking about. They say things like "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can" with pictures of the blue engine huffing and puffing. This one did not say that. Our teacher's banner said "Extra is the same as ordinary, expect for that little extra."
I looked dreamily at that poster every day. I'd recite it in my head as I walked home and jump to it when I jumped rope. I knew that it was a life changing statement.
Halfway through the school year, I worked up courage to talk about it. Sitting in the bean bags one afternoon, I looked at Ava and told her, "When I get older, I am going to be that little extra." She had never even noticed the poster. She asked me what I was talking about and I told her it didn't matter. I knew I was going to be exceptional. I was not going to be normal. I was not going to be ordinary. I was that little extra.
