Meg Dowell Writes

I completely failed at accomplishing anything yesterday.

I guess I just got distracted. Not really from studying for math, since I’m petty sure (and hoping) I scored a B on that test. I knew what I was doing, for the most part. Except for some of the stuff on the last page. I knew I should have studied that section a little more. Oh well. I’m close enough to an A, and scored a 24.5/25 on that quiz I was working on about a week or so ago. Almost perfect. Sad day.

It’s raining. That would have been a nice thing to wake up to. Except it wasn’t the rain that woke me up. It was my ten-year-old brother stomping around the house at seven o’clock in the morning, whining about getting in trouble yesterday (holding a grudge, I see). There are rumors that his X-box is going into temporary hibernation. I can neither confirm nor deny that this is true. I’m hoping that it is. Not because I think he deserves it. I just hate that thing.

I think every kid goes through that kind of stage. I remember getting grounded a ton when I was a little older than he was, for all the usual things: talking back, stomping around, slamming doors. Yes, I had an attitude. I know, you’re shocked. I’m sure you would also be very shocked to learn that junior high tried to destroy me, and I tried to tell myself that for some reason trying out for cheerleading meant I was the most awesome person in the entire seventh grade. I was a brat. I was pretty much mean to everybody. Eighth grade was worse, since I found myself caught in a rivalry with about half of my classmates for no apparent reason. I never made cheerleading, by the way. I eventually got tired of rolling my eyes at people I hated. The end.

 Maybe that’s where the desire to write this book came from. Maybe I still had a little mean-ness left in me. It was bound to come out sooner or later, one way or another. I could make Melanie Bowman a whole lot meaner. But I’m not sure if I’m willing to dig that deep. I mean, the definition of mean to you and the definition of mean to a thirteeen-year-old could potentially be two completely different things. By their standards, I was mean. It’s a good thing none of my teachers from high school knew me then. I’d probably have an extremely difficult time finding people to write letters of recommendation for me.

I can’t even tell you how excited I am for summer. I know I tend to babble on about this more than anyone would like to hear, but you have to understand something. Underneath all that mean was a very determined little monster. I haven’t had a free summer since I was going into the sixth grade (a very interesting summer, since…well, maybe we’ll get to that another time). The year after that, it was Panther Choir camp. The year after that, it was Panther Choir camp and ISYM. After that, it was prep classes for freshman year—some math, some English; etc, etc. Between freshman and sophomore year, I took World History. The next year was U.S. History. And, as you may or may not recall, last summer was Economics. That’s what it takes to graduate early, guys. The loss of many summers.

But I’ve convinced my parents that I deserve a summer off before I start at ONU. So I’m planning three months of sunshine, writing, books, beach, and no more terrifying pale thighs. You’re welcome.

Love&hugs, Meg♥