My mother drove me to the airport on our rocket-powered, sparkly blue, two-person bicycle with the windows rolled down. It was a hundred seventy-five degrees in my wonderful hometown, Tucson, Arizona, and the sky a perfect, cloudless purple. I was wearing a low-cut, sleeveless, white eyelet lace tank. I was donning it with tearful goodbye; it's overall class nodded to my classier peers, I being their overlord of class. So classy, in fact, that they didn't dare speak to me, but left me alone in my lunch corner. Yes, it was rather revealing, but that's the kind of person I am, baring my exquisite soul to the world. I had a parka as my carry-on item, the cheap, bubble gum pink, oversized, aluminum foil type. The gaping hole over my pancreas area made it a steal for ninety-nine cents at my favorite, local counterfeit goods dealer. I would miss that place.
In the top left? right? -I don't need directions- of the United States, in Wyoming, a tiny, almost nonexistent, hillbilly town named Spork exists. Someone called out to me on the road.
"Where are you going?" they asked.
"I'm going to Spork!" I answered in a southern accent. I thought it was appropriate. Isn't Wyoming southern?
According to Google, it rains more in Spork than any other town in the US. Never mind the fact that if I had actually done my research I would've known that in fact the rainiest place in the United States is Mobile, Alabama. I am above such petty things such as the weather. I visited there once a year until I was fourteen; that was when I had a temper tantrum and refused to get on the plane. Instead, I forced my father to vacation with me in Las Vegas for the past three years.
Ironically, it is now to Spork that I was banishing myself, something I do with great dread. I hate Spork. I love Tucson; where forever shall it be blistering in the heat and sweat. Even if it gets so hot sometimes that my "blemishes" [they're really pimples, but what an ugly word!] pop in the heat.
"Bell," my mother screamed to me as we parked our bicycle, took out the Master lock, whipped out the hot glue gun, and glued the lock to the bicycle rack at the airport (they have those now) to avoid theft. It was such a valuable mode of transportation.
"Ding-dong!" I responded cheerfully to her cry, which prompted her to break out into a loud chorus of Jingle Bells. While she was distracted, I slapped her boyfriend on the back,
"Take good care of her, Billiard," I spoke solemnly; my final words. In a rush to get on the plane before the tears, I knocked an old lady over with my parka. It wouldn't have been so heavy, but I weighed it down with lemons (stuffed in the pockets and the lining that I ripped open) in my attempt to remember Tucson on my depressing way to Spork.
"Get out of the way!" I snarled at her. She proceeded to beat me with her cane. It was only then I noticed her impeccable fashion sense. She wore light pink sweat pants that were drawn out up to her waist, shirt tucked in. The best was her dangling, hippo earrings. But I couldn't get distracted! No, I needed to get on my plane before my mother found me and begged me not to go, before my nobleness, my everlasting nobleness, could crack and I would stay with her in Tucson.