The Tower Room

3:25 p.m.

 

I’m writing from the tower room. Fine, it’s hardly a tower, it’s more a sun-room attached to one of the second-floor guest rooms, but it looks like a tower room, which is all that matters at the moment. When Mom suggested that we needed some time away from, you know, people, I told her, “Look for a tower room.” “But, stairs…” she tried. “Tower room,” I told her.

 

I should really stop using italics. I’m fifteen, and according to L.M. Montgomery’s Rilla of Ingleside, it’s normal for fifteen-year-olds to speak in italics. I better not. But how, may I ask, does anyone else get their emotions across properly?!? There, that’s relieved my feelings and I can dispense with italics now.

 

I’m supposed to be keeping a diary because my pscyho thinks it would be good for me. “Therapeutic” is the word she used. Funny how many “therapeutic” things we tried that never really worked. She said it’s because of something called my “attitude.” Well, of course it’s my attitude!

 

“Write something you would want your grandchildren to read,” Mom always says. She assumes that someone will marry me. I want to put her mind at rest and pretend the same thing, so here goes.

 

Grandchildren, please don’t attempt to ride motorbikes when you are underage. Don’t crash if you do try, and don’t break both legs in the process if you do crash. Wait until you’re of legal age and moved out of the house so your Mom won’t blame herself and have a nervous breakdown. Happy, Mom? (Reading this over, even I’m beginning to see what my psycho meant by “attitude”).

 

It’s half-past-3, and the sun is in the room. Fine, I suppose I’m happy about it. I will be happier when I have my tea.

 

5:30 p.m.

 

You will never guess what happened after those last words. Oh yes you might, Grandchildren, because I hope you’ll be so much smarter than me, but I’ll tell you anyway. As I wrote those last words, there was a neat rap at the door. Not the rap of someone who was curious to see the temporarily resident cripple. “Come in!” I called. The tea must be early, I thought.

 

The door opened, and four children came in smiling. The two boys were pre-pubescent and smaller than the girls. “You have to be on time for tea,” one boy said. His eyes were a nice green, kind of like Oliver Queen’s in Arrow. “Tea is always at four.” The girl who spoke had the same eyes, but lighter hair.

 

The other boy picked up my crutches from the side, and both girls took one from him. Then they boys went to me and offered their hands for me to hold. I think I felt ridiculous–they were so serious–but it was a tower room after all, and I did feel flattered, like a princess. We made our way down, and they helped me to a chair by Mom. Then they all gathered by the front. “Welcome to Saturday tea,” the green-eyed boy said. “As you know, tea time is always at four.”

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