Where the Daisies Sleep: Chapter One(section two)

Chapter One: Meeting

     We rarely have new neighbors since barely anyone knew of this small town. According to my mom, the people here nearly threw an entire town party when my family moved in. I was only a few years old at that time. My parents didn’t want me to be influenced by the kind of environment in big cities since I was “different”. Plus, they also enjoyed the quiet life, so this town was basically the perfect place for us. Because of my legs, I couldn’t leave town, much less the state or country. But even so, I felt miserable, especially in my younger days when I kept crying to sleep because I couldn’t be like the other kids. Thinking back, I felt really guilty about it because my attitude hurt my parents and they felt like they were responsible for my sadness. Still, it’s impossible to stop an invalid from wanting to run, walk, or even stand up when basically the entire world was doing it in our faces.
     “Hold up girl, are you trying to eat the plate too?” laughed my dad as he saw me unconsciously stabbing my fork at my empty plate. I returned myself to reality and placed down my fork, saving my plate from suffering anymore injuries.
     “Lost in thought again? I bet you write a whole novel if you wrote down every single thing you think about in there,” joked my dad. He stood up and took my plate into the kitchen. Mom was already washing the dishes (this is the only chore she does in the kitchen since she drops anything she holds besides her dear plates).
     “Thanks for the food,” I said as I rolled myself from the dining table.
     “Honey, make sure to finish the work we assigned before lunch,” mom yelled from the kitchen. I was homeschooled and this was also part of the “keep Hailey from society and sadness” plan my parents have. Well, they knew I didn’t enjoy being with people anyways since they would always judge me when they see me on a wheelchair.  When I was young, mom stays at home the whole time to take care of me and act as my teacher while dad goes to work at a nearby university. Mom had her own online store in which she sells handcrafts, paintings, and who knows what. As I got older and could take care of myself—well somewhat take care of myself—my mom eventually opened her own store down the street.
     “Don’t worry mom, I will,” I yelled back as I went to search for my art supplies. One of the things I developed similar to that of other kids was procrastination. I always leave my homework to the last moment. No duh. I checked the sticky notes that my mom placed on top of my art cabinet (since she knows that’s the only place in the house that I will go to every single day). My homework is quite simple—just English, a little math (no calculus or algebra, just plain math), and some history facts. My parents didn’t like the idea that schools teach children “useless information”—what percentage of people actually use y=mx+b or some Pythagorean Theorem thing in their life? Does anyone still remember the founder of the thirteen colonies? Or even the first few Mesopotamian civilizations (barely anyone still knows how to spell that)? I completely agree. Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel thankful to my body.
     I pulled out my art supplies which consisted of a large canvas, random paint brushes, paint supplies, and a rag. Somehow, I managed to pile all of them on my lap as I began to roll myself towards the backyard. I heard the door slam, signaling that my parents had left for work. On the way to the backyard, I grabbed my sun hat and my mp3 player still which was conveniently connected to my headphones, saving me the trouble to go look for them. I felt a little bump as my wheelchair rolled over the threshold of the backdoor and onto the grass. As I settled myself down on my usual spot, I realized I had forgotten to get water, just like usual. Luckily, mom had placed buckets near the water hose at the backyard just for me. Again, I love my mom.
     With my full bucket of water, I placed on my sun hat and pondered on what to draw. Having done this ritual for the last 16 or so years, I have basically drawn everything there is to draw. However, the only thing still changes even after 16 years within my field of vision from the small backyard was the sky. I mixed some blue paint and started laying down the base color. I learned my art skills from my mother who was an artist. Just like her, I prefer drawing outside of the house. I added grass at the bottom corner of the canvas so it looks as if this view was seen from the level of the grass. I also added in my mp3 player when I realized it had fallen to the ground and that I haven’t been listening to music.
     As I drew, I thought about the new neighbors and my eyes glanced towards the fence that separated my house from our neighbor’s. There has been no one living there for ages ever since Stacy and her parents moved after she finished 3rd grade. Her parents claimed that she needed a “proper life”. I was about two years younger than her and she recently came over to “play”. There wasn’t really anything to play with my legs the way they were so all we did was tell stories. Stacy did most of the story telling—about school, her friends, where she went this weekend, and about dancing. Stacy loved dancing, and she always showed me her new moves and techniques. She even came in her tutu and ballet shoes once. I loved seeing her dance. For that period, I really wanted to dance as well even though I knew I couldn’t. That was when most of my whining and crying took place. However, luckily for me, I fell in love with art, which did not require much moving of the legs.
     When Stacy left, I was heart-broken. However, I could see that she was looking forward to life in the big city, so I concealed my sadness. She promised she would visit someday. What if the new neighbor was Stacy’s family? Impossible, they wouldn’t want to come back into this “olden place”, as Stacy’s mom would call it. Honestly, I don’t really care who the neighbors were unless they have this kid who cries non-stop. I became more curious as I heard voices across the fence. They’re probably checking out the backyard, I thought. I heard the door slide open and shut and the voices disappeared. Not a fan of the outside I guess? I kept drawing and when I glanced at the fence once more, I saw a pair of amber eyes staring at me (well, at my drawing mostly, but still, my canvas was on my lap and so you could say that he was staring at me too).
     There I sat with my hair uncombed and wearing my pajamas, which was an old faded sundress. Not very attractive I agree. The pair of amber eyes belonged to a boy perching on top of the fence. He was about my age with dark reddish-brown hair. He neither smiled nor backed down from the fence when our eyes met. He simply kept his form, waiting for me to keep painting. I nodded my head slightly, which was my way of saying hello. He just blinked and nodded back. A voice from the inside of his house broke the silence and he lightly jumped down from the fence, disappearing from my sight and leaving me staring blankly at where he was just a few seconds before.