It's a secret

It's a secret

I have been reading for a long time. I have been a lot less writers, but I am aware of the enormous weight of these goals.

As a result, there are two types of writers. The first can be called responsible. These authors give priority to the needs and desires of their readers. They use a plan and write with an organized plan. The second can be called cathartic. You write to put what is inside. They do not push their words to reach a more favorable position, they just run with them. They spit their thoughts like tobacco in the hands of a ranch - sometimes they are lucky and touch the spittoon. They tell their stories as they did, as now.

Life is full of crucial moments and I remember very well who was at the beginning of my fourteenth year. Without wanting it and innocently, I saw something that I should not see; I saw that something was not done for me. But no one can see what they see. Oh, how many times I wish I could!
It was mid-summer, my first year of high school was in the water at a distance and I was full of anxiety and anticipation. My best friend Cara Hale and I spent the weekend on July 4th at her lake. Her parents, whom I had just loved, had a barbecue with music, fireworks and everything patriotic. It was an adult party, so we were banished to the upper floor where there was a TV room, a small kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. We were armed with films and nail polish and we absolutely wanted to "do our thing" while the adults downstairs were celebrating. Cara even suggested going down and "sharing" a first bottle of contraband beer.

It was easy enough, with all the adults out there, lounging by the lake and sometimes watching fireworks throw their rainbow of colors over the water. We put the retired bottles in the mini-fridge on the top floor and went to the show with the adults and say goodbye to my parents and my uncle Joe, the friend of Cara's father since high school.

As the group dispersed and the noise decreased with each passing through the gravel pit, we locked the door, turned off the lights, and opened our illegal booty. After the first two swallows, I realized that I would only continue the time needed to share the experience. It was easier to do when Cara drank her bottle and then "cracked" most of it.

Fast forward, past laughter and gossip, and about an hour later, I saw an angry Cara when I woke up, wondering how the students would be like that day. In fact, I was so awake that I decided to sit in the living room and read "The Odyssey". I knew it would be taught in English the first year and I wanted to jump to make a good impression.