The next morning I woke up in my room, looking at my bland, white ceiling. My bed, soft and silky, like always with its pastel blue bedding. When I sit up, I smell fresh dough and delicious chocolate. Conchas! Miss Vasquez must be here! I tried to get out of bed and go downstairs to Miss Vasquez, but my head is pounding. It feels like somebody's in my head, banging on the walls trying to get out. I can hear her baking them, the scrumptious conchas, and I want to go down and help her, but I have to stay up here. I yell from my bed, "Miss Vasquez! I'm awake!"
I hear her gasp and a yell back, "Okay, honey, I'll be up in a minute!" When she comes up my creaky, old staircase, I can see a glimpse of her. She's covered in flour, and the raw dough is stuck to her on her apron. "Oh, honey, I was so worried about you! I took you to the hospital, and they said to wrap your head and for you to get some rest." She said in a loving but concerned tone.
She sat in an old rocking chair in my room that belonged to my mother. I can still remember her sitting in it. It was white, and brand-new, no chipping paint or creaking. Every night she would come into my room and say, "Is it time for the story monster to come in and read you a story!?" She always said it in a funny voice, which always had me laughing. Then, she would come and tickle my sides, which had me laugh to the point where I was crying. Finally, she would stop and would go to sit in the rocking chair. I would curl up in my blanket. She would read me a different story every night, and I would always fall asleep quickly.
"Do you need anything for your head or just anything? I have some conchas in the oven; they should be ready in a little while." Miss Vasquez said in a caring, sweet accent.
"Ummm, I could use an aspirin and maybe a hug?" I said in a joking voice.
"Of course, honey." She came over on the bed with me and gave me a big hug, like a mama bear kind of hug. Then she went back downstairs to grab an aspirin for me, but I hear someone else coming up the stairs. It's Izzy! She runs into my room and jumps onto my bed. She walks up my bed to me and licks my cheek. "Aw, Izzy! Stop it, that tickles!"
When Miss Vasquez comes back up the wooden stairs, she's carrying a tray in her hands. "Here you go, honey."
"Thank you," I say as she hands me the tray with the aspirin and water on it. And the conchas! They look so good and smell even better! They are perfectly baked, the sugar and scoring are just so perfectly placed. Miss Vasquez takes one concha off the white, wooden tray, there are three of them, and she takes a bite. I do the same, but I take a nice, big bite, savoring every flavor.
These make me think of when I was little. Miss Vasquez would come over when I was two, just before the wreck. She would bake dozens of conchas, and my parents would help her. After the conchas were done, they would talk for hours on end. All I remember doing is playing with Izzy, who was only a puppy, and my stuffed animals. I would call them my stuffies, and of course, I had a favorite. His name was Mr. Angel. He was an angel, obviously, and had blonde hair, blue eyes, and he wore a white robe. I'm not sure why I liked him so much, I just did. I wish I savored the moments with my parents, more than I savored the conchas.
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The next day I woke up at six o'clock like I always do on school days. Ugh, it's Wednesday. I get up, and out of bed, my head still hurts a little. I go to my tiny closet and pick out a gray, dull hoodie and black leggings. I never tried to look good at school; there's no point; everyone will tease me anyway. Now to the bathroom, I brush my teeth then, my platinum hair. Miss Vasquez isn't downstairs anymore; she probably left last night after I had fallen asleep. It's already seven-thirty by the time I get done with my Frosted Flakes.
I can see the bright yellow school bus a couple of houses down from mine, so I head outside. When I'm on the bus, everyone immediately starts throwing paper balls at me. It's like they pack their backpacks with them before school starts. As I head to the back of the school bus, I realize one person isn't throwing paper at me. I don't recognize her, but she's the only one. "Do you want to sit by me? This seat is open. You don't have to, only if you want to, but yeah." The girl says, very awkwardly.
"Uhhh, sure. Thank you! I'm Celeste." I mutter, also awkwardly as I sit down by her.
"My name is Delilah. It's nice to meet you, Celeste." She said, now, in a sturdy, structured voice. I noticed that she had light brown hair, green eyes, and a bright smile. We talked in the back of the bus all the way to school. I've learned so much about her. She loves bird watching; she says each bird has its own unique design. I told her about my love for skateboarding and my secret safe spot by Mapletree Road in the forest. I've never had someone from school be so kind to me.
"What class do you have first?" I say, hoping she would have AP Chemistry first, like me.
"I have AP Chemistry. What about you? I hope we have the same class!" Delilah says in a hopeful and happy tone.
"I have AP Chemistry too! I'm so excited! Let's go." I say as we head out of the bus, we are the last ones off.