The Collected Accounts of June Bloomer

Across newspapers and television, seventeen year old June Bloomer is being shredded across the country for the cataclysmic events she caused in the quiet town of Johnston's creek. However months after the horror, in that forgettable village, June's only four friends are determined to tell the truth of June from the causalities they received first hand and nothing less.

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23. Entry four:

Entry four:

Delia Dawn came to the town like a circus. She was here, bright red and brilliant, promising excitement for a week only, and packed up until there was just nothing but yellow flyers kicking on the ground. Funnily enough, the first time I met her she was dressed like a ringmaster. She had a button red jacket and clownish permed hair, with black boots and an expression wide enough to be seen at the back of an audience. Delia was from Cape Cod originally, and had stumbled across the Creek for a mini-break five years ago. Of course, it hadn’t left much of an effect on her. But it was the angle that landed her the job. ‘Documentary Untitled’ would be shown on national television. They already knew the story though; it was based on the murder of Aubrie Sommer, or what we all assumed was the truth. With Tim going through the legal loops to Juvie, it was the opportune time to create a bias. After all, it was interesting. Aubrie wasn’t the stereotype, and neither was Tim.

We all didn’t talk about Aubrie because it hurt too much. We didn’t talk about Aubrie because inside, we were all wracked and wrecked with guilt of not doing anything, of not seeing what was coming. Until Delia arrived, it was the first time we’d said her name out loud for the first time in months. The Sommer family refused to contribute to the documentary, but the rest of the town didn’t. Never underestimate the lack of morals a person keeps when national television involved. They did the same thing twice that year.

When Delia came, the weather was the first rain we had seen for three weeks. Our air-conditioners were tired and overused, and the pavements were hot enough to fry eggs. The boy next door even did fry an egg; but when he ate two bites as a dare from the other kids he puked up the yolk mess. We were all relieved, frankly, to pull out umbrellas or ignore the outdoors completely. Well, the rain didn’t mean it was cold. It feel like tropical forests, warm and fast, creating little swimming pools of puddles and blessing the vegetation with a little hope for all the brown to hang on until Autumn.

The five had us had just seen a film – don’t ask me which – when a shuffle of Delia and her crew latched on to us, hurrying down the road to catch our attention. It was hard interacting, with the rain creating splashes that blocked out our shy and uninterested voices. I discovered then I had no interest in being in front of the camera. There’s something so unnerving about the black glass capturing everything about you in an instant. I imagined the whole country seeing the bumbling Eleanor Green, shuffling her drenched feet together and fidgeting with her hands and lip. That’s why I let the name O’Clock slip. I know there’s really nothing to be guilty about, but it still feels like I helped build up a slanderous persona. Only now do I really get it.

Right, sweeties, who would like to say anything about the loss of your dear friend? Delia began. She scanned across each of our faces, all shielded by our hoods and umbrellas. That is, apart from June. She travelled fearlessly into the rain, so her hair was dull silver and soaking, and her clothes were sticking to her skin. Delia took a long, hard look at June as though she was a lost friend. Or maybe a foe.

After that, her eyes turned to me.  You’re a local, yes? Her eyes were a murky brown, verging on hazel. They had a flat quality to them, like coloured in by a block fill, but her thin smile was bursting out of her colourful lipstick. Dazzled by both, I slowly stammered an answer.

Yes, we knew Tim O’Clock… I pulled my hand over my mouth, but her ears were too sharp to miss it. She exclaimed her delight at it, clapped her hands together so that each nail met up with their equal at white tips and pushed her microphone closer to my face.

O’Clock? That’s not his real name, is it? She began but June’s hand pulled my right arm back so that she was facing into the cameras, shielding me and my trembling, open mouth.

We called him O’Clock, yes, because his dad owns the clock shop down the road. Go see it for yourself, June stated flatly. Her voice was unwavering and bored. Delia tried to chat with the rest of us, squirming for the little details. She wanted to see who had sat behind him in English, threw paper planes at him or who had avoided putting them on their teams at P.E. , but June became protective over all of us, answering the questions with blunt one-answers, with a straight line for a smile and eyes that said go on, I dare you.

We all followed behind her wing instinctively. Even Rose, who would usually love to voce her opinions; especially to television; let her urge to resist help from June calm for a minute. Eventually, Delia grew tired. She raised her puffy, painted hand to stop filming, and thanked us falsely for our time with a crackle of a voice. Without the camera to light her up, she looked small and wrinkled around her eyes. Her posture slumped slightly, and she looked ready to fall asleep on the ground. She trudged her team along the road  in search of the shop, ready to never be seen again.

I had brooded over then why June had built a one-man fort around us as she did. Little did I know, it was to protect us in the end. Because this tape wouldn’t just be shown when it premiered. It would be shown much further down the line, with June’s actions under the scrutiny of law. Without realising, Delia Dawn had caught the footage of the early-staged event. Unfortunately, Delia Dawn would never get what award or congratulations she had earned. Someone else had decided what she deserved.

And all that had separated them at a time was a black lens. I’m so tired, June, of writing you. But if you protected me; I’ll try to protect you, too. What are friends for?

Rose’s edit: And I had almost forgotten about Delia… Get some rest El. You’re doing great. Though I did not just let June take the lead! My throat was sore, that’s all.

Eleanor’s edit on Rose’s edit: I don’t know about my progress, Rose. I bet you’ve already written yours and double the quality.

Rose’s edit on Eleanor’s edit on Rose’s edit: Maybe the first ten thousand words or so…it’s an early draft. 

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