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.


5. Entry three:

It took exactly an hour and seven minutes from that moment of trace at the school doors that I finally found out what June Bloomer’s name was.

“This is June Bloomer,” The slicked and cigarette-choked secretary Mrs Parkinson. Incidentally, she happened to be the mother of the infamous dungaree-clothed Parkinson twins, furthermore proving just how small the town was. Every teacher was someone mother, or uncle or far removed cousin.

Unincidentially, the evidence of seeing a feeble Michael Eaton hanging around two years ago by himself on the first day of high school forever made her decide I was a loser and therefore sprang nearly every new student on me. This so far was a count of three, now four. Now I had a comfortable group of five or so, changing every now and again with a solid foundation of at least three, but in the rare occasion that Mrs Parkinson left the comfort of her office she only seemed to catch me in moments I was alone.  Even now, as she placed a comforting hand on June’s far away shoulder, her eyes cast a great look of sympathy on me.

June Bloomer. The same seemed to fit. Three syllables and two words that connected to little rays of light. June like the heavy month of humidity and summer rain, as well as bloomer; blossoming, budding. Her appearance contrasted it all, with a more feathery and winter feel. She curled a lock of white hair with a thin finger and looked at all the corners of me, avoiding my direct gaze. I shifted from one foot to the other, awkwardly waiting for Mrs Parkinson to introduce me. Three horrid seconds passed before I realized she had no intention of doing so, giving me an encouraging incline of her head.

“Eh Michael, Michael Eaton.” I stuck my hand out but pulled it back in nerves before June got the chance to shake it. She whispered that it was nice to meet me and bumbling I did the same hurriedly. The room fell into an unbearably silence so much so I could hear the echoes from nearby classrooms bounce down the hallways and the shuffles and pop music escaping earphones of a janitor clearing away the mess from rushed breakfasts. I convinced myself June could hear my heartbeat drumming at an alarming rate.

“Well,” Mrs Parkinson clapped her hands together and afterwards thrust them into her denim pockets. Apparently the dungaree affections were hereditary. She scraped strands of grey hair behind her ear as she handed June her papers and timetable, before wishing up off seconds before I knew the bell would go off and rush us into class.

I slid the doors and she followed me out into the hallway filled with only the final late students with no time to examine her and only to grab their textbooks. She bumped her feet together, dressed in the uniform Mossfield was so intent on enforcing. It seemed mad; we weren’t a private school, and with a school that made so little impact on the world no one was looking at our reputation anyway. But just before I came up to Dew High school, a public forum sealed our fates in death by shirts, ties and pull-overs. June had little daisies patterned on her shoes, and her bag was woolly and bright. Students tended to go wild on things like bags and shoes, simply because there were little other ways to express in identical black lined trousers and skirts. There seemed to be a single little daisy tucked into her left sock, poking out like her legs were the ground themselves.

“What class do you have?” I asked and pulled my hand up to matt into my hair, trying to seem casual. After all, out of the three students I’d been forced to create a wing for, two were boys and the girl had been my girlfriend for the two months she’d lived here. Those two months were filled with ice creams and Kodak moments before Noreen decided during a well-planned picnic on my account that no matter the cold weather of Alaska, she preferred living with her dad. Since then I had an occasional postcard, but there was little regret in the ten word replies that she somehow managed to describe the great views and friends she’d missed, the greatest view being her childhood best friend she finally connected with, and that there were no hard feelings. At least that was what she believed; on my end it still felt a little hard. It’s a lot more difficult to be the one left behind than it is to be living the Alaska dream.

Still, in the place of Noreen, there was now June. The postcards I waited for with a pathetic optimism and anticipation seemed to fade in my mind until I could only see the front pictures of mountains and Alaska’s ‘best catch’ dotted on my walls, like the sad shrine of a decaying relationship. Her tanned, lithe skin always wrapped up in Abercrombie and Finch soon dissolved into the milky complexion of June’s, and were was once a painfully brown pair of eyes the colour drained to blue. Goodbye Noreen Miller, I saluted her. Hello June Bloomer…

“Classical studies.” She slipped a sound from her mouth and looked around as though the class would appear from air. Our head teacher was a big believer in classical studies, and ancient Greek, and other subjects we all knew would get us nowhere in life but still enrolled in anyway. I told her I had the same and took the lead, the potential conversation topics slipping from sense until I had to be content with relying on the calming feel of music. With just miniscule movements a song came into hearing and through a side glance I saw her eyes rise and fall as they followed the sharp corners of posters and lockers adorned with stickers and signs. Classical studies was on the second floor, and a small hike through the hallowed halls displaying polished wood cabinets of participation and fifth place trophies and badges. There was also employee of the month boards, each with teachers that had to be admired for their enthusiasm, especially in such a down beat area. People enjoyed the sense of community here, but all I saw was the stuffy nature of close knit citizens and all the eyes and ears on every wall.

“I love Bon Iver.” June commented after a while as the chorus of Towers built up a quiet fury in my left ear. The falling was easy from there. But it was still falling nevertheless.

Rose’s edit: before we publish this, Michael, you need to cut the poetics. More action and less description before you try and make the readers fall in love with June Bloomer more than you did. They won’t fall for it.

Michael’s edit on Rose’s edit: You need to give June Bloomer more credit, and the readers need to too. There’s a reason your section is called Clouds and mine is called Sunny days. So let me finish and we’ll talk over this later. The readers are only going to get the truth and nothing else. Now read the next bit and tell me you don’t like it.

Rose’s edit on Michael’s edit on Rose’s edit: Fine. Enjoy the theatrical and exaggerated love for now before we all draw a halt on this whole production. It’s a factual account, not a Twilight novel. And yes, Michael; I’ve read Twilight.

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