I relish a reaction scene.
Those little things in life that surprise you.
I don’t remember the times that I am surprised by good things in real life. But I remember the feeling of watching a movie, or reading a book there’s a well done reaction scene. The moment the villain realizes they’ve been outsmarted. The moment someone realizes who is behind the mask. Those moments make me happy, I supposed in a strange way.
That feeling of knowing something interesting that someone else doesn’t has followed me pretty much as far back as I can remember. When I was little I remember the things that strangers told me most was that I had pretty blue eyes. When I was little I took great joy in proudly asking them if they knew what my name meant in Greek, then telling them it meant life. It became almost a game in my family to see if anyone could guess how old I was. Everyone always thought I was older than I was.
The only person who ever guessed correctly was a strange guy, I remember him as being very tan and he had an accent, maybe Australian, more likely German though. I was twelve. It annoyed me that he could guess correctly, because he attributed it to the fact that I rolled my eyes in a way apparently particular to twelve year olds. A habit I had acquired from reading the Stephanie Plum novels, at least a year before I had turned twelve, but probably almost two.
Three days before county fair when I was eight, I broke my arm. It was setup day and we were getting everything ready in the goat barn. The Costco tents that shaded the showing area in the field hadn’t been put up yet and their tops were lying on the ground.
That 4-H club was small, for the goats, and there was only two other kids my age in the group. They were brothers that were a year younger and a year older than I was. They were okay I supposed at the time. Toward the end of the day we were chasing each other around the tent tops. I might have been chasing them, or they might have been chasing me, but we were running full speed around those oblong tent tops, on damp and slippery grass.
Coming around a corner my foot slipped. I think my leg twisted underneath me, and I landed backwards on my left arm. The angle of the fall made my arm snap straight. The force made it feel as if it was bent backwards. I might have screamed when I hit the ground.
I was winded and I was in pain. Terrible pain. I was crying and trying to get air. Soon enough there was quite a healthy dose of rage mixed in, because those little bastards were laughing at me. They were doubled over laughing at my pain, and it made me absolutely furious. But I was in pain, there was nothing I could do.
We left soon after that. Because we had put in our time, or because I hurt my arm, I don’t know. But as we left, I wanted very badly to get revenge on those idiot boys who laughed at me.
I could move my arm. If I moved it a certain way it would give me a shock of pain. The next day I went to someone’s birthday party I think. It still hurt that day. If it hurt the next day, we’d go see a doctor. It shouldn’t be broken though, you can still move it. Probably nothing to worry about.
It still hurt the next day and we went to the hospital. I got an X-ray, just in case.
They were back with the results eventually. You broke your growth plate. It’s an unusual break. We can’t put your arm in a cast, or your elbow will freeze and never move from that position again. But we’ll put your arm in a sling. You should move it a little, but be careful. Eight weeks.
My sling was navy blue with a white strap. I had broken my arm. We had waited a day to go to the hospital. And now we were going to the first day of the fair.
When we got there, I was smiling widely. I was walking along the side of the barn. I couldn’t wait for the boys to see my sling. The word revenge kept floating around in my mind, even though it wasn’t really the right word.
They rounded the corner of the barn together, and when they saw me their faces just dropped. It was perfect. It was a grandly perfect moment. I had my revenge, I was smiling hugely. Their faces were exactly the right mixture of surprise and startling realization. And with that matter settled I could get down to the business of the fair. Herdsmanship, showing the goats.
I was going to get to ride the mechanical bull that year. But then my arm was broken. My only chance was traded for the priceless looks on their faces. At least I got to race in the odd weighted peddle tractors. I might not have won, but I think I was second. And there’s a picture of a girl in a navy blue sling driving a mini tractor.

I’m homeschooled. I grew up on a farm. I grew up off the grid, without running water or electricity. They let me solder silver jewelry when I was seven. They let me grind my own cabochons. I can show you how, if you want. That looks means that adult told you the same thing I just did, doesn’t it?
I’ve written a children’s book. I’m writing a novel. I’ve written a novel. No, I’m not sixteen. I’m not seventeen. I’m not fifteen. At least two years younger, every time.
I’m in Running Start. I’m sixteen. Why do I know what the answer to this question about the tide on our lab worksheet? I read the book. Didn’t you? I’m seventeen. I’m not going to graduate through the high school. I don’t need to do the high school requirements. I’m going to graduate with my associate’s degree and my high school diploma from Olympic College. I’m eighteen.
They call for students graduating through Running Start to stand at the ceremony. I stand. Everyone beside me is surprised.
I have my associate’s degree. I’m not living in the dorms, I have an apartment.
I’m a Junior. You’re not necessarily the youngest in the class. Not necessarily. Yes. I turn Nineteen in about four days.
I’ll graduate next year. I’ll be twenty. I’ll graduate with a bachelor’s degree before I could legally drink. If all goes well.

I do treasure these moments when I do something that someone doesn’t expect. When others learn something about me that they weren’t expecting. Maybe I like these moments of surprise too much, maybe it makes me proud. There’s plenty though, to remind me I’m not perfect. And the motivation to keep these little surprises happening, is good motivation to do better. Not for everyone, but for me in this bit of time.
Maybe that makes me secretly a terrible person. But it doesn’t feel like it. It just feels like I’m living up to my name, and finding amusement in little things.