The Transition of Spring to Summer

I eventually started writing this short story for the prompt, "Start your story with the line, 'That's the thing about this city . . .'", but quickly decided it was more suitable for this prompt, because of the fact the main character, Aja, desperately wants to stop the constant changes that plague her entire city, especially the changes in her house and neighbourhood—where she spends most of her time. I don't expect many people will end up reading this, but I do hope to write a part two, if I can. It's also a bit random, but I liked all the descriptions, which is the main reason I submitted it. Just a quick note!

That's the thing about this city. It's funny how quickly manicured lawns and freshly-washed windows can turn into brown, sunburnt grass and cracked glass. This city reminds me of the seasons. In the summer, everything is pretty and warm, blooming with flowers and white-sand beaches. In the fall, everything transforms into something from a hallmark movie, trees dotted with flashes of red and orange, people drinking pumpkin-spice lattes as they walk to work. In the winter, snow covers rooftops and roads, layering everything in an icy sheen. It's still delightful, still nice to look at. But when spring comes? Spring is a mess. It always rains, like Mother Nature is trying to wash out any remaining beauty. Powdery white snow melts into dirty slush, sticking to the sides of streets and ruining shoes.

Sure, flowers begin to bloom once again, and barren trees regain luscious leaves, but it's still terrible. Spring is when everything changes, when everything is reborn anew. That's the thing about this city. Every year, there's a change. A big change, and most of the time, I feel like the odd one out. Last year, the entire city rearranged itself. My sisters had no problem finding our house, which was now situated near the hiking trails in the forest. But I wandered around for hours, searching each neighbourhood for that familiar cherry-red mailbox. By the time I finally found it, my mother was standing at the door, her eyes wrinkled with worry.

"Where were you?" I stared at her, too confused to say anything. "Where was I? I was looking for our house," I said, shocked. "Our house? Where were you for real, Aja? I don't want lies," she snapped. I thought for a moment. "I was at the library," I said finally, "I was listening to music and reading some magazines and lost track of time." She paused, considered my words, and nodded. "Go help Heaven and Nevaeh make dinner." I clambered into the kitchen, where my twin sisters were waiting. Identical looks of curiosity were pasted on their faces, and they appeared a little disappointed I wasn't being punished for coming home so late. "Where were you?" Heaven demanded, widening her eyes. "None of your business," I said indignantly. In truth, I was a little embarrassed at forgetting where our house was. But then it changed the next year, and the next year, and this year.

This year, as I stare at the view in front of me, which has changed drastically. I blinked and everything was different. The fancy restaurant that was just opened now looks like a scene from a 1980s rom-com, all checkerboard floor-tiles and vintage posters. I can see a jukebox through the window. The people inside who were just enjoying steak and champagne look a little flustered, but they shake it off, easily digging into their hamburgers and sodas, still dressed in cocktail dresses and finery. I don't know what's happening. I keep walking. The boutique next door that used to sell the most recent styles now advertises neon scrunches and colourful jumpsuits. I stare at the manikin in the window, trying to look past the rainbow shirt and high-waisted jean shorts the manikin wears, with turquoise socks up to her plastic knees.

It startles me, because the shiny improvements of the city have been replaced with run-down diners and old-fashioned clothes. I keep walking until I spot people I know. Heaven and Naveah, with twin smiles on their twin faces. "What's happening?" I whisper, as a test. "What do you mean?" Naveah's smile dims, twisting into a frown. "Yeah," Heaven shadows, mirroring Naveah. "I mean what happened to the city? Why's everything so different?" I ask. They both laugh. "Are you going crazy, Aja? Is your brain okay?" I bite my lip. Just like last year, and the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that, they have no idea what's happened. "Sorry, I think I'm just a little out of it," I lie, faking a laugh. They follow along. "Go home, Aja. Take a break and have a nap," Heaven tells me, patting my shoulder comfortingly. As they walk away, I hear muffled whispers. "What's going on with her?"

I walk home, just to make sure my house hasn't switched places on me again. I recognize people, notice that they're wearing the same clothes as always. Teenage girls in skinny jeans and hoop earrings; middle-aged couples in matching sweats; new parents with strollers and toddlers in bright colours and hot-pink shoes. The only thing that's changed is this blasted city. The changes become infinitely clearer as I keep going. The city has transformed into something else, but the citizens are the same as always. Just like the restaurant and boutique, everything has gotten a makeover. Old and retro-looking, the complete opposites of the modern upgrades we had before. The strategically-placed trees the city planted not so long ago are in an unorganized disarray, and bold, outdated cars are parked on the sides of roads. I keep on going and find the house easily, where it's wedged between the forest and one of those billion-dollar houses with a pool and a mini-waterfall, gates surrounding the entire estate. I can't even remember a time the city was completely normal, without any changes.

My neighbourhood is full of obvious changes, but the one thing that never changes is the cherry-red mailbox in front of my house, looking eternally happy. I jump the fence into the backyard, suddenly aware I don't have my key. A group of joggers passes me, raising eyebrows at me as I scale the fence and land on my butt on the other side with a thump. I go inside from the back door and call out to let my mother know I'm here, in case she hears the door sliding open and worries about whose coming in. My jaw drops as I see the interior of the house. Where there used to be an L-shaped grey couch, there's a tomato-coloured couch and matching threadbare armchairs. The carpet is bright and plush, my feet sinking into it as I walk. Even the cereal boxes have changed, blurry cartoons taking the place of sharp lines and neat, tidy designs. I close my eyes, trying to fight the curiosity overtaking me. How does my room look now?

"You home, Aja?" My mother saunters into the kitchen, wine glass in hand. She nearly trips over the new table beside the couch, brow furrowing as she looks down. "Wow," she says, "I could've sworn that there wasn't anything here." I feel a headache blooming. The butterflies in the pit of my stomach are starting to feel more like birds. I almost tell her I'm scared, that I want everything to stay the same and stop changing. Then I remember—she doesn't see the changes like I do. I sit on the couch and close my eyes, trying not to let tears track down my cheeks. I'm angry, and I don't even understand why. So instead I bite in the inside of my cheek to focus on something other than my rage, and stand, perusing the fridge for food that hasn't been completely transformed.

I swear to myself that I'll try and keep it the same. I swear to myself I'm going to find a way to figure out why these yearly changes happen and prevent them. Most importantly, I swear to find someone who sees the changes and is secretly just as hysterical as I am. I curl up in my bed last night thinking of the days ahead, and now I'm going to fight to keep my neighbourhood the same, as ridiculous as it sounds.