A Secret Sanctuary

The worn, spiral-bound notebook lay open on Summer’s lap, its pages a testament to months, no, *years*, of pent-up frustration. Sunlight, dappled and shy, filtered through the ancient oak outside her bedroom window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, unburdened sprites. This was her sanctuary, this cluttered room filled with the scent of oil pastels and the quiet hum of her own thoughts. Here, April’s reign of terror was but a distant, albeit irritating, echo.

Summer dipped her charcoal pencil into the water glass, the tip blooming into a soft, smudgy grey. She was sketching, not the ethereal landscapes she usually favored, but a caricature of April. It was a masterpiece of malice, really. April’s perpetually pursed lips were stretched into a grotesque grimace, her beady eyes, usually so dismissive, were wide with a cartoonish greed, and her perfectly coiffed hair was a tangled mess of exaggerated curls. Underneath, Summer had scribbled in furious, tiny letters: *“The Queen of Mean, whose crown is made of pure, unadulterated insecurity, and whose scepter is a well-placed whisper that could curdle milk.”*

A small, satisfied sigh escaped her. It was cathartic, this secret rebellion. Her journal was a veritable graveyard of April’s offenses, each entry a meticulously documented, often hilariously embellished, account of the bullying. There was the time April had “accidentally” spilled a gallon of glitter glue on Summer’s meticulously crafted diorama of the Amazon rainforest. Summer’s journal entry, complete with a hastily drawn sketch of a sparkly, deflated toucan, read: *“Operation Sparkle-Pocalypse: April, in her infinite wisdom, decided the rainforest needed more… pizzazz. Apparently, the indigenous wildlife has developed a sudden craving for disco balls. I suspect the toucans are now auditioning for a Vegas show.”*