Chapter #3The Height of Summer by: BeeJay   Hi. My name's Summer Hayes. And I'm pretty sure you've never met anyone quite like me before.
I grew up in Oakland, California, the oldest daughter of Jerry and Annette Hayes. My two sisters are Samantha and Rebecca. Sometimes, people meeting us on the street would assume that Sam was the oldest, and that Becca and I were twins, even though I had obviously filled out more than she had. The reason people assumed I was younger than I was, was because I was so short.
You don't believe I was ever short? Well, looking at me today, I guess I can't blame you. But I was: 5 feet, and not a hair taller. I was the shortest girl in Oceanside High; maybe even the shortest ever to go there. My fellow students called me Short-Stuff; my extended family called me Half-Pint. It seemed like I was fated to spend my life looking up at the rest of the world.
And then came the class trip that changed everything.
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It was a trip to the NovaChem facility just outside of town. A lot of the students went, since it would get them out of class. If I had thought of that before, I probably would have decided to stay in school, instead of signing up to go. But there I was, surrounded by students at least a head taller than I was.
"Over here," the guide told us, "we're developing a new fertilizer. If successful, this will grow fruits and vegetables larger than before, in just a fraction of the time."
Sounds interesting, I thought. Too bad I'll never get to see it.
We started moving, when the strap broke on my purse. "Wait up," I called out. "I need to fix this."
When I did, I looked up, and nobody was there. They had gone on without me, and I had no idea which way they went.
Rather than wander around the facility, trying to find the others, I decided to stay in one spot until they figured out that I wasn't with them. Opening a door, I walked into a greenhouse, filled with fruits and veggies. This is as good a place as any to wait, I thought, helping myself to a strawberry.
And that's when I got sprayed.
It was this green, foamy gunk coming from overhead. It somehow felt both hot and cold as it soaked through my clothes. It reeked to high heaven. And, when I opened my mouth to cry for help, it tasted even worse than it smelled.
Finally, the spray was turned off, and I was grabbed by people who worked there. A hundred different people asked, "Which idiot left that door unlocked?" At least one person said, "I hope nothing happens from this; that formula hasn't been tested on animal life yet."
I was handed over to a group of women, who immediately stripped me naked and threw me into the showers. There, they turned the water to a level of hot that was just below boiling, and they scrubbed me raw.
When they turned off the water, one of the women poured something down my throat. "It's an emetic," she said.
If you've never had an emetic before, let me assure you, you don't want one. It tasted bad going down - even worse than the spray - and sent the contents of my stomach back the way they came. Then, the women roughly brushed my teeth.
They judged my clothes a loss, so they put me in a set of scrubs, rolling up the pant legs for me. Then, I was seated in front of a desk belonging to a Dr. Joanne Shalikar. When she spoke, I realized that she was the one who gave me the emetic. "I think we've acted in time," she said. "If there are any problems or complications, call us immediately. If there are no such developments, we'll be in touch with your parents, with an offer I think you'll find most agreeable."
And so I was finally reunited with the group, to a chorus of variations on "Nice outfit, Short-Stuff." | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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