1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Hinebaugh

Name: Olivia Hinebaugh
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Lark's Rebellion

I’m lying here in the tall grass, staring at the perfectly fluffy clouds, trying to figure out how to piss off my parents. This shouldn’t be so hard. I’m sixteen, after all. Isn’t it supposed to come with the territory? I’m writing down a list. I’m very methodical like this. I have a five subject notebook (college-ruled of course) filled with similar lists.

So far all I have is:

Sixteen-year-old rebellion ideas

1. Buy new clothes.
2. Start eating meat.
3. Join a convent.
4. Cut my hair.

I’ve never had this much trouble generating a list before. I like my lists like I like my hair: as long as possible. The white space on the page makes my fingers itchy and twitchy. I stick the well-chewed pen in my mouth and hold the notebook so it shades my eyes from the sun.

I read over my list again. This won’t do.

I begin a new list:

Reasons why the previous list is impractical

1. Buy new clothes
a. I don’t have money.
b. I don’t have any way to get to the nearest mall, which is 45 minutes away to buy said clothes.
c. I enjoy making my own clothes.
2. Start eating meat
a. Meat is gross.
b. Again, no money, no car, don’t know how to slaughter animals.
c. Sean says you can get something called “the meat sweats” and that just plain makes me want to vomit.
3. Join a convent
a. Not sure if convents still exist
b. Could never be abstinent
c. Don’t believe in God
d. I think nuns have to sing, and I have a terrible voice
4. Cut my hair
a. I love my hair
b. Parents would probably see a short ‘do as a form of self-expression: plan would backfire.

It’s useless. Nonconformity is the norm here in Peacesylvania. Peacesylvania is the nom du jour for our off-the-grid tract of land in the middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. It was changed a few months ago. It’s supposed to inspire us for greater harmony. The elders just weren’t digging the name Eternal Summer Hill any more.

My parents have to respect my individuality. It’s, like, one of the rules they signed off on when they joined. I mean, they didn’t literally sign. And there aren’t actually any rules written down. Old Man Nelson would say: “No rules, man. Paper trails just let the man control you.” He’s paranoid, but everyone still listens to him. Crazy hippie.

My goal now is to find the least hippie thing to do, but also something that doesn’t repulse me. I have a glimmer of an idea when Sean interrupts me.

“Lark! It’s quittin’ time!” he shouts louder than he needs to and it startles me.

“Jesus, Sean. You have to stop sneaking up on me!” I stand up and do a quick tick-check on my bare arms and legs. It’s really freaking hot and my mass of curly, partially dreaded, partially braided hair makes my back feel immediately sticky.

I reach behind Sean and grab the ratty bandana that’s always in his back pocket and use it to tie up my hair.

“I definitely just used that to wipe my nose,” he says. He’s clearly been shoveling manure or composting or something because his sweaty face is streaked with dark brown soil.

“Whatever,” I smile sarcastically, “I love your snot.”

“You are so gross,” he says.

“Says the one with half of his lunch still stuck in his beard,” I tease.

“I’m thinking of shaving it,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s normally so keen to fit in. He loves the Peacesylvania aesthetic. Because he grew up so mainstream, I think he feels like he needs to prove something.

“So what were you out here making a list of?” he asks, trying to snatch my notebook.

“Back off!” I scold him.

“You were on my watch, so you have to tell me,” he says, rubbing a filthy hand through his sweaty hair as we start back toward the little hamlet of cabins and vehicles.

He’s in charge of my “unschooling.” It’s like homeschooling only without a curriculum. The emphasis is on self-exploration and real-life skills. This translates to me reading. A lot. And writing my fair share of lists and personal reflections. There’s a good dose of staring at the sky and shoveling manure mixed in there. Sean is the most educated of my siblings. He finished middle school before we joined up with the commune. I was only five, and my memories of mainstream school were all about nap mats and snack time.

“It was a bit of self-reflection,” I tell him. “I’ve been reading as wide a variety of coming of age stories as I can and there’s a central theme.”

“Oh yeah?” He’s actually interested. It’s why we get along so well. My other older brother, Hudson is a hooligan. Hudson says he’s pursuing a life of spirituality, but let’s call it what it is: an extreme pot habit. Sean’s the opposite. He’s hardworking to a fault. He wants to help everybody in every way he can. He is sickeningly helpful. Our dad says he takes after his mom, whom he barely remembers. My mom, on the other hand, probably has more in common with Hudson and my wild younger siblings. “Free spirit” would be an understatement.

“Well, there’s always a sort of declaration of independence. A coming into one’s own. A division from the group. And always some sort of great self-discovery. Occasionally regarding sexuality. Other times regarding moral obligation.”

“So which of these aspects are you pondering?” Sean asks.

“The division from the group part. I think I’ve got the other ones covered.” I say this with complete certainty. Obviously I’ve listed the ways I’ve come into my own and cross-referenced them to the works of classic American literature I’ve been reading.

“Sounds like you’ve been working hard. You’ll have to let me know what little act of rebellion you’re cooking up,” Sean winks at me.

“Oh, you’ll be the first to know,” I say. “It might involve the use of your car.”

We reach the central part of the commune, an RV that serves as our main kitchen and dining room.

“Anytime,” He offers. “Though I was going to replace the wheel bearings tomorrow.”

“Ooh, can I help you? I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.” I say.

“Really?” He asks.

He’d probably love to teach me this, but I have no real interest. “No,” I laugh. He swats at me as I run up the steps into the kitchen.