The word itself almost seems magical. The days are longer, the nights pleasant (depending on where you grew up). But the most magical summers would have to be at the age of sixteen. Licenses are distributed, dating more often (again, depending on how you grew up), your friends are the most important people on the planet, I could go on but I won't. It's Rogue's turn to divulge details on the summer she turned sixteen. For many of the Typelings, it has been over a decade since those treasured years. So come along with us as we scrounge through our attics of teenagerdom and find some buried gems.
Rogue
The summer I turned 16 was a momentous one for me. I remember late-night cruises down empty highways, hanging out of a sunroof and screaming for the joy of the wind in my hair. I remember sneaking in and out of windows, evading curfews and parental interference, stargazing on rooftops, climbing trees and fences alike, and crushing hard core on a different cute boy every week.
I remember my first kiss, crouching in a nest of shrubbery at the edge of a park in the dead of night, the temerity of the moment, the pounding of my hear and the flushing of my face, the feel of gravel pressing into my ankles. I remember hours of hand holding, his palm calloused and sweaty against mine, and how every second seemed both desperate and eternal.
That summer was the first time I ever heard the words "I love you", and the first time I returned the sentiment-the first time I really thought I meant it.
It was a summer of blistering heat, of reckless bliss, of raucous friendship, teenage rebellion, and budding romance. It was the high point of my youth, a time I will always treasure.
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