The sycamore trees that lined Cornelius Way never wavered, be it a light wind that happens to blow through, or, though rare, a soulless hurricane off the Pacific. The moderate town of Metero was in a suburban part of northern Oregon, or as suburban as northern Oregon can get. According to the weathered-down population sign, there were a paltry 367 residents. It hadn’t changed in years after the old mayor passed away. He was an old-fashioned but kind man, and for the majority of the 367 inhabitants, he was well-regarded. Every time the humble town had a new birth, he would hold a joyful ceremony for putting a number on. And every time the somber town had a citizen pass away, he would hold a grim ceremony where he took one off. The town was upset by his passing, and held one final formality for him by taking a number down. Nobody cared much to put up a number from then on.

It was on a harsh-weathered Wednesday on this particular road in this particular town in this particular state that a young girl would come to find that she is so much more than she believes she is, and that no matter how ordinary you may seem, even the smallest of actions have consequences.

Lucy Brooks, or “Plain Old Lucy,” as the kids in school liked to call her, was just that. She went to school, rode the bus, did her homework on time, went to bed at 9:00 precisely every night, watched the television for 2 hours on weekends, swam in her pool in the spring, and waded through the hot tub in winter. She had very few friends, and her lack of social time outside the class was most likely the cause of her candid moniker. Her family life was not a vast improvement. Her mom was a nurse at Salem General, and her dad was an accountant at a medium-sized firm in Portland. They both loved her in their own ways, her dad showing it with gifts, her mom, concerned when she gets sick. She was an only child because, after the effort of her, her parents decided that their lives were too busy to consider a second. Lucy was 13 years old, and every birthday she liked to remind people that her age was really just the year she completed, not the year she turned. Of course, when confronted with this statement, nobody at school responded, and at home, her parents had heard it so many times over the years it was becoming a tradition to reply with the same-toned “mm-hm.”

It was on this particular Wednesday after school that Lucy Brooks happened to pull her toys out of the dusty closet in her room. She hadn’t played with them in what seemed like half a decade. The toys were nothing extravagant: a doll, a house already built of toy bricks, and the small sun she had wanted for her fourth birthday. Why she wanted a toy sun her parents never understood; it was a small orange ball, similar to a tennis ball, with tiny red mounds on the end, all plastic so nobody could get hurt. The bumps were spaced apart and large enough in height to the point where, if you threw it at someone’s face, and one of the bumps hit them square in the eye, it probably wouldn’t feel too good. 

As Lucy appeared from the closet with dust on her shoulders and an unnoticeable spider on the back of her sweater, she dropped her doll on its head. When she went to pick up the doll, she dropped her house. As Lucy grew increasingly frustrated at the fact she could not hold three objects at a time, Mrs Brooks arrived home. She kissed Lucy on the head, muttered something about a headache and their roof shingles falling, and went to lie down while waiting for her husband’s arrival. 

Lucy, tired from school and not understanding why she had taken her toys out, put them back in the closet, and started on her homework. It was pre-algebra, and she had just been introduced to variables. They confused her at first, but when she finally understood them she had been breezing through the class. This was the case for the majority of Lucy’s time in school. She was an intelligent learner, and this was the biggest reason, in her mind, of why she had no friends. Her teachers all admired her and attempted to get the other children involved in her life, but their efforts typically went to no avail. Her math teacher being the only exception, and Lucy suspected the reason for it was because she pointed out a mistake he had made one day when drawing on the whiteboard. Today, she was only assigned 10 problems, and she figured that she could take a stab at playing again when she had calmed down after her problems. 

Mr. Brooks got there later that night in a trench coat, as it was pouring outside and had been all day. He hung up his coat, called his family for dinner, and they sat down together and ate the takeout from their favorite Chinese restaurant that he had brought with him. He inquired about his daughter and wife’s days, and after receiving satisfactory answers from Lucy and Mrs. Brooks, he began to converse about his day at the office. 

Lucy excused herself after eating her meal and quickly ran up to her room to pull the toys out of the closet. To avoid her previous mistake, she brought out each toy individually. First, her doll, then her house, then her sun. As she turned her house to the north, she thought of how her parents had taught her directions, and how much she loved the way “North” looked, as it was the only red direction on her favorite compass, and red was her favorite color. She set up an epic story: her doll would be living its best life, in its dream house, free from any work or school. Then, one day, the sun turns into a large fireball and comes down, destroying the doll and everything she loves.

She began her storyline by placing the doll on the second story and getting ready to go to bed. She put little clothes in little drawers and tiny sprinkles of water in tiny bathtubs. Outside her room, her parents had just finished their meals and cleaned up, and now her father was lying on the couch watching the baseball game, her mother, headed upstairs to catch up on her sleep that was missed in the early morning. For now, Lucy decided, she didn’t need her sun. Tossing it to the north side of the house, she took a moment to think about her next steps. She wanted to develop her doll, whom she named Anna Johnson, a little more. She wanted to feel emotion for Anna when she came to her mortifying end. While Lucy’s naming-characters department wasn’t up to full function, she certainly had an eye for a riveting story. 

Her father shouted at the TV from downstairs, but upon processing the emergency message on the screen, began to shout up the stairs to Mrs. Brooks. Lucy, startled by the loud sound, bumped into her house, causing her doll to fall to the first floor. Her mother quickly ran down the stairs to see what had caused the ruckus. Mr. Brooks explained his outcry in hushed tones, which Lucy determined to be for her own sake. She swiftly moved to the top of the banister, able to hear everything down below while still in the shadows of the upper floor. Her father was talking quickly, panicked. She heard the words, “Space Needle,” “up in Seattle,” “massive explosion,” and “nearby building demolition.” Her mother gasped and started upstairs. Lucy, upon hearing this, quickly retreated back to her room.

Although it was difficult to understand, Lucy was quite upset, after all, she and her parents had previously gone up to Seattle on a vacation when she was 11. To keep her mind off it, she decided to wrap up her playing time, finish the story, and go to bed. Her mother, nearing the top of the stairs, contemplated telling Lucy what had just occurred. Deciding to wait until morning, she continued to bed. Lucy put her doll on the second floor once more, lying it down in bed. She reached over the house, and grabbing the ball, reared back, and threw it at the house. The sycamore trees that lined Cornelius Way moved that day.