Independence

by Shelly Crane

  She sat up and turned to me like I had woken her from a coma.

  “Hello Corinne. Your things have been packed. We are moving to a smaller house to downsize a bit. With this economy, it was bound to happen. And your school was costing us forty thousand dollars a year. You will be fine in public school, just fine.”

  In all my life I had never accustomed myself to the way my mother spouted out pre-practiced speeches and computerized responses to any question I ever asked. Stepford wives had nothing on my mother. They watched videos of her to up their game.

  “Ok, Mom, anything else?” I asked sarcastically not expecting a response.

  “Yes,” she finally looked me dead in the eye. “We have to sell your car. It’s just not practical for a teenager to drive a sports car.” I rolled my eyes at the automated response and went to look at the damage to my room.

  I found it completely empty of furniture and as I walked through the rest of the house I found that my room wasn’t alone. There was no more furniture in the house with the exception of the slatted chair that Mom sat on.

  I know I should have been devastated or depressed or something. But I wasn’t. I just didn’t care. This wasn’t really a home; it was a place where my parents lived. And I barely even drove my car since everything I needed was on campus at Wellsley. But my parents and this downsizing thing confused me. Especially since they were constantly upsizing every chance they got and showing it off to everyone who would look.

  I bounced down the front stairs and re-approached my dad who stood now with his arms crossed, satisfied with the micro-management of the moving crew.

  “Dad,” I asked.

  “Corinne, did you speak with your mother?” He still had his eyes on the last moving van.

  “Yes, I did. Where are we moving to?” I flinched back at my own question.

  “We are moving to a lovely house much more suitable to our needs. You will not be returning to Wellsley Academy. I’m sure your Head Mistress informed you. You can go to the local public high school for your last year. I have also arranged for you to work during the summer, house-sitting for the Stephenson family. They will be going to their home in Florida for the summer and you can use the money to buy whatever you need for school. I put some money in your account which should cover anything you need now. I texted the address to your cell phone before you arrived.”

  I absorbed his speech with suspicion. He spoke to me as if I was a pet whose basic needs were his responsibility to handle and beyond that I was on my own.

  “When do I start,” I asked.

  “They leave tomorrow morning. I told them you would be by at eight o’clock sharp to get instructions and information pertinent to your job. You will be living there, so there’s no need to unpack.”

  I’m sure most people would take offense to their father speaking to them like an employee but it was nothing new to me. I received basic instructions and followed through. One thing that prep school makes you a pro at, obedience.

  He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them to me.

  “The truck is yours. I will be selling your car tomorrow for another model for myself.”

  “Okay. Are we sleeping at the new house tonight?”

  “No, we are spending the night at the Sibley Inn tonight.” He checked his watch. “It is almost noon. If you need to get some shopping done before tomorrow, you should do that now. Your room at the hotel is under your name and paid for, so make your way there after you are finished.”

  He was cold and emotionless as he spouted out orders in my direction. I would love to have parents like those the other girls had at school. Those who kissed them, hugged them, and cried when they left their daughters at school. I had always driven myself to school every year, unpacked my own trunk and settled in with no comfort from parents.

  I got my bags out of my trunk and threw them in the back of my newish truck. I headed to the mall, first calling the automated bank teller to get my balance. The computer lady said my account had $314.33, which was more than plenty to buy a few pairs of shorts, tanks and swimsuits and the leftover would last me through the summer.

  The mall was not really a mall but a strip mall of clothing stores and fast food. I found the few things I needed at the first store and then I went to eat at a Chinese food restaurant. After I ate, I took the opportunity to look around and see what had changed while I was gone and to just think.

  I drove to the park and got out of my truck and sat on a bench under an enormous Cypress tree. On my left I watched some guys play football while girls on the sidelines leaned back while sitting on the ground soaking up the sun and cheering them on. I sat back and watched the more interesting toddlers as they climbed the spider web rope or came out of the end of the tunnel.

  I got up after most of the mothers had decided they’d had enough and were long gone and walked to the parking lot to get to the hotel and rest before my first day at my summer job. I got into the truck and drove the semi-circle to get out of the park.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I pulled up in the driveway of a house that made our house, or old house, look like a storage building. It was a two story house and the stairs that connected the yard to the second story front porch were taller than my upstairs bedroom window. A man in his thirties stood in the driveway and instructed me to park my truck in the garage. I did and got out to introduce myself.

  “Hello sir, I’m Corinne Novak, you must be Mr. Stephenson.” Take that Etiquette teacher!

  “Hi, Corinne. Call me Phillip. You can drive one of our cars while you are here. Let’s go meet my wife. She stayed up all night typing and printing instructions and rules for you.”

  We walked into the door of the bottom floor which housed the kitchen and an enormous living room. A very frazzled woman fluttered around here and there checking lists and stuffing last minute items into suitcases.

  “Angela this is Corinne. Corinne, this is my wife Angela. The kids are at my mother’s house spending the night. My parents are about ten minutes away if you ever need them and their number is somewhere…” He looked to the refrigerator for a phone number.

  “Ugh—Phil, it’s all in her folder.”

  “Ok, ok, ok. Let’s go already. We’re going to be late getting the kids and then we’re going to be late to the airport. Let’s go.”

  She walked up to me hugging a binder to her chest as if it were her last will and testament.

  “Corinne, everything you need to know is in here. Let me give you a ten minute tour and then we can go.” She directed the latter sentence towards Phil more than me.

  We toured the house quickly and I was given a credit card for food and anything else I might need for the house. She pointed out this and that from the back porch and said something about a boy that was also hired to paint the house, the barn and the storage building as well as keeping the yard mowed. I was thankful that I didn’t have to deal with that.

  After they left, I relaxed a bit and took in my surroundings. It was a beautiful house. The walls were filled with pictures and kids’ art projects. I got my bags out of the truck and put them in a stark white room with a four poster bed. Angela said I could sleep in the master bedroom but—well—eeeww.

  I ate a bowl of cereal, crawled up on the couch and turned the TV on. I flipped through all of the channels but nothing caught my eye. So I pulled up a barstool and opened the massive set of instructions. They were basic things like no parties, keep the house clean, make sure to lock the doors every time I leave, things like that. But every rule had a long explanation about why that was a rule. I skipped the explanations. My phone beeped and alerted me to a text message.

  Dad: Did you get to work on time?

  Yes, I’m fine Dad. Thank you for asking. I thought to myself.

  Me: Yes

  I got to a divider in the binder and it was marked “Abel”. I didn’t know who or what Abel was but I was ecstatic that I didn’t have to sit
through more of rules explaining more rules.

  I got up to wash my cereal bowl and through the window above the sink, saw an antique truck pulling up in the driveway. I put the bowl down and headed to the side door to see who it was.

  The first thing I saw was a navy blue ball cap covering wheat colored hair and the shoulders and profile of a guy. That was enough to make me a nervous wreck and I quickly jumped back into safety and shut the door behind me. I heaved deep breaths in and out with my back against the door. I finally relaxed and hit the back of my head against it.

  Way to act like a spaz Corinne.

  Let’s face it. I had been in a boarding school for girls since I was six years old. I hadn't had very much contact with the opposite sex.

  I opened the door again and was suddenly face to face with a six feet tall guy with eyes that nearly identically matched his hair. His eyelashes were so long I swear I felt a breeze when he blinked. A breeze blew in from behind him and wafted a smell towards me of pine trees and smoke, like a campfire. What I wouldn’t give to camp in that. He looked as surprised as I did.

  “Hey, um, I’m Abel Collins. I’m taking care of the painting this summer. I just wanted to say ‘Hi’ so I didn’t scare you being around.”

  I hesitated, still entranced by his eyelashes.

  “Hi, I’m Corinne. If you need any help, let me know. There’s not much to do around here.”

  He chuckled at me. I didn’t know what he thought was funny but the sound of him chuckling brought nerve endings to life in me that I didn’t know existed.

  He descended the steps and I stood in the entrance for way too long watching him. He reached into the back of his truck and pulled out what looked like scrapers and sand paper. He stilled and then looked back to me. I’d been caught.

  Busted!

  I smiled and looked down at the ground bashfully before walking back into the house. When Angela said there’d be a boy working here for the summer, I’d pictured a boy whose mom dropped him off in the morning and who sat on the porch eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of a Spiderman lunchbox and drinking Juicy Juice. She lied. No—this was no boy.

  END OF PREVIEW

  You can find Lila at her website

  http://www.authorlilafelix.blogspot.com/

  And now, an excerpt from Airicka Phoenix's YA novel, Touching Smoke, available now.

  Chapter 1

  “What’s the matter?” Mom honed in on my mood before I even realized I was chewing anxiously on my thumbnail.

  “Nothing.” I quickly wiped the spit off on my jeans and stuffed my hands into my lap. My torn and bloody thumbnail glared up at me, a sick mockery of my lie.

  “Fallon…” The warning tone was in effect.

  “Nothing.”

  It was a risk telling Mom when something was wrong. Her tendency to overreact was legendary. I spent a great deal of time and effort practicing to lie convincingly.

  “Don’t lie to me.” But even practice didn’t help sometimes.

  I gave my head a shake, fixing my attention out the passenger side window in clear avoidance. Pale sunlight splashed over blooming treetops. The golden rays spilled through the knotted branches in splinters that lay broken across the forest floor. Birds flittered from tree to tree; I could hear their elated chirping over the Rust-Bucket’s roaring engine.

  “Fallon!” My mom seemed to think that the more she said my name in that I’m-your-mother-and-you’ll-answer-when-I-ask-you-something tone, I’d cave.

  Usually, it worked. I may have been sixteen, but I feared my mother’s wrath like nothing else. She was downright sadistic when she wanted to be.

  “It’s nothing!” I insisted, already knowing even before the words were out that she wouldn’t believe me.

  “Okay.” Her sigh resounded of feigned remorse, as if she really didn’t want to have to do it and it hurt her more than it would hurt me — as if I believed that. Her hand wandered off the steering wheel and inched towards the radio.

  I caved faster than a house of poorly placed cards in the wind. There was nothing worse than country music, and not just any country music, the old western kind that only played when you’re in the middle of nowhere and only two stations worked on the radio: ancient western and some guy ranting about the end of the world and demons.

  Give me the crazy guy any day. Unfortunately, he only came out at nights, when he knew he could give you nightmares.

  “Okay! Fine!” I grabbed her wrist before she could touch the knob. “I’ll talk!” I would have made a lousy spy. If I were ever captured, all the bad guy would have to do is threaten me with country music and I’d sing like a canary.

  She didn’t actually smirk — my mother didn’t do that — but there was a satisfied tilt to her lips as she sat back and waited patiently for me to begin.

  I faltered in my explanation. Every thread I grabbed proved to be the wrong way to start. My jumbled emotions kept knotting up inside me like yarn, tying up my tongue, making every attempt to speak impossible. Mom never interrupted me. Maybe because she knew how hard it was for me to talk about things I didn’t understand myself. I knew she would sit there, for hours if she had to, waiting, never breaking my concentration, until I was ready to speak. Just so long as I told her, she would wait.

  “I had another dream,” I finally said, staring down at my lap as if the rest of my courage was somehow sitting there, waiting to be plucked up. But the only thing there was my hands, clenched together between my jean-clad thighs. Sweat squished between my palms. I wiped them on my jeans.

  “What was it about?” she asked, casual with a tense undertone she was failing miserably to conceal.

  Her knuckles blistered white around the steering wheel and there were slight pinch lines on either side of her lips. She stared with such fierce determination out the windshield that I half expected there to be scorch marks on the glass.

  Mom was very pretty, much like those old black and white movie starlets they showed every so often on basic TV. She had beautiful cinnamon-colored hair that was naturally wavy when she didn’t cut it pixie-style and it always carried the lingering scent of citrus from her shampoo. She also had beautiful hooded, viridian-green eyes that seemed to always be shimmering like sunlight over a lake. Her complexion wasn’t as pale as mine, but porcelain, and she was willowy, not gangly like me, but… graceful, like a dancer. No one ever believed Erin Braeden was my mother. We were as different as night and day physically. My hair was thicker, curler and the highlighted with streaks of blue and it hung to my waist. It also had a life of its own, constantly creeping into my eyes when it was down, catching on things, and when the wind blew through it, the whole thing was one giant bird’s nest. I tried cutting it more than once, but it had a maddening way of growing back, longer and thicker than before. I eventually gave up and kept it in a tight braid down my back.

  “Fallon?”

  I averted my gaze. “I don’t remember.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire! But it was either lie or tell her about Amalie. Lying was safer.

  The dreams had begun six months before and I could never remember more than a few seconds of it. It was always dark with flashes of light, like someone spinning around and around with a camera in a room full of candles. Every so often I would see a flicker of a hand holding a pen over a faded journal, but the image would always dance away too quickly for me to read what was written. There were only two instances where I actually caught a glimpse of something tangible and both times it was a name:

  Amalie Nicolette Dennison

  I didn’t know who she was or why she kept popping into my dreams every night, or why I would wake up in the morning, dizzy with the salty scent of sea breeze hanging thick in the room, but I wished she would stop. I wasn’t sure my brain could take any more sleepless nights.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, needing a change of topic.

  Thinking about Amalie always creeped me out and I didn’t like it. I refused to believe that I w
as some pod for spiritual communication as I’d heard it once called on a TV show somewhere in Alberta a few months back. The whole show had been ridiculous. Spirits from the beyond had better things to do than wander into the minds and dreams of the living. Besides, Amalie hadn’t left me any subliminal messages or announced the name of her killer — assuming she was murdered. She just kept trying to make me nauseous with the spinning and the lights, or she was trying to drive me crazy from lack of sleep.

  Honestly though, I blamed the whole thing on my mom. Would it have killed her to spend one night somewhere that didn’t look haunted? It was no wonder I was getting crazy dreams. My subconscious was begging for a hint of normalcy. But Mom wouldn’t see it that way.

  “I was thinking we could just drive west for a while,” she answered, rhythmically tapping her unpainted fingernails on the worn leather of the steering wheel in a way that meant she was in deep thought but was answering because she believed children should always receive an answer when they ask a question. “What do you think?”

  I thought I would like to head back to Nova Scotia, rent an apartment and stay there. But that answer would only earn me a deep sigh and a long speech about firsthand experiences and how every teenager in the world would have loved to be in my shoes and how I should enjoy it and blah, blah, blah. I’d heard it all before.

  So, instead, I replied dryly, “West — fun. Nothing there we haven’t seen a million times before.”

  She either didn’t pick up on my sarcasm, which was unlikely, or she chose to ignore it, which I was sure of, because nothing ever passed over her head.

  “Actually, there’s a school I called the other day—”

  Reflexively, I groaned. “Not another one…” I was ignored again.

  “—they teach Latin and French.”

  “Wow! Latin! That should come in handy, oh… never!”

  She spared me a glower from the corner of her eyes. “You will like this one and it’s only for a little while!”

  Every time our funds began to decrease, Mom would stuff me in the most heavily guarded private school she could possibly find, while she worked herself silly earning more travel money. She claimed it was a good opportunity for me to make new friends and learn something new. It also gave her a chance to do what she needed to get done without having to worry about leaving me alone in a motel. But what I never confessed to was that I stopped trying to make new friends after leaving the fourth grade for the sixth time in one year. I learned everything I needed to know from the mountain of textbooks, worksheets and notes I carted around with me from all the schools I had left behind over the years, and there were tons of those. The number was mindboggling so I never kept count. But she always insisted.