When I found out that my father got a promotion, in no way, shape, or form did I even consider the fact that we would be moving. My dad had been slowly working his way through the ranks at his government job, but we had always managed to stay in one place. Moving didn't even come as a remote possibility in my head, and certainly not to the opposite side of the country. But lo and behold, we would be moving; moving away from San Diego, of all places. Moving away from the sunshine and the ocean and the downtown city nightlife. Home. But did I have a say in the matter? Of course not. When the Government offers your father a promotion that includes a huge salary increase, increased benefits, and reimbursement for the move, you don't get a say. That night I was told to start packing my things and to hand in my two week notice to the music studio I was teaching guitar lessons at. The only plus side was that he felt guilty of making me move before senior year, so I was reaping the benefits of that salary increase.
One month later, I found myself on a plane bound for freaking West Virginia. Not exactly the change in scenery I was hoping for. We had two black SUVs waiting for us at the airport, complete with a pair of stereotypically silent Men in Black wannabes, which deposited my family off on the concrete driveway of a two story house in the rural part of Ketterman, West Virginia. As if there was a discerning difference between rural and urban Ketterman; the town had one stoplight. One freaking stoplight. And the last Starbucks I had seen was about twenty miles down the highway. Unacceptable.
The faded blue house was pretty nice, all things considering. The front door, which creaked a little when opened, was painted glimmering white. Or it had been when the house was first made, but now, like everything else, was starting to fade. The living room had a homey feel about it. But no doubt my mother would turn it into a high end nightmare. Mom's new project came complete with a pool and a second-story deck. And an upstairs loft, which I immediately claimed as my room. The soft lighting and nice view of the woods from my small deck would be perfect for writing music and painting.
It's not that I didn't like my life; my family could be a bit challenging at times, but that's standard teenage drama. My dad had a nice, sturdy Government job that paid well, my older brother was a sophomore in college at San Diego State University in California, and my mother was an athletic trainer, so she was off running and training a lot, which was fine by me because we didn't get along too well. Something about me wanting to play music instead of follow her every command… My brother had never had any problems with my parents. He was the good child, always obeying. He didn't have to leave home because my parents deemed him old and "mature" enough to live on his own. Me? Not so much.
While I began the process of unpacking all the boxes in my room, I found a picture of my two best friends and me at the Fair from last year. We were all sunburned and had melting ice cream cones in our hands with the sticky cream sliding over our fingers. Jazzy, the tallest, was blonde and had pale skin. Her famous devious smirk was plastered on her face with her raising her cone towards the sun. A split second after the picture was taken she shoved her ice cream cone all over my chest… God, I missed her so much. She always made my life interesting, that's for sure.
Julia, the shortest of our trio, was both adorable and shy. She was the most fashionable of us, and she was wearing her denim cut offs with a flirty tank top and a cowgirl hat atop her head that framed her blonde hair and freckles. She was the voice of reason among our group, always keeping me and Jazzy in line before we did anything insane and stupid. She was our rock, Jazzy was the scheming, devious one who always got us into trouble, and I was the bad girl of the group. While some people would say my morals were a bit lax, I saw it as really experiencing life to its fullest. Now I'm not saying I'm okay with murder or anything, but one night of bad decisions is not the end of the world. I've had a handful of them, and the worst that has ever happened was waking up with a splitting headache, some make-up running down my face, and a bad case of nausea, from both the alcohol and remembering whose tongue was down my throat last night. Yuck. To this day, I cannot even think about Joshua Evans without wanting to puke a little in my mouth…
In the picture of us, my hair had been short. It was a spur of the moment decision that I immediately regretted. But that was last year. Now, my long blonde hair was cut in long choppy layers which shaped my high cheekbones and my soft chin. My large, doe eyes were framed by large lashes and complimented by my slightly smaller nose. My lips were full and curvy, my knowing smirk promising trouble to anyone who pissed me off. Not to say that I don't have self-control, which I do, but some people just pushed my buttons, and a long time ago I had decided not to be a pushover. That decision indefinitely led to my bad girl reputation, simply because I refused to put up with crap that I didn't deserve.
Setting the picture frame down on the wooden desk against the wall, I settled down on the queen bed and picked up a book that I had brought along for the plane ride. It was about a half-blood girl who falls for a sexy pure-blood that was totally off limits. Cheesy, yes. But every girl loves a forbidden love story.
By the time I had dug my toothbrush out of my backpack and slipped on my flannel pajama bottoms, the sun had set over the horizon and my room was bathed in darkness. I fell asleep staring at the blanket of stars woven through the darkness outside my window, wanting my new life here to at least be mildly interesting. I didn't leave my life and my friends back in California for a bunch of stars and trees, you know.
I spent the next few days unpacking boxes and slowly putting my room back together. My bed now had my midnight blue comforter draped across the top, along with my favorite pillowcase. Julia always has these really crafty ideas, and at her seventeenth birthday sleepover we all decorated pillowcases with sharpies and markers, quoting our favorite movies and inside jokes and doodling silly pictures. My pillowcase helps with the homesickness. It keeps my friends close and makes the distance seem a little more bearable.
The rest of my room was sort of haphazardly thrown together at the moment. My books were all lying in a pile at the foot of my bed; my photo album lay on my dresser, along with half my wardrobe, which I was currently in the process of organizing. The only things I had managed to find the right place for were my guitar, my sheet music and my few decorations. A poster of John Lennon with his hands on a piano and an old painting of the harbor that I finished the week before I moved were now decorating my soft, deep blue walls.
An hour later, I lay sprawled on my bed, staring out my window while listening to my IPod. Buckcherry's "Crazy Bitch" blared through my ear buds while I watched the clouds drift across the sky. My room was pretty much done, except I still needed to put in a bookshelf, so my books were still piled on the floor. My black curtains had been hung, my clothes put away, my guitar in its case leaning against the wall, and my picture frames had been placed on my dresser and nightstand. My room was pretty much the same.
Except everything had changed. My friends weren't here to burst through my door and drag me to the park, my beautiful ocean view had been traded for a forest, and my brother wasn't here to climb on my bed and talk to me.
Before I could let myself drown in my nostalgia, I decided to go for a run. In the past, physical activity had always been a way that I could release my emotions. While that usually consisted of martial arts training and yoga, I hadn't unpacked my equipment yet. So a run would have to do. I slipped on some jogging pants and my sneakers, grabbed my iPhone and a bottle of water, and took off down our quarter-mile driveway. Ridiculous, I know. As my feet carried me over the pavement, my thoughts wandered to my old school. I had been known as the bad girl, yes, but I had still found my place among its walls. Would my new school accept me? Would anyone even talk to me? I hated the idea of being the new girl, especially in a small town like Ketterman where everyone has known everyone since birth and had long since established friendships. I sighed, starting over sucked ass.
When I had found out that we were moving to Ketterman, I had promised myself that I would not let myself get sucked into the whole "woe is me" role. I needed to kick myself in the butt and get over this whole wallowing fest. I had moved. I needed to accept it and stop moping, even though it felt good to be a little self-absorbed at the moment. School was starting in a few days, and I needed to get off to a good start.
By then, I had run past my driveway, crossed the road, and began jogging down a trail through the forest. Not wanting to delve too far into the unknown yet, I didn't go too far. It was getting dark, there could be bears out here, and I did not want to get lost. Slowing my pace for a moment, I leaned against a tall pine to catch my breath.
As I began the trek home, I made myself promise to try to see the good in my new situation. Optimism had lasted this long for a reason. Maybe my life here wouldn't be so boring and lifeless after all.