I stared at my new, blue and white sneakers. Of all the most cliché things a story could contain, I was one of them. I didn't know that at the time, in my seven years of life I haven't read many books to judge certain aspects as cliché, let alone define the word. But I was an orphan: mother dead of some sort of cancer I still can't recall the name of today and father dead because he couldn't handle the loss anymore.
I know, right?
Couldn't you be a bit more creative, author?
Geez.
So there I was, being all predictable on the airplane to where I was to live with my godfather, inspecting my shoes because the movie playing on the tiny screen in front of me didn't seem as important.
I had never met my godfather. Apparently he and my dad were good friends in Niceville, Florida, where they grew up. Despite being five years older, my father deemed Mr. Godfather responsible enough to care for me in case of his passing. He later moved across the country to Los Angeles, while Dad raised me in Florida.
Florida was all I knew. We had a tangerine tree in the little backyard behind the one-story house. I used to spin in the swing hung from it, the tangerines squirting their sweet juice into my mouth as I ate one, and then another, and another, and another.
By the time I was two, my mother was gone and my father locked himself in his room. I learned to care for myself, eating peanut butter and jelly with some more tangerines everyday because it was the easiest thing to make. On bad days, I'll lie awake to hear Dad sobbing in the room beside my own.
He became a zombie. Every Sunday he and his blank face left and returned with groceries. Every Monday he shuffled around to do laundry. And every night his shadow would stop at my door. While I pretended to be asleep, he kissed my forehead and left without another word.
I acted like I was already dreaming because I didn't know what to say to him. His transformation had scared me and I didn't want to talk to my father. He used to write novels, work from home. But the most recent one was abandoned a quarter of the way in.
One night of my sixth year his shadow never passed. That morning I got up on my own, dressed myself, ate breakfast, brushed my teeth, and politely waited for him to drive me to school. The locked door to his bedroom never opened.
The school called later and asked why one of their kindergartners wasn't there. I picked up the phone delicately. Where is your dad? You don't know? Have you checked his room? We're sending someone to help you, honey, stay put.
They never told me exactly how he did it. I ended up in a foster home as strangers leafed through papers on possible relatives to take me. But I had no relatives.
Only a godfather on the other side of the country.
The flight attendant went up to my row.
"Anita, I will be taking you off board, OK, honey?"
I was getting sick of people calling me "hun" or "honey."
"Yeah, ok. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Will you be ready in ten minutes?"
I nodded; I had heard the announcement you made two seconds ago to everyone else, lady.
She smiled, ignorant to my thoughts. The next ten minutes consisted of me scooting over to the window seat I had rejected earlier. No other passengers sat with me, I had the whole row of seats to myself. I sipped a tiny swallow of orange juice out of the bottle that the lady had given me before.
Yuck.
I grimaced and set it down to gaze at the California landscape beneath me to pass the time.
The attendant rushed over to me when the plane ceased to move. She grabbed my backpack from the compartment above and took my hand without my consent. I wanted to pull away, she had babied me enough, but I went with it.
She stayed with me the whole way, more formal papers my seven-year old brain couldn't understand for my new guardian stuck under her arm. I allowed myself to sit on a black plastic seat, hugging my backpack to my chest.
I flinched when I felt someone tap my shoulder.
"Hey, you Anita?" A kind face was level to mine; he was kneeling behind the seat. I got suspicious; no adult gets down like that to talk to children.
"Yes she is!" the attendant blurted out before I could say anything, "Are you Toby Turner?"
"Yeah," he stood to converse with her, his hand rested on the back of my chair.
While they discussed the paperwork, I studied his hand: no ring. I may have only been seven but I knew a handsome man when I saw one, so I was surprised to discover the fact he wasn't married.
Removing my gaze from his hand, I continued to his face. Mousy brown hair that stuck out as far as its short length could reach. The ends curled around his odd pointy ears that settled next to wispy sideburns. Toby's hazel green eyes flickered around, distracted from the conversation with the attendant, about my adoption- about my future. And he was distracted.
Who is this man?
