This chapter isn't very amazing, sorry. I was just trying to get it all out of the way, you know? Nothing exciting, just information really. Feedback is love.
Moving to Washington – to the United States of America – wasn't a hard decision to make. It wasn't something I mulled over for weeks, weighing the pros and cons and thinking about how hard it would be to start in an entirely new school system. I wasn't thinking about how I'd make friends, or if anyone would make fun of me. And we had dual citizenship, we'd had it forever, so it wasn't a choice I had to make immediately when I was asked. Curtis brought it up an entire two months before he was set to get on the plane.
What I did think of was my boyfriend – now ex – holding my so-called best friend in the hallways like he held me just hours before, their lips together, their tongues tied. His hands were sliding down to her backside, and hers were all tangled in his hair, and they weren't even worried in the slightest that anyone could see them – even me. And when he called me that same night to ask me if I was coming to his birthday party in a week, I didn't even have to think of an excuse.
"Sorry Tom, I'm moving to America."
And that was it. That was how I made my decision. And that was why, on the fifth of December at seven o'clock in the evening, I was getting off the plane in the Port Angeles airport, my backpack hanging off one shoulder and my eyes drooping. I'd been flying for two days because of layovers, and the constant changing of time zones was killing me. Curtis looked fine, of course – awake, his blonde hair perfectly gelled into a faux-hawk, and his clothes without a wrinkle. He always looked so effortlessly put together, even though I knew he spent two hours every morning achieving said look. He took up more time in the bathroom than I did.
Our father was standing right in the waiting area, a big smile on his face when he saw us. My brother kept up his casual stroll, but I was running for my dad before he even had time to call out to us. I dropped my backpack on the floor and launched myself into his arms, and he caught me effortlessly – our father had been a body builder back in the day. Once he hit forty, he decided it was time to settle into a profession, and became an elementary school gym teacher.
I hadn't seen him in two years, and he didn't stop hugging my guts out and put me down until Curtis reached us, dragging my bag behind him.
Dad slapped him on the back. "Hey, Curt."
"Hi dad," he replied, cracking his first grin all day. They shared a quick embrace, then Curtis threw my backpack at me and we meandered off to the luggage carousel.
"I got you guys all registered in school," dad explained, helping us haul our many suitcases out of the airport and to his big truck. He had a van, too, but his new wife probably had it to cart around their new triplets. I hadn't met them yet, but I was excited to. "Curt, I'm sorry, you're in grade twelve." He was really supposed to be in eleventh grade here, so I wasn't sure what there was to apologize for. My brother looked super excited at the prospect.
"What about me?" I asked.
"Eleventh," dad said. I was a year up, too. This made me nervous though. It wasn't that I was bad with making friends – I wasn't very shy, and I was only minimally worried about rejection – but I'd never had experience being a grade ahead. I knew someone who was, back home, though, when I was in eighth year, and he was teased mercilessly for it. Would the same fate befall me? It was hard to make friends when everyone thought you were a brainiac freak.
Then again, maybe I was overreacting a little.
My dad – Richard – and his wife Collette didn't live in Port Angeles, so our journey wasn't over yet. The three of us piled into his blue Ford F250 and started on the one hour drive to Forks. It started raining before we were even out of the parking lot.
"It rains a lot here," dad said. "Almost constantly. And if it's not raining, it just looks like shit out."
I was sufficiently prepared for this. He must have forgotten the three years he lived in England with us, when he was still with mum, because it rained a lot in London too. Curtis and I had brought jeans and sweaters and jackets; I hadn't even been hopeful enough to bring shorts. It was unlikely I'd need them for a long time, so they were still sitting in boxes in my closet, packed away with all my other summer clothes.
The radio was turned down the whole drive, and dad and Curtis never stopped talking. I stayed out of the conversation mostly, having nothing to report. They talked sports and what Curtis' plans were after high school, and about girls and cars and things I didn't know or care about. It wasn't that my dad was disinterested in my life, it just wasn't interesting. I was white bread.
I had never come to stay with dad before. Curtis did a few summers ago, but usually dad would come over to England. Sometimes Collette would go with him, but for the past three years she was either pregnant, or taking care of the little ones, so I hadn't seen her in a while either. That meant that the house wasn't a shock to my brother, but it sure was to me.
It was massive. Three storeys tall, with white siding and bright blue shutters on the windows. It was a Victorian style home with a wraparound porch and wooden shingles. There was a two-car garage, cement driveway, and a beautiful flower garden in front of the porch. I was speechless.
Inside was even better. Wooden walls everywhere, antique furniture; nothing looked updated but it was all in such amazing shape, and entirely functional. Even the stove looked a few decades out of style, but Collette had some sort of meat in the oven and sauces and vegetables cooking on the elements. She waved hello to Curtis and I as dad led us upstairs.
Curtis' bedroom was right across the hall from dad and Collette's, and beside the triplets'. The upside was that it was only a few steps from the bathroom, which would be useful for him, as he had a getting drunk 'til he puked habit. He'd also be able to try and sneak cigarettes in, cracking the window so the bathroom wouldn't smell.
Up a smaller staircase was a very short hallway ending in a door cut to the A-slope of the house. Dad had to duck through it when he helped me pull my bags in. It was a beautiful room, with a four-poster bed with white hangings, a big wardrobe, and a little desk with a computer on it, and extra space for me to do my homework on if I wished. The walls had white wallpaper, with little yellow flowers that matched the plastic yellow blinds. I pulled the string to open them, and the room was flooded with dull light.
"I love it," I said, hugging my father again.
"I'm glad," he smiled. "There's a little armchair downstairs, if you want it. Your room is pretty big and there's not much to put in it …"
"How about a book shelf?" I asked.
"Haven't got one of those, but Collette and I are going back to Port Angeles next week, so we'll see what we can do, okay?"
"Thanks dad," I said. He kissed me on the top of the head before leaving me to unpack. There wasn't much I could do besides hang all my shirts and dresses up, and fold all my jeans and put them on the shelf overtop the metal hanger bar. There was nowhere for my books and CDs and movies to go, or all my little knick knacks I'd insisted on bringing. I could hang my calendar on the wall though, along with my mirror, and put my little jewellery boxes on top of the wardrobe.
I put up some homemade posters, too. Collages on poster board of bands and actors and movies I liked, and one all my friends and I had made when they found out I was leaving of pictures of all of us, and things we liked to do together. They weren't very well done and some things were becoming unglued at the edges, but I would never throw them away, not even when my interests changed or I lost contact with everyone. They were my past and I never wanted to forget anything.
That was the same reason I kept a journal, which I scribbled in before I went down to a late dinner. I didn't write in it daily, so I had a lot to say about my breakup with Tom, moving from England, and my feelings about where I was now and what was to come. I tried to use as much detail as possible, so I'd know exactly what was going on and what I was feeling when I went to read it years later.
Curtis loped up the stairs to ask me if I was coming down for dinner.
"Give me a second, okay? I'll be down in a minute."
"Don't take too long, 'cause it's ready now." And he was gone again.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a few minutes. I didn't look any different, but for some reason I had expected to. My hair was still long, thick, wavy and bright orange. I had a "ginger complexion", pale skin and freckles, and huge green eyes that I hated. They made me look like an ant. I had a nice nose, though, a bit long but it was straight and not too thin. I was going to have nice teeth too, one day … once the braces came off.
I had my mum's looks, definitely. Even her smile, her dimples and full toothy grin. Curtis looked more like dad – wide nose, almond-shaped brown eyes, and dirty blonde hair. They were both very handsome men though, with strong jaws and chubby cheeks.
I pulled my hair up into a messy ponytail and skipped downstairs to eat.
My night was easy, fun. I got along well with Collette, and while dad was out showing Curtis his new motorcycle, I helped get the kids – Gabriella, Alexia, and Julius – into pyjamas, and brushed their teeth. They were only two, and were the cutest, most loving little kids I'd ever seen, with bright blonde curls and little hands that grabbed onto everything.
Around ten o'clock, dad sent Curtis and I upstairs to bed as well.
"You've got school in the morning," he said, "and you're probably both exhausted. I'll wake you up at seven, okay?"
We said our goodnights, and I slipped into my pyjamas before cuddling in under my blankets. I was fast asleep before I even got comfortable.