South versus West, chapter 1
I came home, blowing a piece of my unruly dirt blonde hair upwards and out of my sweat-coated face. Work never bothered me much, but when a customer said something real rude-like, I'd have to kick his ass out of the ranch. Like, literally kick. I did it today, but the only problem was that it was the fifth time this month. Bruce said if it happened again, I'd be out of a job. That meant losing my paycheck for rent. If you're smart or even slightly dim-witted, you know that it ain't good! I sighed and threw my helmet on the table.
"Kali! Get your ass over here," my once again drunk mother called in from the living room. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth as I made my way to her special room.
"Yes, Mama?" I asked patiently, but warily. She glared at me sourly and threw a beer bottle at my head. I ducked and dodged it, and kept my eyes level with hers. "Mama, what's wrong? Was it something I did?" I asked, keeping my voice level, even though I was pissed. Mama had promised earlier this month that she'd go through with rehab, and obviously that meant no alcohol.
"You goddamn good for anything child! My beer's away in the trash truck," she slurred, throwing a beer can at me this time. It didn't even make it far enough to the point where I could dodge it.
"Yes, Mama. But it's 'good for nothin', not good for 'anything', remember? Your beer is going to the dump. What happened to your rehab schedule?" I asked calmly. I noticed one of her beer bottles using colorful papers as a coaster. I swiped it off the table and scowled at what I was reading.
"Mama, are these resignation-" A beer bottle shattered once it hit my back. The copper color glass punctured my skin and the red juice of life seeped through my blue cotton T-shirt. I took a sharp intake of breath at the pinch and burning.
"It's my life, Charles! It's my life," she yelled throwing the T.V remote at me. I was so focused on the bloody gash on my lower back that I didn't see it coming. What really sucks about drunken people is that they're stronger when in the drunken state than when sober. It hit my cheek, hard enough to make me gasp. I twirled around, furious, and my calm façade was immediately broken.
"You know what? I tried to help you, Mama! I really did! But if you are too fucking busy feeling pity towards yourself, then FINE! DON'T COME RUNNING TO ME FOR BAIL MONEY, AND EXPECT ME TO HELP! NO MORE BROKEN PROMISES! WE'RE THROUGH," I screamed, turning on my heel and running.
I heard her get up, so I turned, hoping my rant had gotten to my real mom, the one who would read me stories, the one who helped me pick out the right traits in a good husband or boyfriend. But no. All I saw was her strong high boned face, splotchy with acne and bruises because she didn't even bother to take care of herself anymore. And boy was it pissed. She swung at me, hitting right above my left eye. I went down and squinted to see my mother staggering towards me in a drunken rage. Suddenly she stopped, swayed for a few seconds dazedly, and passed out onto the rug. I felt an over-whelming surge of relief and a tiny bit of guilt as I turned to leave. I paused for a moment, and then went over to my cell and dialed 911.
"Y'ello? Hi, I'm callin' from 7713 Metrom Street. A woman is passed out due to being drunk. I'm a neighbor and I found her like this. Please send her some help. Thank y'all so much," I said solemnly. I went over to my backpack and plucked up my mama's address book and searched for somewhere that was close and had people I knew.
I was growing frantic after finding six straight pages with names of her drinking buddies. Finally on the last page I saw a familiar last name, considering it's Mama's maiden name. Kinsella, Wade. Uncle Wade and Papa Earl lived in Alabama. I hadn't seen them since I was eight, but family is family, right? Everywhere else was close, but all had a bunch of scary drunks.
"Bluebell, Alabama it is then," I whispered to myself. I quickly took out my atlas (thank God for Social Studies) and looked for a direct route to Alabama from Acronam, Texas about 861 miles from me. Fuck, I'd have to hitch hike, or walk. Wasn't that against the law? The ever so familiar red and blue lights danced frantically outside my window. I grabbed my backpack and sprinted out the backdoor, light and nimble, and trying not to make a sound as I sprinted into the deep dark velvet blanket of night.
_
A plop of rain hit my forehead, sending a cool shock of pleasure down my spine. I ended up hitch hiking up until Jackson, Mississippi, for which I was incredibly grateful. Ms. Fran was just a sweet old woman, in her mid sixties to early seventies. Her thinning gray hair was pulled back into a bun with curly stray bangs sticking out because of the humanity. Ms. Fran's body had the sturdiness and physique of toothpick. I swear, I could fit my silver anklet just around her thigh. But Ms. Fran had a fire to her, and could obviously kick ass if she needed to. How could I tell? Well, anyone who's got a rifle in their back seat to kill the snakes in her garden is officially badass, right?
The best part was that I didn't even have to do so much as stick my thumb out. I had been walking about 5 miles, and had finally made it out of the county. Unfortunately sidewalks don't last forever, so I was walking in the bike lane by the time I got out of town. Apparently I looked kind of conspicuous because she pulled over right away, mostly because of the sweatshirt's hood.
"Excuse me, doll? I'm terribly sorry if I be a prying, but why are you walking on your own? And after sundown? You look so downtrod, as if you hadn't eaten a decent meal in a month of Sundays. Are you an orphan?" the woman asked worryingly. I wanted to tell her back the fuck off and mind her own business but something stopped me. Maybe it was the old time scent of cinnamon mixed with vanilla wafting from her baby blue pick up, or the twinkle in her eye that let you know that she could be trusted in the big things, but still liked to play pranks once in a while. I personally think it was the addicting aroma of the greasy and hearty Burger King in the front seat. Either way, I ended up getting a ride from sweet old Fran. This was about a week ago, I would say.
Now I was walking and I had just passed the Louisiana border into Alabama. I smiled as I thought, "Only twenty-five more miles, only twenty-five more miles," and practically skipped in the bike lane, careful not to get run down by a biker who was actually using the bike lane for its intended purpose, like I had in Arcolla, Mississippi. I almost flipped the poor dude because I thought he was trying to attack me.
I guess you could say I'm a tad paranoid.
I smiled about how ridiculous that scenario was and how nothing out here could hurt me more than she could. I squinted as I saw bright beamer lights heading toward me at a reckless pace. I immediately crouched down as the truck flew right at me. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for impact, but it never came. I heard the squeal of the tiles.
"Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Why is it that I manage to hit something when I don't mean to?" a girl said worryingly. She crouch down next to me and touched my neck. I screeched and crawled away from here quickly.
"Wait! I was checking your pulse to see if you were ok! I thought I had hit you," the girl explained with a tone panic that had a tinge of relief. I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
"I ain't dead, miss. You didn't hit me, but you were WAY too damn close! Did you have one too many shots or somethin'?" I demanded, feeling anger surge through my veins. What kind of person drives like that? Then tries to act all sweet and innocent after almost claiming a person's life? She was taken aback, a bit offended.
"No! I'm just not used to driving trucks! I don't have my own car yet, so I have to use my friend's truck to get around! I was just coming back after working with a patient who almost drowned in the creek further up the road," she explained, sounding slightly angry and apologetic, which is kind of hard to do. I breathed deeply again before responding.
"Ok, that explains a hell of a lot. Trucks normally do take getting used to," I replied, starting to feel my shoulders untense a little.
"So enough about how I…um…nearly ran you over. What the heck is a girl your age doing on the road at four o'clock in the morning with a huge backpack?" she demanded, crossing her arms in front of her chest sassily. I don't know what it was about her, but her attitude just drove me up the wall. I glared at her, finally getting a full image. She was drop dead gorgeous. Her wavy chestnut hair cascaded down until mid shoulder, and her determined brown eyes were as deep and soulful as a good cup of coffee, full of different aromas that made up her spunky and slightly cocky attitude.
"That is none of your business, Ms…"
"Hart. Doctor Zoey Hart. And since I almost ran you over it is my business. So why are you out here without your parents?" she asked slyly, hoping if she used a different tone of voice I'd give in.
"Family," I replied shortly, even though it wasn't exactly what she asked. "I was going to Bluebell, a small town about 25 or so miles from here." Just as a heads-up, I was only telling her so she'd leave me alone. No other reason, ya hear?
"Wait. You actually know where Bluebell is? And that the town exists?" Zoey asked, a seemingly shocked face that kind of reminded me of a fish that you pull up from the lake with a hook in its mouth. Mouth slightly open, eyes wide, the whole shebang.
"Yeah. So now that I've told you, will you please be on your way and stop buggin' me?" I asked in annoyance. She looked at me, her dubious gaze meeting my slightly pissed off one. She shook her head firmly.
"No way. I live in Bluebell and I could give you a lift. Getting a ride has to be better than walking," she coerced. I shook my head.
"Thank you, but I have to refuse. Better if I just walk there alone." The doctor gazed at me skeptically. "By myself." Zoey didn't seem impressed. "On my own." She still wasn't cracking, her facial expression never changing. "SOLO!" I yelled, hoping I'd get her to back off.
"No chance. I may drive fast, but for the most part, I'm a safe driver. Where are you going in Bluebell?" she asked, turning her back to me. I huffed, sick of this conversation, and sick of her over confident attitude.
"Listen here, Doc. I was doing just fine until you almost ran me over. The least you can do is respect that I really don't want help," I snapped. She finally went silent, when another truck pulled up next to us.
"Doc! Why the hell aren't you on the road? Lavon got worried that you weren't back at the plantation yet, and sent me to check on you! You owe me for getting up at 4:00 in the mornin'," a deep and very ticked off voice yelled impatiently. My ears perked, recognizing that voice.
"What should I do? Should I tell him, or just walk there and break the news to him there? Ah hell, this isn't what was s'posed to happen," I rambled mentally. Unfortunately, I had no time to make a decision because of Uncle Wade's keen eyesight. Yes, it was none other than my uncle Wade Kinsella. Those of you that guessed, you get a cookie! Yay for your efforts!
"Who's the dude? Was he the patient that got an arrow stuck in his foot? He seems a lot younger than you said," Uncle Wade noticed.
"Um, I really don't know, but no, this isn't that idiot," Doc answered honestly. I smirked and opened my mouth to talk.
"She almost ran me over," I added in cheerfully. Wade glared at her as Zoey reddened and smiled sheepishly.
"Thanks for throwing me under the bus," she muttered spitefully in my direction. I smirked again, not that she could see it. How fitting, her choice of words.
"Anytime," I retorted cheerfully. Uncle Wade began lecturing Zoey about how she was stupid when it came to trucks, etc. If I made a break for it at my fastest, they'd be able to catch me, but it would take them a minute to get in the car and get out once they caught up with me.
I snuck backward, into the grassy rut that had only the road and woods as a border, I was doing fine until my back hit the trunk of one of the tall Willow Oaks. I yelped and felt the cut on my back. It was throbbing through my thick gray sweatshirt. I placed my hand over it, trying to numb the stinging. They both looked at me, worry and panic clear in both of their eyes in the dimly lit street lamp.
"Are you ok? Are you positive I didn't hit you?" the doctor asked worryingly.
"Dude! Don't worry. Doc here might be a bitch sometimes, but she good at what she does," Uncle Wade promised me. I broke out open laughter as Zoey slapped him in the arm. My eyes widened as I realized what I just did. My laugh was fairly, ok, REALLY distinctive. Uncle Wade's eyes widened too. He hesitiated, then pulled back my hood. My light brown eyes met his nearly identical ones.
"He he, hi Uncle Wade," I said half-heartedly. His expression didn't change. Aw, shit.