A/N: Fucking hell, it's been a long time since I've posted anything! Life in general just got very busy on my end, and I've completed my A-Levels and am now attending university; with this being my first proper big break from the grind of academics! Looking back, a lot of my old work's weren't the best, and I've been considering deleting them; especially Traditional Vampires, as that really was a poorly executed concept, and I didn't really know where I was going with it. As for the original Walking on Glass? That's probably going to go too. I had some technical issues two years back and a LOT of content got deleted from my old laptop; that original writing included. It just wasn't the best and I found Charley's voice to be kinda boring. I've edited her character considerably here, but have kept most of the original concepts the same! I didn't see much point rebooting an old story if I just made Charley a totally different person - and I do have affection for her; I just wanted to make her more engaging, and define her family a little clearer. So here she is, new and improved!
R&R please - I hope you enjoy this reboot!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the non-original concepts, characters or fictional based content featured in this story. I am not profiting from this (shame), and only own any OCs, or personalised concepts you'll see her. Thanks.
Wind had whistled through the graveyard in an impressive manner; making the black, blue – and even, in some cases, deep red – materials constructing all the dresses, skirts or loose fitting dress shirts billow in the wind, creating an assortment of technicolour butterflies; clinging to the seams of outfits, as they cast off into the ice tinged air - a true sign of early December.
The vicar's droning voice had failed to captivate me, and - in my own narcissistic haze - I wished dad would've assigned a, not per-say entertaining (that would've been a degree of poor taste even Aunt Loretta would've found hard to swallow), but maybe a semi-captivating vicar for nan's funeral service. My opinion of funerals would never be a high one - nor did I assume it was considered The Norm to be massively overfond (whatever The Norm was these days) - but I'd been unable to shake the accepting, viscous numbness; partially in thanks of not being able to lose myself in the words' commemorating my dad's mothers' life.
I doubted I'd be accompanying dad and Rosie to Mr Kaufman (the family lawyers)'s firm, but for a brief second I considered it possible. Whilst we'd never been in dire financial circumstances, the inheritance Nan had gifted our part of the family would be hopefully enough to set worries to rest; and by worries, dad knew those were mostly burdens resting on my shoulders.
He'd been looking down at the grave - eyes glazed over intently; the urge to cry overwhelming - but he was furiously denying the tears a chance of being shed. Dad and Nan had often fought before her death, and it was more than likely crying in front of the attendants (some variable strangers to me; faces I'd guessed assembled at Nan's favorite church every Sunday, or accompanied her to her card games) would convince the less empathic souls he was weeping for guilt, and not true loss. They hadn't been on the best of terms when the throat cancer she'd developed - caused by too much smoking (even by our families' standards - which spoke volumes some would say) - had finally overwhelmed her; but we all knew, even the most ignorant, they were glad things had calmed between them by the time she'd passed.
My Nan - Patrice 'Patsy' Cook (born Patrice Leveille; a true Southern belle name if I'd ever heard one, that went hand-in-hand perfectly with her old school set of values) - never believed you should remarry; especially if your wife had died. So when dad met, courted, got engaged to, and then married Rosa 'Rosie' Near (my much loved stepmom), she'd almost disowned him on the spot.
Neither of my paternal uncles - Joey or Carter - would've dared remarry, even before Nan had initially downright refused to attend the wedding (and had only conceded to when she learned dad and Rosie were going to a registry office, opposed to 'sullying' some fancy church); and especially after Uncle Joey and Aunt Loretta's divorce had been finalised. If Rosie - whom Nan had come to both respect, and even admire by the end of her life - had caused a ruckus amongst the family; Uncle Joey pushing his luck would've made her hit beyond the roof, and more like the ozone layer.
Dad had been incredibly brave marrying my stepmom, and it was that bravery that most of us knew had caused Nan to come around to both her son's decision and her new daughter-in-law (a trait he'd indefinitely inherited off my Nan herself); even with all the bitter, brutal and borderline combustion level arguing that'd preceded the ceasefire.
My biological mom had died in a car accident, when I was six years old, and my little brother - Danny - was two. It was an accident - no-one had wanted her dead or anything; my mom was a dental nurse for Christ's sake, you don't make an abundant amount of enemies in that line of work, last time I checked - but that'd always instilled a bigger sense of unfairness from me. Why did she get roped into working late that night? Why did Walter McKinnon decided to get into his vehicle - instead of hailing a cab or calling a friend - to travel home, despite being three times over the legal limit? Who'd let him get into a car in such a state? Why had he tried to run a red light? None of those questions had been given answers I'll honestly ever find satisfying, even when looking over the legal notes justifying his twelve year sentence (parole after serving eight); after a lengthy court battle, and his older brother - Dale McKinnon - also getting a prison sentence for threatening the prosecutor, Mary Liskins.
Members of both sides of the family - especially dad, not to mention mom's parents; even strangers with nothing personal to gain eventually - had petitioned for his sentence to be increased, as he already had four convictions for drunk and disorderly behavior; but it went nowhere. He'd been paroled when I was thirteen (causing dad to work himself up into such a state Danny and I had been packed up and ushered over to Aunt Trisha's place before we'd even sat down for dinner), but violated his conditions in no time, and had an extra five added. He hadn't known Esfir Cook had two young children when he'd killed her, and I doubt he even cared when he was informed (if his nonchalance both in court and at his sentencing provided any insight).
"Charley?" A voice - stuck half-way between breaking and desperately clinging to pubescence - called, snapping me out of my somewhat oblivious daze; causing me to turn to my left, where I could meet the gaze of my thirteen year old brother.
Funerals often have some point where I blank out and retreat to thoughts of my mom. The blueberry and lavender perfume she favored so greatly; the heaviness of her neatly trimmed fringe (and how she refused to grow it out, despite Aunt Trisha's insistence); the slight edges of breathlessness held within her laugh; the way she'd pull me onto her lap, smother my head in kisses, and whisper to me in a mixture of English and Ukrainian. I sometimes wade into the traitorous territory of wondering what it'd be like if she was still here; although such thoughts always result in an uncomfortable prickle at my infrequent ungratefulness towards Rosie.
My stepmom and I could never be mistaken for blood relatives, despite my private wishes for that to sometimes be reality. She stood at 5'8" - about two inches smaller than dad at 5'10" - with a russet component to her skin tone, thanks to her father being Native American. She gained paler undertones from her mom - apparently pale as a snowflake - and the photographs she's shown me confirmed such a fact; I'd never met my, for lack of better words, step grandparents, as they lived in Germany, where Rosie spent the portion of her late teens, and travelling with the demands of dad's family was hazardous at best. Her hair was pitch black in colour - such a lovely dark shade it held purple undertones to it - curling slightly at the ends; falling all the way down her back to brush up against her waist, and allowed the piercing blue of her eyes to sparkle ever so gently when cast upon you (again, inherited from her mom).
Everything about Rosie remained sharp edged and striking - her cheekbones high and sculpted; eyes forever bright; lips thin and slightly dimpled - in a beautiful manner that reassured ten year old me beyond belief that dad wasn't trying to replace mom.
I managed to be paler than both my dad and brother, although I was generally considered to be most physically similar to mom when stood next to Danny. Mom was Ukrainian, born Esfir Lisko, and a second generation immigrant; my Granny and Papa had settled in Huddersfield though, not Louisiana, all the way in England, where I'd spent the first four years of my life. Around the time Danny was born, Uncle Joey and Aunt Loretta's marital strife reached its most acidic stage, and mom had been convinced to move closer to dad's side of the family after her brother - Uncle Matviy - had agreed to move closer to their aging parents.
When I was thirteen I'd convinced dad to allow me to take her maiden name as my own in honour of her (and, in my own way, to prompt clearer memories to arise from my subconscious); to my - admittedly immature - amazement he and Rosie had taken no offense with this. My first name - Charlotta - is of origin debated to be either French or Russian, so it just about fits; but I was nicknamed Charley as a little girl, and it's stuck much longer.
My cousin Russell had once said my name suited me as I 'look European'; but I've never quite got it. I inherited mom's youthful prettiness - sharing her snubbed nose, rounded cheeks and heart shaped lips; but the sharper shape of my jawline and narrower shape of my eyes brought out dad's genetics in me. Dad and I share the same grey-green eyes, and the light dustings of freckles on my neck and nose come from him; providing much needing colour spots upon my skin, as I never got mom's slightly flushed cheeks. On the other hand, I did inherit mom's light brown hair - sometimes it breaches blonde in the summer when exposed to enough natural lighting - and its thin, lightly waved texture; cut to rest slightly below my weak shoulders. I'm relatively small at 5'2" and my figure's trim and flat-chested; but I've never particularly minded - it's not like any of my genetics promised voluptuous sensuality.
Danny was pretty similar to me in uncanny ways - young faced, snub nosed, rounded cheeks, heart shaped lipped; short in stature (for his age, he kept insisting) and slender, but colour palette wise he came out the reverse. Dad's deep treacle blonde hair - with its thick, tangle prone texture - went especially well with the storm sky blue of mom's eyes, and my brother carried these traits with unfair confidence, upping his juvenile appeal to the opposite gender. It was slightly depressing my brother, aged just thirteen; had two girlfriends by that point, compared to my astoundingly pathetic total of none in the boyfriend meter. I never really got to know Alice or Michaela - at least on a basis beyond seeing them drift round the house on an odd occasion - but I was still stupidly envious of his power to gravitationally pull attention towards him.
He'd remained a Cook out of an unspoken loyalty towards our father. As the backlash of dumping Michaela had initially impacted - for once, Danny had gone into a surreal dysphoria, no-one quite seemed capable of responding to (never mind him) - I'd overheard a conversation between dad and Rosie, revealing he'd also been considering changing to Lisko. Eventually it'd sunk in what his intentions were. Danny's memories of mom were beyond sparse compared to my own - we'd never quite broached the topic of how reliable his recollection was - and he wanted to take spiritual solace within a link that would forever be imprinted when registers were called at school mornings, or clubs alphabetised their players by surname. After the existential crisis had faded - and the little logic my brother functioned on returned to him - he'd strengthened his resolve to stay on as a Cook, and I could only complement his loyalty.
We were moving thanks to the only assured part of dad's inheritance.
Nan had bequeathed him an old family heirloom she'd been tending to as a nest egg for several decades; a house, on the outskirts of Forks Washington, which had belonged to Bradley Linkenmeyer, her favorite uncle (an outsider-turned-family-member when he'd wed Hester Leveille, my long gone great-great aunt), and dad had jumped at the chande to own a bigger, more spacious house, where the mortgage had already been taken care of. The added charm of it being located near to such a quiet, peaceful town - in comparison to the southern mania hotspot we were all so used to - had sold him and Rosie, even before a Family Conversation could be arranged.
The midnight coloured fabric of my dress - a 'funeral purchase' if you'd ever seen one - flapped in the wind wildly; mimicking the graceful billows of Rosie's skirt, and wild flails of Aunt Trisha's loose sleeves. I'd managed to zone out again, and Danny had resorted to furiously shaking my shoulder, until my half-starved brain registered the tugging sensation and I finally turned back towards his impertinent gaze.
He looked bizarrely serious with his flat combed hair, black suit and light blue dress shirt; at odds with the slouch of his shoulders, and the uncertainty colouring his vision as he glanced firmly at the ground. "Charlie?" He repeated in a whisper, and I nodded instead of speaking; the fear of projecting my voice an anxious niggle I didn't even want to imagine indulging. "Do you want to move?" His tone was encroaching on bewildered and I quelled the urge to gulp; knowing I'd have to speak now.
"Not really..." I managed to be so quiet the words were barely audible; but I didn't trust my unreliable whispering skills at the very best of times. "But...we get a bigger house and go to better schools so...maybe it's for the best." I punctuated my own tired words with an unhelpful shrug; staring into the mass of velvety green trees dotted around the church graveyard where Nan had chosen to have her funeral. It was the same graveyard her aunt and uncle had been laid to rest before her in; but part of me couldn't help wonder if she'd chosen it to make the travel arrangements less painfully one sided. Dad's siblings had spread out post-graduation - Dad and Uncle Carter opting to remain in Louisiana; whereas Uncle Joey went to New Mexico, and Aunt Trisha had moved north bound to New York - despite the close nature of the family.
I supposed I didn't have as much to miss in Redfort as Danny had. I wasn't a crucial member in my friend group - although leaving behind Lucy-Jo and Beth was a task I'd had to poorly bluff my way through as the moving date had ebbed closer - nor was I exactly a member of the outstanding students society (my grades mostly being Bs and Cs, with a few As thrown into the mix on a good day, and Ds on the bad); and there was a paranoia fueled dread I could barely escape whenever I drove late at night, especially if I was alone, or if it were a Friday, Saturday or holiday period - when I knew people would be drinking, and accidents became more common. Maybe Forks was the change dad, Rosie and I needed - with Danny being the unfortunate casualty.
For someone nearly incapable of competently whispering without having to stick to borderline silent, I'd honed myself into being a competent eavesdropper by the time I was steadily acclimating to double digits. Rosie apparently had a friend from childhood who lived near to where we'd be calling home from now onwards. Her father had spent most of his life on a reservation further east before her mom had come into the picture, belonging to the Makah tribe; and apparently, his leaving had caused a lot of sorrow (despite the blessing he'd been given). He'd been close friends with a man named Justin Call, who'd gone onto have several daughters; the youngest of whom had been named Tiffany, and she'd been Rosie's childhood best friend until Germany had beckoned. The geographical distance had accompanied the presumed emotional onset, increasing further still when Tiffany had moved to another reservation, La Push, after becoming pregnant with her only child. This had been a particularly relevant conversation topic of moving because, of course, Forks was about a fifteen minute drive away from La Push - so naturally, Rosie was ecstatic.
I couldn't blame her for being pleased. If I had a best friend who I hadn't seen for about twenty years, then was suddenly presented with a new home, where I'd only live fifteen minutes away (a nice house rounding off the package); I'd be incredibly happy too. It wouldn't have been fair to behave childishly resentful in the face of her much deserved reunion.
Dad was happy he'd finally be getting away from the place where mom died; I was looking forwards to escaping the politics dividing my friends; and Danny had a strong resolve, never mind a talent for making friends that even our stepmom envied. My little brother'd always adapted quickly to new places, so I couldn't help but have a suspicion that he'd settle in quicker than I would - at least in the social element.
A small voice had been telling me that Rosie intended on coaxing me out for visits to Tiffany's house, and I'd have to spend time with her yet unnamed son. Danny might've been dragged there alongside me, but I'd always be the more likely candidate, with age being the primary candidate. Whilst I'd missed the name of Tiffany Call's son, I did know we were the same age (hell, it was the only thing I knew about him half the time); my brother being a good four years younger created a natural barrier someone of the same age - even if they were the opposite gender - could tackle easier. Still, I hadn't wanted to crush Rosie with the likelihood we wouldn't become particularly close, or even breach the boundaries of calling each other 'friends'.
I'm painstakingly boring - that's the long and short of it.
The most interesting fact, and common ground, I've tended to share with people is that I've been doing ballet since I was four years old. I'd honestly say it's the only thing I've ever been really confident about regarding my skills; my grades were never abysmal, but 'gifted and talented' was never going to be a label I acquired, not that I would've enjoyed the attention (so really, it's for the best I'm average in the academic terms). Even at ballet though, I'd struggled making friends - although, that's at least understandable in some regards.
Ballerina's are some of the most competitive sportsmen and women to walk, or should that be pirouette, the earth. The whole world I inhabit is inherently insecure and rife with ego clashes and demands, with currency coming in the form of show parts, extravagant costumes, expertly applied makeup, and whom the teachers' favour falls upon from season to season. Whenever you received a compliment, the two second pause is given before the immortal words of 'but you could improve' are added onto the end; blindsighted your pride, and renewing you with voracious determination. Only six students - including myself - had remained from the beginners class up until the current grade we were all performing at now; faces flying through the doors threshold, then fading back into the corridors, tear streaked and pressed into their mothers' skirts. I soldiered through though. Maybe losing mom had gifted me with a want to give her surname some true legacy; perhaps I was just desperately battling my own insecurities and poor self-worth, an answer wasn't what I wanted. What I truly wanted was a place at the School of American Ballet, located in Aunt Trisha's home of New York - ideal for the career I so avidly pursued, and my ultimate goal.
Honestly, my biggest worry in regards to Forks was the potential absence of an adequate ballet studio; and, to my disappointment, I'd been informed by Rosie there wasn't one. For a brief - immature - moment, the thought of refusing to leave crossed my mind; indignant and childish anger shooting through my veins at the melodramatic mental wailing my singular dream had been crushed...until she'd added that Port Angeles, a larger town directly aligned with the coast, had a small ballet studio that continued up until the age of nineteen, ensuring my dancing was safe. That'd been what truly sold me on moving to Washington.
The label of bitchiness and backstabbing that gathered around ballet studios was something I couldn't exactly deny was a fact; with the likelihood of Bellamy's Dancing Studio perpetuating these features I'd witnessed back at Redfort's School of Dance a more than likely possibility, but keeping my head down had got me through back there, so my planned method of quiet perfectionism was one I intended on holding onto. I couldn't have said if the ballet world was as vicious as the reputation it'd garnered, as I was too busy overwhelmed in shining hubris at the occasional mentioning I was one of the classes 'most promising dancers'. I was never really one to live up to the infamous stereotype. But, as I said, painstakingly boring was definitely my speciality.
Driving through the woodland dominated stretch of Forks helpfully reminded me of desolate horror films; and only Danny's presence beside me proved to be a relief from my overactive imagination.
As the trees zoomed by - blurring into a collective streak of clashing shades of green - my mind unhelpfully decided to recall the time I'd been talked (nagged) into watching Rob Zombie's House of 1000 Corpses. I most definitely hadn't been the appropriate age to be viewing it at just fourteen years old, but that meant nothing when the fact my cousin Karl had only been sixteen himself, and somehow managed to acquire it. I wanted to say it's because Karl got the tall gene - whereas dad was only 5'10", Uncle Carter reached a desirable 6'3"; and on top of that, Auntie Flora was 5'9" herself - but his deceptive charm, honey brown eyes and dimpled grin likely had played their roles in a clerk being schmoozed into forgetting about little questions, such as if he had ID on him.
Uncle Carter's part of the family had always been the ones we'd been closest to. Partly, it was down to ease of location - whilst Uncle Carter hadn't stayed in Redfort; Offlen Trees was only a half hour drive away - but it more so came from the fact he was dad's closest brother. Sure, Uncle Carter was considerably more self-confident, and distinctively flashier than his little brother, but he held the same earnest determination and unspoken understanding I'd come to recognise dad held.
In my paranoia fueled state, part of me was waiting for Captain Spaulding's Museum of Monsters and Madmen to pop up on the roadside; and if not such a horror, a similar kind of unnerving tourist trap (with the meaning being more than metaphorical). I'd never been overly fond of clowns at the best of times, and my cousins' little movie marathon had sharpened my psyche in regards to a fictional side attraction suddenly appearing on the side of the road like some mocking ghost house.
I'd never been a massive horror fan. My stomach is painfully weak where all the bloodshed's concerned, and I have a hard enough time getting over that hurdled; never mind carefully analysing each gory kill detail frame by frame - but a fair few of my cousins, especially Karl and Reuben, had been gorehounds since they were nine and eight respectively, and they often enjoyed dragging me along for the ride. I used to surmise they wanted a girl with them so Auntie Flora would crack down lighter on them when she stumbled across whichever violence fest they were broadcasting upstairs in The Den. Karl's, unfortunate I might add, girlfriend Bailey flatout refused to accompany them (being so infamously adverse to blood a nasty papercut had once caused her to faint when she was thirteen); whilst Reuben's girlfriend Gloria had a habit of being conveniently 'ill' whenever their latest splatterfest was to be viewed. To be fair on Gloria, she had an infamously weak immune system; but I couldn't blame her on using it to bail on consumption of a genre capable of making ironcast stomachs churn.
Now, with me having moved north, things would naturally be five hundred times more difficult for my cousins where pulling me into viewing another horror flick was concerned, but I had my suspicions they'd find a way. With a mind like Karl's and a resolve like Reuben's, obstacles tended to never phase them.
Part of me - a selfish, cruel, smug part I might add - was looking forwards to the reality Danny would be old enough to legally get into fifteens sooner than later. He'd naturally be much more enthused at being indoctrinated into Karl and Rueben's horror society, as his rambunctious energy gelled nicely with their manic plotting; although I wasn't quite sure how he'd respond to the films themselves. My brother had slept with the light on until he was eleven - and it'd been a battle for poor dad when the weaning process had formally begun (Danny's fighting techniques were as impressive as they were ruthless).
He'd been surveying the crumpled seating of our family car; the much-loved, if not clearly exhausted 1999 Audi A4, I was winding cautiously down the often silent roads. The silver paint was beginning to fade slightly; the seats, although comfy, were even more tired than the outer layer of paint; and its trips to the garage had become more and more frequent as the years had gone by. Dad and Rosie had borrowed my car - the black, second hand convertible gifted to me by mom's brother for my sixteenth birthday - because they'd figured a shiny(ish) car, driven carefully (and to a limited amount of locations), looked better than our rusting family automobile.
I was still surprised they'd put the final couple of boxes - mainly containing my ballet gear, old costumes and trophies included; as well as my irregularly accessed hockey equipment, and Danny's basketball trophies and kits - into the crumbling old dinosaur of a car; but dad's judgment was one I honestly trusted. It served us right for taking that trip to the mountains back in 2002, and the poor thing had taken the beating of a lifetime. Dad was transferring jobs at the time, meaning renting a land rover or jeep of some variety was out of the question, so he didn't want to push his luck in terms of finances; things had improved since them though.
"Do you even know where the new house is?" Ah, my little brother; infamous for his delicate tact in the face of potential stresses.
"I think so!" I managed to shrug in the face of his evident doubt; successfully repressing the urge to shoot him a glare and outright snap at him. "I mean all I need to do is follow the removal van." I accompanied my words with a small gesture towards the large, blue van, complete with white markings, that was rolling onwards ahead of us. "The movers know where the place is, so if I follow them, I'll be fine."
In some unspoken way, that appeared to satiate Danny. For now, my brain whispered; courteous as ever, my mind.
"I heard Rosie commenting on how her old bestie's son keeps disobeying whatever she tells him," clearly my brother had been doing some investigating of his own in the time before the funeral; and keeping information private had never been one of Danny's strengths. "I wonder what he's like. Apparently his name's Emby; who calls their son that?"
"Embry?" I asked, briefly turning to face him before the panic of taking my eyes off the road ground against my temples, and I snapped my head back. "Wasn't that the name of that actor who starred in that soap Aunt Trisha used to love?" It was my brother's turn to shrug now, as the two of us glanced absentmindedly back into the shrubbery gracing the roadside, hurtling along out in front of us. "It just sounded familiar..." I managed to mutter before Danny piped up again; words lacing in tandem as I sped the car up from 30 to 40. With my anxiety, I didn't really want to; but I had to keep up with the movers, and they'd sped up, so I was forced to as well.
"I swear..." His words were cut off by a stifled giggle; never a good sign with Danny. "Rosie wants you and him to get married, or something crazy like that! So she and Tiffany could be like...sisters-in-law or something?" He couldn't choke back laughter now, and I simply rolled my eyes; petulantly staring back out onto the road.
Apart from her cleaning infatuation - notably when she rearranges my room for me when I'm out and she had five minutes to spare from real estate bartering - the only thing about Rosie that ever got under my skin was when she tried setting me up on date's. The son's of her friends she introduced me to never flagged up as potential boyfriend material; mostly because we were beyond incompatible personality wise. They're always brash and bold, with interests I swear Danny would find more attractive than I ever could. It felt snobbish making a comment along the lines of them having no appreciation for ballet; but the one potential conversation starter I possessed typically ended up in flames before I had a chance of making a go at a conversation. Usually my hobby resulted in an oh-so-hilarious comment about men in tights, accompanied by an offhand question about how many trophies I'd won. And even those didn't compare to football game wins apparently. The assumption that I'm going to automatically like them because Rosie's friends are nice is maybe my real problem. Somehow, despite their own likability, Rosie's friends seemed to have produced some of the most annoying son's in the world - and it wasn't like I was a fountain of allure in return for any of them.
Danny's comment was not going to be rewarded with brooding silence.
"Yeah well," I cleared my throat tightly and pouted sharply as our eyes met once more. "Let's hope none of Tiffany's friends have daughters, or you'll be in for some fun, won't you!"
"Shut up!" The tone came out as an outraged growl, and comfortable silence took the place of the former battleground. As childish as I felt later, it made me smug knowing I'd bested Danny in our argument, and had forced him to shut his trap.
Like all siblings, we could forge an argument over who wanted ketchup on their fries, and who wanted mayonnaise; but dating had become a particularly common field - probably because he'd done so much of it, whilst I'd done so little. It wouldn't have stung nearly half as much if he were the elder sibling, but I was, and shame proved to be an effective accelerant whenever we outlined our forces and began taking pot shots. It was beyond embarrassing - not to mention debilitating - when your brother, your junior by four years, could successfully attract people; when all you did was fail miserably. My mood that day hadn't been helped by the sudden drop in temperature that'd forced me to button up my coat so tightly it'd morphed into a corset.
"Why don't you take us on a detour to La Push?" Danny's mood had recovered quicker than I'd anticipated, and his words almost made me jump at the sudden exclamation. For his troubles, he received a look that distinctively questioned his sanity.
"I don't even know the directions..." I began to sigh.
"There's signposts!" My brother insisted, and I bit my lip, uncertainty setting in.
Sure, I figured it'd be fun to venture down to La Push (if I could actually find the place), and I'd always loved the beach; but talking to other beach goers without coming across as socially inept and touristy? Not the best impression to give to any locals mulling about. Still, even with my fingers dutifully drumming away on the steering wheel, it was hard to ignore Danny's wheedling; now he'd found a point to chase.
"Please Charley! It won't take long to drive there, and I promise we'll only stay for ten minutes maximum! Honestly, only ten! Please."
"We're supposed to be getting the keys off the removal men." I groaned, shaking my head as I refused to acknowledge whatever simpering lip quiver he was putting on.
"They can wait!" He insisted, hand flying out to shake at my wrist excitedly. "Please Charlie?"
"Hand off the wrist!" I practically shrieked; all the potential car crash sensory panic taking over, lurching my mind into automatic terror. Dad always told me my road safety skills would've made a driving instructor blush - they were so intensely memorised, and perfectionistically executed. Refusing to break the speed limit at all costs; steadfastly checking I was in the right lane; creating a series of alternative plans if I ever had so much as a sip of alcohol at a party, to prevent me getting behind the wheel - but Danny hadn't inherited such overzealous nervousness. He would continuously harass me about driving down to La Push in his annoyingly distracting manner - grabbing at my shoulders if worse came to worst - and, in a backwards sense, it'd be much safer detouring briefly to the beach than attempting to follow the van whilst my idiot brother attempted to kill us both in the process.
"Fine." Even my hissing tone couldn't get rid of that excited, puppyish grin. "We go to La Push for ten minutes. Happy now?"
"Very!" He smirked - that one never failed to boil my blood, in how it always cropped up when he successfully badgered me into one of his little whims. Smug fucking shit. Sometimes I found it a challenge to cope with my younger brother; even though I told myself that I tried my best.
Sighing slightly - my very own melodramatic form of protest - I turned my eyes towards the approaching sign just off the next turning. I hoped the removal guys weren't going to be too annoyed their employers weak-willed daughter had been talked into providing her little brother a beach tour; but they'd seemed like understanding enough men when I'd exchanged pleasantries with them before we'd departed for the funeral.
They weren't particularly old - late thirties and early forties; diligent and fond of dad's jokes - but not in the fraction of youth that had a humiliating effect on me (the blushing and giggling variety). So unlike one who'd helped us move our belongings out the old house. He'd been nineteen, incredibly good looking - I'd always been a sucker for blackberry wild curls and broad shoulders - and was the son of the removal company's owner, doing some summer work whilst back from college. Eavesdropping had informed me he wouldn't be helping move the belongings into the new place - maybe I'd been a distraction? Wow. Way to smile like a proper twat.
Idiot! I told myself. Who'd ever like you enough to become distracted?