I do not own anything.
"Sarah, get your ass out of bed," Dad shouted up the stairs to me, "Or we'll be leaving you behind!"
Today is the day. Moving day, a word I despise, since I do not like moving at all. I wonder who actually does. That is besides Dad, the nomad. If Mom had stayed with us, maybe she could have helped me convince him not to move, because she was always able to convince him. But, Mom is gone, I told myself, she left us and she is not coming back. I forced myself to stand up, stretching out in my oversized shirt, sporting a black and white picture of my favorite band, The Police. I knew my father would actually leave me behind, because that is the type of person he is, but he is also the type to always come back. Earlier in life, when I was young and we were a family, Dad, Mom and my brother Matt, Dad would leave, whether it was for his job or just to be away from us, he would always come back.
But I try not to dawdle in the past; I try to think of the future, like the one where I'm living in Tulsa, Oklahoma, my Dad's hometown. Living in Montreal, Canada practically my whole life, this is quite a big jump for me. A completely different place from the one I'm in now. When I asked why we were going, he told me about Grandma. I never heard of her until yesterday. Grandma is his mother and she was on her deathbed now, she left her house to our family and a small amount of money. So Dad got it in his head: Oh why don't we drop everything, pack our bags and start a new life in America? I felt like an immigrant, technically I am, but the ones who look like beggars on the streets and coming to North America for a new life.
"Didja hear me, kiddo?" I quickly snapped out of my cloud of thoughts and pulled on a oversized sweatshirt and leggings. Tying my auburn hair up and high, sleek ponytail and checked my makeup. I rushed downstairs, hoping to be too late. My father stood at the entrance, with my brother Matt at his side. My brother and my father do not look a thing alike. Matt, who is about a year older than me, wore his hair in the ever-so popular mullet; it is the colour of coal, black and dull. His eyes are brilliant blue, which he inherited from my mother and shone so brightly it seems. Dad, on the other hand, kept his hair somewhat short and is redder like mine, and we have the same eyes, stormy grey. The only thing they have in common is their height (Matt is approaching Dad's six foot one) and sense of humor. I am not as tall, but I do have somewhat of a sense of humor, but I tend to be a bit sarcastic more than anything.
Another thing about my brother and my father is their sense of humor, like I said a second ago. They can be pretty funny, and well my father named Matt, Matthew. Okay, you might be thinking, that's an ordinary name, what is so wrong with it? Well what is wrong is that our surname is Mathews. Matthew Mathews does not go well together, does it? My parents had an agreement, Mom named the girls and Dad named the boys, but vice-versa for the middle names. I guess she regretted that agreement, because when she lived with us, she would call Matt by his middle name, Philippe. Anyway, they, my father and brother, like to play a lot of jokes on me, sometimes they can carry it a bit too far. Like the time Matt 'accidently' put an elastic band around the sprayer at the sink. Dripping wet, I chased him down the street, I could have kept going until we reached the border, but he tripped over and sprained his wrist at the time. Dad is more of comedian than a prankster, so I tend to enjoy his humor more.
My father put his roughened hands on my shoulder and squeezed it. "Don't worry, you'll make new friends." He smiled and led me to our old '74 Camaro, a blue rust-bucket with a terrible need for a paint job. On the bumper is the sticker 'Shit Happens', Dad claims he started the whole rage, but then again he claims a lot of things.
"Goodbye, Montreal." I moaned, listening to the old thing roar into life, "Goodbye life I had."
"You had a life?" Matt chimed in and I shot him a patronizing glower. He threw his hands up. "Can't a guy be honest?"
"Oh yeah, because you are a really honest guy." I replied, in my typical sarcastic tone. Rolling my eyes, I looked outside, watching the houses go by. We passed by a game of street hockey and I saw Marc Delacroix, one of my best guy-friends. I ordered Dad to stop so I could say goodbye.
"So you're off now." He said quietly. "Well Goodbye I guess."
We hugged and I passed him a note containing my next address, so we could write to each other. Marc has been my best friend since Kindergarten, but we were always 'just friends', nothing romantic between us, and there never will be. I climbed back into the car, blinking away some tears. It is hard to leave so many friends behind. I wish that I could bring them with me.
"Sarah," Dad began, but I interrupted. "No, Dad, I don't want to hear."
Matt smirked. "Someone's a little touchy now."
"No shit, Sherlock." I grumbled, wiping my eyes. I expected Matt's usual 'Fuck off Watson', but it never came. At least sometimes he knows when to stop. But only sometimes, I said. I think it is way easier on him, since he has barely any, if not none, friends, but me on the other hand my tight posse of girls and guys I loved and really cared about. After a few minutes, my father spoke up, he started lecturing on how 'he knows what it is like to lose friends,' before he continued I stopped him again.
"You don't know wouldn't its like, Dad." I told him, burying my face in my arms, "You never had to move before."
Good, bad? Tell me.