Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognized from the Twilight series.
There I was, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my tiny bedroom. It was dingy, with white walls cluttered with posters and pictures, and a floor covered with mounds of clothes. The crevices of my ancient dresser were bursting with clothing and to its right, various novels and candy wrappers concealed the nightstand. The sad little bed was pushed up against the wall to my left remained covered with numerous blankets, while my worn backpack rested at its end. A few of my many books were shoved under a significantly shorter right bedpost. In the middle of the bedroom sat a pile of empty boxes.
Who knew a few empty boxes could be so intimidating? They just sat there helplessly, waiting to be filled with the contents of my chaotic room within the next few hours.
I could barely make out the drone of my mother's car over my music and I realized that I should really start packing. However, self-motivation has never really been my thing, especially when it was for something I'm completely against.
Talking my mom out of it would be useless. She's been looking forward to this ever since Henry proposed a few months back. He had offered to move down here to Virginia with us, but my mother insisted on moving up there with him. Of course I hated the idea; I would have to find a new job, and go to all those dull dinners my mother would host for all her new friends (don't even mention the wedding that they were planning for this February). To top it off, I would have to transfer schools. If I was in junior high or even a freshman it wouldn't be so bad, but I was a junior. Everyone would already have their little groups of friends and have their next two years planned out. Not that making new friends wasn't hard enough.
The song that was blaring through my speakers was cut short. I looked up from my spot on the floor to see my very annoyed mother glaring at me from her place near my stereo.
"Whitney, why aren't you packed?" she snapped at me, planting her hand on her hip. Her sapphire eyes glared into my emerald ones, daring me to answer with a witty remark. For a moment I sat there unsure of what I should say.
"Because…" I hesitantly trailed off. I quickly averted my eyes to a lonely black sock lying in front of me. I knew not to mess with her when she was this angry because I'd never win. She only seemed to see things her way and everything else was out of the question. It got rather frustrating sometimes, but I learned to live with it.
She let out a frustrated sigh before stomping out of my room, crushing my new headphones in the process. I too let out a sigh, and after discarding my broken headphones and turning back on my stereo, I began to pack.
They say that a person never knows how much junk they have till they move. This realization dawned on me as I scurried around trying to shovel the contents of my room into a few measly boxes. However, I seemed to have thrown away more things than I packed, despite any of my belief of this being impossible.
Within the past few hours I have filled up garbage bag after garbage bag with wrappers, old clothes, receipts, papers and overall, just useless junk. Still, I continued to find more garbage as I dug through the mounds of nonsense under bed.
Well, this is partly due to my mom insisting that I donate all my old clothes to the local thrift store and buy a whole new wardrobe up in Forks. To me, this seems ridiculous. Why should I go buy all new clothes if I am content with the ones I already own? I guess when your husband-to-be is a top surgeon at the local hospital you can afford such luxuries.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining or anything, it's just very out of character for my mother. Since I can remember my mother had always done everything, legal; she could to scrap up the money for the things she wanted.
Take her car for example; last year, she bought herself a brand new car. This was a huge deal for us since we don't make much money; my mother is a hairdresser and I work at the local movie rental place. We had been walking from our tiny apartment to wherever we needed since our only car had bit the dust.
Now, once we get to Forks, my mom will have a brand new Mercedes waiting for her as a birthday present from Henry, and I'll get the one we have now. All those extra hours babysitting the neighbor's kids and knocking on door after door trying to sell over priced make-up products was not worth it just to pass the car to me without a second thought. It will be my first car and statistics say I am more than likely going to total it. I just thought my mother would have cared a little more.
After I was finished taping up my last box, I decided to head downstairs to see if there was any food left in the house or if my mom had thrown it away already. Lazily, I weaved my way through the sea of boxes that cluttered the already skinny hallway and went into the kitchen.
The cabinets were all open and empty, along with the fridge. However, sitting on the counter next to our old microwave, (yes we're throwing that out too,) sat a bag of take-out food. I breathed in its mouth-watering scent before prying open the bag and pulling out a burger. Heaving myself up on the counter top, I munched happily on my burger while swinging my feet back and forth, occasionally hitting the cabinet door.
As I consumed my last bit of burger, my mother strolled in through the only entryway with a coffee in one hand and a set of keys in the other.
"Ready to go? I was hoping to leave by eight," she stated, giving me a small smile as she leaned against the counter next to me. I held up my hand as I chewed as fast as I could, and she took a sip of her coffee before setting it down on the counter next to her.
"I just have to bring my boxes down, then I'm good to go," I answered after I finished chewing and hopped off the counter. She nodded quickly and was about to walk away, but turned towards me and snatched up a chunk of my hair.
"Whitney, when was the last time you got your hair cut? You have horrible split ends," she scowled at me as she examined the ends of my hair. I rolled my eyes before yanking my hair back.
"Mom, it's just hair, jeez. Who cares if I have split ends?" I replied with a sigh, her frown deepened.
"I care, Whitney. Most girls your age spend hours every morning fussing over their hair and you spend no more than two minutes," she stated before turning to grab her coffee and heading out down the hall.
"Well, I think it looks just fine," I said to myself as I studied my own hair.
It was very long, only about a few inches above my waist, unlike my mothers, which she kept hers very short. My cut was quite simple also, with no layers and just some side swept bangs that I cut myself. I always messed them up every time I cut them and my mom insisted that she do them, but I wouldn't let her near my hair again.
Last time she cut my hair, I was 10 and I had asked her for a trim. Instead, she cut it off above my shoulders and tried to convince me to dye it blonde like hers. Ever since then I had refused to cut it so it remains this wavy brunette mop.
With a frown, I popped a piece of gum into my mouth and decided to head up stairs to bring down my boxes.