Chapter 1
The coolness of the Washington air was almost unbearably different in comparison to my old home, which laid in the northern part of Nevada. There was no endless desert to stare at, no prickled plants to grasp deeply into your skin. Instead, there were strong exotic trees that stood strong against the sky.
My mother had not been able to afford a plane and had somehow managed to not get lost as she drove the eight-hundred mile journey by herself. Her car was sensible, an electric blue sedan.
I had been standing outside my Aunt Tabitha's house, waiting for her to pick me up. My bags were placed clumsily by my side. There had been no statements of goodbye for they cared not of my leaving; in favor of mourning their lost brother and ignoring my existence.
Tracy Zimmerman looked nothing like me. When I first saw her - the idea of her being my mother barely even crossed my mind. For while I was dark, she was light. Sure, my skin was as pale as the moon. My hair was dark, as black as ink, and my eyes were a striking midnight blue, like the night sky itself.
Her ears were pierced - heavily, but on the main lobe, the earring was long and feathered - blue. Much like her car. That was one thing that struck out. Our seemingly shared love for the color.
"Are you Lemini?" She had said, pulling her sedan to the side of my Aunt's house, tilted her glasses down to glance over at me.
I had nodded so carefully, unable to speak as I took in the image of the woman who I had heard little to nothing about.
"Well. Get in!" She said and gave a little beep to the horn. She seemed to laugh a lot and I struggled to open the backdoor and heave my few bags in. Most of the bags contained CDs. I absolutely adored music, although I had yet to master any instrument. We had never been able to afford lessons or even buy one so that I could teach myself.
As we drove out of the state Nevada, she kept looking at me, expecting to say more than I already hadn't.
"Not a speaker?"
"Your father was just like you. Always so quiet and broody. I'm sure there's a wild side to you yet. After all, you have my blood in you. We just have to awaken it somehow."
I looked at her and looked back down, saying nothing.
She sighed and stopped the car in the middle of the road. There was no one on it except for us. Perhaps for hours? Who knew really.
She wagged her finger.
"I can't deal with this for four years, hon. I'm an outgoing woman. I can't have some boring kid weighing me down." She tilted her head down at me and glanced over my clothes: a boring hoodie, skinny jeans, and some nice vans. Underneath the hoodie, which was navy blue, was a lighter blue colored t-shirt. There was no graphic design on that either. I was overall very boring to look at and I preferred to keep it that way.
Tracy, on the other hand, had other plans.
"Have you ever had alcohol? Pot? Sex?"
She asked each question with a sort of knowing smile.
I shook my head.
"Was your dad strict? He seems like he'd be a strict dad?"
For once, I spoke.
I tried not to think about my dad ever since-
"Define strict?" I murmured softly.
"You know - no boyfriends, no staying up past nine. That sort of thing."
"Oh. No."
"No?"
"Hmm. So you're just boring on your own then."
I gave a short, somewhat hurt nod.
"Sad." She complained. "Of all the kids I could've kept. I kept a boring one."
"Kept?"
"They say third time's a charm. So I figured there was some truth to getting pregnant for the third time in '00. This whole 'good kid' thing. Yeah, not gonna fly. At Mama's house - You can do whatever the hell you want. I encourage it. We're meant to live while we're young and not restricted to society. It's a waste of life to be as boring as you."
"Dad always said to keep my head down."
"Well your dad killed himself, so. Best not to do that."
I flinched and my voice rose before I could stop it. "Shut up." I barked. "You might be my mother but you have no right to talk about him like that."
"Interesting. A personality?"
I let my eyes fall. "Only sometimes."
The ride went on rather silently. Tracy had turned on some generic pop music. Which was fine. Just - generic. There was nothing wrong with liking Britney Spears, if you could admit - that she was hardly an artist, as much as she was a singer (and even then - that was debatable).
It wasn't long before I was forced to stare at a dingy old house. Moss seemed to grow on the sides and it was clearly too late for a power washing - I doubt that the moldy green color could be done over with paint.
"It isn't much I'll admit. After I ran away from my own mom, I went to live with my grandma and she gave me her house. She was a wild spirit, much like me, and much like what you'll become."
The Sedan rolled into the dirt-covered driveway. The yard hadn't been cut in perhaps years. I noticed for the first time that Tracy hadn't even strapped a seatbelt on. It was a wonder she was even alive. I hesitantly unbuckled my seatbelt.
The door to the house swung open and a disheveled looking man came out. He had no shirt and his chest was covered in thick brown hair. His moustache was almost menacing and I could smell the alcohol hair.
"Trace!" He grinned, holding a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He looked over at me as she ran forward holding him close. Automatically, I judged her taste in men. I felt bad at the same time - no matter his appearance, he could be a friendly dude and here I was judging him. Quickly, I felt ashamed. But judging how Tracy was in general; I somewhat doubted it.
"Is this the little termite?" He said, squinting at me as Tracy seemed to wrap herself into his arms.
"Yep."
"She doesn't look like much."
Tracy shrugged. "She'll change."
"Come on in - I'll show you your room." He seemed to let out a small chuckle at that.
I gathered my bags from the back as all three of us walked into the house. It smelled of - not good things. Cigarettes, alcohol, something else. I had no idea. It was so unlike any home I had ever smelled before.
My old home had smelled of clean linen and citrus.
I quickly noticed the sheer amount of stuff that lined the home. Not yet a crazy amount, but it could absolutely become that way. Sort of like a pre-episode of Hoarders.
"That's where you'll be sleeping." The man said as he flicked his cigarette onto the floor, blowing smoke inside the house, the death stick was pointed at a shabby old couch, covered in mysterious stains, no doubt soaked by things I didn't quite want to think about.
And for the first time since my dad died,
I wanted to cry.