Chapter 1
Home.
What a pitiful and naïve word. To me, there was no place nor being you could call home. It was just a mere residence you would keep until it was time to move on, abscond from when you decided was right. That was why, when I chose to depart from college life and visit my dad for the summer, I didn't think much of it. We didn't have much in common. He was an upbeat, joyous soul who got lost in the flow of a decent melody. I, however, was sullen, rude and normally too stoned to even take note on anything, resulting to me having no interests or hobby's. Even despite those differences, though, we still shared the same wave length on the meaning of what people call a home. Oliver Jason Goode was an infamous musician, traveling all over the vast states of America to teach middle school pupils their music lessons. So he, like me, never stationed himself in one place for more than a few months. I think the nomadic life we traveled gave us some sort of adventure, somewhere else to head too when we were bored of the current abode we were occupying.
As I drove my beat up, murky orange ford I won when I was high one night to the side of the road my dad had informed me he was living at, I studied number 17. It was a tall, narrow building, random window shutters jutting out from various places. It was unpainted, instead the burgundy bricks plainly visible. Identical houses lined either side of it, each roof joining lower and lower as they spread further down the hill. It wasn't stunning, though it was better than the grotty flats and abominable shacks my dad had rented when I he had taken care of me and Amber until we were both old enough to depart from him.
"Ismay!" He bellowed suddenly as I was ducking out of the car. He launched down the steps, his baggy cut-offs and long, loose hair making him look younger than he was. He had a wiry frame, which had been passed down to me, though he was tall, at least 6 foot, where as I was small. People would call me petite, but I wasn't. That word irritated me, because it was covering the truth. You might as well say it like it is, other wise there's no reason to say it at all. That was another thing that distinguished me and my father apart: I was far blunter than he had ever been. He came up to me, squeezing my shoulder as he gave me a once over. "Whoa, you've grown so much (to which I rolled my eyes at, he of all people should know I haven't). And you've cut your hair?" That was true. My hair used to tumble past my shoulders, but it had recently been ruffly cut, some strands slightly longer than others, just reaching the middle of my neck. It was the same color and side parting to what it had always been though; a dirty blonde my sister used to envy me for.
"Hey, dad." I greeted, smiling weakly. I was not one for conversation, keeping it as minimal as possible.
"Well, let me take your bag and I'll show you your room." He smiled, clicking open my boot and hauling my battered duffel bag over his shoulder. I followed him to the front door, then through it. The hall was small and pretty bare, only sporting a small guitar case and a land line phone balancing upon a small shoe box. He led me up the compressed stairway, leading to another bald landing where two identical doors sat side by side. He pushed one open, which revealed a small box sized room, a single bed with brown covers stuffed in the corner, the set of drawers lined with the head of it. "I'll leave you to it." He dumped my bag on the edge of the bed, where it swayed for a second before tipping off towards the floor. I shut the door behind him, picking the bag up and selecting a few items from it; my hairbrush, toothbrush and make up, scattering them upon the top of the mahogany wood before stuffing the other contents into the top drawer, throwing the empty sack in the shadowed corner of the room. I looked around and perched myself on the bed, wondering why I bothered to come. I had guaranteed party's in Newport, and I had started to learn where all the goods ones where held. Here, it seemed like a ghost town, not to mention the unsettling gray blanket that covered us. Rain was inevitable. I sighed, heading down towards the kitchen. I peeked into the living room as I passed. It was cluttered with instruments of all sorts. A piano stood in the corner, guitar after guitar lined up next to it. Flutes and trumpets rested against the wall facing me, leading up to a full drum kit. My dad was huddled on the sofa under the window, a keyboard rested on his lap. The only source of entertainment that didn't involve loud noises and crashing symbols was the T.V hooked high on the far wall, and the screen was flashing some sitcom, though the sound was muted. The kitchen wasn't big enough to swing a cat in, all four walls lined with counters, each one covered in pizza boxes or Chinese takeouts. Then I came across the device which I was seeking, a small coffee maker. I swiped up a mug as I passed the draining board, not bothering to inspect if it was actually clean or not, and shoved it under, setting the machine to the correct setting. I hauled the small, battered back door open, it's rusty hinges screeching as I did, and stepped onto the cramped patio, no grass visible. There was a wooden bench decorating the corner, and ash tray wobbling on one end. I pulled my tobacco from my jacket pocket, encasing it in a wrizzler, before lighting it and popping it into my mouth. It was only when I had took my first drag, holding my breath before puffing the smoke from my mouth, did a see the figure watching me. He was holding a washing basket, half full with wet laundry, and was shirtless, wearing a pair of jeans, torn at the knees. His biceps rippled as he bent down and placed the blue basket on the floor, before pacing towards the fence. His hair was cropped, sticking up bedhead style.
"Hey," he said as I let another horde of smoke escape from my lips, clouding my vision for just a second. I furrowed my eyes brows at him as if to say 'do you really think I'm going to talk to you'. He made no attempt to move away from the me, so, even though I must have had at least a few more drags left, I flicked my roll up into the ashtray, turning around to head inside. I escaped quick enough to avoid any questions, though too slow not to hear his name. Seth. As I entered the kitchen, the coffee was steaming, and I smiled, guzzling down the boiling liquid.