If moving to another city sounds bad, imagine moving to another country. Airports are best to be avoided, but are better to be in with a friend. That way, you can be nervous together, find your bags, together, if something's lost, you can report it…together. If you look horrible from the plane ride, your friend will tell you and you can go to get better…together.
Unfortunately, I have no such luck. I am standing in an airport, alone, with only my backpack, without my other bags, and knowing for a fact I probably look shit. I sigh and, forcing myself to forget my appearance for a while, go to look for my bags. I don't exactly know where to go, but I follow the family I sat behind on the plane.
Soon enough, I stand by the conveyor belt, staring as suitcases come up. I see two of my three bags, wait until they come to me, and then reach over and grab them. Then, a few seconds later, my other one comes towards me. I grab it to, and loading myself with them, finally head for the bathroom.
As I guessed, I look horrible. Well, more so than usual. I sigh.
My dark brown hair is slightly tangled, and the aquamarine streaks that were once my bangs are interwoven to be hidden and look green. The piercing in my lip and nose could be a little shinier. Could my eyeliner be any more…faded?
Rolling my eyes, I reach into one of my bags and pull out a hair brush and small make-up bag. Taking a black pencil out of the make-up bag, I re-outline my dark brown eyes with it. Then I grab the hairbrush and quickly run it through the hair I hate so much.
Smirking, I repack my small bags and stare at my reflection. My pale skin, is well, pale but clear. The guys back home had called me curvy, not that I didn't notice that myself. My black T-shirt with a slightly naked (ok completely naked) mermaid surrounding a very horny looking diver, covered everything except the netting on my arms that ran down to stop and flare just a little below my wrist. My black pants were tight around my hips (low too) and baggy around the legs. I smile and reload my shoulders with my three bags and backpack. Then I proceed to walk out of the bathroom.
Once back into the mid-hall thing of the airport, I look around. Kids my age and younger were streaming around, looking for relatives. Not me. I was standing there, until I saw a sign that had 'Corazon'—I wince—'Dremel' on it. I sigh again for about the eighth time since I've stepped off the plane and start towards the woman holding it above her head.
What surprises me is that the woman's not alone. She has a guy, my age or a little older, standing next to her. A very…good-looking guy, at that. Even if you were gay, which I know a lot of gay people, this guy would make you wish you were at least bi. He had short black hair, spiked up, with crayola red tips. He smirked as he saw me, the spike sticking out of his chin and the ring through his lip glimmering in the light.
She, the woman, smiles. "You must be Corazon. I'm Kimberly Scotts and this is my son…"
"Ciar, but most people just call me Jay, it's a lot easier to remember and say," he said in a low voice, obviously past the beginning of puberty, with a smirk on his face.
I don't smile back, "I'm, well…you already know, obviously. Just call me Cor, my mom was on drugs when she named me that."
Jay frowns slightly and glances at his mother. She ignores my way of talking and raises an eyebrow at my clothing.
"Nice way of dressing…" she says, looking amused.
"You got a problem with it?" I ask, looking at her warily.
"No, I don't. I could careless how someone dresses, as long as they do dress. I'm used to it anyway, obviously." She nods pointedly at her son, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
He just rolls his eyes and pulls his headphones back up over his ears. I hadn't noticed them around his neck. I smile a little, thinking that this family might actually work. Then I wonder how long I'll be here. The woman, Mrs. Scotts, seems to read my mind.
"You're papers show you've been around a lot. You not like your family, or your family not like you?"
I stare at her for a moment, and she nudges her son who takes two of my bags from me without speaking. Then he turns and starts to walk out, his mother following. I follow along too, thinking over what she'd asked.
When we are finally in the car, me in front, Jay in back, I sigh. "They didn't like me. And I don't really get along with people, so I didn't like them."
Jay's music must not be as loud as I think, for he smirks at my comment.
She nods and glances at me, and then away quickly. "I see…have you any idea why?"
Yes! My mind screams. "No idea why I don't like people, or why they didn't like me?"
"Both…"
"I don't like people for they seem to only judge. They didn't like me, because…" I pause, then sigh. Looking out the window, I say "Most just said I was too hard to take care of."
"Are you lesbian? Is that what you mean by people judging?" she asks softly.
"Lesbian? Me? No, not at all. My friend was gay, and he got beat to death, but I'm not. I prefer undressing guys with my eyes, not girls."
Again, Jay must be listening, for he starts to snicker.
"Ah, well, I'm sure you'll like it here."
I smile a little, she must be used to being around teenagers who were blunt. Most of the other homes, ok all, would have booted me out for just saying that. Some for even having a gay friend, once.
-
I follow behind Mrs. Scotts as she gives me a tour of the huge house. Did I say house? I mean castle. I could swear it came right out of one of the millions of history books I've had.
"This is your room," she states, leading me into a room somewhere upstairs.
I look around. The room, like the house, is huge. It is easily the size of some of the homes I have stayed it. It was cozy, in the sense that the furniture was arranged like a designer's house. "Um…" I start, not knowing what to say. I have to be polite, but the truth is I loathe the way it's so…perfect.
She saves me. "You can do whatever you want with it, I'm sure Jay will help you find darker colours." She starts to walk out. "Dinner's in an hour, try and get comfortable." With that she's gone.
I walk over to the massive, queen-size bed and bounce onto it. I cross my arms and sigh. There's nowhere to play music. Almost, as if on cue, I see a huge stereo system against the wall. A grin appears on my face and I hurriedly unpack one of my bags, the one I know has CDs. I put in one by Simple Plan and turn the volume and bass up. I grin again. The house is so big that I'm on the other end, no one will hear my music. Good.
I look around again, and then at my bags. I have so much work to do, and only an hour in which to do it. Or, at least, that's what I'm guessing. Sighing, I begin to unpack, muttering to myself, "I wonder how long this will last." I blink. "Ok, since when do I start talking to myself?" Since you haven't had a friend for about five years, comes that annoying voice everyone experiences once in a while.
I give it a month, I think, answering my first question.
I have practically lived in every country there is. I was born in Spain, my mother didn't want me and my father didn't know I exist, so they put me in a home. I was then I was soon adopted into a small family there. I lived there for maybe a month, and was sent back to the home. For behavior. In truth, I suspect they didn't want me either. Anyway, I was then sent to England, to live with this rich bunch of aristocrats. I was sent back in forth between that family for maybe a year before social services found out. I was sent to an orphanage. This family in France adopted me and I lived there for maybe a year. Next to Mexico. Then to Alaska. Then back to Spain. Italy. Egypt. Ireland. Scotland. Germany. Back to Spain again. Then New Zealand…
Something happened in New Zealand, something I force myself never to think about. Anyway, I was sent to Haiti. God I hated Haiti, so I did what always got me to move, being blunt and crude, and so I was finally here. Toronto, Canada.
I sigh again and sing along to my music. I'm well-practiced at not thinking about anything in particular, so I don't. I just, pack and sing.
An hour isn't really a long time, though some people I know think so. I loose track of time. Suddenly I hear chimes going off. Glancing up at the clock in my room, I gasp, and run out the door. I was going to be late for dinner.
Make that a week.