Chapter Two: Good Old Teenage Angst
"Brittany and I have been talking, and well… We're thinking about moving, Kendra."
I raised an eyebrow. "Moving? To where?" I tried to remain calm, although his tone of voice suggested that this was going to be much more than just a little move across town.
He massaged his temples, fingers moving in rhythmic circles over the foreshadowing of wrinkles that would one day be prominent on his brow. "As in moving back to the United States. We've been in Scotland for a long time, and there really isn't much here for either Brittany or I. Now the decision isn't finalized, but-"
"Dad, how could you even think about something like that?!" My mouth, which had been unable to do anything but hang open in horror for a moment, had sprung into action. "Scotland is our home! We can't leave this house, this is mom's house!" The instant I thought about my mother, tears began to pool behind my eyes.
"Kendra, neither you, nor I, nor Brittany are even Scottish citizens. Our families still live in America. True, your mother loved it down here. But she's gone now, and we need to move on."
I stared at him dumbfounded, wondering how one man could be so heartless. The tears were threatening to escape from my eyes now, so I turned in frustration and booked it up the stairs as fast as I could, not even turning my head when I shouted, "You obviously don't understand!" My voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, which was not exactly the effect I was going for. I could hear my dad starting to follow me, but then he must have thought better of it because the footsteps ceased about a quarter of the way up the stairs.
I slammed the door to my room as hard as I could, just for that lovely, angst-ridden teen effect. After flopping down violently on my bed, I buried my head under my arms and the pillow, and remained deathly quiet for a minute. I almost felt bad for being so dramatic, but there was a hopeful piece of me that prayed my father would change his mind if he saw how effected I was by his little idea. Brittany had apparently joined my father at the bottom of the stairs. I could hear her voice gently scolding him for picking such a bad time to bring this up to me. I felt a swell of affection for the woman; she was always looking out for my wellbeing. But then I remembered that she wanted to move as much as (or maybe even more than) my dad did, and the affection was replaced with a smoldering wave of anger.
When I turned six years old and my father and I were still living with my real mom, not Brittany, my mom had inherited her parents' old house in Scotland. She had lived in Scotland all her life, but had gone to the United States to study psychology. She and my father had met there, and my mom remained in the U.S. with him after their marriage. She must have missed Scotland a whole lot, because she jumped at the chance to move back upon inheriting the house. I grew to love Scotland as much as she did, which was no surprise. We had always been very close and shared a lot of the same thoughts and opinions. But my father had never been quite as happy; the U.S. was his home after all, and he probably missed it just as much as my mother had missed Scotland.
And the fact that Brittany was also an American citizen didn't help anything. After her first husband left her and Ashleigh stranded in their apartment in California, with no job, no money, and no way to pay for clothing, rent, or food, Britt's sister had invited her to come and live in Scotland with her. Brittany would be expected to make an attempt at getting a job, but all the while in the comfort of a cozy little town house without the constant thread of being thrown out into the streets. Her attempts resulted in meeting my father, who had been single for over two years. The two must have really hit it off, although I really never understood their connection myself, because after dating for several years they were married.
Reviewing the facts in my head didn't help like I had hoped it would. On the contrary, it made me feel even worse. I was living with two people who loved America and wanted to move back there, and if they decided to do so, I had no choice but to go with them. I cursed under my breath as I rolled over on my back to stare at patterns on my ceiling. Suddenly there was a knock on my door. I mentally berated myself for not paying attention to my surroundings, a.k.a. being so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I didn't hear my father's clomping footsteps coming down the hall.
"Kendra? Come on, get out of there. There's no need to be so bloody dramatic." He was clearly embarrassed that I had challenged his authority in front of Britt.
I remained silent and still, except for when I made a few obscene hand gestures at him from behind the safety of my bedroom door. He made a huffing noise and I could hear him muttering to himself under his breath. My father hated it when I gave him the silent treatment. I had to choke back a laugh, which took me completely by surprise because I wasn't really expecting to laugh in light of the recent events.
"I never even said we were moving for sure yet. It's just something we have to think about, OK?"
I ignored him again, carefully examining the fingernails on my right hand with false interest.
"Your mother would have wanted us to be happy, you know. She-"
"Well maybe I wouldn't be happy if we moved!" I shouted in disgust, my patience finally lost.
My father threw his hands in the air. "Well I was going to ask you if you'd like to help us look at houses. I figured you were of the right age to have a say in the matter, but I was wrong. You aren't mature at all." He stormed down the hall, and I could picture what he looked like perfectly, hunched shoulders, furrowed brow, arms swinging aggressively, fuming. While I was more like my mom than my father, I had inherited his temper and his tendency to call people names when I was furious. We don't fight often, but when we do it isn't a pretty sight.
I lay there on my bed, anger washing through my body in waves. I considered doing my homework, but that would have involved me going downstairs and walking past my so-called family to get my backpack, so I scratched the idea. Let my teachers get mad and give me a bad grade, who cares? I was in no state to do schoolwork anyhow.
I sat there for what must have been hours, but the time flew by. At nine o'clock I could hear Ashleigh being sent to bed; then my parents followed at eleven. I had turned off my lights at ten thirty, to make it appear as though I too had gone to sleep. Apparently it had fooled Brittany and my father, for they walked by my room without a word. But I was still awake, laying in the dark with my eyes wide open, realizing vaguely how creepy I was being at the time. When the clock struck midnight, I still had no desire to let slumber take over. I decided that I needed to go on a brisk walk outside, and I knew just the place I needed to visit.
So blatantly ignoring the current curfew, I rose and donned a baggy black sweatshirt. I picked up my sneakers in my arms and walked swiftly but quietly down the hall, walking on bare toes in an attempt to make less noise. Once I reached the front door I hesitated, considering for a moment the massive amount of trouble I would get in if I was caught by my parents –or worse, the police– wandering around town at night. I let the thoughts sift through my mind like a wine taster swishes drink around in the mouth, then pushed them to the back of my thoughts, refusing to think about it any longer. Letting my defiant heart lead my head, common sense pushed aside to the copilot's seat, I slipped on my sneakers and slid out the door in one quick, fluid motion. The night air enveloped me, embracing my presence as much as I embraced it. Hoping my father hadn't heard the door close, I broke off into a trot down the street. It was time for me to pay a little visit to my mother's grave.
