I grew up in a small town in northern California. It was a place where you said hi to your neighbors whenever you passed them and most likely everyone that you saw in the supermarket knows your names and your business. The town was peaceful, quiet, and had nothing to do with the outside world unless you count watching the news. I was supposedly one of the very few children born and living in the town which consequently meant I was in homeschooling because high schools were nowhere near to the area. The only available jobs in the area included owning small stores, being the cashier in the only gas station in town, or what my father did for a living, working in the military base.
The military base was probably the one job you could get enough cash for a family with a housewife and three children without struggle. My siblings, Ginger and Ethan, were seven-year twins and constantly followed me around. I couldn't blame them for following me, since I was the only kid in a hundred mile radius of them. I don't think I should be qualified as a child though, since I'm a full on fifteen year old girl but seeing there were only people with sixty years and up in the area, I was casted down as a preschooler.
I was a little taken aback because Harrison had a population of only around five hundred people but I like it here. All I did know of the outside world is of stuff off of TV and what's written in my collection of books. My mother says I shouldn't obsess over crap like The Secret Life of an American Teenager and I should definitely not take advice off of anything from my romance novels. My life consists of love, even if it's just from movies and my novels.
"Ella, can you get the cinnamon off the shelf?" my mother asked me. My eyes remained downwards, trying to read while walking to the kitchen cupboard and searching the insides. I grabbed the familiar bottle and put it on the counter.
I went back to my seat and flipped to the next page. My mother wandered to where I put the glass container and I heard her chuckle, "How did you grab this without looking?"
"It's always in the same place and it's always in the same bottle," I said, tucking a strand of my stubborn brunette curls behind my ear. I heard a crash and my eyes looked upwards to see my mother gasping, looking downwards.
"Oh, sh--" I coughed before my mother could continue her curse and she looked at me with questioning eyes as she followed my pointing figure to the twins sitting at the dining table, looking curious. She straightened her skirt and sighed, angrily, "shoot."
"Nice save, Mom," I told her, hiding a smile behind my hand.
She glared at me and cracked a smile, "Sweetie, can you go the supermarket, quickly and get a new bottle of cinnamon?"
I frowned and looked at my book, "But..."
She chuckled, understanding my lowering eyes, "It will still be there when you come back, I promise. Just hurry to the store."
She carefully climbed over the broken glass and to the cat shaped cookie jar. She took a ten dollar bill from inside and tucked it into my palm. I sighed, disappointed and tucked the ear of the page before closing my book. She smiled and went to the hallway closet to get a broom.
"Can I go with Ella?" Ginger asked and grabbed my palm, grinning like a little devil and trying to steal the money from my grasp. I kept hold and rolled my eyes down at her.
"If Ginger goes, I wanna go too!" Ethan said, excitedly and innocently grabbed my other hand.
"No, she'll be right back," patiently my mother went back to mess and I heard the small tings of glass moving around as she swayed the broom side to side, cautious of not making any bigger of a mess.
Ethan and Ginger, both disappointed, began to drag their feet back to the dining room table to finish the studies they were doing previously. I turned around and hurried out the door, hoping not to be stalled any further so I could relax and continue my readings. I climbed onto my bike and hurried down the street.
The street was long and curved, making it a difficult trail for a rookie bicyclist. Luckily, I've been going up and down this street for all ten years I've been riding. My mother always thought I was born in the wrong body, saying I should have been a boy since I spend most of my time imitating my father and following him around like a duckling after its mother. As if to make sure of my gender, my mother stuck me in front of a TV and we watched romances together every Sunday and soon it became twice a week to three times until it was every day of the week. As soon as I could read, my mother gave me a romance and I couldn't stop reading. Of course, all these teachings in romance came back and bit my mother in the butt.