California Girls |The Outsiders|

Prologue

    Even as a child I was aware of my fathers "alternative" lifestyle. Of course I would take notice of the differences between my friend's houses and family lives compared to mine. It wasn't until I had been called a hippie by my now ex-friend Melissa Marie that I was able to put a word to it. Especially as a child, I was pitied for my lack of a mother figure, though I never saw why. I had never even met my mother and thus didn't see a need for one in my life. And though if I didn't have an actual mom, that wasn't to say I didn't have a motherly figure as a child.
    My father first met my mother at a school dance as a sophomore; she was a senior. She had apparently first been drawn to him, according to my father, because of his "gentle ways." She and my dad had me when my dad was 17 and she was 20. Unwilling to be burdened with a child, especially that of a poor man's, she left him and moved south to Texas with family.  My father, unable to hold an ounce of scorn on his heart, gladly smothered me with all the motherly and fatherly love he could shower me with.
    He would provide a small, though steady income for us from a florist job he had downtown. He would read me bedtime stories, brush and braid my hair, bake me warm bread during the cold seasons and mix me cold lemonade in the hot ones, and he had even taken it upon himself to teach me about my health and anatomy, because the schools weren't "doing it right." He didn't agree with the way they talked of the female body in schools ;as if it's something to be ashamed of. He bought me my first training bra, comforted me during my first period-supplying me with all the "necessities," which to him was loose pants and a lot of chocolate- and when he thought of me as old enough, he assured me that if I were to ever become pregnant he would support me the whole journey. Upon his parents finding out he had gotten a woman pregnant, and had decided to keep the baby, he was kicked out and couch surfed his friends place's for about two years until he collected enough money for his own trailer home.
   Of course, my father was not without faults. He would get high from time to time on cannabis with a few of his other friends, usually resulting in me not being able to sleep due to their almost hyena-like laughter. He was also very into politics, and would get worked up routinely over things he couldn't possibly control. When integration laws had been passed during my early youth, he had rejoiced. However, he lost several connections and friends upon this due to his open support and willingness to fight people over the issue. He tried his best not to burden me with political strife and it wasn't until I would ask him what was wrong that he would give me a vague excuse for his stressed behavior. However, he was adamant on me forming my own opinions at a very young age and had bought me several "controversial" books. Several books on American government and my rights as a citizen( I could recite the bill of rights by the age of seven), feminist manifestos, The Origin of species, and, despite the judgment of others, The Communist Manifesto.
    I don't consider myself a communist, nor an activist, but it's safe to say the books my father bought and explained to me affected my worldview from a very young age.
   I've lived in California for 15 years now- turning 16 tomorrow. I don't expect my father to buy me anything, though I had asked for the new book "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee. It came out only 5 years ago and due to my school's lack of sufficient funds, still hadn't been supplied to our academic library. What I do expect, though, is a nice, warm loaf of French bread. My father makes me a loaf for my birthday every year, as a tradition. When I was 6, we didn't have the money for cake or cake ingredients, so he used what he had at home and baked me bread. Apparently I liked it so much I asked for it the next year, and so on.
   Now, our trailer grew dark, the sweet melody of wind chimes lulled me to a light, peaceful sleep in my pile of blankets. And as I felt myself losing all coherent thought, I could've sworn I smelled the familiar rising of yeast from the kitchen.
                                           •••

    Scratchy fur rubbed softly against my cheek, accompanied with a low, rumbling purr. I turned over hesitantly, careful not to push Boris off the pile of quilts surrounding me.
    "Hi, beautiful." I cooed to him. He nudged his nose against my chest and I lifted my blanket up so he could burrow himself against me. Though his fur was dry and uncomfortable, the purrs he let out felt like a wave through my heart, like sea water softly lapping on a rock.
    My father walked in right as Boris fell asleep, unsurprisingly with a fresh loaf of bread in his hands. It was still in the pan.
    "Hi sweetheart," he whispered upon seeing my shushing motion I made while showing him the cat laying itself deeply in the crook of my neck, however, the creek of the door had alerted him and he shot up, quick to trot over to my dad's legs, clad with a loosed pair of soft, patched pants. He smiled smugly, celebrating the cat's favoritism, before settling himself on the floor in front of me. He crossed his legs, the cat crawled in. Damn cat.
    He placed the pan of bread on my cocoon before kissing my forehead. His stubble tickled my face. "Happy Birthday kid. How old are you now, 12?"
    "16."
    He feigned surprise, dropping his jaw and gripping his chest before falling forwards on the blankets. I laughed and pushed his head back up. He was squishing Boris inside his lap. He laughed with me, a satisfied look crossing his face. He always was proud when he was able to make me laugh, considering how "monotonous"(according to him) I was. He reached up and brushed my hair out of my face. "You need to stop growing," he laughed. "You're gonna kill me."
    I rolled my eyes jokingly and leaned forward from the blankets to lean on him. He enveloped me in a tight, warm bear hug and squeezed me before Boris growled at him to sit back up.
    When he returned to his previous position, I saw a familiar look cross his face: worry. A known expression to all daughters of single, young parents. Or at least I would assume. His eyes pleaded a soft question and his shoulders were strained. It reminded me of the look I was given on my first day of school, as I left him at the gate.
    "What?" I asked dryly.
    "Kiddo..." he started, apparently unable to place the rest of his thoughts into a sentence. I nodded for him to continue, and he said "we're moving."
    "What??"
    "I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I lost my job on the strip and a buddy of mine has a job open for me down in Oklahoma-"
    "Oklahoma? Dad that's like four states down! There's no other jobs open here?" I attempted to keep my voice calm, but from the heavy valley accent that fell out from my lips he could tell I was worked up. I've picked up the accent from numerous women throughout my childhood, and it only got heavier with my stress.
    He shook his head. "I've applied to several jobs, but none of them would be as stable as the one down there. Plus, with this job, I could send you to a better school- we could live in an actual house!" He sighed and dropped his shoulders. "I know it's a lot ,honey, but I promise I'll do everything I can to make the transition comfortable for you." He looked to me for some sort of approval, but was met with the same sadness as before and sighed. He solemnly stood, and Boris jumped off his lap, landing harshly upon the wooden floor.
    As he was heading out of the room, he paused and turned, his face lit with a new, though dimmer, excitement. "Hey, I forgot," he pulled a small, rectangular package wrapped in newspaper out of his duffel bag and handed it to me. "Maybe this'll be good for the ride there." He gave me one last tired, hopeful smile and left.
    I examined the box, thick and maybe half a foot long. It felt heavy in my arms. I unwrapped it, careful not to rip the paper and make a mess on the recently-cleaned floor.
    I found myself holding a new, hardback cover of Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird." I smiled weakly to myself, tracing my thumb along the bolded black title on the cover page.
    The old man really pulled through this year.