"Do we really have to move? I mean, Larry is completely capable of taking care of herself," complained Lauren. God, I hated it when she complained. Doesn't she know no one gives a fuck about what she thinks?
"Lauren, just suck it up," I fire back.
"Lauren, just suck it up," she mocks, punching me in the arm.
It hurt. I was the younger sibling, which meant I had no authority over her whatsoever. Being fifteen (almost sixteen) is not easy. It sucks like shit. Mind you, I swear a lot. I mean, what do you expect from a teenager?
You see, I was accepted into the nation's most acclaimed school, ranked number one by Forbes, US News, The Washington Post, et cetera, et cetera. St. Catherine of Genoa Academy is a Catholic school, a college preparatory academy. You know, the kind of school where you dress in school uniforms? Yeah. That kind of school. My sister and I are going to school there, me on scholarship, her on nothing.
We're not poor. Just working class. But the tuition my parents are paying for her, I believe, is going to cut down our spending money by...a ton.
Stupid Lauren. Ruining everything.
Don't worry. These are just the negative sisterly thoughts every little sibling thinks. Lauren is actually a great sister (though I'll never admit it). She helped me with my makeup when I first entered the eighth grade, she gives me great advice, makes sure I don't look stupid before walking out the door, and, in return, I always cover for her when she sneaks out.
So it's just a simple relationship. Pretty healthy.
But no lie, she's a slut.
And that's all I have to say about that.
So here we are, cruising down the freeway, on a scorching summer day, exiting for Palo Alto and driving in our van towards our new suburban home. From the city to a the perfect lawn, perfect neighbor place. You see, we're Seattleites. My sister and I were born in Harborview Medical Center and have lived in the same two-story craftsmen-style house since my mother and father built it. We attended the same elementary schools, the same junior high, the same high school. We lived on a hill, so learning how to ride a bike in front of the house wasn't easy. I still have scars from being scraped the first time I was taught.
Our house is in the smack-dab middle of Oakland Street, which is neatly lined with lush, summertime trees. It makes it seem like Oakland Street has a leafy ceiling, maybe sixty feet high.
We got the house for a pretty good deal. The previous owners lowered the price once they found out Lauren and I were attending the best school in America. How kind of them, right?
Our address: 3185 Oakland St. Palo Alto, California. Like I said, a house in the smack-dab middle of the street. The houses surrounding ours were like mini castles, with incredibly pampered yards and made Italian-villa style, with black iron fences.
As we drove closer, I saw it. Our new home was a cozy white house, with Mediterranean blue shutters and a glossy ebony door. The windows were less maintained, with dust in the windows. The yard was full of patches of clovers and the dandelions to make wishes on. Overall, I loved it. It was completely unexpected in a street like this.
"We're here," Mom exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight.
"It's even better than the pictures, am I right? Or am I right?" Dad said.
"Daddy, just...Don't try to be cool," Lauren said, shaking her head.
"Well, Lara, what do you think," Mom asked.
"I think it's great. I love it. A lot," I answered.
"Good. And I know how much you love gardening, so we tried to find a house where you could work your magic."
I smiled. I loved the little things my family did for me. "And there's a gardening store about two blocks away, so once you have your bike---"
"Yes. I'll be gardening almost everyday."
I did love gardening. I loved flowers. Each one had something to say. Yellow roses, a sign of friendship. Forget-me-nots are a sign of true love. Wisterias, a sign of welcome. Back in Seattle, we had the smallest yard ever. But I made do and won the Neighborhood Gardening Award every year. Last year, our yard was even featured in the Seattle magazine.
After about seven hours or so, we had moved everything from the car and the moving truck into our new home. I let Lauren take the biggest room with the walk-in closet and I moved into the attic. In the front of the room, there was a large window with a sitting area that opened up like a chest, in case you had any secrets to keep. In the back, there was another large window that gave the viewer a glimpse of the backyard, which was overgrown with moss and weeds.
I brought all my boxes up the stairs by myself, since everyone was busy with their own things. The attic wasn't as dusty as I expected it to be, although there were still old boxes and antique trunks and chests. I wondered if the previous owners planned to take it back.
In one of them I found journals, first editions, full sets of chronicles, love letters, postcards, and typewriters. Many of the letters and postcards were mostly between couples, separated by the Atlantic, having an affair, even gay lovers. Instead of unpacking, I read and read and read.
What interested me the most was the story between an English designer, Abigail Bentley and an Italian vineyard worker named Francesco Abandonato. Apparently, Abigail's father would not allow her to marry Francesco. To me, it was very much like the story of Romeo and Juliet. So cliché.
