Chapter 1

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Chapter 1: Angela’s P.O.V. 

“We’re moving!” I exclaimed exactly three months, two days, and seven hours ago. My parents really must hate me, I mean moving is one thing but moving from the beautiful beach to some almond farm in the middle of Georgia. I guess that’s what I get for being born into a family of an ambitious father/business owner. My dad owns an almond farm in about every state; he’s the number one provider for almonds in the U.S.A. Lame right? I mean why couldn’t he be a sky diver or a clown… at least clowns can be funny and scary… but an almond farmer! Ugh! 

Exactly one month, twenty-five days, and ten hours ago I walked into my new/ old house. It still smelled of a crackling fire. I guess that one reason I always loved this place, was the smell. It reminds me of when this family was actually a family. I remember we would come down here during the summer and stay for a month or so and camp out with a fire. We would eat dinner together and watch movies but now it’s eating in separate rooms and dad sleeping on the couch most nights. I honestly would prefer if my parents divorced already instead of trying. Them trying always turns into them fighting. I’m done with listening to them bicker. I think there only trying for me but honestly if my mom left, dad and I would be fine. 

I don’t like my mom. She cheated on my dad three years ago and nothings been the same since. I blame our dysfunctional family on her. If I were dad I would have dumped her ass and took me. I was only 14 at the time and was too wrapped up in my teen idols and iPod that I didn’t pay too much attention to my parents and their issues. Now, I’m 17(almost eighteen… well in three months) and in the past three years started to notice what was going on and got them to tell me the full story (them meaning my mom, my dad would never tell me that mom cheated. He wouldn’t rat out my mom. That’s why I love him more; he’s a better person and a better parent). Out of running his own business and being the ‘housewife’ in the family, he still managed to be the best father. While, my mother was gone with the ‘girls’ and came home drunk at two in the morning, he was checking on me and making sure I had food on the table. I don’t know how my father managed. I blame it on TV, ever since my mom started watching Jersey Shore; she has been trying to act like at 21 year old. 

I walked through my closet overflowing with new clothes my mom has been bringing home just about every day. I guess I can thank her for one thing, her fashion sense and everything she buys me (technically, that would be two things). I snatched a floral print shirt, light blue skinny jeans, and black, flat knee high boots. I threw them over my black tank top and skin tight spandex shorts. I dragged my tired body to the king sized bathroom and brushed my straight, white teeth (courtesy of my orthodontist, Dr. Tamer Elerson). I’m not in the mood to straighten my hair or do anything with it that is, so I tied it into a ponytail (the word ponytail irritates me so badly, for reasons unknown). It turned out to look okay. I’m definitely having a lazy day; I could only manage to put on mascara. Usually, I put on eye shadow and eyeliner on as well. 

I stepped through the gigantic ranch style, one story house. I made my way to the kitchen and grabbed an apple and a Pop tart. I searched the house for dad but couldn’t find him but instead found a note on the front door: 

Hey Kiddo. Had to leave to meet with a new client. Cross your fingers for me. I hope you have a nice first day at school. I know you’ll make a bunch of friends, there’s money in the safe. You know the code, take what you need. Remember gas money and lunch money! Oh and do me a favor after school, can you pick up some eggs for tomorrow morning. Oh, and don’t worry about your mother, she’s staying at Aunt Jillian’s for a couple of days. Whatever happens kiddo, remember we’ll always have each other! Love you baby girl, see you when you get home. We’ll talk about your mom and I’s current situation when you get home from school. 

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