Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)

Chapter Fourteen

“Do you need another box?” My dad’s muffled voice was somewhere between the garage and the basement.

“I need THREE more boxes!” I surveyed my room, which was now a disaster thanks to “Moving Day.” It was the room I’d grown up in from the ages of eight to twenty-three, and now it was littered with long-forgotten crap.

As I rolled up some sweaters in a ball and piled them in an empty corner, my phone started vibrating...from somewhere.

It buzzed again and I finally found it, hiding underneath a tie-dyed T-shirt from 1993 (was tie-dye even cool in 1993?).

It was a text message from Laura: “Coffee date with Dave was great! Dinner tmrw, I’ll e-mail you my top 3 outfit picks. Eeek! xo”

I smiled at the thought of Laura and an actual gentleman. At least he seemed like one since he hadn’t yet whipped out his schlong. It’s a start!

I had very high hopes for this Dave character. It had less to do with him, and more to do with fate. My little Laura, who’d only been off guys for five short weeks, had randomly met sexy Dave at the gym. Yes, it was the fate of the gym gods for her...and the fate of the Internet gods for me.

I glanced at the clock and it was already half past five. Had I actually been packing for three straight hours? Yet I’d only taped a single box.

I waded through some old pajamas and right past my laptop too. It was not the right time to be e-mailing James, since it was Saturday night and he was probably out with his friends.

Not that I’m jealous anymore. He’s mine.

Still it was odd, that as I trudged through my lame-o days he was six hours forward, living out the hot summer nights in Barcelona.

But I’m NOT jealous.

I hadn’t heard James’s voice in a week and a half. I’d been too busy driving back and forth from one house to the next, loading and unloading heavy boxes.

At least my upper arms aren’t flabby anymore.

Despite the gap, the memories from our talks kept me eager and inspired. Each time we spoke he’d drill some more creative ideas in my head. From brainstorms to storyboards to free-form writing sprints, I couldn’t believe I’d started out as a nervous first-time blogger. By now the idea of writing a novel seemed no harder than losing some extra pounds: time, effort, determination and sacrifice.

And maybe some “slimming tea,” with side-effects no one likes to talk about.

Even though James had the world figured out, it’s not like our talks didn’t benefit him as well. In each conversation I was sure to make him laugh, and how many times did the hot Spanish babes make him laugh? Exactly.

I heard a light thud outside my door. The drop-off of more cardboard boxes.

My dad opened the door and surveyed the disaster. “I only had two more boxes,” he said. “Put the rest of your stuff in a garbage bag. Or just throw it out. Why do you even have so much? Half of it’s from ten years ago.”

As my dad shuffled away I gazed around the room and could see he had a point.

Like why do I still have my “period jeans”?

I held up the jeans that had once been my go-to pair. All slim-fit and high-waisted, I’d been rockin’ these at age fifteen. But when a red-ink pen exploded in the front right pocket, everyone thought I’d had a “period mishap.” My parents never bought me a replacement pair, so my style became defined by big untucked T-shirts and jeans with a hidden red stain.