Out of Tune [sample]

Throwing my legs off my bed, I shove my feet into the nearest pair of footwear I can see, which happen to be a pair of blue canvas shoes that clash horrendously with my green shorts. I duck down quickly to check my appearance in the mirror over my dresser, and shrug; my hair is fine, but I slap some make-up over my freckles before I head downstairs.

Mom waits impatiently at the foot of the stairs, next to the front door, tapping her foot pointedly – loudly. I roll my eyes at her.

‘Here.’ She places a basket in my hands.

I swear to God, it’s an actual wicker basket, with cookies inside that are still warm. I don’t know from where my mom gets this stuff.

‘Hold up, let me just go grab my red cloak – you know, the one with the hood – and I’ll be right with you.’

She laughs, even though she tries to maintain the ‘I’m-not-in-the-mood-for-your-sarcasm’ expression. But there’s more important business at hand than scolding me. Mom has been itching to go over and properly introduce herself to the new neighbors, but she’s left it this long since she didn’t feel it prudent to interrupt them – after all, they were most likely extremely busy settling in.

Now I know why Dad took an impromptu trip to the hardware store declaring he was finally going to fix that broken stair after procrastinating over it for like, the last eight months. Lucky escape for someone at least . . .

Mom picks up the bottle of expensive-looking wine on the table by the door and we leave.

Waiting on the porch of thirty-one Maple Drive, I realize it doesn’t have that desolate feel about it any more. I look around. There’s a small yet distinctive hole where the realtor’s sign was in the lawn. The new neighbors have already hung up drapes at the windows of the room at the front of the house alongside the porch. Behind the peach curtains, there’s a TV on a stand with an Xbox and DVD player hooked up, and I can see a bookshelf that’s only about a third full.

The door opens before I can look at any more of the house.

It’s a guy, around my age I’d guess, with messy brown hair and a loose-fitting Blink-182 T-shirt. He looks at my mom and me for a brief second, as though we’re from another planet, before breaking the silence with a stiff, ‘Hi.’

‘Hello!’ Mom trills. ‘We’re just dropping by to welcome you to the area. We’re your new next-door neighbors.’

‘Todd!’ someone yells from inside – a male voice. ‘Who is it?’

‘Next door!’ he bellows back over his shoulder.

Then, with all the grace of a bear running downhill, a man around his mid-forties comes barreling down the staircase into sight. He runs a hand through his graying hair to smooth it down, make it more presentable.

‘Hello, there. I’m Callum.’ He offers a hand, and Mom shakes it. ‘And this is my son, Todd.’

‘Great to meet you. I’m Isabelle,’ Mom introduces herself. ‘Isabelle Bennett. My husband, Jeff, is at the hardware store at the moment – but I’m sure he’ll drop by as soon as he gets back.’ What she means is, she’ll make him come over and introduce himself. ‘And this is our daughter, Ashley.’

‘Hey,’ I say, because I feel like I have to say something.

‘Anyway,’ says Mom. ‘We were just dropping by to introduce ourselves and give you a little housewarming gift.’ She gestures to my wicker basket with her bottle of wine.

‘Oh, thank you so much. Please, come in. Would you like some coffee? Tea? A soda?’

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say, when he looks at me.