My Fallen Angel (COMPLETE)

MFA chapter 3*

He laughed again and wrapped his arms around me, returning my hug. We just hugged each other for a long time, until my stomach rumbled with hunger. Andy laughed at me and pulled back, getting off my bed. He stuck a hand out to me and said, "C'mon, let's get you some food." 

I gripped his hand and he pulled me off the bed, walking me out my bedroom door and down the stairs. 

"Oo, will you make me a peanut butter sandwich? I'm in the mood for some Skippy extra chunk" I squealed happily. All the talk of moving with him was making me giddy and twittery.  

He chuckled again. "Sure thing, little birdie." 

As we walked into the kitchen, my mom stood at the sink, loading dishes into the dishwasher. I released Andy's hand and ran over to her, enveloping her in a hug. She was startled and staggered a bit when I latched on to her. 

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" I asked her excitedly. She looked at me, shocked. 

"I'll take that as a no," I muttered, mostly to myself. 

"Zandy, what has gotten into you? Ever since Grammy's passing a few months ago you've been downcast and gloomy." my mom said, still surprised. 

On top of knowing my friend was leaving me, my Grammy died. She passed, just of old age, in January. She was buried under the willow tree on her property next to Grandpa; so in their memory, I got their headstones added onto the tattoo of the tree and hill on my back. Now they'd be a part of me forever. 

"Mom, how can I not be happy? You're letting me go to California!" I screamed. 

Mom smiled and then hugged me around my waist. "Oh, that. You could've said that in the first place. And, I'm glad you're happy. I figured I'd finally do something right as a parent." 

I gave her a shocked look. "Mom!" I reprimanded. "Don't say that. You've been a wonderful parent, apart from the traveling all the time thing." 

Mom shook her head. "No, I haven't. Not to you at least. I've always judged you on what you wear and what music you listen to. But, I love you no matter what." 

There were a pair of heavy footsteps on the stairs then; they seemed sluggish and tired. Soon, my brother and sister descended the stairs and made their way into the kitchen. Dylan looked a bit like he was sleep walking but Taylor looked livid. 

"Who is screaming?" she demanded, her voice angry. "It is eight o' clock on a Sunday morning and I was trying to sleep. What the hell?" 

"Hey," my mom warned. "Watch your language." 

Taylor huffed. "Zandy can cuss all she wants. She prances around spitting the f word left and right, not to mention, she gets it from him," she stuck her finger out at Andy, who was at the counter, working on the sandwiches. 

"Hey," Andy said, raising his hands in surrender, "don't bring me into this. I'm just the cook." We all rolled our eyes at him as he took a big bite out of one of the finished sandwiches. 

"And then when I say h-e-l-l," Taylor continued, "you go crazy and tell me to wash my mouth out with soap!"  

"Zandy is sixteen years old, knows how to handle herself, and is about to move to the other side of the country. I think she's okay to do what she wants," my mom said, her anger with my sister becoming apparent. "You, on the other hand, are only fourteen and still can't get up on time to get to school in the morning." 

Taylor didn't make another argument, because she and Dylan were frozen to where they stood, their jaws slack and their eyes wide.  

"She's moving?" Dylan shouted.