Windows

Home Sweet Home

Mum stumbled down the stairs at 11:41. She glanced at me momentarily, and then demanded to know the whereabouts of the coffee. 

"We haven't gone shopping yet, Mum. Remember?" 

She cocked her head to the side and looked at me wide-eyed. She didn't remember. 

"Oh. Yeah. Well, want to come and get some groceries with me?" she asked, rapidly searching through the cardboard boxes for a hairbrush.  

I sighed. "Sure." And then I went upstairs and spent the next ten minutes working out how to use the shower, which is a crucial part to the routine of moving into a new house. 

We were just about to leave when I decided to check more in the mirror. And I don't know why, because I didn't change since the last time I looked. 

I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not going to tell you I have long blonde curls cascading down my back and resting gently on my shoulder blades, or that I have naturally long eyelashes and bright red full lips and blue eyes. Because I've never been pretty. I have straight jet black hair that hangs around my neck with a naturally spiky fringe and green eyes and pale skin that looks like I have never seen the sun before. I'm skinny, curves are non-existent, and I get the odd pimple now and then, mainly on my forehead. I grimace at my reflection and then decide, who cares? It's not as if we're staying long. It's not as if anyone's going to pay attention to me, the new kid. Especially at a grocery store. 

So Mum and I set off in her 90's silver Ford and buy shitloads of junk food to celebrate the new house. The cashier is my age. I don't have to look at his nametag, because when I accidentally make eye contact I know it all. His name is Dylan. He attends my future school and has a single father who is often at the bar late at night, so he has to take full responsibility of his autistic younger sister.

"Thank you for shopping at Goldenridge's most reliable supermarket. Come again," he says in a bored tone and Mum flashes him her killer grin and tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder. As you can tell, I did not inherit the beautiful gene from my mother. 

"He probably goes to your school, you know. You're going to have so much fun there, trust me. I did my research and Goldenridge High has a fantastic welcoming community," she tells me, but is only convincing herself. As I plug my iPod in to block out her incessant gabbling she keeps telling me about her new job and how everything is going to work out just fine, and she won't let herself get distracted by stupid, stupid men. When she says that she clutches the steering wheel so hard her knuckles look like they are going to pop out of her skin.

When we get home Mum finishes setting out the living room. She pursued her "dream career" as a home designer a few years back, so she knows how to do these things. She calls me downstairs to take a look. 

"It...it's great, Mum. Good job." But it didn't. It looked so empty. The furniture didn't belong there, misplaced awkwardly, the carpet stretching solemnly from one end of the room to the other. It didn't fit together. Mum was anxiously biting her lip and furrowing her brow so I could tell she didn't think it belongs here either. It belongs in New York, where we used to live. Mum's a city person, so she belongs there too. 

I don't know where I belong.

So I go for a walk. It's five in the afternoon, but somehow it's already dark. I'm not complaing; I love the dark. Spacious and empty, all colors are the same tint and tone. Beautiful. And there's nobody around, either, apart from a group of boys playing soccer in the field. I don't know why the council bothered making a field - this is practically the countryside. Everywhere is a field, you don't need a specially made one.

I see Dylan walking home from his shift at the supermarket, checking a chunky digital watch with bags under his eyes. He nods at me as he walks past in acknowledgement, and I return his greeting with a smile.

Everything seems to be in order in this town - like those towns in Desperate Housewives or something, everyone has an impeccably trimmed lawn with a few gnomes here and there, the trees have no uneven branches, and the kids here don't seem to be fighting with one another, which is startlingly different from walking around at this time in New York City.

There was one thing that caught my eye - a group of people no older than me smoking behind a cluster of pine trees. They looked like the sort of people who, if they ever caught someone looking at them the wrong way would skip the talking and just beat them up. Dark eyebrows arched and mouths twisted into rigid scowls. They looked as if they hadn't taken their mom's advice and the wind changed so they now look angry forever.

Then one of them saw me staring. "What the fuck are you looking at?" she yelled loudly and began to advance toward me, attracting attention from the rest of the crowd. 

Usually, I would stand my ground and answer 'You.' But these people were different. Dangerous, although I kicked myself for ever being afraid of morons like them. So, I promptly gathered my belongings from my humble park bench and went home.

Home. The word has lost all meaning to me by now.