The town I live in is dead. There is nothing worth anything anywhere in a 100 mile radius. The people around here dress in kaki pants and argyle sweater vests. When the wind blows, you don’t feel a rushing sense of excitement. Instead you just watch another dried leaf blow across the gritty concrete. You don’t ever hear any jaw dropping rumors, and you certainly don’t see anyone more exciting than the old women down the street who sometimes walks to the bottom of her driveway half naked to get her morning paper.
When you first enter into Cotton Wood neighborhood, your eyes narrow in on a large white house, with a beautiful green manicured lawn, rose bushes lining the outside of the house, and a magnificent red Ferrari parked outside the garage just as a show to everyone entering that people live here in class. The next thing you see is a peach colored house, a white picket fence, and a blue corvette. And the next is just the same thing, in a different color.
Everyone runs around like robots. Everything is so organized and cleanly. So perfect, so suburban. However if haven’t already been turned into a mindless automaton after wondering further through Snorsville, you’ll slowly start to see dead trees. The dead trees become more and more abundant as you continue into the heart of the town, until most sunlight is gone.
And then just at the end of the street are the tall black gates of the Dentry Mansion. Dead brown and orange colored leaves gathered at the gates, and the limbs of blackened trees looming over the very top. Vines twist around each metal bar, and swallow up the sides of the concrete boundary line dividing Snorsville to real excitement.
Because just a few yards down the black concrete driveway is the most beautiful thing in history. The only thing that keeps me from begging my parents to get a job somewhere in a robot-less city: the mansion itself.
Whenever my feet carry me off towards the gate I press myself against each bar almost like I think I can slip through, and stare at the dark stoned fantasy home.
The grass leading up to the house is always yellow, whether it is summer or winter. The many windows of the house are blocked by what looked like red velvet curtains, and the door to the house isn’t even visible because of how introverted into the house it actually is. The roof is made of burnt orange shingles with multiple chimneys sprouting out here and there.
The Dentry Mansion looked haunting to any normal eye that was set on it, but to me it was a piece of art. It was mysterious, it was enchanting, and it held secrets that still carried on in the town gossip. It was part of history. Every cracked stone of the house. Every dead tree that lie in the middle of the unkempt lawn. It was all part of the rumors I only wished could be true.
Everyone around town said that George Gentry, the first owner of the mansion, was so rich that he bought Cotton Wood for himself, and was the one who started all the house construction around here that made the town what it was. It’s said that he wouldn’t start building houses until his own house was finished, right on top of the hill that lay at the end of Cotton Wood. And after he built it the progress of other houses began booming.
People began to take notice to the town’s charming look and perfectly formed houses so fast that before the year was over, almost every house was sold. But one particular customer was said to buy more than just property. Martha Glooms and George Gentry married each other shortly after meeting, and suddenly she was a permanent guest in the astonishing Gentry mansion.
However, Martha must not have been as crazy in love as George was because she kept a long going affair with the butler for three years of their marriage. One day George saw with his own eyes what was going on with his wife and his employee, and it drove him mad. It is said that he was so angry he set his guard dogs on them, cornering them both against an open window until they fell out, three stories down.
His wife and his butler both died, but George made it look like an accident, residing reclusively in his mansion until he died. Most people said he went mad, rumors of him moaning and howling in the house, but all that happened so long ago that no one knew first hand what happened to George. I like to think that George went crazy because he missed his wife.
The scandal never really left the town. Still it lingers on everyone’s mind, and whispers always rise whenever there is talk of a new potential owner. Usually, the occasional buyers last about a month until they drive themselves out with talk of it being haunted by Mr. Gentry himself. Or something ridiculous like that.
Although I roll my eyes at any of those rumors, I still gaze on the said window that the two lovers were pushed out of. People say that if you catch the moon at the right time, you can see Mr. Gentry at the window, shaking his fist down at the grass. But each time I sit outside the black gate, I see nothing but red curtain.
Despite all the talk and rumors about the house, there was still something about it that drew me to it so much that I would give almost anything to climb the vines and find myself on the other side of the horribly tall black gate. I didn’t care how creepy people made it sound, it still didn’t change the fact that it took my breath away.
Especially ever since I saw a shiny black car parked in the ridiculously long driveway a few days ago. I wondered towards the gates almost every other day, and there hasn’t ever been a car in the drive way since the last owner, three years ago. Just one glimpse of the car and I felt butterflies play around in my stomach.
A blissful excitement took over me at the thought of the mansion being bought once again. It was kind of entertaining to hear about the owners’ "problems" they have with the mansion. The rumor mill was sometimes exciting, even though I detested it so much.
But the thought of someone inhabiting the house also scared me. Ever since I saw the car I have been wondering what would become of the mansion. I wondered if they’d clean up the lawn. Take down the historical red curtains from the windows and replace them with periwinkle blue chic ones. I was afraid that they would modernize it into a rich snob’s home and that the buyer would take away it’s natural haunting beauty.
However, as I currently situated myself in the gatherings of crunchy leaves, staring at the black car that had been parked there the fourth day in a row, I think that there is hope. Something about the way an old man, dressed in black clothes, slowly made his way up to the front steps carrying brown paper bags filled with groceries told me that just maybe, these people appreciated the castle for what is really was; a master piece.
And each day after that I wonder, who else is inside that house. I see the old man every day I’m here, getting out of the car, at the very same time as the day before. And I’ve decided he’s the butler. But I can’t get my mind off who the groceries are for. A week earlier there was a moving truck. A day after that it was gone. I knew they were settled in.
So why hadn’t they done anything to the weeds spreading like cancer across the dry grass? Why haven’t they trimmed the yellow bushes that lined the stone walls of the mansion? How come the only person I see go in, or even come out, is the butler? Why do the owners just stay in that house?
And better yet, why would they ever be interested in Snorsville?
***
"Name? Aubrey Locke. Let’s see… am I dark? Hmm. Well sure. Check. Am I mysterious? Well… the inside of my closet is. Check. Do I consider myself a loner? I guess I should ask my friend next to me. Cass, am I a loner?"
"Yes."
"Check." I giggled, pressing the tip of my blue ball point pen to the surface of the magazine page, which was supposed to tell me who my soul mate is.
My best friend Cassie Mitchell looked at me through her lilac colored bangs and twirled around a neon blond strand of hair around her finger. "Aubrey, I wonder, how do they figure they can tell you who the love of your life is if they haven’t even met you?" she chuckled, continuing with scribbling her unreadable hand writing across the piece of note book paper in front of her. Next to her elbow was a thick-spined trigonometry book, everything she needed for our study night.
"Yeah, and don’t they already know that I’m asexual?" I giggled once more, continuing to circle each answer that described me. Cassie rolled her eyes and reached for one of the millions of peanut M&M’s scattered in between us, before throwing it at my nose. And of course, with her aim, it missed and hit my ear.
"Don’t joke." She scoffed, looking up quickly to watch me react.
I found the M&M she had thrown at me and plopped it into my mouth. "Well I basically am. I mean, I don’t date." I said, sucking on the candy coated treat, feeling it melt inside my mouth. This was partly true, considering the fact that I’d never had a boy friend before. I would date if I wanted too, but just the idea of dating anyone around here seemed to trigger my gag reflex.
"I think that just proves that you’re socially inept."
"Oh? And who spends her lunchtime in the library with her nose in a book?" I shot back pointedly, watching her try to hide her guilty smile.
I sighed and let the magazine fall out of my hands and onto the M&M covered floor. "S’okay. We’ll be inept together." I chuckled, watching her shrug her shoulders and shut her math book and math journal.
Cassie and I have been friends since the third day of kindergarten. This is not something you hear someone say everyday. Usually friendships start later on in life, and end sooner than it took to say hello. But me and Cass… well we go way back. Way back to the time when I found her crying her eyes out on the front steps of elementary school, fretting about how she thought her mother forgot to pick her up.
Of course I came to her rescue, and convinced her that her mom was only stuck in traffic and that if she doesn’t come then she is a bad mother anyway. Of course, her mom came right after that, but Cassie was so happy that I was there to calm her little 6 year old nerves, she invited me for a slumber party. Ever since, it’s been me and her.
And it’s been me and her growing up together. Discovering together. Discovering life beyond the kaki pants and argyle sweater vests. Finding out that you didn’t have to have just one hair color your whole life, and that nothing is ever just rainbows and butterflies. We were each other’s reality. It was sort of like Snorsville finally gave me a purpose.
Because let me tell you, Cassie didn’t cry just because her mom was late to pick her up. She wasn’t a popular girl. And shortly after we made friends, neither was I. I’m not exactly sure why Cassie never fit in. When we were 6, we were just like everyone else. But at that age, choosing "the Weird kid" was usually chosen at random. Cassie just got unlucky.
But I didn’t think of her as unlucky. Just because we grew up in a school where we were excluded and picked on, didn’t mean it was either of our faults. Kids were cruel. And despite how bad our feelings were hurt, we had each other in the end. She was my other half. So enduring everything they threw at us wasn’t much of a problem.
Besides, nothing was wrong with us. Sure we had a different style then most everyone in Snorsville, but that shouldn’t be the reason to exclude someone.
Cassie was a volleyball player with a body to match, tall and thin, but still pretty built. She was pale, a few freckles here and there with mucky green eyes and long eyelashes. Her hair was long and bleach blonde though her bangs were dyed a lilac purple. She was pretty, just bad at portraying her good looks.
Then there was me. Everything about me was small. I was short, just barley 5’1, and bean-pole skinny. I had baby hands, small and cute fingers, and a little nose, like an elf. My hair was short, styled into a bob cut so that the hair framing my face barley touched my shoulders, and chestnut colored.
The only but things about me were my eyes, which were big and pouty hazel ones with flecks of gold and green, my full pouty lips, and my attitude. I didn’t have a bad attitude, I was just very opinionated. I was a strong girl, which was probably why Cassie and I made such a great team; she was sensitive, while I was outspoken and always sticking up for her.
I plopped another M&M in my mouth and sucked on it until all that was left on my tongue was the peanut core. She blew out a breath of air and disturbed the hair hanging in front of her eyes, and reached for an M&M as well.
"I haven’t seen the owners yet." I sighed, reaching for one too. I pushed it between my full pink lips and let the candy coated shell melt away. She rolled her eyes, knowing I was talking about the Dentry Mansion, and flicked my knee.
"You obsess over that thing like crazy. I’m surprised you don’t know the family’s schedule by heart since you spend like everyday there." She teased, and I shrugged passively.
"Hey, it’s not my fault you wouldn’t know true beauty if it kicked you in the shin." I chuckled and she scoffed in return.
"That thing is creepy."
"That thing is part of history, m’dear." I corrected, shaking a finger at her. She pushed it away with a grin and I stuck my tongue out.
"Do you think they’re an old couple?" she asked interestingly, waiting for my answer.
I chewed on my bottom lip and pondered her question. "It would kind of make sense if they were. I mean, they haven’t tried to clean or tiny up anything I can see. If it were a younger couple they probably would have already tackled their weed problem in the lawn." I hypothesized.
She nodded her head, but something told me she didn’t agree. "Well I hear that they have a son. Nick Kirkpatrick said that he came to his mom’s shop at like… 12 at night and asked for Mike & Iks." She giggled, and I raised an eyebrow.
"But you also heard from Nick that the Paterson’s across the street were from Russia, and were fleeing from the Russian government." I pointed out, and she blushed with embarrassment.
"Shut up. I wasn’t the only one who believed it." she rebounded.
I rolled my eyes and reached forward to ruffle her wavy blond hair. "What ever. The rumor mill around here is usually 99.9 % wrong. People get so bored that they just make up fake excitement. It’s pathetic." I grumbled, uncrossing my legs and lying on the floor of my room on my stomach like Cassie was. She twisted her lips and shrugged her golden shoulders.
"I kind of believe it, Aubrey. I’ve heard other things from other people, you know. I guess he takes a lot of walks around the neighborhood at that time of night too. I hear he’s really… different."
"Ooh, well than I hope it’s him." I said with fluttering eyelashes and took another M&M from the cream colored shag carpet of my room. "It would be a change I’m willing to get used to, that’s for sure. I’m sick of everyone around here."
"That’s easy for you to say. Everyone gives me a harder time than they do you."
"That’s because I stick up for myself. You let them run you out of the lunch room, make you sit in the front row in class, and walk all over you in the halls. You might as well agree with the things they say to you, Cass." I said sternly, watching her face fall.
"Well not all of us can be as confident as you." She chuckled, throwing another M&M at me, this time hitting my forehead.
"I’m not confident. I just don’t take their crap. It’s not that hard to tell them to shut up." I brushed off, tossing the same M&M back at her. She squealed as it hit her, but instead of firing back, she ate it.
Lacking anything else to say I picked back up the magazine I was previously using, and added up my total of Yes’s. I had fourteen of them, so finding the 10-15 I read the little paragraph underneath out loud. "Yikes! Get ready for the surprise of your life! Prince charming is not as far as you think he is. All you need is to take some time to look around, and once you find him it’ll be more obvious than bright yellow pants. Keep your eyes open!"
Together we both laughed at my peppy voice as I read the article aloud, and then returned to doing more homework. However, I found it hard to concentrate on chemistry when there was a possibility of a new boy in town. A new boy may just be what the doctor ordered.