FictionPress.com - let the words flow
| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
|
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
ALL GOOD THINGS
1 - THE NEW GIRL
“Dad, why are we in Colorado again?” I whined.
Gripping the wheel to the U-Haul tighter, he shot me a reassuring smile. “Karoline, you’ll love Denver. It’s just like Miami without the snow.”
I looked out the window forlornly. In the backdrop, there were mountains upon mountains. And when there weren’t mountains, there was an overabundance of trees, bare and lifeless. I wondered what the hell was so special about Denver, Colorado in the first place. Stealing a quick glance at my father, I saw the smile playing at his lips.
We were moving from the East Coast to the Midwest because of Denise Matthews, the woman who stole my father’s heart in a matter of three dates. He declared that we were moving in with her as soon as possible because they had immediate plans to get married.
Why was he acting on feelings so hastily? I met Denise once, and I wasn’t trying to be mean or bitchy by saying that she wasn’t anything special. But she wasn’t. She was the type of woman that wrapped a man around her finger and made them do whatever she wanted. And I hated her and women like her.
- - -
I, Karoline Renee Thornton, was usually not one to complain, but the current circumstances gave more than good reason for my foul mood. It was bad enough that I had to lug all of my boxes and suitcases up the stairs by myself. No, Denise promised that her incompetent son would help out, but what was I expecting?
Instead of telling my soon-to-be stepbrother what I really thought of him, I collapsed onto my unmade bed. I used to beg for a brother or sister a lot when I was little. At six-years-old, I was already relatively shy and anti-social. I went through elementary school reading books at recess and spending snack time with the teacher.
After school, I would find my Dad in the study and complain that I didn’t have any brother or sisters. Dad said it was because I didn’t have the best people skills and because I wasn’t very approachable. I didn’t know what that met, but it was the initial reason why I started to name and talk to inanimate objects—like my stuffed beaver, Cornelius Sunshine.
It was also that very reason that I was sure my life was over. I was, as usual, retelling my day to Cornelius because my father always seemed too preoccupied with women and work. Seventeen years hadn't done much good for my people skills, so my bond with the beaver stuck.
What was the point wasting my time journaling? Talking was much faster and convenient. It was also the reason that I had gotten myself into one a hell of a sticky spot.
There in the doorway, with a grin plastered on his pale face, was all six foot three inches of man. My eyes clouded in confusion as I tried to figure out who it was, but then it dawned on me. He was the stepbrother, Denise’s son.
“Hi, I’m Ryan,” he said.
I eyed him wearily. “Karoline.”
His smile widened as he leaned against the doorframe. “I like to get stoned,” he whispered, “do you?”
Flabbergasted, I just stared at him. Of all the things I expected him to say - that certainly wasn’t one of them. I knew that under any other case I would’ve been revolted by his confession, but I wasn’t. I was too busy staring at his shirtless chest.
So, what was the problem?
In case you missed, there was a shirtless God standing in the threshold to my room. He was, forgive me for being shallow, hot. No, hot was an understatement. Ryan was fucking sexy—sexy in the way that he made every other eighteen-year-old guy within a hundred mile radius look downright unappealing and unattractive.
“I have a half brother,” he said suddenly. “He lives in Canada or Mexico or somewhere. But who cares? I’mtoo fucked up to remember his name, location, or marital status.” His lips curved into a grin. Again, he changed the topic. “Once, I tried to jump off the balcony in my room because I thought my bag of pot, my friends stash, grew legs and tried to high tale it for the streets.”
I shared a look of fright with poor Cornelius, who was too busy lying on his stomach. His rock star glasses had slipped off the bridge of his nose. Anxious and unsure what to say or do, I looked up into Ryan's glazed, brown eyes. He seemed too focused on Mr. Sunshine. My cheeks heated up in embarrassment. Had he watched my exchange of words with the beaver? As an eighteen-year-old female, I surely didn’t enjoy being caught complaining about an incompetent stepbrother with a damn stuffed beaver. That’d really give his friend something to laugh about.
Clearing my throat, I smiled half-heartedly at Ryan. “Did you need something? Or did you just drop by to say hi?”
His face crinkled in thought. “Do you know where Hunter is?”
I snorted. “Is that your friend? I really wouldn’t know where anyone is.”
Ryan scratched the bridge of his nose. A thoughtful look crossed over his confused features but disappeared in seconds. “He...we...had plans...and...yeah...we...were...excited.”
I could do nothing but frown. It wasn't a surprise that I didn't condone Ryan's abuse of illegal substances, but there was nothing I could do to stop him. “Are you stoned?” I asked suddenly. “Because your mom is downstairs and you wouldn't—”
“Kids!” Denise called from the kitchen, suddenly, with a weird 'longing' in her voice.
I sighed out loud. Denise was soon to be my stepmother, but we had a very stilted relationship. That woman was always a little too boisterous for her own good. She tried to turn me into a prim and proper housewife the moment I got in the house. Apparently she wasn't very thrilled that I had no intentions in furthering my education at an institution-from-hell, otherwise known as college.
It was weird...because I always had big dreams—becoming a rock star or starting a label or becoming a freelance photographer. But my dreams, sadly enough, didn’t involve college or any form of furthering education past a high school level.
I watched as Ryan visibly paled. The boy was pale to begin with, but he was really 'looking' quite dead.
“Uh, can you cover for me?” He pouted. “I need to...”
“Go out,” I finished for him. “Yeah, don't even worry about it.”
All he did was nod, tip his head, and he silently left the room. I didn’t even hear him in the hall. Wow, how could he be stealthy while stoned?
In my head, I couldn't understand why I covered for Ryan. It wasn't that much of a big deal, but with a parental figure like Denise, I was sure that he had very borrowed 'free time'. I should've known that giving Ryan so much slack was going to blow up in my face. I couldn't understand why Ryan had to be so good looking. Stoner's were never the type of guys I held an attraction for, so why was I suddenly attracted to the guy with glazed, droopy eyes and sloppy clothes?
It wasn't much of a surprise that Ryan couldn't dress to save his life. His t-shirt waswrinkled and his pants, strangely enough, reeked of pot and bleach. Even though he was a complete coke and heroin addict as well, his crowd was ‘supposedly’ into the less harmful substance—pot. Based upon the type of friends I had in Miami, I knew that my crowd wouldn’t mesh with his. I fell more into a rebel or punk clique.
We were considered drifters. Well, they weren't into drifting. I was pretty much the only one. I didn’t fit into any one clique. For the most part, I figured that was a good way not to get attached to anyone, but Wallace Jones High School was probably nothing like my school back home.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I thought about Ryan and starting school on Monday. Would our exchange of words be the same there? Would he admit that we were related? Or would our conversations stay as acquaintance appropriate. I didn’t know if Ryan was even capable of having ‘conversations’. Ryan was the sort of guy, I assumed, that kept to himself for the most part. He didn’t fit as the rebelling type. No, he seemed the type that stayed in his room, smoking, or hanging out in old, abandoned warehouses.
From what I've heard, through rumors mostly, Ryan wasn't the sort of guy to get on the wrong side of the bed with. He supposedly had a sharp tongue, friends (psycho ones) that owed him favors, and a whole room filled with crumbled papers on who did what to him, where, and when.
So, I wasn't really thrilled to leave everything I had in Florida behind for somewhere like Colorado. The weather was, essentially, the least of my worries. On the top of my worry list was Denise. Dad had declared after three days of informally dating her that they were ready to take their relationship to next level. I assumed that it meant sex. When words came out like that, what else could they possibly be?
I had been dead wrong. Dad was referring to marriage. And the first thing that came to my mind was his long and agonizing track record with women. It dated back to his teenage years. The real problem with Dad was that he really loved women of every shape and size of every skin and hair color of every degree of crazy. He was never the picky sort of guy—especially after his recent epiphany that he was officially getting old. As if the ripe age of forty-five hadn't pointed it out, it was the patch of hair missing in the back of his head.
Many people, mostly the ones back home, expected me to fight for my rights to stay. There was only two months left of our senior year. I had made plans with friends to go to a local college. We had even weaseled our way into getting a job that could pay above minimum wage for the upcoming summer. How? Being a native of Florida, it was easy to get anyone to pull someone a few strings.
But there was no use in crying over a lost home and future. Dad was one hell of a stubborn man, and when he wanted something no one dared to question his motives—verbally, at least. I cursed him for three straight hours on the flight to Colorado. Apparently dad was pretty good at telling when I was uncomfortable and not in the best of chitchat moods. Fortunately for him, he was good enough to realize that.
I liked the snow, snowboarding, and the long, winter months; I was every bit of a quiet romantic. Curling up on the couch with a fire blazing while reading a copy of This Lullaby by Sarah Dessen. Was it my fault that I wanted my very own Dexter? He was outgoing, knew what he wanted, and was in a freaking band. Sure, the guy was rough around the ages, but at the end you were just rooting for the two of them to finally hook up. After reading it five times, I find the corners of my lips turning into a smile when I picked up on a little detail I didn't notice before.
Dad had plans to marry Denise, soon. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t going to be invited to their wedding. No one was. Not even Ryan. I figured that he had the worst deal out of everyone because he actually resented his mother, the creepy let's-shop-together, Denise. I assumed that he wasn't very fond of shopping and with a mother like her, who wouldn't have the occasional ideas about running for the hills?
Why couldn’t they just go to Vegas and get hitched? It was at least one day I’d have to myself. Actually, any day without Denise was around was a good day. Three hours barely passed, and she was already grating on what little nerves I had left. Was she really that dense?
I remembered the first time I saw her. She reminded me of a young model. Not a woman of forty-three who had impeccable fashion taste and was always involved in some sort of social function. She, forgive me for saying this, was the modern version of Marsha Brady. I knew that she wasn't 'mom material' even though dad had been pushing that down my throat. And their marriage—it had to be a damn fluke! I told dad straight out that I wouldn't support them with their urge to get married, but he pretended not to hear a word of it.
- - -
“Kids?” Denise called from the hallway.
I sighed, annoyance taking over. In my head, I was concocting a huge bullshit story. I only hoped that his mother was dense enough to leave it as it was.
“Oh. Karoline, where is Ryan? I didn't see him in his room and I could've sworn he was here,” Denise babbled, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her French country themed apron. Something about the whole 'housewife takeover' didn't settle well with me.
“Oh. Ryan had to go back to school. He forgot his history book and tomorrow is a huge test that he needs to cram for,” I explained, lying through my teeth. “He was supposed to study with a friend or something. I guess he’ll be back for dinner?”
Was lying supposed to be this easy?
And was I supposed to feel guilty?
I wasn't.
Denise smiled widely, showing off her unnaturally straight and white teeth. “It's about time that son of mine got all of his priorities straight!” she gushed, launching into a story about Ryan as a child. It would be a lie to say that I wasn't interested, but Denise had this horrible way of making anything sound overly boring.
“So, he'll probably be out late, Denise. Then again, I’m not sure.” I shrugged.
She groaned and aimlessly stared at the ceiling. “Ryan never seems to be home for dinner, anymore.”
“It's a teenage thing, Denise. I was like that too.”
Her eyes glimmered with hope. “So, it's only a phase?”
I laughed it off with a huge grin. “No worries, Denise. Ryan's studying at Hunter's place.”
Denise's face scrunched up in distaste. “Hunter. That boy is too quiet, and he's into drugs and everything! I really don't want Ryan dragged into that kind of world.”
There had to be an intervention. Not only was I covering Ryan's ass, but I was also covering my own. I couldn't go about and say something different. Damn. It was times like these when I wish I knew how to be a decent liar. The truth of the matter was that I didn't know much about the infamous Hunter. Supposedly, growing up, they had formed one of those lasting friendships that didn't fade. Automatically, I assumed that Hunter was a stoner because that was the only type of people that Ryan ever gave the time of day too.
Okay. I didn't know Ryan very well, but in the short time that I've interacted with him, I've come out with two, strong ideas. One, Ryan was extremely shy and doing drugs was a way for him to unwind and relax—to the point where he was comfortable around others. Or two, Ryan was a complete moron with the I'm-a-stoner-and-should-be-pitied complex.
“Karol, I'm going to call Hunter in a few minutes. I need to make sure Ryan is fine.”
I felt my heart pumping pitifully in my chest. “Denise, seriously, why don't I just head over to Hunter’s? I'm sure you're too busy to keep tabs on Ryan.”
As the words slipped, I felt a pang of guilt. I meant to keep the last bit to myself.
“Hey, how about you test out my latest batch of chocolate chip cookies?” she asked suddenly.
I shook my head. “No thanks, Denise. I'm allergic to chocolate.”
She gasped. “Oh honey! That is so horrific. How do you mourn when boys break your heart?”
“Look at me. I don't exactly rake in the boys,” I told her blandly.
“Oh dear! It can't be. You're so cute.” She reached forward to pinch my cheeks like Grandma Lolly would, but I swatted her hand away. Although Denise was an improvement from Dad's usual women, she was still high up on my shit list. Earlier, she declared that in two days, they had plans on getting a very low-key wedding in Vegas with a fake Elvis.
I felt like mocking myself by pointing at the beaver. “Yeah, just like C.S. Back there.”
“I-I smell burning,” Denise declared and ran. “My cookies!”
She ran out the door without another word. I took that as a good time to get my jacket, jeans, and winter boots out of the closet. The weatherman had predicted snow—Dad told me earlier. And I was thankful because the weather was always too boring for me to show much interest with.
After I got dressed, I headed outside. It was a good excuse to tour the city at night and to find Hunter's house. If he and Ryan were attached at the hip like Ryan said, going to his house would've been an excellent source of information. Ryan, as I had found out, wasn't the type of guy who liked to sit around. When he was out of it, he walked and walked until that high feeling left him. I guessed it worked well for him.
- - -
Outside, there was about five inches of snow.
I smiled.
- - -
Hunter's house was a lot harder to find than I imagined. Every house within a two-mile radius looked the same. I guessed that was the downfall with townhouses and apartments—no one was really creative, architecturally speaking. The streetlights were dim, which made navigating through the snow a lot harder feat to accomplish. It was times like these when I wished I wouldn't have gone wondering through Denver without a guide or map. Three hours was hardly enough time to remember much of anything.
And it was freezing for the middle of March. Ryan and Denise didn't seem put off by it, so I assumed it was normal. It didn't make it feel any warmer out, though. Besides, wasn’t March supposed to be full of life—for it being springtime?
I reached into my jacket, hoping that my gloves were tucked into a pocket; I always had this bad habit of getting cold easily. The fact that I was short and on the rather petite side didn't really help. I was always cold.
I frowned, searching high and low for my gloves. Those warm, fluffy, white bunnies were sounding so good. It was too bad I couldn't find them anywhere.
That's right, I forgot to bring them. They were probably still packed away amongst the mountains of boxes in my room.
And on top of that: I was lost.
Uh, you know the saying about guys being too stubborn and macho to ask for directions, it's not completely true. That statement’s a bit sexist. I've just seriously shattered that little known fact into a bazillion pieces. How? I was stubborn—and I mean really badly obstinate. Asking people for help was not one of those things I liked to do. Why? I wanted to look like I knew everything; asking for help or assistance was a sign of weakness. And I’d be damned if anyone knew I wasn’t as rebel-like and rough around the edges as I tried to portray.
“'Lin?”
“Ryan!” I yelled, jumping into his arms.
The boy was tall, thin, and very fragile looking. I knew he couldn't manage my weight. It was embarrassing that I jumped into the arms of a boy who was thinner than me. We collapsed onto the ground into a heap. Ryan groaned, obviously pissed beyond all hell. He smelled strongly of nicotine and pot. That boy was on his way to an early death, and I couldn't begin to pinpoint why it bothered me so much—except that I had the world’s hugest crush on him.
“Ah, fuck 'Lin. What the 'ell did you do that for?” Ryan groaned, clutching his side.
I flushed, looking up to notice that a group of his friends were watching us like hawks. In the past two weeks, they had made fun of me whenever I passed them in the hallways. It was probably for that reason that the punks—well, they didn't like to be called that—eagerly adopted me into their little circle of friends. In their school, punks and the stoner's were the ultimate enemies. Screw the cliché about jocks and geeks not getting along. This grudge was a lot worse than that.
“I'm Karoline Thornton,” I said suddenly.
I immediately reprimanded myself. It wasn't the time for simple introductions. The group of stoner's looked like they were ready to gouge my eyes out. Since the punk crowd was pretty much the only ones accepting of my pink hair, I wasn't expecting much from the group of stoner's. They all looked like they were in various stages—from just slightly out of it to over baked.
I wondered with great thought what else there was to do in Denver. Drugs had never really shown much of an interest to me. The only thing I binged with was alcohol. In Florida, parties were where the too lazy to surf hung out. It was usually no more than ten people to a party. Our group leader pretty much figured it was the easiest way to keep the cops from becoming very suspicious. Plus, it was easier for ten people to make a run for it than forty people—especially in rather confined spaces.
“We know who you are,” the snotty, tall girl spoke up. Her hair was dyed black with traces of blood red highlights. “And if you don't get off my boyfriend I'll kick your fat ass.”
I stumbled to my feet awkwardly, helping Ryan up in the process. He groaned again and leaned against me. “Holy fuck, you're heavy,” he complained, causing the group to burst out into laughter.
One of the guys hovering in the back, stepped forward. The hidden meaning in his smile was evident. “Ryan, who is this?”
Uneasily, Ryan turned toward his friend. “Karoline Thornton. Didn’t you hear her introduce herself?”
The friend pouted. “But who is she?”
“My stepsister.”
“Uh,” I started nervously, breaking up the conversation, “Ryan, you're mom is getting really suspicious. I told her that you went back to your school because you forgot your history book, and that you needed it to study for a test.”
I paused. “I didn’t think that was convincing enough, so I told her you were at Hunter’s. He was the only friend you’ve mentioned and I thought it was a really good idea until she went on about how much of a drug addict he is and how she doesn’t want him around you because he’s an addict. Doesn’t she know you do stuff too?
Ryan sighed, pulling me away from his crowd of friends. “Listen, you made a mistake, Karoline. And I hope you’re aware that my mother has good reason to think what she does. Now, I’m thankful you’ve covered for me, but you would’ve been better off saying nothing than what you did. I’m going to get shit from her all night.”
To say that I was shell-shocked was the ultimate understatement. The boy was capable of stringing together more than one sentence without sounding like a complete idiot. It was hard not to think about how he kept himself so calm and mellow.
Ryan rolled his eyes when he finally caught my attention. “Do you always assume I'm stoned?”
His friends started to nag about how thick the snow was falling, but Ryan dismissed them.
“Well,” I toyed with the hem of my jacket, “I guess I do.”
He leaned forward and whispered into my ear, “Sweetheart, haven't you learned? Never assume anything.”
And as he grabbed my arms and hauled me back to his place, I realized just how attractive and dizzying that bad boy/mysterious act really was.
So, tell the press that it's true.
Karoline Renee Thornton is hook, line, and sinker for this boy.
Could I be anymore screwed?
It is still not where I want it to be, but I’m actually okay with it to leave it how it as…at least until I finish this story. Please, please, please don’t resist making your opinions known. I want to improve this story and have it be the best that it can.
Faded Soulfire