Turf and Love

By: Sesheta

Chapter I

I’d like to start out by saying that I’m rich, and beautiful. So sue me.

I would also like to point out that if you hate rich and pretty people without even getting to know them, you can leave. Now. We won’t get along.

I live on 9 acres of perfectly manicured green grass in Oaks Valley. Oaks valley is a small town where the rich who no longer need to work move when they’ve made enough money to get out of Boston. Everyone knows each other, and everyone knows everything about everyone else.

My mom used to be a high fashion model. According to my father, who’s portly and balding, that’s where I get my high cheekbones and fine bone structure.

I’m not the kind of pretty that people expect. I think that may be why we caused so much gossip when we moved in. The housewives were in a frenzy for nearly a month. Where they were all tanned and orange, I was as white as marble. My hair was pale as my skin, and my red lips stuck out against the snowy backdrop of my skin. My eyes were an icy grey-blue.

Back then I was only 14. Now, I go to Arcadia Preparatory, the only school in town. There used to be a public school, but attendance was almost non existent, so they tore it down long before my family moved here.

The school is a large, rather imposing building. It rests on what seems like unlimited acres of green grass. The football stadium is in comfortable view of the school building. Sprinklers are always running over the field, keeping the grass immaculate.

The school itself is one large red brick block, fanning out in every direction. The French windows are surrounded in bright white trim, as are the double wide French doors that make up the main entrance. Somewhere, surrounded by the multitude of brick, is a courtyard in the center of the school where trees cast shade over the cool concrete, casting dappled and distorted shadows across the students who ate lunch there.

The stone steps were hard and cold on my but that day during lunch. I’d brought a Caesar Salad and an empanada from my house for lunch. Everyone else surrounding me ate cafeteria food. The simple smell of the vile food from our cafeteria made my nose wrinkle in disdain.

“Oi, Martin,” Toby called from the left side of the small ring of people sitting around me. Martin, a burly and handsome football player, looked up from where he was sitting.

“Yeah?”

“Gonna finish that potato?”

“’Course I am, man.” Toby put on a sour expression, still eyeing the potato lustfully.

“Neither of you need that potato. Think of starving kids in Africa or something. We have it made,” I said while surveying my brand new French manicure.

“We have food drives like once a month, Belle. I think one potato won’t make a difference,” Clair Danes, a girl with a pretty figure but a face that looked like it was squashed by a frying pan said from where she was sitting at my feet.

“So? You think food drives once a month will end world hunger? You underestimate the problem.” Just like that, Clair was silent.

I became bored very quickly as the conversation turned to cheerleading. I was the only girl in the group surrounding me that didn’t cheerlead.

I flipped my sidekick III open, checking my text messages. I had several, but the one from my mom stood out the most. She only text messaged me when there was something important going on.

“Belle, we have important news. We’ll meet you at dinner and tell you, don’t make any plans tonight!”

Right; it was a Monday night, I never made plans on Mondays because those were always the days with the most homework.

I opened a new message, my finger flying across the minuscule keypad as I typed.

“I won’t mom; I never do on Mondays. I’ll be there.”

I pressed the green “send” button, watching the text on my screen flash from “Sending…” to “sent!”

The hinges of the screen let out a small slicking noise as I flipped it around to cover the keypad once again. I dropped the phone into my Baby Phat backpack, which sat next to me on the stone steps.

“Doin’ anything tonight?” I didn’t roll my eyes at the question that was directed at me by Jessica Reynolds, but I should have. Everyone knew I never did anything on Monday.

“Nope. I never do stuff on Monday.”

“Why?” Jessica was confused, for some reason. I was going to explain, when Toby spoke up again.

“Because she’s a prude and she’s too uptight,” he said jokingly. Everyone laughed good naturedly.

“And because I want to make good grades and actually make something of my life.” My tone was joking, but everyone quieted down very quickly.

“We all have trust-funds,” Toby tried to joke. His joke fell flat, and the conversation steam rolled over what he was trying to say, moving on to another subject.

The bell sung out across the courtyard, and each of us stood up. I swung my bag onto my back and carried the books that I couldn’t put into it without ruining the designer leather exterior.

I walked through the threshold and into the warm school. It was early September, and already the air was starting to get chilly outside. I told myself to wear my uniform sweater tomorrow over the crisp white uniform shirt and pleated navy skirt we were required to wear.

My next class was French. The only reason I ever signed up for this class was because I already knew the language from a year I’d spent in Paris with my mother. I was guaranteed an A.

“Belle, êtes-vous ici ?” Bell, are you here?

“présent,” present. I answered.

I stared at the flat foe wood of my desk, tracing the patterns in the fake wood grains with my eyes. A mechanical pencil and a red pen rested in the groove indented at the end of my desk. I absently crossed my legs, and uncrossed them, staring at the graffiti on the black inside of the desk, written in silver sharpie.

“Vanessa Evans is a whore.” True.

“Life and love is a bitch.” False. I wonder who wrote that; maybe that kid who tried to kill himself two years before, who was now safely packed away in that “Mental containment facility” up north. I really didn’t care, but it was fun to muse on for a while.

.X.

Two periods later, I was safely in my warm car. It was a sleek silver Mercedes; I wasn’t sure what model or year, but I knew it was expensive and fast.

I dialed my mother’s number with speedy fast fingers, not even looking at the keypad. I got her voicemail, typical…

“Hello, this is Linda Landers. I’m sorry that I’m not able to come to the phone right now, but please leave me a message and I’ll be glad to return your call as soon as I possibly can.”

My mother’s voice came across the line grainy and scratchy. She had a perfect, soprano voice. My voice wasn’t like hers; it was breathy and a tad bit scratchy, like I was recovering from a sore throat.

“Hey mom. It’s me, Belle. I’ll be home in a few minutes. Bye.” I said after the mechanical beep sounded, sufficiently hurting my over sensitive ears.

I turned off my phone, putting off checking my pile of text messages until I got back home.

My house was one of those large, white affairs. It rested almost a mile back on the nine acres my family owned. Our long driveway was smooth and pearly white. We had it power washed once a month. It was shaded by tall apple trees whose leaves had turned a vibrant red color. The apples looked almost ready to pick. Every year my dad hired a man from the city named Juan to pick our apples and sell them somewhere.

About twenty yards away from my house, my driveway formed a circle around a bronze fountain that spat water upward. On one side, the steps to the front door of my house rested, while on the left the four car garage stuck out with its doors already open. My father’s two gleaming Ferraris and my mother black Roles Royce were nestled safely inside of it.

The garage was spacious and well lit. The walls were sheet-rocked and whitewashed, and the floor was made of smooth linoleum tiling that reflected the light coming from the canned light bulbs nestled in the ceiling.

I took my keys out of the front pocket of my backpack and unlocked an adjacent door that led into the kitchen.

Our kitchen was well lit and modern. The counters were made of dark tan granite, flecked with gold and blue. There was a wine rack filled with my father’s favorite vintages that rested above the stainless steel sink. If we ever needed anymore, my father kept an entire wine storage facility behind a door that posed as an innocent second pantry or bathroom door.

The refrigerator was stainless steel as well, and sticky notes of all different colors covered almost every available space. They were my mother’s “reminder” notes. Most of them were messages from gossipy friends whose calls she’d missed.

I opened the refrigerator, inspecting the contents inside. To the left of me was a small TV that we kept for Estella. It was on one of her spanish soap operas at the moment.

It took a little searching, but I located my stash of Vitamin water in the back of the refrigerator eventually. I wrapped my hand around the cool bottle, the label crackled slightly under my fingers.

Neither of my parents were home at the moment, they’d probably make their oh so important announcement during dinner.

I dashed upstairs on the thick runner covering the hardwood steps of the in formal staircase, ignoring the elevator down the hall. The formal staircase was marble, and the runner was like a Persian rug. It was in the entrance foyer.

I had only mounted the first step when I heard the unmistakable clack of claws against marble flooring. I turned around slowly, only to be met with the sight of one giant spotted Great Dane, one grey, skinny and bug eyed greyhound, and one short and heart-meltingly adorable dappled Dachshund with a rather long nose and wide black eyes coming right at me.

“Hey Maiko,” I said, lifting the dachshund up and holding her in the crook of my arm before she could be trampled by Dennis and Ranger, the greyhound and the Great Dane.

“Hello boys,” I said, rubbing the base of each dog’s ears. Maiko snuggled into my arm, and Ranger attacked me with his tongue while Dennis rested his long, grey head in my lap, simpering up at me with those wide bug eyes.

I laughed as Dennis started drooling slightly, and stood up, giving him an extra pat on the head.

“I’ve got to go do homework you guys, sorry!” Every dog seemed to comprehend my words, and all their ears drooped, except for Maiko’s. She was my sweet lapdog, and he went everywhere with me when I was home. She’d already fallen asleep with her head nestled in the crook of my elbow.

Dennis and Ranger turned around, and I listened to the clacking of their claws as they ran down the hallway and toward the kitchen where, no doubt there was food waiting for them.

.X.

I’d just finished my calculus homework when the intercom on the wall next to my door crackled to life.

“Belle, dinner’s ready.” Estella’s voice floated across the room to me, heavy with her spanish accent. I lept up and danced to the intercom.

“Be right down!” I was especially eager for dinner tonight, because that morning Estella told me we were having tacos (I missed good Tex-Mex so much from when I was 12 and we moved from Texas), and because I would get to hear the news. Not knowing what was happening had been eating away at me. I hated not knowing things.

I took the elevator down this time, though in retrospect it really did take longer than just running all the way to the kitchen.

On regular days we ate meals in a small nook protruding from our kitchen, with a large picture window looking down on us. Tonight was no different; the moonlight was shining down on the shiny plates we ate on, reflecting back upwards.

“So, mom…” I’d eaten about all I could, and I still hadn’t found out what the news was. My mom, who was outwardly like an older version of me, sent a knowing glance to my father; a short and stocky balding man.

“So, Belle…” she mocked me. She knew I was dying.

“Tell me what’s going on! Please! I must know!” I never, ever used that begging tone with anyone. My mom sent a triumphant look to my father. I drummed my fingers on the table impatiently.

“Well, you know Greg and Clarissa?” she asked, referring to her best friend and sorority sister from college and her husband.

“Yeah, what about them?” I’d only met them once when I was 9, but my parents were very tight with them. They always talked on the phone together; Greg and Clarissa were still living in Houston.

“Their son, Blake, he’s about a month older than you, they’re sending him up here because he got into some er… trouble at his school. They don’t want him there anymore, so we offered to take him in! He’ll be arriving next week!”

I froze, my eyes wide open. I couldn’t remember Blake, but having a teenage boy in the house was not something I was looking forward to, especially one that got into “trouble” at his school, enough trouble to have his parents send him across the country!

“Sweetie, he’s a really nice guy. I think you’ll like him,” my dad said, trying to coax me out of my momentary panic attack.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is,” I said smoothly, getting over me brief shock. I didn’t want to lose my cool now. No way.

Blake would listen to me and do everything I wanted him to, like most people did. Most likely, he’d just be an annoyance.

A/N: I hope you like the first chapter! This is one of those stories I’m really dedicated to writing, I think it’s going to be fun. I’m sorry I had to delete “Dark Secrets and Desperate Dreams” I’ve hit MAJOR writer’s block, and it’s not like anyone was really following that story anyways.

Please review! It’ll make my day! New Chapter next Sunday!