|The Boy with the Broken Smile
Author: Music.Sets.Me.Free PM
Bridget's life is turned upside down when she has to leave everything behind. She hates change. Then she meets the boy who is everything she isn't. She meets the boy who isn't afraid of anything. She meets the boy with the broken smile.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Drama - Chapters: 9 - Words: 11,474 - Reviews: 19 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 7 - Updated: 06-18-12 - Published: 12-17-11 - id: 2980282
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
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"We are moving?" I gasped, appalled by what I was hearing. How could my day suddenly go from great to bad? It was a normal Monday, and the weather was unforgivably average. It was noon and it was already nearing the triple digits. Yet, I liked it. I liked the normalness of the heat in the summer. It felt so right.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding a chicken olive salad and glass of milk like I did every Monday. My mom sat at the table, holding the newspaper. She seemed so calm, as if this was no big deal. She was dressed in her pink robe, her hair pulled into a perfect bun, and her make-up was applied as if she had somewhere to go.
"Yes, Bridget, we are moving," she repeated, sipping her black coffee and tugging at her robe sleeve. This confrontation was discomforting for her, I could tell. She glanced up at me, her eyes glittering with porcelain tears, "To Alaska."
"The coldest place in the United States," I finished, understanding my mother's tears. We had lived in Texas for years. All of our memories were here. Our hearts were here. "Why?"
"It's the only place I can find a job," mother sighed and put her hands on her forehead, "I'm so sorry sweetie, but I can't go without a job."
I sat next to her at the table. My chicken and olive salad didn't look so good anymore. "When do we have to leave?"
"The job starts in two weeks," she replied, sipping her coffee. She didn't let her tears slip down her face. I didn't allow for tears to form. I bottled up all of my emotions. It was already hard for my mother, and I didn't have to make it worse.
I forced myself to eat my chicken and olive salad, because I had to pretend that today was a normal, good Monday. I drank my milk, and at exactly one o' clock, I went for a run. I wanted to run for longer, because it made me feel better. Yet, I had to pretend that nothing was different. So, I finished running and took a shower, and then picked up a book.
It was hard to read the book. My mind kept straying to the fact that I was moving. I was moving far, far away. Everything was going to change. I didn't accept change. I read until dinner time and then fixed my mother's favorite meal, bean quesadillas and guacamole. This is what we ate every Monday for dinner.
Then I went to the Forbidden Room. I hadn't entered for two years, and today, I had to. This Monday was different, whether I accepted it or not. I flung open the white door and entered the art room. The walls were covered in paintings, the floor splattered with spilled paint. There was still an open beer bottle on the messy desk. The FM radio was still playing, as it had constantly for 2 years.
Mom came up behind me, and I knew this was harder for her than it was for me. She stared at the room, "We can't move any of this."
"We have to," I forced myself to say. I felt so empty and cold for saying such a thing. How could we move anything? How could we throw these treasures into boxes?
"Should we leave this behind or take them with us?" my mom asked, tears sliding down her face. She was looking at the paintings on the wall. Most of them were of her. They almost looked like photographs; they were so detailed and perfect. They caught the glitter in my mother's eyes, and her red hair with a tint of blonde. Her slight smile. It was all there.
"We should leave all of this behind. We should start new," I whispered, listening to the hippie song on the FM radio. I hated this kind of music, but I didn't dare turn it off. "We should start boxing this up tomorrow."
"I wish it was that easy," she replied and quickly left the room. My mother wasn't as strong as I was. She couldn't handle or hide her emotions. I took one last look and turned out the light and closed the door. I blocked out any old emotions. My heart turned to stone.
I boxed up the art room by myself. Mother took care of the rest of the house. We had to leave at random times for those who looked at our house. No one ever offered. Our house was pleasant, but simple. It was always uncomfortably clean, like a finger print would just mess everything up. I don't think anyone offered because they couldn't see this as being home. For me, this was the only home I would ever have.
I finished up the art work, and then noticed something in the corner. I picked it up. It was a photograph of my father. He was standing in front of this house, a huge smile on his face. He was young. This must have been just after my parents had gotten married and they were excited about their first house. He was so happy.
But you can't be happy when you are dead.
For the next two weeks, my mother and I both tried to stick to our routines. I would eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on Tuesday, like I did every Tuesday. I would eat tortilla soup on Wednesday's, and a weight watchers meal on Thursday's. I would run every day at one. I would read until dinner time.
Then it was time to leave. It was time to leave 104 degree weather. It was time to leave everything I had ever known.
It was time for change.