I would like to thank all the people who previously posted a review on this story. Thank you so much. Your advice was incredibly helpful.
People always asked me what I wanted to be. When I was young, the answer always varied. One time I remember being asked by my mom’s new boyfriend (now old ex). Boy did it shock him when I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I want to be better than you.” That scared him off fast.
Other times I would answer with the obvious. Ballerina, a clown, a teacher, a vet, a doctor, an actress, a singer, you know, the stand-bys. But when high school started, suddenly saying you wanted to be a clown didn’t really get you laughs anymore, usually just confused looks and awkward silences. So, I knew that soon I would have to come up with something legit. After some intense searching on Google and some soul searching, I came up with nothing. Good thing Mr. Kroner pointed me in the right direction.
Mr. Kroner was an old man in his seventies. He wore lots of suits in a thousand different colors, ties with cartoon charactors on them, and always smiled when I entered the classroom. Behind his old Harry Potter glasses he would smile and say, “You’re going to do something big.” He was a weirdo, I’ll give you that, but he was the only person up to that point who had ever given me the time of day. For some weird reason, I started to believe him.
He taught an elective for sophomores called “Architecture 101”. At first, I only took it because I knew it would look good on a college resume, you know, if I decided at some point I wanted to go to college. Eventually though, I loved his class and began to excel. So it only made sense that he insist that I go to a summer camp that he happened to be sponsoring. Having practically no friends and no life at the time, I decided to go. That began the only part of my life worth telling.
*
“Samantha Marie Parker, don’t even think about it.” My mom liked to yell a lot. Even in the car on what was supposed to be a good day, it made no difference. Yelling was yelling: she did it everywhere. She tried going professional with yelling, but that didn’t turn out too well, so she stayed in minor league yelling instead. Any place we were together was her yelling Yankee Stadium. I stared out the window at the dandelion infested grass flying by. I closed my eyes and imagined myself taking one and blowing it as hard as I could, wishing my wish for silence would come true.
My eyes opened and nothing happened. I coughed loudly, faking a cold, and said, “I don’t want to go anymore. It’s a stupid waste of money.” In all honesty, I was just voicing her opinion.
“Who is the mom around here?” It was rhetorical question, I knew, because if it wasn’t I’d have to tell her the real answer. “That’s right. Me. Therefore I’ll do all the worrying about money. You go to this stupid camp and enjoy yourself.” The way she said it made it sound more like a threat than some kind of encouragement.
My eyes shifted back to gaze out the window. My mom should have been a step-mother, she fit the stereotype. She was cruel, hasty, and judgemental. I could even imagine her being cast in a remake of Cinderella. Sadly though, she was my real mother, though I was convinced otherwise.
Slowly the car approached the end destination. It was a mansion; I swear it was hugest thing I’d ever seen. It was even bigger than the lies my mom told me. She quickly kicked me out of the car and wished me some words of false support. I couldn’t quite remember what they were because I was too busy looking at my project, my building.
It was a washed out crème color, with a dark brown roof and dozens upon dozens of windows that all seemed to be broken. It had beautiful crimson shingles and miniature gargoyles. I guessed that it was probably made in the mid-1800s, to be honest, I wasn’t really guessing. I snuck a glance at the corner stone, which proudly was carved 1859 . It was surrounded by evergreens and large bulky bushes that hadn’t been well maintained since the original owner lived there or so it seemed.
The mansion was so beautiful that I actually had to remember to breathe. Slowly I forced myself to go inside. I didn’t want to be late on my first day. I’d save that for, you know, the second day most likely. I turned the brass doorknob and stepped inside. I was surprised by the cool rush of air that hit my face and felt a shiver roll down my spine. With the door open, the contrast between the hot summer’s day and the cold indoors was astonishing. Rubbing my arms furiously in a pathetic attempt to warm myself, I haphazardly closed the door with my elbow and stood uncomfortably in the foyer.
I wasn’t sure if I should speak up, or just wait for someone to notice I was there. I decided to do neither. I started walking around the house in awe of the architecture. It was as elegant as the palace in Versailles and decorated like when the Roosevelt’s were in the White House. Portraits of famous French and American war heroes flowed from room to room. Even though I was a terrible history student, I was able to identify George Washington and General Lafayette, whatever his first name was.
“Who are you?” Asked a deep voice behind me. Startled, I turned to see an elderly man wearing a grey suit and a purple paisley tie looking at me suspiciously. In contrast with his otherwise proffesional apparel, he wore Nike tennis shoes on his feet. Real classy. “Well? Who are you exactly?” He glanced down at a clipboard in his hands and flipped through the pages. “Sharon Stone? Mary Korlinic? Probably not Timothy Zemith. . .” He muttered.
I answered for him, “I’m Sam Parker.”
He looked up at me and gave a low chuckle, “I’m guessing that’s short for ‘Samantha’, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I stated plainly. The moment seemed really awkward. I was tempted to make small talk but he had his own agenda apparently.
“Follow me into the Parlor. You’ll meet your team there and I’ll explain everything. I’m Jeffrey by the way and will not respond any type of name with the word ‘mister’ in it, so don’t think about sucking up.” He started walking farther into the middle of the house, into unknown territory. I was a little surprised by this man, probably in his seventies, being so snippy. I thought at some point over the age of sixty you mellowed out, like old age basically made you free of the angry and harsh attitude I knew many young people possessed. Apparently this guy didn’t get the memo.
He led me first through an extravagant dining room, with a table right out of the painting of the Last Supper and wooden chairs carved with intricate knobs and curves. Next was a smaller room that had only one velvet loveseat in the corner surrounded by five foot stools, even though the couch could not hold more than three people at the most. Lastly, we reached a large room with high ceilings, beautiful emerald green sofas, and four of my fellow teammates, as Jeffrey had called them.
) I'll do the concept part.
. I would also suggest naming these characters if you wish to make this into a story. It is cumbersome to refer to them as the architecture teacher and the guy at the mansion.
