Chapter One
When I picture paradise, the first thing that comes to mind is birds. They flit from tree to tree, glinting red as ripe strawberries, green as the soft flesh of avocados, indigo and violet as deep as the endless night sky. Long feathered tails follow them like other-worldly shadows, so beautiful that it breaks my heart. They sing and dance, pirouetting, performing their own treetop version of the Nutcracker. It is a hot and steamy jungle that these birds live in, a world dominated by mist, the smell of spring rain, and another heavenly scent that I cannot identify. Sweet babbling brooks, on the way to nowhere fast, slide over worn river rocks older than time itself. Trees tower on all sides, forming a thick wall of foliage in every direction. The branches hang low with the weight of the lush, juicy fruit they hold on the ends of their branches. Sunlight glimmers down through the leaves, twinkling like stained glass, illuminating before me the winding path that stretches deeper into the jungle.
In this paradise, however, I always imagine myself alone. Just me and those birds.
* * *
On the first anniversary of my twin sister’s death, when I was five years old, I ran away from home. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and my mom had spent the first half of the day trying to transform herself into a literal couch potato, so I surreptitiously packed random clothes into my new Kim Possible suitcase and slipped out the door. I was not surprised to realize that she did not notice me leave.
I had walked only two blocks - I was planning to run away down the sidewalk, which was not my most extraordinary stroke of brilliance - and was nearly to the edge of my neighborhood when an old brown Corolla rattled to the curb beside me. I stopped and stared defiantly through the passenger’s side window. I had learned about stranger danger, but just because I knew I should stay away from people offering candy and asking me to help find lost dogs didn’t mean I actually would. I was almost disappointed to discover that, as the window rolled down, it was only rat-faced Mrs. Calhoun, my neighbor. “Dear,” she said in that nasally, annoying voice of hers, “what are you doing?”
“Running away,” I informed her. At five years old, I did not understand the concept of secrecy.
She pursed her lips so hard that it looked like she did not have any. “Well,” she said. “Why don’t you come to my house for a bit? I have lemonade. And cookies.”
I paused to contemplate this for a moment. It wasn’t like I had a time deadline for running away. Surely stopping for refreshments couldn’t hurt. Plus, they’d fill me up and maybe I could save some cookies in my suitcase for later. “Okay,” I finally agreed.
She helped me cram my suitcase into her trunk and I climbed into the back seat. The entire way to her house, she chattered about mundane things, like how the weather was nice and how she needed to mow her grass. I only half paid attention; I was more fascinated to realize that the world looked totally different from inside Mrs. Calhoun’s Corolla. Instead of seeing my neighborhood’s less-than-perfect features as endearing, as I always had, all I could see was the front doors that were falling off their hinges, the paint that was chipping off too-old siding, the missing and fractured stair railings. I found that as we passed my house, at first I did not recognize it.
Now, as the social worker’s Prius bumps along through the industrial wasteland that is Ohio, this is all I can think of. How being on the other side, just for a moment, can completely change your perspective.
I cannot remember the social worker’s name, even though I know for a fact she has told me it at least four times. I’m not bothering to remember because we are only an hour from the airport, where we will part ways and I will never have to see her again.
I suppose maybe I’m being unfair. She is being awfully nice, trying to make conversation and taking four hours out of her day to drive a delinquent like me to the airport. She’s probably doing the state a favor, getting me out of here. I wonder if they’re paying her extra. It is not really her fault; I dislike her on principle. Me and social workers have not had the most friendly past.
Like all those years ago at Mrs. Calhoun’s. After she took me to her house that day, and fed me stale cookies and sour lemonade, she called someone on the phone. She kept looking over her shoulder at me while speaking in a low voice, like she thought I’d run away from her too. And she had that look on her face - the one I came notice over the years that adults always gave me whenever my mom came up in the conversation. Like they pitied me, but what did they know?
About twenty minutes later, a black-suited man showed up at Mrs. Calhoun’s door, brandishing a clipboard and a pen that he clicked too much. He sat down at the table with me and kept asking lots of questions, like what it was like at home and if my mom ever drank alcohol.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make him understand. I wasn’t running away to get away; all I wanted was to see if anyone would notice I was gone.
“So,” Social Worker asks, awkwardly clearing her throat, “do you see your aunt a lot?”
I stare out the window. The scenery - or lack thereof - flashes by so fast that it is but a green and brown blur. “I didn’t know I had one until two days ago.”
Her lips make a small ‘o.’ “Well, I’ve talked to her on the phone. She seems very nice. I’m sure you’ll like her.” Honestly, I couldn’t care less whether or not I like her; I’ll only have to stay with her for two years before I can go to college. What remains to be seen is whether or not she will like me. I say nothing, so Social Worker turns up the radio. It is not the kind of music that should be played above the level of ‘background noise.’ It is purely instrumental. I have the urge to turn it off altogether, but I restrain myself. At least she’s trying, which is more than the others have done.
Ever since that day at Mrs. Calhoun’s, social workers have become common visitors. Over the years, I have learned how to deal with them. Be polite, but not overly so. Talk, but not too much. If they try to overstep boundaries, get a little defensive. But again, not too much.
They always questioned whether or not my mom was a fit parent, which, of course, there’s no way they could really know because they didn’t live in my house.
To be honest, I thought I’d be able to keep doing what I was doing, sliding under the radar until I was eighteen, but then the Socies got serious. And now they think they can transplant me and make my life better. But they don’t know anything; I’d rather be in Ohio than any other place in the world, which they will discover soon enough. I will run away to back home before the year is over.
Socie sips her Starbucks and flips on the turn signal as we pull onto an exit ramp. My only hope for Arizona is that it will be prettier than Ohio. “Do you see the rest of your family a lot?” she asks.
“I don’t have other family.”
“No cousins, grandparents?”
I shake my head.
“Older siblings, maybe?”
I nod after a long pause. “I had a sister.”
Socie does not pick up on my past tense usage. “Oh, really? Where is she?”
I blink. “Parkhill Cemetery.”
She makes that ‘o’ thing with her lips again. Maybe I could have been nicer, but the shock value never gets old.
“Are you married?” I ask her.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she swiftly replies, but her face has turned the same scarlet as her blouse.
“Why not? You keep asking me questions.”
“It’s my job.”
“No, your job is to take me to the airport.”
She purses her lips. “Miss McGillroy,” she warns, in a you’re-pushing-it tone of voice.
“What? It is.”
“That’s correct. But you’re not making it any easier.”
“I didn’t realize it was my job to make your job easy.” It surprises both of us when she pounds her fist on the steering wheel, accidentally hitting the horn. She holds her tongue and says nothing but looks incredibly frazzled. I smirk out the window.
It’s not my fault, really, that I’m so grouchy. I haven’t painted in three days, and when I go more than even twenty four hours without touching a canvas I get irritable. With all the craziness of the past few days, I’ve barely had time to eat, let alone for leisure activities. I lean my head against the cool window and look at the sky. It is an ugly ever-present gray. I have the urge to take it and paint it all away; make it something beautiful instead.
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Read more of All I Know of Hate in progress on Wattpad! Be sure to vote and fan, I'm WelaraJumper.
I don't much like the ending.
Any suggestions for this chapter? What did you think? Chapter Two gets VERY interesting and it's nearly done, so I hope to upload it, like, ASAP.
