Spoiler
I wrote this when I was twelve for NaNoWriMo. It is utter and complete ****, but I like the plot. I proofread it, and it's as though it were written by a different person. Also, when I wrote this, I completely forgot to insert chapter breaks, so it was one one big blob up until now. I may have ended this chapter at an awkward point, so feedback on that would be great. Please tear it to pieces.
. . . Red sun in the morning, sailors take warning.
A giant blazing orb, the color of Amber's hair, gravitated into the cerulean sky on that heavy September day -- her first in Marshfield. Although she wasn't a sailor, she took note of the color of the sun -- and the unfortunate color of her frizzy auburn hair -- and thought of it as a bad omen. I was too young at the time to understand.
Amber worried about the birth of her child – my little sibling – to come. Stress wasn't good for her baby, and her protruding stomach growled at her. Amber had to wonder whether that was my already cross little sibling, or her hungry digestive system.
After a bit of contemplation, Amber decided on the latter, and stared at her empty cabinets. She looked at the boxes, the contents of which had been deliberately spilled and placed in scattered sections of our kitchen. The rusty sink faucet eked out a few droplets of chilly water, and Amber wished her husband – my dad – were home, or at least the phone had been connected. I thought it was unjust that we had just moved into our new house, and the faucet was already crusty and brown.
My dad was a firefighter, and I was very proud of him. Whenever we had parents’ day at school, I took my dad in and made him wear his uniform. He came in his rubber suit, and some of the kids in the younger grades were afraid of him. He looked so tough and manly; I knew that I would always be safe with him. He had saved many people’s lives, and would save mine too if he had to.
I was a headstrong girl of nine years old back then, way ahead of my time. I voiced my opinions loudly and was stubborn whenever someone disagreed with me. I would find, though, that my move to Marshfield would make me a bit more timid (maybe for the better) and more lacking of friends than in the past. I appreciated fine arts, and was far too advanced for my third-grade class. Nobody could skip a grade in my old town, especially not a girl. Boys were favored by the superintendent, and he only hired male principals who were extremely sexist.
Amber had previously lived in a town called Exeter, about seventy miles away from Marshfield. Marshfield was a huge center for news, and needed photographers at easy access in the city. The Exeter Times needed publicity, and this could be found with more and more articles about Marshfield. Thus, she came to Marshfield.
Amber had difficulty sleeping that night, as did we all. There’s something terribly intimidating about a house full of dismal boxes.
On her second day at our house, Amber took my clammy little hand in hers, and we walked through the neighborhood, eager to meet our neighbors. Whenever we saw a sweaty man jogging or an elderly woman walking a yappy Cocker Spaniel, Amber introduced us with a smile from ear to ear.
Amber had moved once when she was a child, but I never had. She told me that the new neighbors had given her homemade cupcakes and disgusting slimy gelatin. Although Amber was thankful that she didn't have to digest those horrid confabulations, she wondered why our neighbors weren't friendlier to us. It seemed as though all the other neighbors were stuck together with super glue, and we joined together as the repelling side of a magnet, keeping an invisible wall between us and those unfortunate enough to be in our proximity.
The next Monday, Amber slid on her best maternity top, trying to hide the impediment of her pregnancy. She slipped into her scratched and dented Toyota Camry and drove me to the Marshfield Town Hall, never allowing herself beyond twenty miles per hour. We were going to register me for third grade.
Amber negotiated herself towards the front desk of the prestigious-looking town hall. A rather withered-looking woman – no more that forty years of age – sat at the front desk. She wasn’t doing much, but managed to give off an air of being busily occupied in something of extreme importance.
A coward Amber became, but she pushed herself towards the woman. "Hi!"
The woman, not stirring, silently looked up beyond her granny spectacles. After studying Amber for a moment, she continued with her stalling work.
"I'm new here."
The same response came from the woman once again.
"I need to register Louise for school."
This time the cranky woman spoke. "Education Department. Fourth door on the left." Her eyes followed the sneer creeping its way up Amber’s disgusted face as she walked – eyes on the horizon – to the fourth door on the left. I wondered why the lady needed to glare.
The fourth door held a small melded glass window, beyond which one could only see a bit of golden light and shadows now and again. The window bore peeling sticker letters: MR. R BERT A. SUNTRY.
Amber gently tapped the door with the tips of her fingers, and, seeing that this wouldn't work, she applied more pressure. After all the weight of her hands had been thrust against the door, she shouldered it, finally getting the door to budge. She burst through the door and clumsily stumbled into the office.
"Good morning, Mr. Suntry!"
"G'morning. I'll forgive you for not knocking just this one time. I hear you're new to the town, Mrs. Lanini?"
"Oh, I'm sorry! I thought that, you know, since it's a swinging door and all, I didn't have to knock. Like, you don't have to knock when you're going into a bathroom with a swinging door, right?" Amber had a mortifying tendency to give too much information when very nervous.
Mr. Suntry was unamused. "Very interesting, ma'am. Now, are you Mrs. Lanini or aren't you? I just got a call from Miss Terry, at the front desk. She said you managed to bother her with a mere eleven words. If I were you, I'd shut my mouth a little bit and try to get people to like me."
Amber blushed, and I clung to the droopy hem of her maternity shirt. "Yes, I'm Mrs. Lanini." Something told her not to ask why 'Miss Terry' would call anyone about her 'annoyance,' much less Mr. Suntry.
"Okay, good. So is this little girl Louise?"
Amber replied in the affirmative, and I was to go to Hephaestus Elementary School. The name sounded cool, so it couldn’t be that bad.
