Young Writers Society

One

Aunt Melanie

For as long as I can remember, it had always been Mom, Tom, and me, living in our RV. Tom and I’d practically grown up on the road, on what can only be described as an extended field trip of America’s greatest historical sights and (and some of its worst ones, too).

If you visit the faculty profiles page at the Middlebrook Online High School, you’ll see that Sharon Jefferson (that’s my mom) teaches courses in global and American history. But, as her one-paragraph bio will explain, she doesn’t limit her love of history to her virtual classroom; hence my brother’s name. And don’t think I got off any easier when it came to choosing my name – I’m Abigail Adams Jefferson. It could’ve been worse, though. At least she hadn’t called me Sally.

Since Mom was a licensed teacher, she took care of Tom’s and my schooling. Now, Tom was enrolled at Middlebrook so he can get a diploma, but I was still stuck doing one-on-one assignments with Mom. Except that you couldn’t even learn geometry without delving into the lives of Pythagoras and Archimedes, I was actually pretty okay with that arrangement. Mom said I could sign up for an online program in sixth grade, though, and I’d just finished with fifth.

Although we were constantly on the move, never quite knowing where we’d be heading next until Mom consulted a road map, in some ways, life for us was pretty routine. I was pretty okay with that too, and as far as I knew, so was Tom.

Then, Aunt Melanie had to make contact and, as she often does, send our neat little routine a teensy bit out of control. Only this time, it wasn’t going to be as teensy as usual.

Mom and I had been pressing some wildflowers at the kitchen table for one of my science projects when Tom came over with Mom’s netbook tucked under one arm. That familiar popping sound that signaled a Skype call was bleep-bloop-bleeping from its tiny speaker.

“It’s for you,” Tom said quickly, placing the laptop in Mom’s open arms. The table was already too crowded with the books I was using for my flowers.

Mom told me we’d get back to them later and hurried into her bedroom to take the call. We did share the room, but she liked her space when she was catching up with friends and stuff like that. The one thing we were always trying to compensate for in the RV was the lack of privacy.

By the time Mom was finished chatting and laughing about old high school acquaintances, I’d put some soup up on the stove and Tom was finishing his fourth sandwich.

“Have some soup, Mom,” I offered, ladeling the mixture of steaming tortellini and tomato sauce into a bowl.

“Thank you, Abby,” said Mom. ”That was your aunt Melanie on Skype. She wanted to know if we’d all like to come to her place for a few weeks during the summer. She told me she’s trying to start up a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Her … place?” I repeated, exchanging skeptical glances with Tom. Aunt Melanie lived in a cramped, one-room apartment in New York City. The last time we’d visited, we didn’t stay the night. If Mom expected us – or anyone else – to last more than a week there, we’d have to be shrunk like Mike Teevee from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to fit at all, comfortably or not.

It seemed that Mom sensed our concern. ”She’s moved to a much nicer – well, larger – place, don’t worry. And she invited us to come help her fix it up!”

Tom and I just gave each other another set of skeptical looks.

“Oh, c’mon, you two,” Mom chided us gently. ”This is going to be fun!”

I sighed resignedly. The meaning of fun would be up to interpretation, but at least the three of us would be together.

* * * *

The morning after we’d gotten her invitation, Mom entered Aunt Melanie’s new address into her GPS. Faster than you could say “No, I don’t want to go,” we were going on our way.

Aunt Melanie has been my mother’s friend since high school. By the way, she isn’t really my aunt, but she likes being called one. She likes to think she acts like one too.

Since she doesn’t have any kids, it’s no surprise she doesn’t know how to treat them like real, competent people. Just between you and me, I think Tom and I – especially Tom – have long outgrown pet names like “sweetie pie” and “honey child”.

While Mom went off to college to pursue a master’s degree in (yeah, you guessed it – ) history, Melanie stayed behind to become an artist. I haven’t the foggiest how house renovation came into her repertoire of passions, as she calls them. Yeah, she’s one of those people, the melodramatic daydreamer type.

Buckled into the recliner chair, I peered out the window at the constantly-changing scenery. We’d gone from densely wooded camping grounds to rural suburbs to urban cities, but now, I could smell the ocean and the houses we passed were more like dilapidated beach houses and fishing shacks. There was even a weather-beaten old sign that read, Wel ome to Se port.

How quaint, I thought, expecting we’d only just be passing through. But boy, I was wrong.

“Arriving at destination in one miles,” the GPS’s electronic voice intoned. ”Turn right.”

And then, for the first time, I saw Melanie’s new place. I could she why she thought it could use some fixing up.

The house — or should I say mansion? — was ancient, and its age showed. The boarded-up windows were flanked by rickety shutters that just barely hung from their mountings. The paint, which must have been red at some point, was now a wimpy shade of pastel pink where it wasn’t completely peeled off by the beating sun.

In skinny jeans and a pink sweatshirt several shades louder than the house, Aunt Melanie came running out and into the circular dirt driveway. She stood just within view, waving her hands up and down like the cheerleader she’d once been in high school and blowing kisses at us.

“Hey, Sharon!” she called out.

Inside, Mom just pursed her lips and tried to concentrate on backing in the RV without running her friend over.

Finally, it was parked to her satisfaction, Mom ran out of the car and hugged Aunt Melanie, who was squealing like a little girl.

“Welcome to Seaport, you guys! Ooooh, I haven’t seen you in ages!” Melanie gushed. ”And look at your little angel babies,” she added, pointing at Tom and me, presumably the most angelic pair of offspring you ever did see. ”They’ve grown again!”

Yes, Aunt Melanie, I wanted to say. Tom and I haven’t grown much since Thanksgiving, when you saw us last. My hair’s not getting any lighter. No, I’m not dyeing it. Tom hasn’t been working out either. And Mom still isn’t interested in dating, so don’t ask me to talk her into it.

“Hi,” was all Tom said. He was good at keeping his cool in the face of annoyingness. Believe me, I’ve tried everything.

“Come on inside, you guys!” called Melanie, leading the way into the building.

Hesitantly, I followed Mom, Tom, and Aunt Melanie through the front door.

It seemed Aunt Melanie had had a head-start on fixing the house up, but not by much. The foyer was dank and musty; if dust had a smell, it would have to be like the air in here. Some over-energetic pop singer’s voice blared from a radio somewhere in the great beyond.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Melanie said, mock-seriously bowing low.

“It’s a nice place, alright,” Mom replied, looking around. ”We all ate something on the ride down, so I think we’re ready to help out as soon as you want us.”

Aunt Melanie looked surprised. ”Noooo,” she emoted, dragging out the word. ”I wouldn’t ask you to do that! Where will you be staying? I want you guys to get upstairs and claim your rooms – we’ve got plenty!”

Like the mother hen she wasn’t, Aunt Melanie herded Tom and me up the stairs to a wide hallway lined with doors.

“Take your pick,” she whispered suspensefully, placing her arm around my shoulder.

Wriggling out of her reach, I made a beeline for the door at the end of the hall. I just wanted to be as far away from her as possible.

“Excellent choice, girl!” Melanie called after me. ”That side of the house has a great view of the beach–”

CRACK!

No sooner than I stepped inside did my foot fall through the floor!

“You alright, sugar?”

“I think I’m stuck,” I admitted weakly. The last thing I wanted was to be rescued from a big, bad hole in the floor by Aunt Melanie.

It took a bit of elbow (and kneecap) grease before my ankle was finally free. Melanie was convinced I’d seriously injured my foot, but I could walk fine. After my sleeping bag was positioned on sturdy floorboards, I made my way back down the stairs.

“What happened to your leg?” Mom asked, walking in from outside with her overnight bag. Already, a dust bunny had found its new home in her hair and her pants were covered in grime.

I shrugged. ”Just a few scratches, is all.”

“Not from a nail, was it?”

“Nah.”

“Good,” Mom replied, visibly relieved. ”If you’re feeling up to it, Tom’s gotten started on arranging some photos on the mantle in the sitting room. Melanie wants this place to have a homey, family-friendly feel to it when guests arrive.”

I’m pretty sure Aunt Melanie would’ve described it in even flowerier words, like an aura of calming, refreshing, home-away-from-home-like vibes.

Without protest, I joined Tom in what was apparently called the sitting room, where he sat among a box of photos. Several of them lay around him like giant pieces of confetti. He didn’t look too happy.

“Abby, she wants to display our baby pictures!” he groaned. ”How many of these has Mom send her over the years?” With an expression of great pain, he held up a photo of himself on his sixth birthday.

With two teeth missing from that frosting-covered smile and a halo of blond curls, he looked like a cake-loving little angel. A little angel who’d grow up to be a little, raspberry-making, hair-pulling devil.

Finally, it all made sense to me. Aunt Melanie wanted to show off pictures of a family, but not necessarily her family.

“I feel exploited,” I said dismally.

“‘Exploited’ too strong a word,” Tom replied, not missing a beat. ”But I can’t say I disagree with you.”

I held up a picture of Mom and the two of us from our trip to the Grand Canyon a couple of years back. ”At least when people see this one, they’ll realize we aren’t Melanie’s kids.”

Together, the three of us made a strange picture. Mom is petite next to tall, athletic Tom, but it’s easy to tell they are family; they both have fair hair, freckles, and hazel eyes. You wouldn’t even know I was related to them with my dark hair and clear skin.

“Abby darling!” Aunt Melanie sang out from upstairs. ”When I said you could pick your room, I meant on condition that you kept it neat, babydoll!”

Couldn’t she get by with picking on Tom for awhile?

Sighing heavily, I pushed aside the box of pictures I’d been going through. Some of the photos scattered as I stood up, but I told myself I’d get back to them later on. So much for neatness.

I looked helplessly at my brother. I couldn’t be in two places at once, but I didn’t want to upset Aunt Melanie. I’ve heard her talk to Mom about the fights she’s had with men. At least according to her own accounts, she’s a force to be reckoned with when she’s angry.

“We’ll survive this,” Tom said reassuringly.

I tried to smile and act like I believed him. I can’t say I succeeded.