Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll: Part 1

Just A Little Too Hard

New short story. There should be three parts to it...I think...anyways, ENJOY!!! (Readers of POD, there's a link for you at the bottom with some important info...)

Some would think this obscenely cliché, I must have read stories like it a hundred times in those kid books. Some pretty girl moves to a new town with a new house and of course, tops it off with a new school.

I know you’ve heard it, you must have, it is of course the very thing that so many people both fear and hope for. A new chance, a second start. Or maybe they just like the fact that they can be whomever they chose.

They told me to be myself, that everybody would love me no matter what. Well duh they said that! They’ve been my friends since the dawn of time, I would bet that we even spoke to each other in our mothers wombs. It was a weird conversation indeed.

“So how are you doing?” One would probably ask.

“Alright, I still don’t have my stupid fingers yet. I feel like a fish, all webbed and wrinkled…I think I have gills. Ew. That’s disgusting.”

The other would laugh and say the same thing. It’s true. We were an odd bunch.

Anyways, right now you’re probably wondering, what’s with the tangents? Right? Fine then, I’ll tell you. I’m just looking for a way our of telling you though. Telling you how I handled change in the worst possible manor, how I shamed my parents and myself. How I became a disgrace to the world. All because I tried too hard.

I can’t really start without telling you a semi-important detail, without which none of this would have happened.

I’ll admit, I was one of those girls who was strangely pretty, and I knew it. Not that I would gloat about it and wear skanky clothes and all kind of crap on my face, just that I knew. I could look in the mirror, see my naturally deep red hair, bright green eyes, and freckles, and just think, ‘if only I knew what to do with myself’.

The friends I hung out with were also pretty, in that, ‘Yeah, pretty, but not amazing’, kinda way. I put myself into that crowd of loose jeans and tee-shirts that were a minimum of two sizes bigger than they should have been. Thus, we were not the most looked at people at our high school. But to us, we were just fine.

So when I found out I was moving (yes, I realized I jumped off the track again) things changed. I didn’t tell anyone for a few weeks, not until my mom walked in the door with empty boxes. That’s when it felt real.

There was a going away party, where we just sat in a circle, staring at each other. Praying that somebody would just say something. Night came, and we fell asleep without a word. I woke up before the rest, even more miserable than I could imagine, but glad that my quiet group of friends was here, it was wordless comfort, insurmountable wordless comfort.

I left later that month, all of the boxed had already left in the truck a few days before we had to leave. I walked out of my room, down the hall and the stairs exactly as I had every other day in my life. The same path for sixteen years. Now that I was leaving it, everything was much more significant somehow.

I went into the kitchen, with it’s linoleum tile. Slippery when wet. I remember when I was seven I dropped a plate I was washing on the floor and got soapy water all over it. It wasn’t long before my butt hit the ground, and my mom was there comforting me.

Mom. She was my best friend. I guess I can’t really sum her up in a paragraph and do her justice. A novel maybe, but I’m not writing a novel. Her story will just have to be left as is. Untold.

Through the kitchen I entered the dining room. It was empty, of course, our gratuitously huge table was already on it’s way to California. The dining room table was where all huge news came out. Our “Family discussions” which basically meant: brace yourself, this could be bad. That’s where they told us we were moving.

From there I went into the family room. It was also empty, where it used to have a huge TV that I worshiped for days, there was wall. Where there had once been the most comfortable couch imaginable, there was stained carpet. But those were my stains, and that was my carpet. I gloomily went to the next room.

It was a bathroom, I just looked in it and moved on. Each room in turn, bathrooms, bedrooms, garage, each room special in it’s own way. Each had a past that I knew, and the new owners would not. They didn’t know how I hit my head on the sink in the bathroom on the second floor and had to get seven stitches on my forehead. Or how I once fell down the stairs and sprained my left wrist. No, the new people didn’t know the history. They were going to make a history of their own. And me? I was

leaving.

A car horn honked from in front of the house, and I realized I was stalling. I left, not daring to look back at the place I had for so long called home.

The car was full, with my little stepsisters in matching jumpers already fussing, my step mom in the front seat talking about how good the move would be. My dad, smiling in agreement. Already I knew it would be a long three days before I got to California, that’s where the real story starts.

ATTENTION POD READERS!!! GO HERE For important information. Read the last post by me and you'll know what's going on!