A Summer to Remember (A Novel)

Thursday June 10th...
Hi guys!
Alright, so in addition to the other novel I'm working on, Xoxo Maria, I'm starting a new one.
It *doesn't mean I'm giving up on Xoxo Maria!* I promise.
And I've never done this, work on two at once, so it'll definitely be a challenge.
Well, so far my new one doesn't have a title, so I just called it A Summer Story. I have no idea what it'll be about yet, only that it will take place in the summer, be meaningful, and be a romantic comedy (since for this week's poll you all voted that your favorite books were love stories and comedies!)
The main character will be named Laura, and her best friends will be called Aimee, Serena, and Ulla.
I'll post the first chapter no later than June 20th.
(See, I have exams that end on the 17th, and on that night I'm having a sleepover with my friend Alexis and we're going shopping for a present for my other friend Claire, and on the 18th it's Claire's going away party because she's moving to a stupid boarding school in the U.S, and our friends are all going to come over and swim in my pool for the party, and I still need time to write the chapter and make it acceptable, and *gasp* I've been talking too long but the point is it will start on the 20th. Alright :])
Thanx for listening,
and I'll talk to you tomorrow!
-Kay.

Friday June 11th...
Okay. Call me impatient. I deeeply apologize :P
But I couldn't help myself! I *had* to write it! I made this whole plot and list of different scenes to add and I just *could not* focus on my studying unless I WROTE THIS CHAPTER :)
So here tis.
Chapter Title Ideas please??
(if it will even let you comment... If not just comment on my main blog what you think of it.)

Chapter One.


“Cockadoodledoo!”
Shut up.
“Cockadoodledoo!”
What is that, anyway?
“Cockadoodledoo!”
Please, I’m begging you…
“Cockadoodledoo!”
Okay, if I hear that one more time, I swear I’ll—
“Cockadoodledoo!”
“Ugh!” I gasp aloud, and my eyelids flutter open. They reveal my bright green eyes, flecks of gold at random, with tiny black pupils on account of the sunlight pouring into my room. I feel warm. My small, bare feet muster up enough force to kick off the white blankets surrounding me, and a cool breeze swoops in through my window and relaxes me. It blows my sunshine-blonde hair back from my face, and I turn and stare, I stare out that window… Long and hard…
At first I don’t know where I am. Roosters, cool breezes, white blankets, sunshine…? It all confuses me greatly. And then it hits me, like a boulder from behind.
I’m not home.
Home is miles away.
I’m in the middle of nowhere, with that crazy aunt of mine. Aunt Abigail, is her name. Though some don’t add the aunt part. I’m the only one allowed to call her that, on account of me being her niece, and my name is… oh yeah, Laura.
Boy, am I out of it.
But you know the feeling, yeah? You must. Haven’t you ever woken up somewhere, and had a complete internal panic attack because you couldn’t remember where you were? That’s how I feel at this moment. And then a flashback occurs.
“Laur, I’ll see you in two months, okay?” my mom told me, kissing my forehead with her bright red lipstick and leaving a smudge. You couldn’t really call it a question, because Questions need Answers and she was not hearing any of my opinions. Nevertheless, I gave it one last shot.
“Mom, I don’t want to spend my summer with Aunt Abby!” I groaned, and tried a puppy-dog face.
“Laura, don’t make this hard for us,” my dad pleaded. He gave me a bear-hug. “You’ll have fun.”
He earned a sassy, teenaged stare.
“And how would that work?” I wondered, narrowing my eyes. “I’m stuck on some farm,” I spat the word, “in the middle of nowhere, without any of my friends, and no service so no computers or cell phones, and oh gosh, dad, will I have to sleep on a haystack?!” My paranoia was getting the best of me.
My parents chuckled.
I gave them a death-glare.
I didn’t want to admit to them that the real reason I didn’t want to go was because I’d miss them immensely.
“Honey, trust us,” my mom instructed. “We’ve never let you down before. I guarantee you’ll have tons of fun, and you can always borrow Abigail’s home phone if you wish to make a call.”
“Do you have to go on a two-month cruise?” I whined.
“Do you have to be so difficult about it?” my mom shot back. I suppressed a smile, at her sharp reflexes.
“Well, bye, honey,” dad gave me another hug. “Our taxi’s waiting.” He kissed me on the nose. “Be good for aunty Abby, okay?”
“Yes dad,” I rolled my eyes, but with a smile. Now my mom hugged me.
“See you August twenty-ninth,” she called as she left, waving.
When the door slammed shut, I ran upstairs to my bedroom window and watched the taxi leave all the way down the road. The yellow colour stood out amongst our plain-Jane street.
And then, when they were finally gone, I sunk into my favorite chair by my laptop, waiting for my aunt to pick me up, and I cried.
I stifle the tears again, staring out my new, strange bedroom window and looking down at not the plain town I was used to but a bright grassy field that seemed to stretch on for infinity (though really only a couple miles) and handfuls of apple and pear trees dotted about.
If I looked down and slightly to the left, I could see a rooftop.
There sat that damned rooster, looking oh so pleased with himself. The sunlight hits his feathery body and illuminates it, casting a dark, rooster-shaped shadow starting at his feet and stretching so far you’d think he was a giant. It must be early, for the sun to be so low…
What time is it, anyway? I wonder. I check my wrist-watch curiously.
“Six in the morning?!” I gasp aloud. I don’t mean to, but it takes me by quite a surprise. See, I’m used to waking up, in the summer, around, I don’t know… twelve-ish? In the afternoon, let’s put it that way. Not at any bloody six in the morning.
Who are these people and what have they done with my sanity?
I hear faint bustling coming from downstairs, so I assume my aunt and uncle are up. Hopefully that little bratty cousin of mine, Sarah, is still sleeping soundly… She calls me a, quote, “Drama Queen,” but I strongly disagree. Drama Queens are over-reactive, insane, cruel people. If they get a splinter they’ll think it will get infected and their life will be over. They expect the worse, the negative, in life. But I, I’m a very positive person. Sure, I overreact quite frequently, as you’ve obviously seen. But that’s just because I live life to the fullest—I’m happy, and imaginative, and incredibly creative once you get to know me…
“Clang!”
“Hee-hee-hee… Whoops!”
“Do you think it woke Laura?”
“Oh, silly, she’s probably getting dressed right now.”
“Abby, darlin’, she comes from New York.”
“So?”
“So, New Yorkers wake up at god-knows-what time… Probably one in the afternoon!”
“Absurd!”
“Just tellin’ ya. I doubt she’ll be up for a while…”
Ugh, they think they know me. They don’t know me. They visit on occasional Christmases, Halloweens, and birthdays but they do not know me and I don’t know why they suddenly think I’m their second child. I huff, ready to prove them wrong, and begin getting dressed.
I choose a loud, bright orange tank top and a short, flowery, high-waisted skirt to go overtop. I like to let my personality show with what I wear. When I’m sad I’ll wear dark colours, when I’m happy I’ll wear bright colours, when I’m envious I’ll wear the most stylish, in-fashion clothes I have, and when I’m trying to prove a point about who I am I’ll wear the most outrageous outfits I can find. Some say “rebellious.” I say “strong-willed.”
I shut the white closet door with a little click, and pad down the soft, carpeted stairs in bare feet. My clear-painted toenails glisten when the sun hits them, and it occasionally catches in my blonde hair and lights it up like spun gold. Softly, I enter the bright kitchen, greeted by tiny rainbows dancing everywhere. They originate from a teensy crystal hanging by another open window, the sun still streaming in…
“Gorgeous,” I breathe, despite myself. When I got here yesterday it was dark, and I was tired, and I didn’t really have time to take in my surroundings. But now I notice this house, and, despite my strong hatred for this whole situation, is actually quite cozy.
Three heads turn.
“Mornin’ darlin’!” hillbilly Reynold greets me. He’s Abigail’s husband. I notice he’s wearing a classic plaid flannel shirt and a cowboy hat, if it’s possible to increase the cliché even more.
“We made pancakes!” Abby smiles, with the regular Canadian voice I’m used to. I smile and nod, regarding the simmering pan with wet dough cooking on the stovetop. And little Sarah’s voice is a mix of them both, but much clearer—crisper, smaller, like a dove flying through the bright summer sky—when she says,
“I shawty the first pancake mom makes.” It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. But instead I forge a smile, and say,
“Sure, sweetie! Go ahead.” I direct my next question at Reynold. “Do you mind if I pour myself a glass of orange juice?”
He tells me where the cups are and juice is, and I down a whole glass in about a nanosecond, and I begin my long day with a sour taste in my mouth.
I know it can only get worse, what with me being cut off from civilization completely and all, and this extreme chaos inside this madhouse (for example, Sarah is now picking her nose with her index finger and putting the same finger in the syrup bottle and then licking it off her finger, while Reynold guzzles milk from the carton, and Abby screws up and burns a pancake, letting out a dainty “Oh, dear!” as she does so).
They just better not make me farm, or else I’ll really die.

Sunday June 13th...
Here's Chapter Two :)
BTW:
Some of the words aren't in italics, by the way, because it takes me a while to make each one italic so I'm just not gonna bother ;P But if you think a word should probably be in italics, it probably is. So just pretend it is :)
N-joy!

Chapter Two.

We sit at the little wooden breakfast table, chewing our sugary pancakes and sipping tangy orange juice at random. Polite conversation goes on, but you can tell it’s still awkward. As I said, they barely know me. And I barely know them, which is why I’m still hanging in uncertainty of weather I’m expected to do chores, like milking the cows and collecting chicken eggs or whatever they do around here. I’ve never been to a farm in my life, and to tell the truth I’m a bit freaked out… But I don’t want to ask because then it would seem like I was offering, which I most certainly wouldn’t do because, let’s face it, I have no idea whatsoever about farms, and I’d probably end up dead in a haystack with a cow on top of me.
Are you feeling the suspense here?
I mean, what would you do if it was your very first day on some random farm, completely in the middle of nowhere, and you didn’t have a clue about the rituals or obligations you were expected to fulfill? My parents deemed me “a generous soul,” but to tell you the truth I’m pretty damn stubborn.
Not that I want my new temporary-family to know that.
“So…” I say hesitantly. “Do you guys usually, like… farm, in the mornings? Or does that go on later in the day? I mean, I really don’t know because this is my first time ever being on a farm, like, in my life, so…” I trail off.
“AH!” I hear a loud noise, and I jump in my seat. What the hell was that? I go into panic mode, and look around to find the source of this thundering noise…
I find the source.
It’s Reynold.
He’s laughing.
I squint at him.
Now Abby’s joining in, and—what now?—so is Sarah. They’re all chortling away, like I’ve just told the funniest joke.
“Doll,” Abby manages between giggles, “do you think we’re, like, poor or something?”
“Um, no?” I guess. I really have no idea.
“So naive!” Reynold gasps mid-laugh. He calms down, and begins to sip his coffee.
“So, no farming, then? But who’s going to milk the cow? There’s no drugstore in sight, so I just assumed you all—” Coffee spurts from Reynolds’s nose, and I bet it hurts like hell but he doesn’t notice because now he’s laughing hysterically again. Abigail pats him on the back while stifling giggles herself.
“Okay, I guess not…” I warily subside. I don’t want to cause any more coffee-spraying or startling noises.
I scowl, thinking it was kind of mean of them to laugh like that. I mean, they think they’re “soooo good,” and “soooo above” farming! What’s with that? They don’t have to flaunt their wealth like that… And embarrass me for asking, for that matter… Farming could be kind of fun but they’re just so prissy that they can’t understand the importance of slaving away to earn a few bucks to live on… Hateful, merciless bastards they all are… Oh, here I go getting carried away again. Bottom line, though? I’m not sure if I like these people. Sure, the house is great, the environment’s great, I don’t have to farm, I’m happy… but they seem so… I don’t know. A bit cruel, I guess.
A good, full two minutes later everyone’s calm and they explain to me.
“I’ve never farmed a day in my life,” Abby tells me with a smile, “and I don’t plan to. We moved to this farm in two-thousand-three because there’s a stable near by and we’re all keen horse-riders,” oh, great, I think, because I haven’t the slightest idea how to ride a horse either, “and the food is very fresh and healthy here.”
“From where?” I ask.
“The food?” says Sarah in her chirpy voice. “We get it from the farm. But not because we farm it.” She rolls her baby-blue eyes and purses her red lips. Someday your beauty will run out, I think scornfully, and all that’ll be left will be your personality. Good luck with that.
“Um, okay… So who does?” I persist, trying to stay on-topic.
“Ol’ Hughie McTucker,” answers Reynold. “We pay him, a’course.”
“Oh,” I say meekly, finally understanding. They pay someone in need to do their work. Probably some middle-aged, hippy man. I imagine him with a pot-belly and much facial hair.
“So how do you, er, make a living?” I wonder, still not resting the topic. What I mean is How Do You Get Your Money but I don’t want to ask it like that.
“Rey works selling real-estate,” explains Abby, patting Reynold’s shoulder and smiling in admiration. Reynold nods, proud of himself. “He drives ten miles out to town every day but the weekends, in our wobbly red jeep—that needs a fixing by the way—and does his job in a big silver building, at his cute little office desk, selling houses to people, mostly over the phones. Don’t-cha, Rey?”
“Yup ah do!” he grins. I smile widely, happy for them. Must be a good life, like this… that is, if you’re not completely used to the hustle and bustle of New York your whole life before.
Finally with answers, I ask to be excused. They tell me Go Ahead. So I put my dishes of soggy pancakes by the sink, after scraping the food into the trash can below. I ask if I can go take a walk outside for a bit, and they tell me By All Means Go For It! So I do. And as I begin out the front door, I marvel at what a fairy-land it all seems like, and for the second time today feel safe, happy, and at home.
The immediate front of the house is lined with flower pots, and a bit farther down, after proceeding down some gray, pebbly steps, there’s a vast garden with many exotic flowers I’d never seen before—if you blur your vision a bit you’ll just see green, with splashes of colour everywhere. It’s truly stunning. And even farther from the garden, I notice as I walk down the stone walkway, is a huge field—the one I saw from my window—stretching on forever, wheat blowing with the wind.
There are occasional patches where food grows, so far off in the distance I can’t tell which food is growing. There’s a little red-and-white barn off in the horizon, and beside it the tiniest house I’d ever seen. But close by there’s only wheat… wheat and trees.
I find the branchiest tree, and place my bare foot on a low limb. In my amaze, I’d forgotten to slip on my flip-flops. Oh well, I decide. It doesn’t really matter.
I continue to climb, the sunshine heating up my hair until it’s so hot I can’t bear it, only to be relieved by a cool wind shuffling through. The green leaves pop against the blue sky, and white clouds in the shape of bunnies gently roll through. My skirt flaps in the wind, and so does my hair, and my hands grasp tightly on the strong, still branches. I keep climbing up, up, up… I won’t stop till I’m on the very, very top… And I’m there.
The view is stunning. I can see everything from here, including things I hadn’t noticed before like cows roaming the far fields and eagles soaring across the horizon. A stubby chicken attempts to fly like that, too, and after a few forced flaps it gives up and falls back to the Earth. Sometimes I feel like a chicken, too—like right now. I feel trapped, unable to escape, doomed to roam the same land over and over and over again. And sure it’s gorgeous now, but after the fourth or fifth week I’ll be getting pretty damned sick of it.
Other times, I feel like an eagle. It’s usually when I’m thinking, daydreaming, or watching a sun set behind a gorgeous natural horizon. I feel like I can do anything; go anywhere; be anybody I want to be. I feel free. Elated. Independent of the world.
All a lie, of course.
I’m really only a chicken.
Only a chicken…
My gosh, who is that?!
I swiftly glance to the object of my focus, a blond boy in scuffed blue jeans and a plain brown t-shirt. His hair is the colour of sand, and behaves like it too—dancing in the wind, trying to escape. He glances up to the sky, probably watching that same soaring eagle I was watching just a minute ago. His eyes… oh my gosh… They’re bright blue; but brighter than the sky. He has long, thick, black lashes that he’s now peering under as he continues raking some leaves, and his lips look parched and dry. I wonder if this gorgeous creature is thirsty?
In two seconds I’m down the tree again, and running into the house in search of a Dasani bottle. I sneak past the living room, where Sarah’s watching cartoons; past the kitchen, where Abigail is loading the dishwasher; and past the computer room where Reynold is sitting, a spreadsheet open on the computer, and a little window of solitaire in the far right corner which he is playing in, neglecting his work. I don’t want to stop and chat with any of them, hence “I sneak.” I find my emergency food & water supply in my suitcase in my room, and quickly take out a bottle. I wonder if he’s hungry… then I think no, he probably doesn’t want my Girl Pop Gummies.
I climb down the “emergency escape ladder,” you know, in case of a fire, and there are pink roses climbing up the side of the house as I pass by, which I try to interpret as mystical and magical and beautiful rather than my honest opinion: pesky thorns poking me like an annoying child who wants her lollipop.
I’m down… I’m free!
I run speedily towards that tree I was in before, and then I see him and I slow down to a stroll. I don’t want him to think I was, like, rushing, like, for him, or, like, anything…
Ahem.
There are those piercing eyes again, staring into my soul…
Get ahold of yourself, you stupid idiot.
“Hey,” I manage, with a weak smile. Are my knees… buckling? At the sight of him? God, I should work out more. I’m so weak.
He looks up from his rake, and his forming collection of auburn leaves, startled. “Oh,” he says, looking very taken aback. “Was I in your property? I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to only enter in your property when Reynold is at work, and I’m especially not supposed to talk with the ladies in the house, which I’m assuming you are, because I saw you in there just a second ago, and I really ought to be going and please tell them I’m deeply sorry and it won’t happen again…” He starts to walk off, abandoning his pile. He has this amazing English accent that makes me melt.
“Wait!” I call after him, running up. I suddenly wish I’d put on some make-up this morning. Ah, well, the “natural look” might be working for me. Who knows.
“What are you going on about?” I tease, poking him in the shoulder. “You’re just an innocent boy, talking to an innocent girl, on an innocent farm in the middle of nowhere. Nobody will mind.”
He stares at me in confusion, scrunching his nose. I notice he has freckles, which I find absolutely adorable. “Who do you think I am?” he suddenly questions, as I’m still dwelling on his cute freckles. His voice is so manly, yet musical…
I rip my gaze away from his face and stare at my bare feet, nervous. “You’re, um… Just a random guy raking? Oooh, maybe you’re from one of those houses over there,” I point to the far-off city, “in the city?”
For the second time today, I’m laughed at.
“Honestly?” he chuckles. It’s not a happy chuckle though; he sounds full of hatred. “Look at my clothes. Look at what I’m wearing. Look at what I’m doing, raking all you’re f*cking goddamn leaves off your stupid wheat farm or whatever the bloody hell this is, anyway, slaving away on five bucks an hour so I can make a living. Leave me alone, rich girl. You have no idea the pain your folks have caused me, and I think I’d rather not socialize with their rich, spoiled daughter. G’day.”
Even when he insults me, that English accent makes it beautiful.
“I’m not their daughter,” I lamely clarify. “I’m their neice.”
He continues walking. I don’t move.
“I had no idea you didn’t like them… You know, to tell you the truth, I’m not so fond of them either. Luckily I only have to spend a summer here, but you… Have you been here your whole life?”
“Pretty much,” he finally speaks, turning around.
“That’s tough.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
It suddenly hits me—he’s the farm boy they were laughing about. Not some old hippy man with a pot belly. Him, this handsome boy with sandy blonde hair and a crooked smile, which I know because he’s smiling at me right this very moment.
“You look… bewildered,” he laughs.
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “I just came here to give you some water, ’cause you looked thirsty, and you’re yelling at me.” I externally pout, but internally grin. I know this’ll fill him with regret.
“Fine, fine. I’m sorry. That was very thoughtful of you, and I’m an ass. Is it too late to accept the offer?”
I try to peer under my eyelashes like he does, but I think it just ends up making me look cross-eyed. I give up trying to look flirty, and toss him the bottle. “Enjoy,” I say, as he catches it perfectly in one hand, still balancing his rake in the other.
“Thanks,” he says, taking a long drink. He swallows. “I mean it. I was dying out here; it’s not usually this hot out.” He takes a few more gulps, and then looks at me as if he’d just gotten a wonderful idea, cheeks still puffed out with water, awaiting the swallow. He does swallow, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips now wet and red rather than chapped and dry, and he asks me, “Hey—want to come over? Just for a bit… I could show you my house. My mom makes these amazing chocolate-chip cookies, and, well, it’s the least I could do to make up for me being a complete jerk.”
I grin openly. “Of course. I’d love to get away from that hell-hole.”
Okay, so it’s not exactly a “hell-hole”… but I wanted to play to our common agreement: the family was bad. It made him smile, so it was definitely worth it.
“What’s your name, by the way?” he asked as we disappeared off into the distance, making our way through the waist-high wheat to that little house I’d seen earlier.
“Laura. What about you?”
“I’m Hugh. My mom calls me Hughie though… incredibly annoying.”
“It’s okay—my mom has a variety of nicknames for me.”
“Oh yeah?”
The image of us walking was getting smaller and smaller, as we got farther and farther.
“Yeah. ‘Pumpkin, Muffin, Tim-bit, Baby, Sweetheart, Honey-bunch… to name a few.”
Laughter.
“So where’s your home town?”
Fade to black, cut scene. Replay. Replay. Replay, as if it always stayed like that, me and Hugh, alone together, forever, without any complications…
Save in BEST MOMENTS OF MY LIFE box.

Monday June 14th...
Okay, so I haven't made much more work on the novel itself, but I have made a lot of work *about* the novel, if that makes sense.
For example, I've created a title page, and a title.
Wanna hear it?
Okay.
It's gonna be called,
"A Summer to Remember."
:)
Like? Dislike? Do tell.
I'll post the next chapter, or part of it, later today but for now I better study for my Socials exam!
Hasta la Vista, my friends.
-Kaleda.

Monday June 14th...
By the way, who's excited for The Bachelorette? :D
*Raises hand as high as it will go, and makes that little "EEP! EEP!" sound*
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
:)
Oh, pfft. Here's chapter three...
what
ever.

Chapter Three.
“Hey, mom,” he says casually, slamming the screen door shut.
“Hi Hughie!” she smiles, poking a batch of cookies roasting in the oven, not looking up. Hughie—I mean Hugh—shoots me a knowing glance. I hold back a giggle. “They seem ready…” his mom murmurs to herself. Hugh clears his throat dramatically.
“What?” she looks up. Then her amber eyes widen, and she gasps, “Oh!” in this really surprised tone. Like Hugh did, she starts to panic. “You’re that new member of the DeVille family…” she begins fumbling through a drawer, continuing, “I saw you… last night you were walking in… Oh, shoot, where did I put them?!”
“Put what?” I mindlessly ask.
“My recopies… I’m so sorry I forgot to get them ready for you, it’s just that…”
Hugh rolls his eyes. “Mom, relax.” He turns to me. “Whenever your people come all the way over here, it’s only for one thing—my mom’s famous recopies. That Abigail person is a terrible cook, god knows she needs all the help she can get, crazy bitch…”
“HUGHIE!” his mom gasps, fire in her eyes. “Do not say those words in front of me, and do not use the Lord’s name in vain. You’re going to hell, you know,” she shrugs. And she’s not even kidding. She’s like a… a just-as-crazy, but nicer version of Abby.
“Yeah, whatever, mom,” Hugh brushes her off. “Laura’s not like that. She’s only Abigail’s niece, and hasn’t inherited any of her jeans, like, at all, and I’ve invited her over not as a superior but as an equal friend.” He clasps his hands in a little-innocent-boy gesture. I laugh.
“Er… okay, I guess. But, I mean… well, okay… Huh. I just—just never thought—oh, well… okay. Uh… h—ahem—he—hello, uh, Laura.” She extends a hand awkwardly, and I shake it confidently, with a strong grasp.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs…” I trail off, not knowing Hugh’s last name.
“Oh! Sorry. Mrs. Johnson, is my name. Oh, but, uh, you can just call me Elizabeth. Pleased to meet you as well.” I smile.
“Take a seat!” she insists, motioning for Hugh and I to sit. We obey, and she takes out the tray of hot chocolate cookies gently, their scrumptious smell wafting up to the air. I gaze for the millionth time today in Hugh’s gorgeous aqua eyes.
And I thought this day would be boring.
I take some time to briefly scan the kitchen area. I see brown, wooden countertops; blue and white plaid napkins and hand-towels; cheap-looking beige dishes. I notice some pictures of Hugh and Elizabeth, and their dad, together; one black-and-white photo of Hugh as a baby, his long, wispy blonde hair surrounding his face like a halo, and his little white teeth revealed as his lips are pulled up into a huge, happy grin; and I notice a few paintings on the walls, which I wonder how they can afford…
“My mom’s a painter,” Hugh comments, noticing me looking. I quickly blush, and look away.
“That’s cool,” I say lamely, caught off-guard. But it is cool. I mean, my two dream jobs are to be a writer, or a painter! Her work is really inspiring, like that one of a single flower blooming in a deserted wheat field… Is there something deep behind that?
“Here you go,” she puts a plate of cookies down in front of us. She kisses Hugh on the top of the head, and he grimaces jokingly. “I’ll see you later, sweetie. I’ve got to finish my portrait.”
“Cool!” I butt in. “Of who?”
Elizabeth sighs, and says in that awesome English accent, “Abigail.” I could tell she was trying hard not to roll her eyes.
“Ew, why?!” I wondered lightly.
“She’s paying me to… I don’t know, for her portfolio or some bloody thing. Well in any case, I’d better go finish it. I don’t want to risk getting fired from my only supporter. Tootle-oo!” And she hastily speed-walks out of there.
Hugh gives me an apologetic shrug. “She still thinks I’m a baby,” he tells me. I suddenly yearn for my mom to be here, giving me cookies, babying me like she always did.
“Oh,” I shrug, munching on a cookie—they’re absolutely delicious, by the way. I was distracting myself. “Good cookies,” I mention, with my mouth full. We both giggle… or in his case, chuckle, since that’s just a manlier version of giggle.
“So tell me more about this place,” I say. “Like, are there any schools here? Any other teenagers for miles?”
“Ohhh yeah,” Hugh says, rolling his eyes like he doesn’t like other teenagers. “Tons of rich guys who think they’re so cool, since they play football and wear Abba, Crumby, and Glitch or something like that. I don’t know. They’re just total assholes, in general.” I was taking a gulp of lemonade when he said that, and I could feel it coming up my nose. I quickly thought of dead kittens and I abruptly stopped. I swallowed.
And then I burst out laughing.
“What?!” he asked in dismay. “What?!” He looked himself over, probably checking for toilet paper on his shoes or snot coming out of his nose. Obviously, he had none. I calmed down, quickly, remembering the feeling of being left out of the loop.
“It’s just that… You called it…” I’m interrupted by another round of giggles. “Sorry,” I gasp in between. “What did you call the clothes the boys wore?”
“Um…” he looks very confused. “Like these designer brands—I think there’s three—called something like Abba, Crumby, and Glitch? Or, I don’t know exactly what they’re called, but something like that. Oh, and there’s also Holly’s Store.” Now the lemonade really does come out my nose. I reach for a cute plaid napkin and if I wasn’t laughing so hard I think I’d die from embarrassment.
Finally I stop, after a few more “What!!!”s from him in playful confusedness. Though under that adorable crooked smile I could tell he really was confused.
“First, it’s a store called Abercrombie and Fitch, and second, it’s another store, similar, called Hollister. Say it with me. Holli-ster.” Now he laughs.
“Holli-ster.”
“Aber-crombie,”
“Aber-crombie,”
“And,”
“And,”
“Not yet!” We both laugh.
“Fitch.”
“Bitch?!” he gasps.
“No… Fitch.”
“Fitch,” he echoes. He truly is adorable.
“Well now that we’ve established our semi-designer clothing brands,” I tease, “let’s move on. How are the girls, here? Cute? Preppy? Gothic?” I silently pray for ‘gothic,’ since I may tend to get a hint jealous.
“None of them,” he shrugs. “More like… abnormal. I mean, some are pretty—well, not pretty exactly, but decent, but their personalities are just…” he shivers. “Abnormal,” he says again.
“That’s weird. I wonder why? And, what do you mean by abnormal, exactly?” I question.
“I mean, like, different. Some are way too punked out; some are incredibly shy; some are just into weird things like pulling the wings off bugs. They all seem lonely, even when they’re together. It’s probably ‘cause they’re kind of cut off of civilization here, you know? They go a little insane.”
“Why don’t the boys?”
“Well they are, too, but at least they get together for street-hockey tournaments and the little ones trade Pokemon cards and race in the giant wheat fields. Boys will be boys, right? But girls… I don’t know, they just don’t hang out much. They’re all so different. I doubt you’ll make any friends.” He gives me a genuinely apologetic look.
“Oh, I… I see,” I stutter. It’s hard to pretend to look completely defeated when inside you’re a hundred percent soaring with happiness. I’ll be the only normal girl in his life! We’ll go out, and then marry, and ohhh—this is the life.
I quickly change the subject, before I start to grin. “So what about you? Do you play in the hockey tournaments? I bet you win,” I flirt. He chuckles, swallowing a bite of cookie.
“Er… not exactly,” he replies honestly. “I don’t really like the other guys here—so full of themselves. And besides, I basically spend all day farming.”
“Aw!” I sympathize. That must really suck… farming. I know I’d dread it.
“Enough about me, though,” Hugh states. “Tell me more about New York! I’ve never been.” And I do; I tell him everything… from the skyscraping-buildings, gigantic shopping malls, and bright lights of Broadway, to the serene nature and wonders of Central Park. I tell him about my friends, but not my past boyfriends… that would be awkward.
Or maybe I didn’t tell him about them because,
Well,
I’ve never really had any. Not any real ones, at least. Sure, I’ve had the label of “girlfriend” and some guy had the label of my “boyfriend,” but it’s not like we ever went out on dates or anything. To tell the truth, we actually avoided each other at school because we were embarrassed about it. Only plus side was, we could refer to each other as “my boyfriend” or “my girlfriend.” I broke it off with him after the first month, because I got bored.
But Hugh is special—I know he’ll be my first ever real boyfriend. There’s nothing remotely boring about him. And, in the middle of nowhere, I must seem like a complete goddess…
Eeheehee.
And we continue talking for hours, and he shows me his messy room and gorgeous back yard, and I meet his dad who is also a farmer.
So, this whole living-with-my-screwed-up-aunt thing is getting off to a good start…
Just like Hugh’s and my relationship.
All this, it all exceeds my extremely high expectations, and I grin openly whenever I think of how awesome life is.
And then the phone rings.
And it all comes crashing down.

Chapter 4.
“It’s Abby!” Elizabeth whispers frantically, covering the mouthpiece with her dry hand. She should really use some moisturizer…
“We can’t tell her Laura’s with us!” Hugh whispers back. Elizabeth nods, and returns the phone to her ear.
“Sorry, Abby,” she says. “I checked everywhere! I just can’t seem to find her. Oh, wait!” I suppose an idea occurred to Elizabeth, because she got this wild fire in her eyes and mischievous half-smile on her lips. “I see her!” she exclaims.
“WHERE,” I hear a loud voice bark from the other line.
“She’s in the field… uh, wandering around.”
“Go wander in the field,” Hugh hastily whispers to me. I wave good-bye and head out the door, still in a state of shock and dismay.
“Yeah, I’ll tell her to go to your house. Yeah, okay. Sorry—yes, Mrs. Hastings. Yes, I will do so. Okay. Alright. Bye, then,” I hear Elizabeth’s faint voice from inside the house. She motions for me to head back. I nod, and run as fast as I can, the sun burning my skin, the wheat whipping my legs, and the cool blue sky taunting me that it’s too high to reach, and I can’t jump in it with a splash. I wipe some sweat off my forehead, squeeze my eyes shut, and just run like there’s no tomorrow.
I can’t piss Abby off.
I can’t reveal my secret.
Miraculously, a plan forms in my head… not a good one, but decent enough, I suppose.
So when I arrive at the gigantic farmhouse, I take a few deep breaths and try to get the flush out of my cheeks, and ring the tiny doorbell. I hear a crisp “Bing!” from the inside.
An angry Abigail opens the door. “Where were you,” she snarls. “You know we always meet for one o’clock lunch!”
I actually hadn’t known.
But I fake a huge smile, and say brightly, “Oh! I was at my new friend’s house. There’s this girl who I met wandering by the city.” This indicates she’s rich… and a girl.
“Hmm?” Abby seems to buy it. “What’s her name?”
“…Her… her name?” I stutter, unsure. “Well, you see…”
“Oh, was it Aimee?” Abby quickly cuts me off, a smile forming on her face. She seems happy I’ve made a ‘new friend in the city.’ “Aimee is such a great girl, and she lives pretty close to us,” Abby continues.
“Yeah, Aimee! That’s it!” I even sound fake to myself. Abby is so gullible, though…
“Wonderful!” She claps her two hands.
“Yeah, I was just heading back from her house through the field when you called that random woman in the farm house. She told me to go back. So here I am,” I continue with the lie.
“Perfect,” Abby says. We begin walking inside. “We made grilled cheese!” she smiles.
“Yum!” I say, though I’m worried it’s going to be all black and burnt.
“You know,” she whispers just as we’re about to enter the kitchen. “For a second I thought you were actually hanging out with that poor boy over there… HA-HA-HA!” she laughs throatily.
“Hah…” I attempt. All I’m thinking is ‘Crap.’