rings
up my breakfast. My hand brushes along several keychains, making them clank
together. I pull one of them closer and read West Virginia across the front.
“That'll be three dollars and twenty-three
cents,” he says, watching me closely. I pass him the now flattened five-dollar
bill and hold out my hand as he counts out my change. Grabbing my sack of food,
I head back out the noisy door, but not before stopping to look at the
keychains one more time. Just as I thought, they all say something about West
Virginia. Guess I finally know where we are.
Frank smirks at me on his way inside to
pay for our gas, but I barely notice. My stomach is starting to feel sick. I
feel like bubbles are rising in my throat, and I try to burp to make them go
away, but it doesn't work. I crawl back inside the car and open my bag, digging
for the honey bun I just bought. If I don't eat something soon, I think I might
seriously die.
Fifteen minutes after leaving the gas
station, we pull into the driveway of a beautiful Victorian style house. A
young lady meets us outside with a warm, welcoming smile. Mom jumps out of the
car as fast as her bruised body will allow her and rushes toward the strange
woman with arms stretched wide. They embrace. A middle aged gentleman walks out
the front door moments later and gently places his hand on the woman's
shoulder. She pulls back, releasing my mom, who turns back toward the car and
motions with her outstretched hand for me to join her.
Climbing out of the backseat is easier,
since I have only been riding in cramped quarters for about fifteen minutes
this time. I stare at my feet as I shuffle forward, counting the steps I take.
My hands are tucked deep into my pockets, one hand wrapped around my dad’s
silver coin. Mom grabs my chin between her thumb and forefinger and squeezes
slightly while lifting my face up, forcing me to look at her. The strange man
and woman stand there, smiles plastered on their youthful faces. Why are they
so happy? Don't they know who these people standing in front of them really
are? Don't they know she will just infect their lives too?
I want to warn them.
I want to tell them to turn back, go
inside.
Don't trust her.
But I can’t.
“Charlee, I want you to meet a dear friend
of mine. This is Wendy and her husband, Mike. We are going to be staying here
for a little while until we find a place of our own.” Mom interrupts my inner
thoughts.
“It's so nice to finally meet you,
Charlee. I've heard so many things about you,” the woman, Wendy, says.
I've always been taught to not lie, no
matter what the situation, but somehow, I doubt saying, ‘Well, it's not nice
meeting you. I don't know you or like you, and I want to go home,’ would really
go over well. A shadow passes over my face as I fight back the memories of what
I have lost. Then I force a small smile.
“It's nice to meet you, too.”
“Are you hungry, sweetie, or tired? I've
got a room all made up for you. Come on. I’ll show you,” Wendy says. Taking my
small hand in hers, she leaves the others standing in the driveway chatting.
Cool air hits me in the face when the
front door opens, carrying the smell of warm baked bread. My stomach churns as
I take in the warm shades of ivory and oak throughout the home. Wendy kicks off
her shoes by the front door and waits for me do the same. My sneaker sticks to
my heel as I use the toe of my other foot to hold my sneaker in place while
pulling my foot free and then repeat for the other foot. A sour, wet mildew
smell fills the air. I tilt my head down, hiding behind a curtain of greasy
hair. My cheeks warm with the blush rushing to them. I wait for her to
reprimand me for smelling up her beautiful home.
She holds out her hand, waiting patiently
for me accept it. I peek at her and see her eyes glistening with fresh tears, a
faraway look in her gaze. I take her hand and follow as she leads me up the
straight, narrow staircase, turning left when we've reached the
up my breakfast. My hand brushes along several keychains, making them clank
together. I pull one of them closer and read West Virginia across the front.
“That'll be three dollars and twenty-three
cents,” he says, watching me closely. I pass him the now flattened five-dollar
bill and hold out my hand as he counts out my change. Grabbing my sack of food,
I head back out the noisy door, but not before stopping to look at the
keychains one more time. Just as I thought, they all say something about West
Virginia. Guess I finally know where we are.
Frank smirks at me on his way inside to
pay for our gas, but I barely notice. My stomach is starting to feel sick. I
feel like bubbles are rising in my throat, and I try to burp to make them go
away, but it doesn't work. I crawl back inside the car and open my bag, digging
for the honey bun I just bought. If I don't eat something soon, I think I might
seriously die.
Fifteen minutes after leaving the gas
station, we pull into the driveway of a beautiful Victorian style house. A
young lady meets us outside with a warm, welcoming smile. Mom jumps out of the
car as fast as her bruised body will allow her and rushes toward the strange
woman with arms stretched wide. They embrace. A middle aged gentleman walks out
the front door moments later and gently places his hand on the woman's
shoulder. She pulls back, releasing my mom, who turns back toward the car and
motions with her outstretched hand for me to join her.
Climbing out of the backseat is easier,
since I have only been riding in cramped quarters for about fifteen minutes
this time. I stare at my feet as I shuffle forward, counting the steps I take.
My hands are tucked deep into my pockets, one hand wrapped around my dad’s
silver coin. Mom grabs my chin between her thumb and forefinger and squeezes
slightly while lifting my face up, forcing me to look at her. The strange man
and woman stand there, smiles plastered on their youthful faces. Why are they
so happy? Don't they know who these people standing in front of them really
are? Don't they know she will just infect their lives too?
I want to warn them.
I want to tell them to turn back, go
inside.
Don't trust her.
But I can’t.
“Charlee, I want you to meet a dear friend
of mine. This is Wendy and her husband, Mike. We are going to be staying here
for a little while until we find a place of our own.” Mom interrupts my inner
thoughts.
“It's so nice to finally meet you,
Charlee. I've heard so many things about you,” the woman, Wendy, says.
I've always been taught to not lie, no
matter what the situation, but somehow, I doubt saying, ‘Well, it's not nice
meeting you. I don't know you or like you, and I want to go home,’ would really
go over well. A shadow passes over my face as I fight back the memories of what
I have lost. Then I force a small smile.
“It's nice to meet you, too.”
“Are you hungry, sweetie, or tired? I've
got a room all made up for you. Come on. I’ll show you,” Wendy says. Taking my
small hand in hers, she leaves the others standing in the driveway chatting.
Cool air hits me in the face when the
front door opens, carrying the smell of warm baked bread. My stomach churns as
I take in the warm shades of ivory and oak throughout the home. Wendy kicks off
her shoes by the front door and waits for me do the same. My sneaker sticks to
my heel as I use the toe of my other foot to hold my sneaker in place while
pulling my foot free and then repeat for the other foot. A sour, wet mildew
smell fills the air. I tilt my head down, hiding behind a curtain of greasy
hair. My cheeks warm with the blush rushing to them. I wait for her to
reprimand me for smelling up her beautiful home.
She holds out her hand, waiting patiently
for me accept it. I peek at her and see her eyes glistening with fresh tears, a
faraway look in her gaze. I take her hand and follow as she leads me up the
straight, narrow staircase, turning left when we've reached the
Similar Books
