Part I : Mortal
Story rated PG-13
(Just in case) ;o
Chapter One
“Joanne, are you alright?” My grandfather’s voice held several notes of concern.
I sighed and didn’t answer. Trees sped away from me through the car window, freer than I would ever be.
“Joanne? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, grandfather. I’m…fine.” But in truth, I most definitely was not fine.
Last week, I had done the most stupid, reckless thing. I had gone to a party. And it had landed me here. With a bit of melancholy, I recalled what I had done that was so awful in my patents’ point of view.
It had been a Friday night. My friend Rosie and I had had a sleepover—or so we told my parents. Hers were out on a business trip to Denver, Colorado, leaving us two to do as we pleased. Rosie had gotten the text first. It invited her to a party only a few blocks away. Amazingly excited, we pounced on the opportunity and went. We walked, deciding not to take Rosie’s mom’s car. As soon as we got to the party, I lost Rosie in the dense crowd. I recognized a few faces and spent most of my time chatting. A few times I was pulled out onto the dance floor. Finally, exhausted, I collapsed on a couch next to the beverage table. That’s when I saw them. Someone was clutching a phone to his or her ear. I heard just a snippet of the conversation, but it was just enough.
“Hello? Police? Yes, I’d like to report a party—it’s gone out of control.”
I let out a curse, jumping up. I needed to find Rosie. If the cops came, we were toast. We needed to leave. Now. But, too late! Just as I caught my friend’s arm, a loud voice had hollered something along the lines of “Halt!” or “Everyone, stop!” The crowd suddenly dispersed, people making a mad scramble towards the door. The cops caught who they could, which included me. Rosie, giving a final panicked glance, escaped with the rest of the crowd. I glared after her in disbelief. “Come on,” the police officer grumbled.
One hour and twelve minutes later, it was settled. My parents, “appalled and terrified by my actions,” had called all of my relatives. My Grandfather Thomas had pounced on the chance like a cat would pounce on a mouse, and accepted my parent’s offer. And another hour later, it was settled: I was going to live in a tiny town in Oregon. And seven days later, I left my lovely, toasty summer home of San Francisco, California, for who-knows-where, Oregon.
As I waltzed through my reverie, I watched the landscape whirl past in a cloak of green. Though I never would admit it, Oregon was surprisingly beautiful. P*censored*ing the sagebrush-dotted hills that melted into the rolling acres of gr*censored* where the cows fed, which were in turn swallowed up by huge pine trees of the forest. In some ways, Oregon was much like California—a few big cities, with smaller ones dotted along the highway. The best part of the car ride was going through the many small mountain ranges. They were small but steep, heavily spattered with forest. As we dropped into the valleys again, we sped through several charming towns. None of which, sadly, were my new home.
Another few hours p*censored*es by, through several more towns, and I realized where we were going. I had heard my mother speak of it before—I had visited it when I was a small child. And even as we pulled up at a long, twisting driveway, my disbelief kept my tongue still. No. It couldn’t be. Please, no. But yes.
“Welcome to your new home, Joanne,” my Grandfather Thomas said, “Willow Creek Ranch, 1437 Willow Creek Road, Pendleton, Oregon.”
I couldn’t speak. Not here. Anywhere but here. But here it was.
Normal User
Normal User
(Banner made by Kina)
Normal User
Normal User
Normal User
Normal User
