I’d never wanted to move to Los Angeles. All of my friends and family were back home in Vermont. But all I can do is look out my bedroom window, and wish that I were looking at the overgrown Pine trees and the garden that I used to plant lilies in when I was little, instead of the tall buildings and the taxis that my room overlooked.
My mom and dad are both psychologists and they always know when something is bothering me. Which is one of the most annoying things ever. And when we had moved it had seemed like a big chance for them to talk to me, not only about how I was doing with the big move, but also to delve into the rest of my life problems and developments,
It sounds just as fun as it is.
“Araya, dinners ready.” My mom shouts from downstairs. I quickly change into my baggy T-shirt and Sweats and bound down the creaking stairs into the kitchen.
Our apartment was built in the early 1900’s but it seems like it was made in the late 1800’s with all it’s outdated appliances and its flowery wallpaper and drapes. My parents had been talking about a house makeover, but I really didn’t care. All I wanted was to move back home.
“Are you excited for your junior year of High School?” My dad asks me from the couch as I enter the kitchen.
“Yeah, I guess.” I say trying to sound open to the sound of a new school, but knowing I sound like I just ate a whole lemon.
“You know honey, you can always make new friends here. Maybe you can even find a boyfriend, I know you knew everyone in Vermont since you were little and you found it gross to date one of your used to be playmates, but here you might find someone you really like.” My mom starts.
“Mom, I’m really not interested in boys, and even if I was, Jackson High School isn’t the best school to meet someone. I mean have you seen the seniors?” I shudder.
“Yeah Sally don’t give her any ideas.” My dad joins in.
I get a plate and start to dish up spaghetti and caesar salad. Setting it down onto the table I pick up my fork and start to twist up my spaghetti, but my stomach clenches and I feel like throwing up all over the table. Pushing away my plate, I close my eyes count to ten, and then reach for my fork and force down my dinner before I can change my mind.
My mother always said that you can’t skip a meal, or else. When I was little I thought the, or else was no presents from Santa, but now I just can’t seem to stop my normal routine, no matter how much I want to.
“Mom, I think I’m going to go up to my room and get ready for bed, I don’t want to be late for school.” I say, and before anyone can stop me I run up the stairs two at a time and fling myself onto my bed. At this moment all I want is to not be here.
Here in LA.
The place where my brother died.