Chapter One: HaleA Chapter by Joshua DonahueForbidden. Evan (16) is forced to move from big city San Francisco, CA to small town Hale, SC after the recent death of his father which he is still trying desperately to cope with.
Previous Version This is a previous version of Chapter One: Hale. FORBIDDEN
BY: J O S H U A D O N A H U E
Chapter One Hale “Look, sweetie, I’ve
told you this a million times before, we just have to move okay? That town---San
Francisco---is just too dangerous, too expensive, and too darn big. It…It’s
just not for us, okay? Is that good enough?” my mother said to me out of
obvious frustration. I turned my head
away in response. My mother, Elana
Woods, wanted nothing but the best for me, and I knew that. It was just that I
hated to leave San Francisco. It was so big and so amazing; it appeared to be
stuck in its own magnificent world of adventure. With cool weather, famous
landmarks, and nearly a thousand shops all around (not including those of
Chinatown), I couldn’t help but to smile at the City of Wonder. But so far, all
that my eyes had spotted while on the road were depressing things like the
steamy, mediocre sand, fragile-looking tumbleweeds, lonesome cacti, odd-shaped
cliffs, and everything else that tuned in with a scorching desert scene. My mom had decided
to drive half the distance to our destination and fly the rest of the way. I
couldn’t have cared less, seeing as how I was going to sleep anyways, trying to
escape my life. Obviously, this
was my first move. I was born and
raised in San Francisco, California. It was my hometown---my true hometown. I knew why we had to move
of course, but picking fights with my mom---was wrong, yes---however, it helped
me overcompensate with the ruins that my life seemed so miserably left in. My mother had
been having a hard time keeping up with the bills since six months ago. Things
just seemed to get worse, harder, and rougher for us both since then. Six
months ago was when tragedy attacked us out of nowhere: my dad died. Things were easy
when he was around; there were no worries at all. He always had a smile on his
face no matter what was going on, and he seemed to turn the bad stuff into good
stuff. In fact, he was the only person able to do that for my mom and me.
Sometimes he would play videogames with me as we both tried desperately to
block out the nagging of my mom informing us that staring at the television
would ruin our eyesight. Other times, he and I would throw the football back
and forth through the house as my mother laughed at the sight of us whenever he
or I would plop down on the sofa in the middle of a catch. He basically did the
cool stuff awesome dads typically do. But above all, he knew what it was like
being a teenager as a male. So we connected on some level, I guess. Then his death
occurred, shadowing things. Because of the tragedy, my mom grieved at an unbelievably
high rate making everything all the more pitiful. It seemed that his death just
sucked the life out of her, draining her of all happiness that had once been
inside. It was as if she was a robot powered by cheap, knockoff batteries. I
wanted to breakdown and succumb to it just as my mother had; but I wouldn’t. I
wasn’t as weak as she was. Since my father
was a construction worker, he did have insurance on himself, but because he
worked with his workers instead of just running the business like the typical
stereotype brought on by some dumb idiot, the insurance settlement was revoked.
Thus, we were left in a tight financial spot. I even resorted to shoplifting
several times in order to get what I wanted, but my mother didn’t need to know
about that, especially with the move and all. We were headed to some place in
South Carolina. Hale, I think was the name of the small town. Or was it Hell? I
couldn’t be sure which, but I knew my new path was designed to crumble regardless. As my mother
drove, I paid little attention to the outside world which flashed right on by
the vehicle’s window. My too-overly optimistic mother tried so hard to get me
to take photos with her at famous landmarks like it was some celebrated road
trip. Maybe she just didn’t get the fact that this was hard for me and that all
I wanted to do right now was crawl into a dark cave and live there for the rest
of my life. Or maybe she did get it
and that was why she was trying so hard to get me to open up. Still, I was planning
to resent her for a while. So here I was:
riding in the passenger’s side of my mother’s white jeep in the beginning month
of April. The top was off and stuffed away somewhere under the few bags we had,
and the wind was rustling in my black hair. My eyes, with their chocolate-brown
tint, were feeling the full effects of the intense sun above, and my skin was
attracting more of a tan than I already had, covering my Caucasian skin. Since November
of last year, I had become a sixteen-year-old guy who was---unfortunately---stuck
in the lame tenth grade of high school. Only now, I was heading to an unfamiliar high school. Great. Just
Great. * * * After our plane ride,
we drove a little bit longer. I had already listened to every song on my iPod
at least three times and sent at least a million text messages on my cell
phone. During the drive, more photos tried to be taken, and in fact, I got out
for one just to make my mother leave me alone. I did not smile, however. I just
made a simple frown, allowed the flash to occur, and then back into the jeep I
went. She tried jokes as well to open me up, but she was such a poor joke
teller that it just made the entire thing worse. Were parents supposed to act
like this? Not long
afterwards, I saw it: the sign that indicated to the small town that my mother
was dragging me all the way across the United States to---the sign to the town
of Hale, South Carolina. This place
deserved more of the title “village” rather than “town” actually. It merely contained
a post office, a small gas station, a tiny seafood restaurant, a bank, a movie
rental store, a small mini mart, and a church. Oh, and only two stoplights out
the whole thing! Instantly, I could tell that it was one of those places where
everybody knew everyone else; and if anything big happened, then the whole town
(village) would know about it in an hour. It was just so little! Nothing. Like.
San Francisco. At. All. My mother looked
at me and forced a smile upon her face. I just looked
away disgustingly. We passed
through the town so fast that it took only about eighteen seconds. Afterwards,
we turned onto a back street by the gas station and passed several other
streets with pleasant-looking houses. They all seemed to be inspired by a scene
from Mary Poppins, with children playing out in the yards. Then we turned onto
one of those streets that had MCGREGOR STREET on the corner post. The street
had houses lined on each side---most of them white, but all with various shades
of window shutters. It just seemed too happy and peaceful. Where was the
drama or the excitement? Did these people just live off of birds, grass, and
the sunshine? It was like watching one of those wretched PBS Kids shows where
they try to lie to you and tell you what a wonderful place the world can be. I could already
tell that the name of this town was indeed wrong. It was not Hale like the sign
had said, but the actual Hell below my feet. Only, instead of under me, it was
now around me. My mother turned
into the driveway that had the number 592 imprinted on the mailbox. It was the
only home that had the biggest front yard. But other than that, it looked just
like any other house around: happy and joyful. It did have a small, waist-high
fence that outlined its perimeter though---again, another Mary Poppins
reminder. The structure itself was a two-story with black shutters surrounding
the windows. The only other noticeable thing about it was that it had two
mover’s trucks in the front yard, unloading all of our belongings via the front
door. My mom had told
me it was some heirloom of some sort that she had inherited. But still, I loved
our townhouse before. I would welcome it back into my surroundings any day. Upon parking in
the garage (it had one of those too), my frantic mother rushed over to the
trucks to make sure that none of her stuff was being misplaced, leaving me to
sulk---thankfully. On the contrary to her actions, I took no rush to get out of
the jeep. In fact, I took my time, gathering all of my electronic junk and piling
it into my traveling bag that I had for totally useless times that referred to uprooting
my life and destroying it by moving across the country such as these. Procrastinating
no longer, I climbed out. When my sneakers touched the concrete below me, I
could instantly sense the outlandishness in the place surrounding me. The
boringness was everywhere, I knew. I didn’t need to glance around any longer
because I already knew what I wouldn’t see: San Francisco; so I let out a small
groan of horror and frustration, and then I rushed up into the house. Through the
garage, I found myself in the kitchen. It had a hard, wooden floor with an
island counter in the middle and lots of cabinets surrounding it. After the
kitchen, I roamed around until I found the stairs; I recalled passing a dining
room, a living room, a closet, and a bathroom along the way. Most of them were
being furnished by the movers, so I continued on up the stairs to not to be an
obstacle for them. After I climbed
the stairs, I began glancing into every room. All of the rooms were already furnished
the way my mother had instructed the movers before we left, so it was easy to
find mine. It was painted a
pure, pearly white, with a black, fluffy carpet to boot---the curtains were
checkered to match the color scheme. All of my CDs were placed on a shelf with
my small stereo under it, and my laptop was set up on the desk by the window.
My gaming systems were already hooked up to my television, waiting to be toyed
with. My bed was in the corner of the room, covered with black sheets; and all
of the other junk that belonged to me was either on the shelves, in a dresser,
or in the closet. Everything was fit to my taste, I concluded. I wanted to kick
off my shoes, crawl onto the bed with my laptop, and check my email; and I did
just that. I had about
thirty new email messages from my friends, and then another hundred or so that
were ads or commercial things that wanted me to buy their product. It took me
about an hour to read the important ones and reply to them. Most of them were
asking me how my new home was and what it was like. But regardless, I was a
slow typer. I pecked at the keyboard at a slow pace (which explained my F in typing
class). But after I was done, I went to Google and searched up Hale, South
Carolina. I wanted to get some information on the place. Was there some secret
hangout that I had not seen on my way in? Was there secretly a Stepford wife
thing going on here? I could only hope. But according to the web, there was
only one unique thing that helped explain Hale better: at the local video
store, if you rent two movies, you get the third free on Mondays, according to
their advertisement. Wow, how exhilarating that bit of information was! Irritated with
my research, I logged out and put the laptop to sleep. I laid it down on the
bed’s soft sheets and went to the window, opening up the blinds. The sun was
going down, and I could see everyone on McGregor Street: men mowing the front
lawn, children playing Hop-Scotch on the sidewalk, people going for a jog and
walking their dogs, and old couples resting on their front porches in rocking
chairs, watching the youth roam with energy. The warmth that
the sun provided as it sunk lower, as if seeping into the Earth’s surface, was unusual
to me. Back in San Francisco, it was just warm enough to get by, if not cold or
cool. The weather would be another change for me to have to adjust to. The
colors, however, were remarkable. They streaked across the sky, surrounding the
sun, as if a small child had been messing with paints and mixed bright, vivid
colors together to produce the scene before me. I had to admit: it was
magnificent; but then I remembered where I was and the current predicament I
was in. I looked away in repulsion. Glancing back
through the view, my eyes detected that the movers had apparently left. I also
noticed a single tree in our front yard that reached a little above my window, providing
shade. I liked that, because I loved the dark. It was my home, like it was a
shield for me and it protected me. Interrupting my
train of thoughts, came the loud laughter of my mother. Happiness spurred inside
of me because my brain couldn’t remember ever hearing my mom laugh since…since
before things changed. Then confusion busted in my skull because I didn’t have
the faintest clue as to why she was
even laughing. I closed the blinds of my window and crept down to get a good
look. She was talking
to a man and a woman who looked like they were in their middle thirties, I observed.
The woman was wearing a dark-colored skirt and a pink top; the man was wearing
a pair of khaki pants and a blue sweater. Great,
I’m officially surrounded by a pile of preppy, rich, snobby people, I mentally
said to myself. I also noticed that my mother was holding something that was
either a casserole or a cake. But just as I was observing the scene from the
stairway, my mother saw me and said, “Evan! Come! Meet Mr. and Mrs. Woods! They
are your aunt and uncle. Your dad’s brother and his wife.” I came out of
hiding, walked on over casually like I hadn’t been snooping, and I shook their
hands with reluctance, but hiding it well. “Hello, young
man. I am Daryl Woods. And this is my wife, Sarah Woods,” the man said as
neighborly as possible. Honestly, I had
never thought of having an aunt or an uncle or any other kind of relative. It
just didn’t seem important in my San Francisco life. My mother had never talked
about having any relatives, so I had never asked. So standing here, facing this
man who was claiming to by my uncle, was awkward. “Hello, I am
Evan. Evan Woods.” I tried to put on a grin for them; but it looked a little
too forced, so I pushed it away. “Yes. I have
heard all about you. My brother’s son, and my nephew no doubt,” Daryl said. “So
what grade are you in, son?” “Ten---Tenth
grade,” I stammered out. I only stuttered because a sudden blast of strong
scent extended from this man before me. It was like putting cologne on so much
that it smelled really horrible. And I mean it; this guy seemed as if he used
three bottles in the process. “Yes, you are a
Woods indeed,” he chuckled, examining me thoroughly. He zoomed in on me so
disturbingly that I almost thought he was going to munch on me like a piece of
meat. “So the move is
going well, then?” Sarah asked with such a soft and gentle-like voice towards
my mom. “Oh yes. Very
much. Evan has been in his room since we arrived. I think he really likes it.” I didn’t feel
like arguing with her, so I just ignored her comment by letting out an
incoherent sigh. Then Daryl
glanced down at his watch. “Well, I hate to cut this introduction short, but
Sarah and I have to go pick up Derek and Michael who are at a friend’s house
expecting a ride home. So you’ll come then, right?” He looked as if he would
miss looking at me, like I was a prize possession that he wanted to make sure
he really wanted. Then he looked
at my mother expecting a response for his question. “Umm, yes.
Saturday, right? At one ‘o clock?” she answered and questioned simultaneously. “Yes. We’ll see
you then, Elana. It was very nice to meet you for the first time, Evan. But
we’ll get to know more about each other on Saturday. I’ll see you two there. And
if there is anything you need at all, just give us a call!” “And I hope you
really enjoy the cake! It was nice seeing you, Elana, and nice meeting you,
Evan. Bye,” Sarah said while following her husband out the door. Then Daryl and
his wife Sarah were out of the house. However, I looked
out the window just to make sure before I asked: “Saturday? What’s Saturday?” She stalked off
to the kitchen with the gift from Sarah in her hands, ignoring my question. Of course, I was
very persistent so I was determined to get that answer out of her. I wanted to
know what dumb, preppy, waste-of-my-time thing my mother had just pushed me
into. I followed behind her. “What’s
Saturday?” I questioned again, anger beginning to rise in me. She was placing
the pan---which had the now-realized cake on it---, into the fridge. Then she
turned and looked at me like she was still deciding on how to answer me. “Well?” I said with a bit of accusation
in my voice. “Oh alright,
Evan, seeing as how you can’t leave anything alone. Saturday we are attending a
family cookout over at the Woods’ place. Both my family and your father’s will
be there. There. Satisfied?” “No, I’m not
satisfied, and I’m not damn going.” “Watch your
mouth! And yes. You. Will. Evan Woods. That is the whole reason we came to this
town: for you to meet and get to know some of mine and your father’s
relatives.” “Don’t say ‘we’ as if we both decided to move here
to this hell hole! You and I both know that you made this decision, not me.
Besides, like I wanna meet some people that are allegedly kin to me. I’ve never even heard of them my entire life!
And I’m sure I can continue my life without them!” “Evan Woods, we
moved here for a good reason. And these people are not allegedly kin to you,
either. They are kin to you, and you
will go whether you like it or not.” I scowled at
her. I gave a grumbling sound out of frustration, and I stormed out of the
kitchen to my room. I plowed onto my
bed when I got there and dug my head deep into the pillows, letting out a roar
to help relieve the stress. How could she? Who did she think she was? Oh, right, my mother. Duh, I thought. Of course I
loved her, but sometimes she just made me so…so…ill! I let out
another roar into my pillow. And another. And then three more after that. I was
starting to feel a little better now, although my throat was not. So many changes… So many new
things… So many head
spins… It was all just
too much of “so many” going on right now. Then, releasing
my head from the containment of the pillow, I thought: what’s the day? I searched my
brain for a moment and realized that it was Thursday. So I had two more days to
convince my mother that I was not going to that cookout thing. Two more days to
prepare for the worst. And two more
days to cope with the fact that I was indeed going to have to go to that dumb
thing Saturday, no matter how much I wanted to resist and ignore the
incontrovertible cold, hard fact. How bad could it be? I pondered to myself. Then, weirdly
enough, I fell asleep on my unfamiliar bed, not being able to answer my own question
that was nagging at me consistently. © 2010 Joshua DonahueAuthor's Note
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StatsAuthorJoshua DonahueJefferson, SCAboutUPDATE! 06.27.13 Hello, WritersCafe! I realize that I have abandoned my account since the summer of 2013. Since then I have started college, and I have experienced... a lot. However, this does no.. more..Writing
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