Tuesday Tales - Simple

 

     Welcome to Tuesday Tales. We have more of Sasha's story about going to spend the summer with her grandparents. This is my first foray into YA or Midgrade or whatever you want to call it. It's also my first first person piece. It will either be a novella or a short story. Can't decide which yet. The story will tell me. 

Don't forget to read all the other wonderful pieces by the talented Tuesday Tales authors. Find them HERE. 

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I checked my watch. Five minutes until the dreaded arrival. We turned up a winding road, then again onto another road. Then I saw the sign. “Chester”. There was a white farmhouse with an old couple sitting on the front porch. Damn if it wasn’t “American Gothic”  by Grant Wood. Mrs. Appleton, my art teacher, would be pleased.

We pulled into the driveway and stopped. The old couple came down the path to the driveway.

“Sasha? Is that you? My goodness. You’re all grown up,” my grandmother said.

I got out of the car and my grandma gave me a quick hug.

“Come on in. I’ve got your favorite molasses cookies inside,” she said. “Dan, help with the bags.”

Molasses cookies rang a faint bell.

Charles unloaded my stuff from the car and my grandfather, now named “Dan”, dragged it into the house. I followed. The house wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small either and it smelled like molasses cookies. Dan dumped my stuff in a room upstairs. Way upstairs. It was the third floor and had probably been an attic at some point? Maybe?

It was decorated in faded pink and white. Boy, it had been a long time since I had been there. I’d left pink light years ago. But the view was amazing. I was right up there with the birds. Not that I knew crap about birds. Still, I liked it. Sure beat the view from our apartment, all bricks and cement.

I could see so far away, like a hundred miles. Or that’s how it felt, anyway.

“Nice,” I said, not know what to say and figuring that was expected.

“You’ll be up here with my crows,” Grandpa “Dan” said, grinning.

I had no clue what he was talking about. I liked that my room was somewhat separate from the rest of the house. My mother and Charles would spend the night downstairs in the “guest” room, all calico and homey. Not my cup of tea. Of course, the cold modern crap my mother furnished our apartment with wasn’t my style either.

I guess I didn’t have a style. I just wanted it simple: peace and privacy, and you could color it anyway you wanted – except in pink.   I flopped down on the bed. I had to admit it was comfortable. But the big, puffy down comforter – in summer? Really?

The only cold thing in New York City in the summer was too much air conditioning. Not here, though. Might be nice to be cold from something that wasn’t a blast from a freeze-you-out machine.

 

That's it for this week. Thanks for stopping by. If you have time a comment would be much appreciated.

TUESDAY TALES - LIVELY

 

   Welcome! This week the Tuesday Tales authors are writing to the word prompt "lively." We have another excerpt from my YA story, "Skit the Scout & Me".  When you're done reading my bit, please go over and read the other stories. You'll find them HERE. 

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“Lisa, that wasn’t very kind,” Charles said.

I couldn’t believe he was sticking up for me. Just sucking up so I’d like him. Well, it didn’t work. Still, let him think he scored some brownie points with me.

“That’s right, Charles,” I said.

Silence.

“Why don’t we listen to music?” my mother said.

 “What do you want to hear, Sasha?” Charles piped up.

“Classical,” I said. I knew Charles hated classical music. I didn’t say it just to get him. I really do like classical. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is a favorite. He sucked it up and put on the classical music station.

I sat back and closed my eyes. Maybe he wasn’t such a dork after all. Just because he was being nice didn’t make him my father. The music put me to sleep. When I woke up, I overheard Charles and my mother having a lively conversation.

“It was the only option.”

“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?” Charles asked.

I kept my eyes closed. This was probably going to be something I wanted to hear.

“She’d have a meltdown if she had any idea that we were scouting around for a place to live.”

“You don’t think she’d like to live in Europe?”

“And leave her friends in the City? Not on your life.”

So they were planning to pick up and move? Damn right I didn’t want to leave my friends. I yawned, loudly. They stopped talking.

I opened my eyes and saw a ton of cows in a field.

“Where are we?” I asked. 

“Only about a half hour away from Grandma’s,” my mother said.

That's all for today. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - MORE OF "SKIT THE SCOUT"

 

Welcome! This week we are writing to the word prompt GHOST. We have another episode of my young adult story, 'Skit the Scout and Me."  Don't forget to hop on over and read all the wonderful stories. You can find them HERE.  

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“Why are you leaving me with people I don’t even know?”

“Even if you don’t remember them, they remember you,” My mother said, her tone ominous.

That’s all I need. To spend months with people who remember something bad I did upteen years ago and are still pissed. Great. Wonderful. My mother is putting me in a concentration camp with people who she hopes will “straighten me out”, as Charles always says.

“What did I do to make them remember me?” I asked.

“Just were your charming self, I guess,” she said, not without a trace of sarcasm.

Even better. I don’t even know what rule I broke or thing I broke to make them remember me.

“When Brian DeMarco found out I would be away all summer, he ghosted me,” I said, pushing the guilt lever.

“Brian DeMarco doesn’t even know you’re alive,” my mother shot back. “He’s captain of the football team. He dates the head cheerleader. He wouldn’t know you if he fell over you. Jocks don’t hang out with fifteen-year-old artists,” she said.

Okay. I’ll give her this one. But just this once. Her comment buys my silence.

I look out the window at the greenery. More trees than I ever see in the City. Nicer trees, too. All different. And greener than City trees. Must be the fresh air? I don’t even know the names of all these trees. Shame on me. I mentally put “learning tree names” on my summer to do list.

 I hate it when my mother is right. I don’t know why I do, but I do. Maybe because she’s not right about stupid Charles. Why can’t she see what a phony he is?  

None of my friends like him, either. Oh, sure, they’re polite, but that’s it. They laugh about him behind his back. He’s nothing like my father. He was a man of integrity, whatever that is. A man who knew right from wrong and lived it.  

That's all this week. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - SQUASH

 

Welcome to Tuesday Tales. I'm back with a brand new story -- young adult for me this time. It's called "Skit the Scout and Me." Find it here, then go and read the other wonderful Tuesday Tales entries. Find them HERE!

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I’m squashed in the backseat of my new stepfather’s Mercedes with my mother’s vanity case and extra suitcase. I’m Sasha Hollister, fifteen, practically an orphan since my father died. My mother roped in a rich, new husband and they are off to Europe for three months over the summer.

Why am I smashed into the backseat? Because they are dumping me upstate to live with my grandparents while they sail away on a disgusting luxury ship. While they are eating caviar, I’ll be knee-deep in cow shit, working my fingers to the bone on Grandma and Grandpa’s farm, while all my friends will be making big bucks babysitting, taking little kids to the beach, eating ice cream, and hanging out. Ugh.

I told my mother I didn’t want to go. I begged them not to go, but they didn’t care. They booked the trip without asking me.

“Charles has been counting on this. He’s been working night and day on a merger,” she said. A merger or something.

And what about me? I’ve been sweating my brains out in school all year. Daddy’s been gone – it’ll be four years next month. Charles. Pompous Charles with his oily smile and big bank account. He’ll never be the man my father was. Only a schoolteacher? So much more. He was blown away by a drunk driver on his way home from his part-time job tutoring. Here one minute and gone the next. I know Charles wants me to get over it. But he’ll never be my father-not really. I miss Daddy every day.

Mom leans over from the front seat.

“We’re almost there. Are you excited?”

I stick out my tongue.

“Grandma always said to be careful or your face will freeze like that,” she said, then faced front.

    Excited? I’m dreading it. Not that I’d nominate my mother for mother-of-the-year. But 

she’s better than nothing. My grandparents? I don’t even remember them much. Last time 

we went to visit was Thanksgiving eight years ago, I think. They got into a fight with 

mother, and they didn’t speak for a long time.  I know they can’t possibly want me there all 

summer.

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