Those few “friends” I’d had weren’t good enough to stay and support me. Each one of them thought they were going to be bullied too or considered losers because they were hanging out with me.
It seemed that popularity meant more than true friendship.
I gave up on trying to make friends in junior high or get people to accept me. I became an outcast, and everyone began treating me like I was a disease—to be hated or avoided at all costs. The bullying had intensified ever since.
My mother’s lifestyle wasn’t any help to my reputation. In fact, it only made it much worse. The school kids called her slut and alcoholic and poked fun at me for not having a father. I didn’t know anything about my father since I was a product of one of many one-night stands my mother had over the years, and even she didn’t know who he was.
We kept moving from one place to another, changing towns. One year we changed our apartment three times. My mother often fought with our landlords over late rent or property damage, so we never stayed more than two years in one place.
Sometimes we moved in with her new boyfriends. Some of them were okay, but some were evil bastards who abused my mother. Occasionally, I was in the line of fire too. I would get hit if I was too bothersome, if I tried to protect my mother from being beaten, or if some of them were so drunk they got angry about every single thing.
The only thing that was worse than living with an alcoholic was living with the two of them. The first time I received a serious beating was when I was eight. Luckily, I didn’t remember the beating or the pain. My mother didn’t care because she was too drunk to notice. I never had bruises on places that clothes didn’t cover, which I was thankful for, since I didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing them. I was too ashamed and scared to talk about the abuse, and I felt like no one could help me, so the best thing I could do was try to be invisible.
Fast forward to my last year of junior high when the situation with her abusive boyfriends got worse. I never felt more miserable and trapped in my life. I hated going to school, and I hated returning home. Actually, there wasn’t any place I could call home because I was sure the meaning of “home” didn’t include the feeling of horror, pain, despair, and suffocation. People were supposed to feel safe in their home—a place where they belonged—but for me, that was nothing more than a castle in the air. For me, home was an embodiment of darkness and madness.
In the beginning of summer before ninth grade, my mother told me all too suddenly that we were moving from New Haven to her hometown. She mentioned she’d received my grandfather’s will in which he left us their family house in Enfield. Saying I was shocked didn’t even begin to describe my feelings.
First of all, I didn’t even know that my grandfather Thomas had passed away. He died of cancer, alone in his home. My mother and he had never gotten along. She’d been the black sheep of the family because she was a rebel, constantly defying my grandparents, and didn’t have college aspirations. When my grandmother passed away, before I was even born, Patricia Decker left Enfield for good in pursuit of a better life. Sad to say, Patricia Decker’s version of a “better life” meant working in various bars and restaurants, expecting to find a “good catch” with loads of money—someone she could live off for the rest of her life.
Secondly, it felt surreal that we would finally live in a place that we could call ours . No rent, no landlords, no deadlines. We could stay in one place as long as we wanted. I could have a place I could call home at last.
And third, I could try one last time to make a fresh start and make some friends. I didn’t have much hope since my past showed me that everything remained the same no matter which school I went to, but maybe—just maybe —high school would be different. Maybe moving to Enfield was a sign of a great change. A change for the better.
IT WAS THE BEGINNING of July, but the morning in Enfield was a bit colder than I would’ve liked. I wore my sweatpants and a hoodie, which barely did their job of keeping me warm. It was too easy for me to feel cold, even in summer. My mother claimed this was because I was too skinny and there was no meat on my bones.
My body was nothing like my mother’s because she was voluptuous and I was lanky, and that was just the beginning of our differences. She was a short blonde with green eyes. I was tall and I had brown eyes. I wasn’t like her at all—looks or personality.
We’d been unloading the truck with our furniture the whole morning. When we arrived, I was astounded by how big our house was. It was two-story, much bigger than the small and cramped apartment we’d used until yesterday, and it was a major change for me.
Unfortunately, it was clear that nobody had bothered to maintain it for years, letting it fall prey to time. It looked old, decrepit, and its sky blue paint covering the facade had long faded away. The wooden railing on the porch was damaged, matching the crannied window casings, and some parts were missing white paint. The interior was nothing better since it was in desperate need of whitewashing and repairs. We planned to spend the next few days trying to improve it with our limited budget.
I took hold of a large box and picked it up before I looked around the truck, taking note of how many boxes were left to move into the house. I turned around and took a few tentative steps, struggling to get out of the vehicle with the huge, heavy box.
I tried my best to get down without dropping the box, but I put my left leg on the ground too fast and my knee gave out, making me stumble. The box fell down with a loud thump, while I barely managed to prevent falling flat on my face by outstretching my arms when I landed on the ground.
“Ouch!” That hurt.
I raised my head and froze. A boy stood on the sidewalk, watching me intently, and I felt my cheeks warming. I was looking at the most handsome boy I’d ever seen, and I wasn’t exaggerating. I was drooling all over him and I never did that.
He was tall, slightly muscular, and had a striking face. His raven hair was cut very short, and it complemented his strong, angular jawline and narrow chin. His plump lips looked soft and kissable, inviting an unexpected thought of kissing him, which brought life to butterflies in my stomach.
What attracted me the most were his penetrating dark eyes that made me feel like they could see right through me—all my thoughts, fears, and desires—and it was unnerving and rousing at the same time. He kept looking at me, not moving at all.
I broke our eye contact, extremely embarrassed, and my blush increased. I stood up, trying to figure out what to do or say in order to appear less awkward.
Just as I opened my mouth to say something, I noticed a flicker of derision on his otherwise emotionless face. “You’re stupid.” His voice was flat. “You don’t know how to carry even one simple card box.”
I was so shocked to hear him insulting me out of the blue that it rendered me speechless. He sidestepped the box, which had landed on the sidewalk, and walked away without sparing me another glance.
He didn’t even ask me if I was okay.
He was such a jerk.
WE SPENT THE WHOLE day unloading the truck, so I was more than glad when we were finally finished. The next thing on our to-do list was to buy buckets of paint and painting supplies tomorrow morning so we could breathe life into this house.
There were two bedrooms upstairs. The master bedroom looked over the street, while the other, a much smaller one, looked right into our next-door neighbors’ house. I chose the latter room because it was small and gave me a cozy feeling, and I already had some ideas on how to paint the walls and decorate them with my artworks.