My long board clicked rhythmically down the sidewalk as I moved. The warm wind of early summer tugging against my dark hoodie, pulling at the long strands of black hair that had fallen out of my hood. I didn't like traveling in front of the houses in this part of the neighborhood. I normally took the back alley, but today, some road crews were working on pot-holes and I had to make my trip in front of the giant mansions that littered the hills of the east side of the city.
The rich ladies, with their upturned noses, liked to look out their windows at me as if I were somehow infecting their perfect little world with a contagious disease. They looked at me like I was poor—which I was—a menace—which I wasn’t—and like there was something wrong with me—which I wasn’t even sure of. Normally, I would laugh at their response to me, but I didn't like them taking so much notice. Chances were, they would complain to my mother's boss, and she would get in trouble, again. It wasn't my fault the road crews decided to work on the alley, but it's not like “His Grace” would care.
My mother had worked as Edmund LaRue’s cook for almost ten years now, having taken the job after my father took off. Mr. LaRue—or King Edmund as I called him—was an arrogant, greedy, self-righteous man who kept to himself. He probably had more secrets than rooms in his house, if that were even possible. However, as much as I despised him, he paid my mother well, so I didn’t complain.
I jumped off my long board as I approached his house. If he heard the clicking of it against the sidewalk, he might throw another fit; that is, of course, if Mrs. Nose-Against-The-Window hadn’t already put in a call. I looked up the long driveway as I stepped in front of the gate. Only the gray Rolls-Royce lay parked against the side of the house, causing my heart to fall—no bright yellow Lotus. Ryland wasn’t home yet.
I hopped back on my long board to roll down the side of the house; my somewhat good mood dashed by the absence of my best friend. Who cared if King Edmund got mad at me for making a racket?
I crashed into the kitchen, the slam of the door disrupting the 70s music that my mother and Mette, the LaRue’s baker, were listening to. Plopping myself onto one of the many bar stools surrounding the long work surfaces, I placed my head on my arms and covered my face as much as I could with my hood.
“Happy Birthday, Joclyn!” my mom said. I only grunted as I attempted to cover my head with my hoodie. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I answered into the countertop.
“Fancy that,” Mette said in her rich, Irish accent. “She can almost disappear into the table. Must be a trick learned when one turns sixteen.”
I grumbled nonsense at them again and covered my head with my arms, trying to ignore the laughter of the two women.
“Not funny,” I growled.
“Hello, in there! Joclyn, can you hear me?” My mother lifted the side of my hood as she called into it, and I tried not to smile. “Well, I think she’s done it! She has melded into the sweatshirt and become one with it.”
“That will make it easier to wash her, that will.”
“Not funny.” I tried not to sound amused, but I don’t think it worked. My mother snorted so loudly it reverberated off the pristine marble countertops.
“I’ll just throw her in the washing machine, then a little bleach, lots of detergent, and the skateboard can go in the dumpster.”
“Hey! It’s a long board, and it’s the only way I get around! Unless you bought me a car. Did you buy me a car?” I shot up like a light, my face breaking out into an eager grin.
“There she is,” Mom laughed, throwing a present at me. “Happy Birthday, honey! Sorry, no car this year.”
“She lives. She lives. Praise the Lord! I thought for a second we would have to call a priest to exorcise her from the sweater,” Mette laughed, her red bun bobbing on top of her large, round head. “Happy Birthday, dearie.”
My mom nudged the present at me again, prompting me to open it. Her eyes were sparkling with that eager anticipation she always got about gift-giving. The package was a good size, but lumpy and squishy. Clothes. Clothing had been an issue with my mother and me since that darned mark showed up on my face and chased my dad away. I preferred to hide the mark, and myself.