Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content (22 page)

Maybe I was wrong about that.

M
ELODY
C
ARLSON
has written dozens of books for all age groups, but she particularly enjoys writing for teens. Perhaps this is because her own teen years remain so vivid in her memory. After claiming to be an atheist at the ripe old age of twelve, she later surrendered her heart to Jesus and has been following him ever since. Her hope and prayer for all her readers is that each one would be touched by God in a special way through her stories. For more information, please visit Melody’s website at
www.melodycarlson.com
.

FORGOTTEN

Seventeen and Homeless

Melody Carlson

[CHAPTER 1]

I allowed myself to believe there was such a thing as do-overs a few months ago. I should’ve known better, but it was a hot July afternoon and my head was throbbing after a torturous day of selling hot dogs from a greasy, smelly food kiosk owned by a “friend” of my mom’s.

Vernon (aka “Vermin”) Smithers had worked a deal with someone in the city, allowing him to park his Hot Diggity Dog House right in front of the town’s only public swimming pool, which meant I worked like a dog, sweated like a pig, and never got a break or a tip. I was subjected to this inhumane treatment for the miserly reward of minimum wage. To top it all off, at the end of my shift, feeling and smelling like an overcooked hot dog myself, I had to ride my bike home.

Consequently, on that day when my mom announced that life as I knew it was about to change, I barely even questioned her. “I’m taking a job in Stanfield,” she blurted out as soon as I opened the front door.

“Stanfield . . .” I went for the fridge, scavenging to find a cold soda. “Isn’t that like a couple hundred miles from here?”

“I already gave notice on our house,” she said in an excited voice. “We have to be out of here by the end of the month. My job starts the first week of August.”

“Seriously?” I wiped the cold can across my throbbing forehead and attempted to think rationally. Heat stroke or not, this was my life we were talking about. Well, my mom’s and mine. Still, I wasn’t sure how to react. I mean, as much as I loved my mom, she’d never been the most reliable, predictable, or dependable person on the planet. Plus, she’s bipolar, and judging by the gleam in her bright blue eyes, she was definitely experiencing a high that day.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking, Adele.” Her brow creased as she pressed her lips tightly together. “But this time you’re wrong.”

I decided to play innocent as I sat on the futon that also served as my bed. “I’m not thinking anything, Mom. I’m just surprised about this new development. Tell me what’s going on.”

Her smile returned. “Well, it’s a huge opportunity for me — for both of us. In fact, you’ll get to graduate from a school that’s rated really high in the state.” Then she rattled on, telling me more pluses and perks about Stanfield as well as the old college friend who offered the job to her. “I have no doubt that this move is exactly what we both need, Adele.”

It was clear she’d done some research too. And although I felt a twinge of doubt because . . . well, I know my mom . . . and I know she exaggerates sometimes . . . and I know she has her “issues.” Despite all that, I was getting onboard with this idea.

No doubt, I was weak and vulnerable, but the possibility of quitting my nasty summer job enticed me. And I had no problem with switching schools either. My junior year had been a huge disappointment. And as for close friends, I didn’t have any. As pathetic as it sounded, there was no one I’d regret leaving behind.

My mom was flying high as she went on and on about how great this would be. “This is the fresh start we both desperately need. We’ll both enjoy a new and improved life.”

And the more I listened to her, the more I bought into the whole thing. In fact, I didn’t protest a bit. I was in. And really, it was about time our luck changed. According to my mom, her ship had finally come in and we were both getting on it and sailing away.

So I gave Vernon notice on my job, and two weeks later, I was packing boxes. I even scrubbed and scoured our tiny apartment in hopes of getting our deposit back (which never happened). But as I worked, I imagined my mom and me in our new life. Everything would be all fresh and squeaky clean there — kind of like a Febreze commercial where everything came out smelling sweet.

“Get rid of anything you don’t like,” Mom told me as I was packing up my room. “As soon as we get to Stanfield, we’ll go on a major shopping spree and get all new stuff. And then before I start my new job, we’ll both get makeovers and new wardrobes and some cool furnishings for the condo. Everything new!”

“We can afford this, right?” I ventured once more — kind of like a reality check. I mean, really, sometimes it all just seemed too good to be true.

“I already explained everything to you, Adele.” Her voice took on the sharp edge of impatience. “Mark Edmonds gave me that advance on my salary to help us relocate. He set up the condo for us. We’re covered. Don’t be such a worrywart. Sometimes you’re like an old woman!”

I nodded and returned to packing. I had actually seen the check her new boss sent — and the amount was impressive. I also went with my mom as she deposited it in the bank. And I was even more impressed when I later discovered the check had cleared at the bank. Thanks to my mom’s “challenges,” I know all about online banking, how to pay bills, and how to tuck away a bit of money for a rainy day. My life’s been filled with a lot of those.

So knowing that the money was in the bank and my mom’s job was for real, I felt seriously hopeful. And why not? My mom had a good education; she was intelligent and capable of holding down a good job. Not that it had happened for the past several years. But that could change. My mom’s problems had gotten worse after my deadbeat dad walked out. But that was more than six years ago. She was probably over it.

My mom’s job skills were “valuable” — and I’d heard many times about how she could easily bring home a six-figure salary when the economy turned around. A couple of times she did get hired, but then something would happen . . . and it would unravel. But there was unemployment . . . and other things. However, I wasn’t going there. This time life would be different. And it was different . . . at first anyway.

“This place looks fabulous,” I told my mom as she pulled into Westwood Heights, a pleasantly arranged complex of three-story buildings nestled into some attractive landscaping, including lots of tall oak trees. Before long we were hauling boxes into our second-floor unit, which was even better than the exterior. With an open floor plan, high ceilings, a gas fireplace, and a stylish kitchen complete with granite and stainless steel, it was a huge improvement over our previous digs. But the best part was the two master suites. Not only did I have a real bedroom now, but I actually had my own bathroom as well!

Then, true to her word, Mom took us shopping the next week. I felt like a princess as I splurged at stores like Banana Republic and Gap, buying the kinds of clothes I used to just dream about.

It was late July, and I couldn’t wait for the first day of school to come. I could imagine myself walking in with my head held high — pretending I was someone else. And from now on I would use my full name. No more being called “Addie.” I was
Adele
Porter and my senior year was going to rock! It would be totally unlike my previous year, where I went around like a meek little mouse, hoping no one would notice my thrift-store jeans and worn-out shoes. This would be my year to shine. I would join clubs and start planning for college. And I might even make some real friends.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I ride the transit to Stanfield High on registration day the week before school starts. And whether it’s the power of positive thinking or just plain luck, it seems to be working.

“Hey, you’re new.” A blonde girl steps behind me in the line for twelfth grade. She’s wearing a pale denim skirt topped with a pink T-shirt. She’s pretty but not flashy, more of a wholesome kind of pretty. And she has a nice smile.

“Yeah. We just moved here last month.” I suppress the urge to nervously smooth the front of my shirt. After trying several outfits, I decided on this fitted white button-up I’d gotten at Express. “Understated but classic,” the salesgirl assured me. I’d paired this with what were supposedly “the coolest jeans this side of the Mississippi,” some killer Nine West sandals, and a knockoff Prada bag my mom thought was convincing. To say I felt like a million bucks as I walked from the bus stop to the school would not have been an understatement. But for some reason, standing in front of this girl who looks very comfortable in her own skin, I feel totally out of my league and a bit like a counterfeit. Like I’m as genuine as my fake Prada purse.

“Cool bag.” She lowers her voice in a confidential tone. “Prada, right? Is it the
real
deal?”

I’m not sure how to respond but decide to go with honesty since it’s usually the safest route. “Are you kidding?” I force what I hope looks like a confident smile. “Why waste good money on something that’ll be out of style by Christmas?”

She laughs loudly. “Exactamundo!”

I almost comment on her odd choice of expressions, but stop myself and simply nod. No sense in alienating anyone — especially when I’m still the new girl here.

She sticks out her hand. “I’m Isabella Marx, senior class president.”

I cock my head to one side. “You mean you’ve already had student body elections?”

She shrugs in a slightly sheepish way. “Okay, that’s just an assumption on my part. But I was freshman, sophomore, and junior class president . . . so I suppose it seems likely I’ll win it again.”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

“And one responsibility of being class president is welcoming new students. So consider yourself officially welcomed. Uh, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” I smile. “I’m Adele Porter.”

“Welcome to Stanfield High, Adele Porter.” And then to my surprise, Isabella kind of takes me under her wing. First she introduces me to a couple of the faculty helping with registration, then she helps me get a good schedule of classes, and finally, she even gives me a quick tour of the campus. “This way you won’t have first-day-of-school nightmares about not being able to find your locker.” She chuckles.

I blink. “Do you have those too?”

“Not since before my freshman year.”

It seems the tour is done now. So I thank Isabella for her time and am ready to make what I hope will be a graceful exit and head back to the bus stop, but she stops me.

“You need to come meet some people.” She leads me over to where a small group of kids are drinking sodas in a shady area of the courtyard, and just like that, she introduces me to her friends. I feel almost like I’m dreaming as these kids chat openly and naturally with me, like it’s no big deal or they’ve known me for years. It’s pretty surreal.

“Adele is into journalism,” Isabella informs a petite redhead named Lily Bishop.

“Me too.” Lily tells me what classes she has, and I pull out my schedule to discover we both have journalism the same period.