Farah's Deadline Sample
I planned to be married at sixteen.
Note to self: Things don’t always go as planned.
Which was why I was riding in the front seat of our car, a virtual prisoner. Dad pulled into the long, curving driveway of Pleasant Living Home. The name itself was enough to make a person gag — and being two months pregnant, I’d been gagging plenty.
Dad’s knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel, and a thin moustache of sweat lined his upper lip. He stopped the car under an ivy-covered portico and glanced over at me.
“We’re here, kiddo,” he said. His voice climbed an octave, and a slight tremor shook beneath his words.
“So I see.”
“This is it.” He stared at me, I guess waiting for me to agree or gush or fall at his feet with gratitude. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
A few seconds passed, and I muttered, “Right.” Unlike my dad’s, there was no tremor in my voice, only steel. I wouldn’t be staying at Pleasant Living Home for long. I wouldn’t have to — Pete would rescue me. He’d been a total pig earlier, but he’d change his tune.
“Shall we get your things?” Dad asked, grabbing the door handle.
“Oh, let’s.” The steel in my voice morphed into snarky sarcasm.
Whatever.
Dad jumped out of the car as if going on a picnic. I knew the reason for his enthusiasm — sheer relief to be dumping off his problem child. Never, under any circumstances, should people face their problems. I’d learned that lesson years ago when Dad and Mom kicked my brother out of the house, and later when Mom kicked Dad out.
Now, it was my turn to be kicked.
To a pregnancy home no less. Who knew they even existed anymore? What was this — the 1950s?
I pushed open the heavy door, climbed out, and surveyed Pleasant Living Home. The rambling brick house was set back off the road, smack in the middle of winter-naked trees. Every window was decked out with one of those miniature lamps — the kind meant to welcome strangers, losers, and injured strays.
Which one was I?
“Ready to go in?” Dad asked, interrupting my thoughts. He came around the car, weighed down with two bulky designer cases.
Mother had lent me her luggage — a total shocker, since she’d quit claiming me weeks before.
The front door burst open, and an over-eager middle-aged couple spilled outside. The woman fairly skipped to greet me, her wispy gray-blond hair swishing around her shoulders. Her husband couldn’t keep up. He plodded behind in a steady pace and greeted my dad with a handshake.
“You’re here!” I swear the woman chirped. She rushed over and swallowed me in a mooshy hug. She was pudgy, so I hadn’t expected any great strength, but she squeezed the breath right out of me. I struggled to release myself.
This visit was already too long.
“Farah Menins, I’m Steve.” The man studied my face and offered his hand.
I grabbed it hard to make sure he knew who was going to be in charge. He flinched but said nothing.
“I’m Edie, your house mother,” the woman said, opening her arms wide to usher us all inside like one happy family.
I jagged to the side. Who’d want to be part of their sheep-like herd? I followed, taking my sweet time up the stone stairs. I straightened my shoulders and shook my thick hair so it draped down my back. More than once I’d been told it looked like a fiery cape when shaken — and right then I needed fire. These people needed to know from the start that I was used to calling the shots. I kept my gaze forward, although from the corner of my eye I detected a curtain pulled back from a window on my right.
Let them stare.
The entry way opened to a small area with a high ceiling and wood floors buffed so highly that had I been wearing a skirt, I could have seen all the way up to my nose. Light rose wallpaper was plastered on each wall, dotted with pictures of nature scenes, mainly autumn woods with brilliant orange leaves falling in piles. There was a fake tree bigger than me in the far corner of the living room. Why they’d need a fake tree inside when there were acres of them outside was beyond me. A medium-sized Oriental rug lay like a sleeping dog beneath a square black coffee table.
“The girls like to play board games,” Edie said, pointing to the table. “I’m sure they’d love to have you join them.”
I bet they would.
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Note to self: Things don’t always go as planned.
Which was why I was riding in the front seat of our car, a virtual prisoner. Dad pulled into the long, curving driveway of Pleasant Living Home. The name itself was enough to make a person gag — and being two months pregnant, I’d been gagging plenty.
Dad’s knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel, and a thin moustache of sweat lined his upper lip. He stopped the car under an ivy-covered portico and glanced over at me.
“We’re here, kiddo,” he said. His voice climbed an octave, and a slight tremor shook beneath his words.
“So I see.”
“This is it.” He stared at me, I guess waiting for me to agree or gush or fall at his feet with gratitude. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
A few seconds passed, and I muttered, “Right.” Unlike my dad’s, there was no tremor in my voice, only steel. I wouldn’t be staying at Pleasant Living Home for long. I wouldn’t have to — Pete would rescue me. He’d been a total pig earlier, but he’d change his tune.
“Shall we get your things?” Dad asked, grabbing the door handle.
“Oh, let’s.” The steel in my voice morphed into snarky sarcasm.
Whatever.
Dad jumped out of the car as if going on a picnic. I knew the reason for his enthusiasm — sheer relief to be dumping off his problem child. Never, under any circumstances, should people face their problems. I’d learned that lesson years ago when Dad and Mom kicked my brother out of the house, and later when Mom kicked Dad out.
Now, it was my turn to be kicked.
To a pregnancy home no less. Who knew they even existed anymore? What was this — the 1950s?
I pushed open the heavy door, climbed out, and surveyed Pleasant Living Home. The rambling brick house was set back off the road, smack in the middle of winter-naked trees. Every window was decked out with one of those miniature lamps — the kind meant to welcome strangers, losers, and injured strays.
Which one was I?
“Ready to go in?” Dad asked, interrupting my thoughts. He came around the car, weighed down with two bulky designer cases.
Mother had lent me her luggage — a total shocker, since she’d quit claiming me weeks before.
The front door burst open, and an over-eager middle-aged couple spilled outside. The woman fairly skipped to greet me, her wispy gray-blond hair swishing around her shoulders. Her husband couldn’t keep up. He plodded behind in a steady pace and greeted my dad with a handshake.
“You’re here!” I swear the woman chirped. She rushed over and swallowed me in a mooshy hug. She was pudgy, so I hadn’t expected any great strength, but she squeezed the breath right out of me. I struggled to release myself.
This visit was already too long.
“Farah Menins, I’m Steve.” The man studied my face and offered his hand.
I grabbed it hard to make sure he knew who was going to be in charge. He flinched but said nothing.
“I’m Edie, your house mother,” the woman said, opening her arms wide to usher us all inside like one happy family.
I jagged to the side. Who’d want to be part of their sheep-like herd? I followed, taking my sweet time up the stone stairs. I straightened my shoulders and shook my thick hair so it draped down my back. More than once I’d been told it looked like a fiery cape when shaken — and right then I needed fire. These people needed to know from the start that I was used to calling the shots. I kept my gaze forward, although from the corner of my eye I detected a curtain pulled back from a window on my right.
Let them stare.
The entry way opened to a small area with a high ceiling and wood floors buffed so highly that had I been wearing a skirt, I could have seen all the way up to my nose. Light rose wallpaper was plastered on each wall, dotted with pictures of nature scenes, mainly autumn woods with brilliant orange leaves falling in piles. There was a fake tree bigger than me in the far corner of the living room. Why they’d need a fake tree inside when there were acres of them outside was beyond me. A medium-sized Oriental rug lay like a sleeping dog beneath a square black coffee table.
“The girls like to play board games,” Edie said, pointing to the table. “I’m sure they’d love to have you join them.”
I bet they would.
Thank you for reading!
Purchase Here
Amazon
Astraea Press
Barnes and Noble
Smashwords