Oh, you're here, that's good. o is it te Leggere these words right now? I don't know. I don't know what to believe, not my eyes even. All I know is that you're here, and since te started Leggere this and didn't quit till this point, then you're interested. Good, because I'm about to tell te a story I'm not sure you'll believe either. So get comfortable on this thing you're sitting on, because it will be a long one.
When my parents divorced I had the choice to stay with one of them, but instead I butt in and decide to come and live with my uncle. I hope town life just isn't my thing, but unfortunately it seems like there's più to it. I have been here approximately fifteen minuti and I'm already getting chills.
As my uncle and I walk to his loft – since his 1953 Chevy decided to shut off completely in the middle of our way there - I see almost half the peoples' eyes concentrated on me; guys and girls around my age, children, adults, elderly. One blonde girl with incredibly large, green eyes gives me a big, white-tooth smile. Maybe it's supposed to be sweet, but I see it as totally creepy. Since my hands are carrying the luggage, I just look away and try to distract myself da concentrating on some plants.
What I also find creepy is that there is almost none. Each front yard has only one, single tree, if te don't count the grass. As I look around, trying not to face those people, I realize the same albero has been duplicated to every house I saw, and probably to every house in town. The feeling of fear rose through me when I thought of our front yard.
Of course my fears became reality. As I walk da another empty-fenced house with a tree, I realize the sound of footsteps behind me stopped. As if on que, I hear my uncle's voice, "Monica, did te really think I'm poor enough to live in the woods?" I stop and look up, instead of houses o at least a plain field with a road in the middle, I see trees. I turn around and see our house, the last one in town. As I look back at the trees, I put the bags down and reach out for the tall plants. Real, normal trees, just standing there, footsteps from our house, no road, just trees, so many trees close together that te can barely reach your arm out to touch one without touching the other.
No, I did not say "Sort of" o "What is this?" after my uncle asked me if I liked it. In fact, I just picked my bags up and went inside without opening my mouth o looking at that tree. That may have offended him, but I don't think I cared at the moment. He showed me to my room, or, should I say, my den. The wooden letto stuck to the left wall, successivo to the bed, at its head – and at the end of the room- was a small, poorly handmade desk, it stood successivo to the window above the bed. To the left of the door, behind the foot of the letto stood a closet, and on superiore, in alto of it, a small TV. The spazio between the closet and the letto only allowed the closet doors to open. But the walls shocked me the most, they were not painted gray, as many of te might think, nor did they have farfalle painted on them, they were colored bright, blood red. And this is where I became certain I came into a madhouse.
"How do te like it?" my uncle asks. The thing that came out of my tongue was "This was a storage room wasn't it?"After the flushing of my uncle's face and me spending about fifteen minuti lying, telling him I Amore it, he finally leaves. Before I tell te how I spent the rest of my day, I must tell te how much I hate this color. It might not seem important to anything in this story, but trust me, it is. This color reminds me of everything bad, war, jealousy, murder, death, a billion other things, and cheating that resulted in my parents' divorce. Still don't think it's important? Just te wait.
Now you'd think it would be the time to unpack things, thank god you're not claustrophobic and sit on the letto and cry. I only had half an ora to myself, so no time to cry, really. Instead, my uncle comes and tells me it's time to go book shopping. School starts tomorrow.
Usually, here in Canada, the school gives us libri and we pay for them when the first school bill comes, o at least in all the schools I've been in. Wilsontown High is different, I guess. They give te a list, and te go and negozio for the libri in the local bookstore. I couldn't help but notice the resemblance this situation held with the times when mom wrote a lista and gave it to our driver, Billy who gave it to our caretaker, Sarah who then went shopping. That's just one of the advantages of your dad being a billionaire. It feels like I'm the caretaker now.
I know your question, o its beginning at least "If her dad's a billionaire," then your domanda might end up like "then why didn't she stay with him?" o it might be "then why is her uncle so poor?" o some of te might even think "then why doesn't she ask him for any money?" First, I don't want to live with my dad. Why? Simple, when my mom came back from work a few weeks fa and went to her bedroom, she found him sleeping with none other than my godmother, Anna. Yeah we didn't have that much of a bond since then.
Second, though Uncle Steve, which is the guy that brought me in here, is my father's brother, he never asked him for anything. They were never really brothers. Steve was already twenty-six and married when my dad was six years old starting first grade. My uncle was already in a boarding college da the time dad was born, so when he was told about the wedding, dad didn't know who my grandparents were talking about. They always thought of each other as strangers.
Third, as to money, I don't really need my dad's. But he dumps over fifteen thousand on my, technically his, credit card a week. Probably just to earn my apology. Though I'm not going to forgive him, I still use the money, it is fifteen thousand dollars a week we're talking about, and I'm not one of those depressive people who don't really give a crap.
After Steve gave me the lista the school gave him, I went shopping. He did offer me money, but I of course refused. He's already poor enough and I have about half a million on my card. As I walk to the bookstore I notice there are no people staring at me now. This is supposed to calm me down, but in fact, it freaks me out more. It's creepy how they stare at te this time, and then they act as if nothing had ever happened the successivo time.
My other theory was that I simply imagined things in the beginning, I mean, I was totally mad to come here, that makes it just a bit logical, right? Wilsontown, as te might have guessed from the school name, is the name of the town I'm in. Mom told me she read that it was founded da a family, The Wilsons, two brothers and three sisters. No parents. I asked mom to stop here, since I already felt the weirdness of this town coming once she told me about it. I had absolutely no desire to learn anything more, so when I look at the first book on my list, I get the sensation that I hate most; regret. The book is entitled 'Local History: Level 10' I prefer hearing it from my mom than from people who can't even pick a proper name for their history book.
The other libri were pretty much the same as my old ones, except they read Level 10 instead of Level 9 since I'll be a tenth grader tomorrow. What I also find new is the Science Book. In my old school, we had separated Biology, Chemistry, Physics and Geology classes. Here, it looks like it's all been crammed up in one subject and titled Science, just like in elementary school. There are two history books, the local one and the normal history. I know te don't understand why we are supposed to learn local history, I didn't either, but I did later, I think. And te will too, I hope.
English and French are the same, so is Math, though it was impossible to find Level 10. After half an ora of what felt like endless searching, I finally decided it was time to face my fears, to ask a worker in this madhouse for help. I look around and see one passing right da me; I nudge inoltrare, avanti and call him, "Excuse me, hi," he stops and turns around, "May I help you?" If you're thinking I'm quickly going to ask him to get the book, think again.
I have no idea how I kept my jaw from falling right open when he turned around. No, it was not because he was handsome, although he was like hell. There was something about him, something I can't express to te in words, something about his deep, bright, honey eyes, something about his high-styled, brown hair, something about his muscular shape and slightly tanned skin, something big, something strong, and something that felt like it was created only for me.
I try to gather words, but all that comes out is "uh, um, uh" and a nervous giggle. I realize I must look ridiculous a little too late, when he raises his left eyebrow. It's not a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you look; it's più of a you-better-stop-it-before-anyone-sees-you look. I decide to look down for a secondo as I clear my throat and blush slightly; when I look up I realize it's a lot easier to talk now "I was looking for-"
"'Geometry Level 10'?" he asks.
"How did te know?"
"You're far not the first one who's been asking for it,"
"Well, it's almost impossible to find."
"Not if te look had enough."
He pulled a long ladder towards him, it was leaning on the shelves and I hadn't even realized it, and starts climbing it. Out of all the weird things here, I have to tell te one thing, this bookstore is the weirdest. It's da far not small; our penthouse back in Toronto would fit five times in here. What's even weirder is that it looks just the size of our penthouse from outside. Inside, it's designed like a nineteenth century library. First of all, it is round. Second, it is made out of wood. Everything here, the chairs, the floor, the cabinets, and the shelves are pure, light brown wood. There is also a giant, wooden fireplace right the opposite of the reception counter which is to the right of the entrance door. Statues of famous writers and poets scattered around the circle, those, at least, were made from cement, though each one had two cushioned seats and a wooden coffee tavolo successivo to it. Did I mention the height of the shelves? Well the ceiling is so high te can't see it, because the light doesn't reach there, the shelves get darker the higher te go, but the libri don't end, it seems like te can walk this ladder for eternity and not reach the ceiling. There are no windows o conditioners, the walls are covered with book shelves and the only gap is taken da a huge aquarium the same size and shape of the shelves. I still have no idea how come I realized all of that just when he climbed up the ladder.
He climbed just half a foot above me and retrieved a big, dark green book; I'd have climbed more, because, though I'm the tallest in my class back in Toronto, I barely reach his chin. He gives me the book with a smile and a "here te go". I smile back and thank him. Instead of turning around and going about his business as guys with looks like him usually do, he asks me, "So you're new here?"
Maybe that's a good thing, "Yeah," I answer "Moving in with my uncle"
"Is he the one that lives at the very end?" How does he know that? I guess even guys like this can be spooky in this town.
"Uh... yeah..." I made sure to sound and look like I thought he was being suspicious, though I didn't need to try, "Is it on breaking news already?"
He chuckles, his voice is deep, but has a very bright ring in it, and when he chuckled, it became even brighter as he exposed his pearl white teeth just a little, "It's a small town," Suddenly, something, somehow made me almost certain he was the most normal person in this small town.
"What's your name?" he asks.
"Monica," I answer, "What's yours?"
"Leo,"
"And the full form?"
"Leonel,"
An exotic name, not Canadian, o American, o British even. The successivo thing I detto was supposed to be thought, not said, but I guess my tongue took over, "Yeah, I prefer Leo,"
In one second, I cover my mouth with my free hand in embarrassment and can't help but smile a little under my palm, "I'm sorry" I blurt out.
To my surprise, he smiles and says, "It's alright; I get that a lot,"
I remove my hand from my mouth and borsa my lips together to keep from laughing. From what? That I don't know.
Leo breaks the awkward silence, "So I guess I'll see te in school,"
My eyes pop out in shock, "You go to school?"
"Yeah, going on tenth grade, I don't look like it, I know,"
No, he doesn't. "No, te don't, not really."
"I get that a lot too,"
Not surprising. He doesn't look like a tenth grader, o a twelfth, he looks like he's at his secondo o third anno in college, and if it wasn't for his bright eyes, he'd look like a businessman.
Again, he breaks the silence, "So, I'll see te around?" he's carrying a hopeful grin on his lips.
"Yeah," I pull my hair behind my right ear and smile, "of course, see you." He nods slightly, turns around, and leaves.
As I walk out of the museum, I meant to say the bookstore, that mysterious feeling that was making me laugh fades away, as the sensation to go back gets stronger. I try to fight it though; I need a good night's sleep if I want to go through tomorrow, though te and I both know that's impossible. It's already getting late and I need something to at least make my room brighter, I'm sort of a money spoiled girl, if te haven't noticed, and I can't sleep in that den, at least not with it looking like that.
The only thing I can think of is a mirror, so I go to buy one. The one I take is squared, with a beige frame and some brown, Greek Scrivere that matches the ceiling's cornice. I like it, plus the cashier detto I had great taste. Another good thing is that it's one of those mirrors that stick on the wall, so te don't have to screw it in o anything.
When I come back home, Steve is already fast asleep on the couch, with the TV turned on. I guess he fell asleep. I grab the remote from the tavolo and turn the TV off, when I turn to face the small, round, white-framed clock on the wall; I see it is nine PM. Steve told me school starts at eight sharp, just like my old school. I usually sleep at around eleven, but I was so tired I could barely stand. Therefore I go to my room, dump the bag between the letto and the closet, stick the mirror on the wall, turn the lights off, and throw myself on the bed, not bothering to change. Instead of tearing, my eyes closed shut for the rest of the night.
When my parents divorced I had the choice to stay with one of them, but instead I butt in and decide to come and live with my uncle. I hope town life just isn't my thing, but unfortunately it seems like there's più to it. I have been here approximately fifteen minuti and I'm already getting chills.
As my uncle and I walk to his loft – since his 1953 Chevy decided to shut off completely in the middle of our way there - I see almost half the peoples' eyes concentrated on me; guys and girls around my age, children, adults, elderly. One blonde girl with incredibly large, green eyes gives me a big, white-tooth smile. Maybe it's supposed to be sweet, but I see it as totally creepy. Since my hands are carrying the luggage, I just look away and try to distract myself da concentrating on some plants.
What I also find creepy is that there is almost none. Each front yard has only one, single tree, if te don't count the grass. As I look around, trying not to face those people, I realize the same albero has been duplicated to every house I saw, and probably to every house in town. The feeling of fear rose through me when I thought of our front yard.
Of course my fears became reality. As I walk da another empty-fenced house with a tree, I realize the sound of footsteps behind me stopped. As if on que, I hear my uncle's voice, "Monica, did te really think I'm poor enough to live in the woods?" I stop and look up, instead of houses o at least a plain field with a road in the middle, I see trees. I turn around and see our house, the last one in town. As I look back at the trees, I put the bags down and reach out for the tall plants. Real, normal trees, just standing there, footsteps from our house, no road, just trees, so many trees close together that te can barely reach your arm out to touch one without touching the other.
No, I did not say "Sort of" o "What is this?" after my uncle asked me if I liked it. In fact, I just picked my bags up and went inside without opening my mouth o looking at that tree. That may have offended him, but I don't think I cared at the moment. He showed me to my room, or, should I say, my den. The wooden letto stuck to the left wall, successivo to the bed, at its head – and at the end of the room- was a small, poorly handmade desk, it stood successivo to the window above the bed. To the left of the door, behind the foot of the letto stood a closet, and on superiore, in alto of it, a small TV. The spazio between the closet and the letto only allowed the closet doors to open. But the walls shocked me the most, they were not painted gray, as many of te might think, nor did they have farfalle painted on them, they were colored bright, blood red. And this is where I became certain I came into a madhouse.
"How do te like it?" my uncle asks. The thing that came out of my tongue was "This was a storage room wasn't it?"After the flushing of my uncle's face and me spending about fifteen minuti lying, telling him I Amore it, he finally leaves. Before I tell te how I spent the rest of my day, I must tell te how much I hate this color. It might not seem important to anything in this story, but trust me, it is. This color reminds me of everything bad, war, jealousy, murder, death, a billion other things, and cheating that resulted in my parents' divorce. Still don't think it's important? Just te wait.
Now you'd think it would be the time to unpack things, thank god you're not claustrophobic and sit on the letto and cry. I only had half an ora to myself, so no time to cry, really. Instead, my uncle comes and tells me it's time to go book shopping. School starts tomorrow.
Usually, here in Canada, the school gives us libri and we pay for them when the first school bill comes, o at least in all the schools I've been in. Wilsontown High is different, I guess. They give te a list, and te go and negozio for the libri in the local bookstore. I couldn't help but notice the resemblance this situation held with the times when mom wrote a lista and gave it to our driver, Billy who gave it to our caretaker, Sarah who then went shopping. That's just one of the advantages of your dad being a billionaire. It feels like I'm the caretaker now.
I know your question, o its beginning at least "If her dad's a billionaire," then your domanda might end up like "then why didn't she stay with him?" o it might be "then why is her uncle so poor?" o some of te might even think "then why doesn't she ask him for any money?" First, I don't want to live with my dad. Why? Simple, when my mom came back from work a few weeks fa and went to her bedroom, she found him sleeping with none other than my godmother, Anna. Yeah we didn't have that much of a bond since then.
Second, though Uncle Steve, which is the guy that brought me in here, is my father's brother, he never asked him for anything. They were never really brothers. Steve was already twenty-six and married when my dad was six years old starting first grade. My uncle was already in a boarding college da the time dad was born, so when he was told about the wedding, dad didn't know who my grandparents were talking about. They always thought of each other as strangers.
Third, as to money, I don't really need my dad's. But he dumps over fifteen thousand on my, technically his, credit card a week. Probably just to earn my apology. Though I'm not going to forgive him, I still use the money, it is fifteen thousand dollars a week we're talking about, and I'm not one of those depressive people who don't really give a crap.
After Steve gave me the lista the school gave him, I went shopping. He did offer me money, but I of course refused. He's already poor enough and I have about half a million on my card. As I walk to the bookstore I notice there are no people staring at me now. This is supposed to calm me down, but in fact, it freaks me out more. It's creepy how they stare at te this time, and then they act as if nothing had ever happened the successivo time.
My other theory was that I simply imagined things in the beginning, I mean, I was totally mad to come here, that makes it just a bit logical, right? Wilsontown, as te might have guessed from the school name, is the name of the town I'm in. Mom told me she read that it was founded da a family, The Wilsons, two brothers and three sisters. No parents. I asked mom to stop here, since I already felt the weirdness of this town coming once she told me about it. I had absolutely no desire to learn anything more, so when I look at the first book on my list, I get the sensation that I hate most; regret. The book is entitled 'Local History: Level 10' I prefer hearing it from my mom than from people who can't even pick a proper name for their history book.
The other libri were pretty much the same as my old ones, except they read Level 10 instead of Level 9 since I'll be a tenth grader tomorrow. What I also find new is the Science Book. In my old school, we had separated Biology, Chemistry, Physics and Geology classes. Here, it looks like it's all been crammed up in one subject and titled Science, just like in elementary school. There are two history books, the local one and the normal history. I know te don't understand why we are supposed to learn local history, I didn't either, but I did later, I think. And te will too, I hope.
English and French are the same, so is Math, though it was impossible to find Level 10. After half an ora of what felt like endless searching, I finally decided it was time to face my fears, to ask a worker in this madhouse for help. I look around and see one passing right da me; I nudge inoltrare, avanti and call him, "Excuse me, hi," he stops and turns around, "May I help you?" If you're thinking I'm quickly going to ask him to get the book, think again.
I have no idea how I kept my jaw from falling right open when he turned around. No, it was not because he was handsome, although he was like hell. There was something about him, something I can't express to te in words, something about his deep, bright, honey eyes, something about his high-styled, brown hair, something about his muscular shape and slightly tanned skin, something big, something strong, and something that felt like it was created only for me.
I try to gather words, but all that comes out is "uh, um, uh" and a nervous giggle. I realize I must look ridiculous a little too late, when he raises his left eyebrow. It's not a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you look; it's più of a you-better-stop-it-before-anyone-sees-you look. I decide to look down for a secondo as I clear my throat and blush slightly; when I look up I realize it's a lot easier to talk now "I was looking for-"
"'Geometry Level 10'?" he asks.
"How did te know?"
"You're far not the first one who's been asking for it,"
"Well, it's almost impossible to find."
"Not if te look had enough."
He pulled a long ladder towards him, it was leaning on the shelves and I hadn't even realized it, and starts climbing it. Out of all the weird things here, I have to tell te one thing, this bookstore is the weirdest. It's da far not small; our penthouse back in Toronto would fit five times in here. What's even weirder is that it looks just the size of our penthouse from outside. Inside, it's designed like a nineteenth century library. First of all, it is round. Second, it is made out of wood. Everything here, the chairs, the floor, the cabinets, and the shelves are pure, light brown wood. There is also a giant, wooden fireplace right the opposite of the reception counter which is to the right of the entrance door. Statues of famous writers and poets scattered around the circle, those, at least, were made from cement, though each one had two cushioned seats and a wooden coffee tavolo successivo to it. Did I mention the height of the shelves? Well the ceiling is so high te can't see it, because the light doesn't reach there, the shelves get darker the higher te go, but the libri don't end, it seems like te can walk this ladder for eternity and not reach the ceiling. There are no windows o conditioners, the walls are covered with book shelves and the only gap is taken da a huge aquarium the same size and shape of the shelves. I still have no idea how come I realized all of that just when he climbed up the ladder.
He climbed just half a foot above me and retrieved a big, dark green book; I'd have climbed more, because, though I'm the tallest in my class back in Toronto, I barely reach his chin. He gives me the book with a smile and a "here te go". I smile back and thank him. Instead of turning around and going about his business as guys with looks like him usually do, he asks me, "So you're new here?"
Maybe that's a good thing, "Yeah," I answer "Moving in with my uncle"
"Is he the one that lives at the very end?" How does he know that? I guess even guys like this can be spooky in this town.
"Uh... yeah..." I made sure to sound and look like I thought he was being suspicious, though I didn't need to try, "Is it on breaking news already?"
He chuckles, his voice is deep, but has a very bright ring in it, and when he chuckled, it became even brighter as he exposed his pearl white teeth just a little, "It's a small town," Suddenly, something, somehow made me almost certain he was the most normal person in this small town.
"What's your name?" he asks.
"Monica," I answer, "What's yours?"
"Leo,"
"And the full form?"
"Leonel,"
An exotic name, not Canadian, o American, o British even. The successivo thing I detto was supposed to be thought, not said, but I guess my tongue took over, "Yeah, I prefer Leo,"
In one second, I cover my mouth with my free hand in embarrassment and can't help but smile a little under my palm, "I'm sorry" I blurt out.
To my surprise, he smiles and says, "It's alright; I get that a lot,"
I remove my hand from my mouth and borsa my lips together to keep from laughing. From what? That I don't know.
Leo breaks the awkward silence, "So I guess I'll see te in school,"
My eyes pop out in shock, "You go to school?"
"Yeah, going on tenth grade, I don't look like it, I know,"
No, he doesn't. "No, te don't, not really."
"I get that a lot too,"
Not surprising. He doesn't look like a tenth grader, o a twelfth, he looks like he's at his secondo o third anno in college, and if it wasn't for his bright eyes, he'd look like a businessman.
Again, he breaks the silence, "So, I'll see te around?" he's carrying a hopeful grin on his lips.
"Yeah," I pull my hair behind my right ear and smile, "of course, see you." He nods slightly, turns around, and leaves.
As I walk out of the museum, I meant to say the bookstore, that mysterious feeling that was making me laugh fades away, as the sensation to go back gets stronger. I try to fight it though; I need a good night's sleep if I want to go through tomorrow, though te and I both know that's impossible. It's already getting late and I need something to at least make my room brighter, I'm sort of a money spoiled girl, if te haven't noticed, and I can't sleep in that den, at least not with it looking like that.
The only thing I can think of is a mirror, so I go to buy one. The one I take is squared, with a beige frame and some brown, Greek Scrivere that matches the ceiling's cornice. I like it, plus the cashier detto I had great taste. Another good thing is that it's one of those mirrors that stick on the wall, so te don't have to screw it in o anything.
When I come back home, Steve is already fast asleep on the couch, with the TV turned on. I guess he fell asleep. I grab the remote from the tavolo and turn the TV off, when I turn to face the small, round, white-framed clock on the wall; I see it is nine PM. Steve told me school starts at eight sharp, just like my old school. I usually sleep at around eleven, but I was so tired I could barely stand. Therefore I go to my room, dump the bag between the letto and the closet, stick the mirror on the wall, turn the lights off, and throw myself on the bed, not bothering to change. Instead of tearing, my eyes closed shut for the rest of the night.