I fell back onto my pillow, and heaved another sigh. I stared up at the ancient white wooden beams above me—my parents had been so excited to renovate this old ship maker’s house when we moved in two years ago. They left the ceiling beams exposed because they said it gave the house character.
Personality. Depth.
“This house has more meaning than my life,” I groaned aloud. I rubbed my eyes and groaned again when I rolled over and saw the time. The digital 6:53 a.m. taunted me. Not enough time to go back to sleep, too much time for getting ready for school.
I wrinkled my nose. Ugh. Insult to injury, it was Monday, too. Just another week, another day in ‘quaint’ little Portsmouth, surrounded by water and miserably far from anything interesting beyond the tourist pit stops on the way to Newport’s mansions. My home.
“Now you’re just depressing me,” I moaned, chastising myself. Steeling my will, I rolled out of bed and to my feet. I grabbed my fluffy white towel off the door hook, and shuffled out of my room. The hallway mirror caught me mid-yawn, my brown shoulder-length hair a rat’s nest, my dull grey eyes bleary.
Yikes! So not a morning person. I stumbled into the bathroom.
My bathroom at the end of the hall was small; the free-standing, clubfoot tub dominated what little space there was, a leftover from a late 19th century renovation. Even though my second anniversary living here had passed three months ago, it was still a surprise to look above the toilet and not see a water tank mounted on the wall. Instead, the brand new model sat crammed in the corner between the wall and the tub, completely out of place. But then again, anything younger than the 1920s just looked weird in this house.
I turned on the shower and brushed my teeth while I waited for the water to get hot. Of course, that would only be if I was lucky. Mom and Dad joked about how our house was like a grumpy old man who just needed a lot of love, but as far as I was concerned, it was a total pain. Nothing made me miss San Diego more than a temperamental New England water heater on a cold autumn morning.
When the pipes started knocking, I knew the water was finally ready. I tossed my pajamas into the hamper and stepped into the shower, carefully trying not to slip. I’d slipped so many times coming in and out of the tub, I could swear it was out to get me. I swear, someday I would knock myself unconscious with the faucet running, and drown. In a bathtub. How awful would that be?
The water was as hot as it could get, but it was just warm enough. The windows and mirror were fogging up from the steam already, but to step an inch out of the spray was to get hit by a wall of cold air. Brrrrrh, I thought. It wasn’t even October yet, but I could tell another New England winter was right around the corner. Great.
I reached for the shampoo and worked it into my hair, trying to tease the knots out. For hair that was so straight and dull, it was thick. Mom kept telling me I should try sleeping with it braided, but it just kept slipping out of the braid, or I would just plain forget. The last of the shampoo rinsed out, I slathered on the conditioner, letting it sit while I grabbed my loofah. My conditioner smelled like coconuts and my body wash like orange blossoms. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was back in California.
For a minute I could almost see the palm trees and beaches, smell the sun on the sand and feel the warm wind in my face. But as soon as it was there, it was gone, and I was back in Rhode Island.
I rinsed the conditioner out, and steeling myself, turned off the water. I started shivering as soon as I opened the curtain, and toweled myself dry as quickly as I was able.
I brushed my wet hair, scrutinizing my face in the mirror as I did. I suppose I was lucky to not really need special facial washes, toners or moisturizers like other girls my age, but at least other girls didn’t have pale, wan faces like mine. There wasn’t the slightest flush to my cheek, no freckles, no dimples, nothing. Just wide grey eyes, brown hair and pale pink lips. Snow White was I only in skin, and not in any of the other important descriptors. My best friend Bree always said makeup would really make my features pop, but I couldn’t stand the stuff, and besides—what was the point of putting all those chemicals on your face if underneath you were still just uninteresting? Eventually the makeup had to come off, and then what?
No, it was just better not to bother.
My hair was still wet, so I tied it back in a messy bun. It would dry by the time I got to my first period class. Feeling more awake, I opened the door and turned toward my bedroom, and nearly ran into my dad.
“Oh, good morning sweetie!” My dad—Dr. Howard Slate to his students and colleagues—always the morning person. He was dressed and it looked like he was just about to run off to work. His Monday classes at Miskatonic University didn’t start until 11:00 a.m., but he liked to offer open office hours for students in the mornings. If they thought their grades mattered, he always argued, they would drag themselves out of bed for them.
Dad’s doctorate was in marine biology and he was primarily an oceanographer. Pretty much if it came from the depths, he found it fascinating. That was fine when we lived in San Diego, but a better paying position at MU dragged our entire family north—‘Hook, line and sinker!’ Mom had joked, and my dad had howled with laughter.
I loved my parents, but they could be so embarrassing sometimes.
“Morning Dad,” I mumbled as I ran for my room, not wanting to stand in the hallway in my towel.
“Say, honey, I tested your car battery this morning and it’s still not working.”
I paused in my doorway. “Still?” I whined.
“Yeah, sorry, honey, looks like you’re going to have to replace it.”
“That’s just great, Dad, how much do those cost?” I asked as I watched my Monday slide from bad to worse.
“We’ll look it up honey, and it shouldn’t take you too long to save up for a new one. Besides, I’m sure Bridget would be willing to pick you up today for school, give her a call,” he suggested.
“I suppose. Or maybe even Vik could—”
“I’m sure Bridget could!” he interrupted. With a grimace, he continued, “Sorry, honey, I like the kid and all, but I just don’t like that moped of his. Bridget’s car is much safer.”
“Dad, this is Portsmouth,” I retorted. “What are we going to hit, the curb?”
“Please, honey?” he begged.
I sighed. “Fine, Dad, I’ll call Bree first. But I’m sixteen you know!”
“I know, sweetie, and I just want to make sure you make it to seventeen,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “Have a good day at school?”
“Sure, whatever. Have a good day, Dad.”
He headed down the stairs, and I closed my door. It was already 7:35 a.m. Class started at 8:25 a.m., but I still had to call Bree.
Crap.
I pulled some undies, a bra and socks out of my bureau. The bra and socks were white but the underwear was pink with the word ‘FLIRT’ over the rear. They were so embarrassing, but Mom had found them on sale. It was a little mortifying that my mom still bought clothes for me. I was always her little dress up doll, and I guess old habits die hard. Besides, it wasn’t like Mom didn’t have an eye for fashion—at least when it came to outerwear. For panties, however… well, it wasn’t like anyone was actually going to see them. And just then I was glad to have them since I’d forgotten to do the laundry. Again. Tonight, I thought to myself. I’ll totally get it done tonight.
I pulled them on, and dove for my Gap skinny jeans that were on the floor. I’d only worn them just this weekend, they were still good to go.
I grabbed my cellphone off the charger, and pulled Bree up in my contacts—I really needed to remember to ask Vik to add her to my quick dials for me. I’d had the phone since the first week of school, almost a month ago, but I kept forgetting, and my efforts to try to figure it out on my own had been laughable. Technology and I really just didn’t get along.
It rang once, twice, three, four times and then Bree finally picked up.
“…S’up?” she mumbled.
“Oh god, are you still asleep?” I demanded.
“Five more minutes, s’okay—”
“Bree, look, I need you to pick me up. My car’s still not working,” I said as I searched my closet for a shirt to wear.
“But you could bike there in less than—” I could hear her sigh, and then grunt—she must have finally gotten out of bed. “Okay, okay, I can be there in twenty, don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Bree, you’re a lifesaver,” I said, and hanging up, tossed my phone onto my bed. I finally selected a shirt, a J. Crew light v-neck in teal. Boring, but simple. I had packed my bag the night before, so I grabbed my phone, threw on my black Converse sneakers, and I was ready for another wonderful, fabulous day. Sigh.
I headed down the rustic staircase. My mom—Professor Sonia Slate to her students and colleagues (except she was on a sabbatical for the year)—had one of those natural flairs for interior decorating.
When we’d moved in, she decided on a nautical theme for the old colonial place and she ran with it. The house was all wood and clean, cool colors, brass highlights, antique furniture, ocean-related artifacts and bookcases that spilled from room to room. Everyone was always saying how amazing it was that the house didn’t feel too masculine or too feminine (which Dad always appreciated), and yet was still homey and inviting. Even though the end result looked effortless, I didn’t really see the point of all the work Mom had done. A room is just a room after all, which was why I kept my own bedroom relatively plain. Just the furniture I needed, not really many decorations or curtains or anything. Stuff like that all just got in the way.
“Good morning, Andromeda,” Mom sang as I entered the kitchen. She stood at the stove, waiting for her coffee water to boil, and caught the grimace that crossed my face at the mention of my name. After the dream, hearing it out loud pushed hard on the old sore spot.
“I don’t know why you hate your name so much,” she sighed. “It’s a beautiful name. Classic.”
I rolled my eyes as I leaned against the counter. She could never understand.
Mom just laughed. “Oh right, of course, I forgot—classic names are lame,” she teased. Just then the teapot started whistling, and she turned to pour the water into the French press.
“I’m just not an Andromeda, Mom,” I groused as I grabbed a coffee mug and a tea bag from the kitchen counter. It was my favorite tea, peppermint, and I used the last of the hot water to make myself a cup. I only added a little bit of honey and milk to it, and the way the aroma played with my nose was perfect.
“Not a soon-to-be sacrificed maiden rescued by a daring prince with a monstrous weapon?” Mom suggested. “I suppose that’s fine then, but it’s still a beautiful name and your father and I have no regrets giving it to you,” she smiled.
A car horn interrupted the cozy silence of the kitchen—Bree had arrived!
“Later, Mom,” I cried, running to grab my bag.
“Wait, you haven’t eaten breakfast!” she protested.
“Not hungry!” I called over my shoulder.
“You will be in class. Hang on!” she ordered, and I paused, my hand on the brass doorknob. Through the window, I could see Bree sitting in her car, looking bored and texting. She honked again without looking up. Geez, Bree, I thought, the neighbors are going to love that.
“Here,” Mom said as she jogged from the kitchen. She shoved a granola bar into my hand. “Something for the road, sweetie.”
“Okay, bye Mom,” I said as I opened the door and ran to Bree’s car.
“Have a good day at school!” she yelled from behind me.
Not likely, I thought as I slid into the passenger seat.
After all, it was just another Monday in Portsmouth, Rhode Island.