“Well, I’m glad they did.” He looked down at his sandwich for a few seconds before asking, “Do you miss your old town?”
“Sometimes.” She smiled softly. “But it’s nice here. My old town, Orick, is seriously small. Like five hundred people small.”
“Wow” He chuckled. “LA’s just a little bigger than that.”
She laughed and choked on her soda.
David looked like he was ready to ask something else, but the bell sounded and he smiled instead. “Can we do this again tomorrow?” He hesitated for a second, then added, “With my friends, maybe?”
Laurel’s first instinct was to say no, but she’d enjoyed David’s company. Besides, socialising more was yet another reason her mom had insisted on high school this year. “Sure,” she said before she could lose her nerve. “That’d be fun.”
“Awesome.” He stood and offered her his hand. He pulled her to her feet and grinned lopsidedly for a minute. “Well, I’ll…see you around, I guess.”
She watched him walk away. His jacket and loose-fitting jeans looked more or less like everyone else’s, but there was a sureness in his walk that set him apart from the crowd. Laurel was envious of that confident stride.
Maybe someday.
Laurel threw her backpack on the counter and slumped on to a barstool. Her mom, Sarah, glanced up from the bread she was kneading. “How was school?”
“It sucked.”
Her hands stopped. “Language, Laurel.”
“Well, it did. And there’s not a better word to describe it.”
“You have to give it some time, hon.”
“Everyone stares at me like I’m a freak.”
“They stare at you because you’re new”
“I don’t look like everyone else.”
Her mom grinned. “Would you want to?”
Laurel rolled her eyes, but she had to admit her mother had scored a point. She might be homeschooled and a little sheltered, but she knew she looked a lot like the models in magazines and on television.
And she liked it.
Adolescence had been kind to her. Her almost translucent white skin hadn’t suffered the effects of acne and her blonde hair had never been greasy. She was a small, lithe fifteen-year-old with a perfectly oval face and light green eyes. She’d always been thin, but not too thin, and had even developed some curves in the last few years. Her limbs were long and willowy and she walked with a dancer’s grace, despite having never taken lessons.
“I meant I dress differently.”
“You could dress like everyone else if you wanted to.”
“Yeah, but they all wear clunky shoes and tight jeans and, like, three shirts all layered on top of each other.”
“So?”
“I don’t like tight clothes. They’re scratchy and make me feel awkward. And really, who could possibly want to wear clunky shoes? Yuck.”
“So wear what you want. If your clothes are enough to drive would-be friends away they’re not the kind of friends you want.”
Typical mother advice. Sweet, honest, and completely useless. “It’s loud there.”
Her mom stopped kneading and brushed her fringe out of her face, leaving a floury streak on her brow “Sweetheart, you can hardly expect an entire high school to be as quiet as the two of us all alone. Be reasonable.”
“I am reasonable. I’m not talking about necessary noise; they run around like wild monkeys. They shriek and laugh and whine at the top of their lungs. And they make out at their lockers.”
Her mom rested her hand on her hip. Anything else?”
“Yes. The halls are dark.”
“They are not dark,” her mom said, her tone slightly scolding. “I toured that entire school with you last week and all the walls are white.”
“But there are no windows, just those awful fluorescent lights. They’re so fake and they don’t bring any real light to the hallways. They’re just…dark. I miss Orick.”
Her mom began shaping the dough into loaves. “Tell me something good about today. I mean it.”
Laurel wandered over to the fridge.
“No,” her mom said, putting up one hand to stop her. “Something good first.”
“Um…I met a nice guy,” she said, stepping around her mom’s arm and grabbing a soda. “David…David something.”
It was her mom’s turn to roll her eyes. “Of course. We move to a new town and I start you in a brand new school and the first person you latch on to is a guy.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I’m kidding.”
Laurel stood silently, listening to the slap of bread dough on the counter.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
Laurel drew in a deep breath. “Do I really have to keep going?”
Her mom rubbed her temples. “Laurel, we’ve been through this already.”
“But—”
“No. We’re not going to argue about it again.” She leaned on the counter, her face close to Laurel’s. “I don’t feel qualified to homeschool you any more. It’s time.”
“But you could order one of those homeschooling programmes. I looked them up online,” Laurel said hurriedly when her mom opened her mouth.
“And how much does it cost?” her mom asked, her voice quiet, one eyebrow raised pointedly.
Laurel was silent.
“Listen,” her mom said, after a pause, “until our property in Orick sells, we don’t have the money for anything extra. You know that.”
Laurel looked down at the counter, her shoulders slumped.
The main reason they’d moved to Crescent City in the first place was because her dad had bought a bookstore down on Washington Street. Early in the year, he’d been driving through and saw a For Sale sign on a bookstore going out of business. Laurel remembered listening to her parents talk for weeks about what they could do to buy the store - a shared dream since they’d first got married - but the numbers never added up.
Then, in late April, a guy named Jeremiah Barnes approached Laurel’s dad where he was working in Eureka with interest
