Green-Green everywhere. Trees grow around the winding dirt road in rows so thick that I can barely see the gray of the world around me. It's November: the sky is flat and empty, the color of ashes and icy slush on the sides of the road. My teeth clench at the slightly numbing chill that is settling into my legs-our car has a crappy heater.
"Oregon? Seriously?" I mumble bitterly. Mom slides me a look and I cross my arms tighter across my stomach. "This isn't even civilization-it's a mountain with cabins. How do people even manage to survive here?"
"You can be angry all you want, Shylah. You brought this on yourself," she says tightly, hands tightening momentarily on the steering wheel. I roll my eyes.
"Right-because it's my entire fault that the teachers decided I was better off in home school." This isn't an entire lie-I was expelled from RoyalGroveHigh School because I went off on every teacher I came across until they finally just got rid of me because I was too much trouble to deal with. I can hear the sigh from the other side of our big black truck as easily as I'd be able to if I was pressed into her side.
"It is when you tell your teacher you'd rather be six feet under than ever go to that school again," Mom replies. I press myself harder against the passenger side door and bite together to hold back a snide remark. This argument is old, practiced-we've been over these lines so many times that I really just don't want to bother going over it again.
"Well, I only have one more year," I say. "And then I'm done with high school and you don't have to worry about it anymore."
She sighs again and presses her lips together in a mimic of what I'd done. I almost grin in success when she has nothing to say in response and look outside. It's cold here, the road dark with moisture, and I shiver. And I have another year of living here, I think grimly. Fantastic-can't wait to get started.
It's another hour and a half before we pull into a driveway and I see a small clearing leveled out with a house. It's not new, not by any sense, but it's a step up from our tiny apartment in California, if only a tiny inch of one. It's a small two-story with green trim, and sadly, doesn't look much bigger than our previous home. I sigh and climb out of the car, getting my backpack out of the backseat before slamming the door shut and stalking to the front door. It's hard to stomp away appropriately when your legs are dead asleep and the same temperature as ice, but I try my hardest anyway.
Mom comes to the door a few seconds after I get there with her roller suitcase and I don't pause when the door opens to find my room. I grimace when I find it: the air is scented with dust and stagnant air, and everything looks like it's too hundred years old. My nose wrinkles when I see the bed, but I'm too cold to do anything yet-I change into thick black sweats and a really heavy feather-grey long-sleeve and tie my thick hair into a pony-tail. Now ready to tackle the room, I get started.
The first thing I do is open the windows-cold, clean air is better than dusty, soupy, warm air any day. After that, I go out to the truck and grab my pitiful two boxes of stuff and strip the bed. As expected, I raise a cloud of dust doing so, but my black comforter looks much better than the Army camouflage that had covered the mattress before. The next thing I do is take stock of what I have here already. These are the things I see: a bookshelf filled with wolf behavior books, a door that leads to a bathroom, a dresser that has nothing in it, and an empty closet.
I take the wolf books off the shelf and take them outside to dump them in the trash, and replace them with my own massive music collection (full of awesome bands like Evans Blue, Five Finger Death Punch, Gemini Syndrome, Icon For Hire, and Rise Against) and my books. I take my clothes and hang them up, pleased that I actually have enough to fill it. My shampoo and conditioner, along with soap and everything else related to bathroom necessities, are unpacked and put away. But it's so quiet in the room, that I can't stand it anymore, so I turn on Evans Blue's Graveyard of Empires CD and rock out to This Time Is Different while I put up my posters.
YOU ARE READING
Alpha's Curse
Werewolf"Who are you?" He growls. His muscles bulge around his t-shirt, amber eyes glaring down at me with every threat possible. I'm not one to cower, not usually--I can fist fight and take a hit with every guy in town--but his entire frame pours authority...
