The Bad Boy Is My Legal Guardian?

Chapter 1

The night of the accident, I was at my best friend Shannon's house. I had been planning to stay the night. It was only 7 o'clock when Shannon's mom came into the room where we had just begun to braid each other's hair and taken my hands into hers.

"Roberta," she'd said gently, using my full name instead of my nickname Birdie. "There's a policeman at the door. He's just told me that your parents were involved in a car accident."

I hadn't said anything, but my stomach had dropped.

"Are they okay?" I'd asked.

Shannon's mom's eyes had watered, a single tear dropping as she shook her head no.

Shannon hugged me, but I didn't hug her back. I didn't cry. I didn't even blink. I was frozen. There's no way they're not okay. They're not gone. They can't be. Mom...Daddy...

They had just dropped me off. They said they would see me in the morning. They told me to have fun. They were on their way home. Maybe if I hadn't bugged Mom to let me go to Shannon's house, maybe if I hadn't complained on the way there that we'd be late, then maybe they would have survived. They could have waited on second longer after I climbed out of the van, one moment more after they waved goodbye, and they wouldn't have been hit head on by the drunk teenager who hadn't realized the gravity of his mistake until he was sober the next morning and he saw me, eyes rimmed with red, in the hospital waiting room.

They never let me see the bodies. I didn't want to anyway. The funeral featured two shiny closed caskets. Kids I barely knew were forced to come by concerned teachers. All of my aunts and uncles and cousins were in Korea or California. None of them attended.

I didn't care.

"Would you like anything to drink, ma'am?" says the pretty brunette flight attendant, pulling my mind away from the memory of that night.

"No thank you," I answer politely.

I'm on my way to California, where I'm supposed to meet my uncle, who has a reputation for being absolutely crazy. He's my new legal guardian until I turn 18 in July, only six months away.

I lay my head back in the cramped economy seat and close my eyes. Last time I was on a plane was last month, when Mom, Daddy and I had all gone to Alaska for Ski Week. It was breathtaking there; we saw the Aurora Borealis, watched orcas swim off the coast, and hiked through the lush evergreen forests.

But I don't want Mom and Dad to fade into distant memories like Alaska already has. I need to remember them as vividly as I can, otherwise I'll lose them all over again.

The pilot's voice fills the small, overly warm cabin. "We're landing in 10 minutes, folks. Please stay seated and fasten your seat belts. Welcome to San Francisco!"

I click the seatbelt into place across my lap and sigh deeply. I run my fingers through my long black hair and try to rub sleep from my eyes. I look less than presentable right now, with my tangled hair, pink Gap sweatshirt, and grey sweatpants. Who's going to care, anyway? It's just my uncle. It's not like I'm meeting a super hot male model.

I look out the window at the city below. I can see the ocean, colored a dirty green-brown. One city to another; from my home in New York City to a new life in San Francisco. Already, I can see that the tallest buildings here are barely half the height of the skyscrapers in NYC.

The runway is getting closer and closer, the strip of cement blurring past beneath the plane's shadow. It shudders and slows when it touches down in the ground, and some elderly couple begins to clap. Mom and Dad used to clap whenever our plane landed. I decide to clap, for them.

As soon as the plane has stopped completely, I get up from my convenient aisle seat and take my backpack from the overhead compartment. I pull it on, and make my way out of the plane. It's colder than I thought it would be, but not colder than New York.

I stroll over to the baggage claim. I'm in no hurry. My uncle is known for being late.

As I watch the suitcases go round, I yawn. I didn't sleep well on the five hour flight here. My stomach was twisted into nervous knots and the guy next to me smelled like onions.

My bag finally comes around, but before I can grab it, a guy comes up beside me and takes it.

"Hey!" I protest. "That's mine!"

The guy nods slowly, like I'm a child. "Yeah," he says. "I know. Roberta, right?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I prefer Birdie," I tell him sassily. Then, I remember how I must look, a messy slob with a pink, unwashed sweatshirt. Suddenly I'm very self-conscious, because this guy is hot. His cheekbones are high, his jawline is chiseled, and his eyebrows are perfect. His skin is clear and toffee colored, and his eyes are a soft, warm brown. I notice that his lips are plump and naturally flushed. He wears a puffy jacket and black joggers, with a pair of spotless Adidas. He towers over me, my suitcase in his hand.

"Wait," I say. He glances at me. "Where's my uncle? He's supposed to pick me up. Who are you?"

The beautiful boy sighs. "He's in Ireland. I don't know why. But he told me to babysit his niece when she got in from New York."

He begins to make his way towards the exit, through a growing crowd of people. "Hold up!" I holler, and several heads swivel around to look at me, but none of them belong to the hot male model. "You didn't tell me who you are!"

The guy turns around, and his handsome face looks exasperated. "I'm your uncle's best friend's brother's sister-in-law's best friend's son. My name is Roman. Now hurry up, I had to park far away."

I'm slightly miffed, but this guy new my name, and he says he knows my uncle. Plus, he's taken my suitcase.

I follow Roman out of the crowded airport and we head to the parking garage. His car is an old, beat-up black Toyota. I recognize it as my uncle's.

Roman pops the trunk and tosses my stuff inside it roughly.

"Hey, be careful with that!" I say. Roman ignores me. He gets in the driver's seat and reaches over to unlock the passenger's side. He pushes the door open from his seat, one hand on the steering wheel.

"Get in," he orders.

I get in, and despite the fact that Roman is exquisitely attractive, I am annoyed. This boy knows nothing about me, about what I'm going through, and he has the audacity to order me around?

He starts the car and it rumbles to life. He puts his hand in the back of my seat, right next to my head, as he turns around to back out of the parking space.

When we're out of the parking garage and on the freeway, he turns on the radio and tunes it to a classical music station. Piano music twinkles out of the sub par speakers in the back.

I glance over at Roman. "I didn't think you were the classical-music type," I comment, attempting to bring out a friendlier side in him.

"I'm not any type," he replies brusquely. So much for friendlier sides. Apparently, this guy has none.

I rest my chin on my hand and stare out the window at the city passing by me. Before long, my eyelids are weighing heavier and heavier, and I'm lulled to sleep by the sweet piano music.

Is it just me, or do I hear Roman humming along?