My Best Friend's Brother

Chapter Sixteen

We had been dating for two days, Michael and I. It was Tuesday now, the end of the day, and I was walking home. From the bus stop to my house, hidden deep in the woods, it was about a mile or so. At first, the long trek used to bother me. But now, I enjoyed it. Except for the wind chill. I was given a chance to think about things and I savored the silence.

At home, there was a lot of yelling at home. And I don't just mean arguing. Though there was that too. Neither of my grandparents could hear, at all. They were practically deaf. My grandfather had hearing aids though so he wasn't so bad. My grandmother however, was a different story. She DID have hearing aids, she just didn't wear them. So our conversations would go a little like this:

She would be downstairs, and I'd be in my room, working on homework or something, when suddenly I'd hear, "Bella."

So I would respond. "What?" A few seconds or so would pass and then I'd hear it again. This time perhaps slightly louder.

"Bella!"

"What!?"

"Bella!!"

"What!?!?"

"Do NOT yell at me!"

That's how my typical day went at home. My grandmother honestly made me hate hearing my name.

My grandmother, or as I called her, Nana, was a fairly heavyset woman. Very petite, about a foot shorter than me, with blue eyes and glass. Short, brown, curly hair and a strange yellowish skin tone. She was also a teacher. Thankfully not at my school. But she taught seventh and eighth grade anyway.

Eventually, our house came into view. The house was wooden with a porch on each side. We had a fenced in area out front, with a barn and two horses. A white horse and a brown one. Dusty and Prince. There was a garden right out in front as well as my old play set and two trees that they had planted. One, a cherry tree, planted many years before I was born. And then a ginkgo, planted when I was about four.

I walked up to the side porch and walked into the house. It smelled of vanilla and smoke. An odd combination but it smelled like home. For the most part... My grandfather was sitting at his computer desk, probably working on a sermon. He was the preacher at our church. That's right. I was also given the honor of being the preacher's kid. Amazing right? But no. Not really.

"Hey, Bell." He called me by my nickname, given to me by him as a child, most of the time. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yeah." He tried his best to be nice, but he had a short temper and he complained about everything. If he didn't get his way, he either yelled at us, or grumbled and shook his head, slamming stuff down and aggressively moving things.

My grandfather was tall. About six foot or so and tan. Black hair, bald on top. Blue eyes and glasses.

I walked past him, through the kitchen and the dinning room, up the stairs, down the hall and finally to my room. The wooden door was shut, so I pushed it open. It swung open and hit my art wall. My room was white and pink. White desk, dressers, three, window seat and walls. Pink curtains, bed spread and carpet. There were three pink dry erase bubbles and I had pink ornaments hanging from the ceiling.

The softness of my blankets was extremely soothing. Soon, curled up in their warmth, I fell asleep.