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There is no true definition of disaster.

Not even when you come home from a friend's house one summer night, thinking everything is completely normal, when your single-since-you-can-remember father decides then to tell you he's planning to marry one of his coworkers in only five months.

Not even when you meet said coworker the next day, and it turns out that said coworker has a son, a teenage boy a mere six months younger than you, whom you will be sharing a house with in only three months.

Not even when you are paired up with said coworker's son for a Chemistry project, which happens to be the one course you're currently failing and he's taking a year early because he's some kind of kid genius. Awkward.

Not even when you actually move into said coworker's house, a far ways away from your hometown in quiet, peaceful Pennsylvania to a snobby rich suburb in New York...only to learn you have to share a tiny bedroom with said coworker's son, who is, as mentioned before, almost the same age as you and a boy.

All in all, after eighteen years of nasty surprise-after-surprise, you could say I was prepared for anything.

Well, almost everything.

My day started out normal, at least. On days like today, it nearly always does, so I really don't know how I missed all the warning signs.

So, after suffering through seven periods of nonstop lectures on homework, homework, and more homework, at the end of the torturous school day I finally am able to grab all my textbooks from my locker and dash out of the old brick building, not daring to look back.

Taking my usual shortcut, as my skateboard rolls across the black pavement, I can't help but sigh out of relief.

It's finally the weekend.

Finally.

Words cannot describe how much I look forward to the weekend. Long days and long nights of nonstop music, relaxation, and exploring? Sign me up.

I've never been a particularly outgoing, social person; but I have to admit I'm a sucker for outdoors. Even if it's just for a little while, breathing clean, fresh, unconditioned air helps wake me up and rejuvenate me in ways no artificial device ever could.

While every girl my age is obsessing over prom dates, five-hundred-dollar dresses, and university, I could care less about that. All I care about is music, my few friends, skateboarding, and the nature that surrounds me.

I mean, what else could you ask for? The unaltered features of our planet are often the best ones.

I give the gravely ground another push as the wheels of my board continue to roll down the road, and I feel my speed begin to accelerate. The hill is coming up soon; it shouldn't be too long before I don't have to physically give my board any momentum. Gravity takes care of that on its own.

Finally reaching the steep road, I steady myself on the body and focus only on the speed at which I'm traveling, the many curves of the road, and the momentum I'm getting.

It's the perfect combination for a kickflip, which I execute perfectly before curving to a stop before the small house on the corner, my father's coworker's/fiance's.

I tug at my beanie, readjusting it so that it's no longer sitting crooked upon my brunette waves but more perfectly perched. My hair is really temperamental and always gets tangled up after doing a trick, but I love it anyways.

On the other hand, my step-mother, Anne, would definitely kill me if my hair was too messy or if I took my skateboard into the house. So I leave my board by the garage, kicking my Converse off and shoving them into one of the overcrowded cubbies.

irk (luke hemmings)Where stories live. Discover now