Rules of a Rebel

Chapter 1: Don't Shake Hands

Rule #25: Don't Shake Hands

Rebels don't engage in formalities in any kind.

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Peyton's Reasons on Why Moving to Brooksville, Florida is a Good Idea:

1) I'll finally be away from Xavier and Gwen. And I'll finally be in a place where nobody has seen that picture. (But, I'll also my away from my friends, the only people who actually care about me)

2) Dad said he might get me a pet. (But that's obliviously a ruse to get me to want to move to Florida.)

3) There isn't another reason.

4) Moving to Florida is a horrible idea.

"We're almost there," Dad announces. Thankfully, he turns down the awful music on the radio to talk to us better. "Aren't you two excited?"

I shrug, not looking away from the window. Instead, I channel my thoughts to staring at the sky. The clouds and moon distracts me from all the palm trees and sand. I drum my fingers on the seat, trying not to look as upset as I feel. It hasn't even been a full day yet and I'm already homesick.

"Honestly, Peyton, at least try to look excited," Mom says. But she's too busy applying lipstick in the car mirror to listen to her own words. "You too, Melody."

Melody, my little sister, looks up from her phone. "Hmm?"

"Never mind," Mom puffs her curls with her hands.

Unlike me, Melody didn't forgot to charge her phone. Unlike me, Melody's excited to move halfway across the country. Unlike me, Melody might actually have a chance of making friends over here. God, I can't even look at her.

With a scowl, I slouch lower in my seat.

We enter the rich and prestigious neighborhood mom talked about for the last few days. I know it's rich because it comes with it's very own iron gate, complete with a keypad and everything. Dad punches in the code - 33267 - and the doors swing open.

"Wow, sweetheart," Mom places a hand on dad's arm. "It's wonderful."

I think I have a headache.

I knew from the second mom and dad showed me this house that we'd moving into one of those places - the kind where everybody's more interested in what's going on in their neighbor's house rather than their own. The shallow and boring kind.

The houses seem to fit the model - green grass, paved sidewalks, freshly painted porches, iron gates - so accurately that's almost laughable. I wonder how much money it costs to water the grass, or how many people actually play on the porches and sidewalks.

Then, I shake my head, trying to get rid of those thoughts.

You're not supposed to think like that anymore, I remind myself, resting my head on the window. Who knows, things might be better for you now that you're in place where nobody knows who you are or what you did.

That hardly makes a difference, another part of me points out. Better keep everybody away so they won't find out about the picture.

I sigh and look out the window.

Our house is the second last on in the street, so it also has the second largest driveway.

Melody takes out her earphones, looking around with interest as we near our house. I drum my fingers on the seat impatiently, waiting for dad to park. It's only after the moving truck slides next to us that he actually turns off the engine.