The Wembly-Johnson Divide

1 : the wembly's

The Wembly family was not American. They would take little offense to any other insult, but the assumption that they had assimilated into American society would bar you from setting foot in their well-kept household ever again. They had immigrated from England six years ago when Mrs.Wembly's grandmother fell ill and needed constant care. Mrs. Wembly was not a compassionate woman, but Mrs.Wembly's mother was a rich one, and the right amount of money could convince anyone to care for their aging mother. It had been six years and, much to Mrs.Wembly's dismay, grandmother Wembly was still quite alive. The Wembly family had two children; a son who had been twelve at the time of the move and a daughter who was born into the American life they claimed to hate. The son, Mason, had extraordinarily kept a firm grasp on his accent, even with his time in the uncivilized West, a trait that kept him constantly popular with the girls of his school. The daughter, Charlotte, was as American as football (the useless kind, of course), and by the age of five, she had thrown away her name for the more suitable Charlie.

"Mason. Charlotte. You're both going to be late for school," Mrs. Wembly called out sharply, impatience clear in the steady rhythm of the toe of her shoes beating against the shining wooden floor.

"We're coming, mother," Mason responded for the both of them, bounding down the stairs with a lazy grin resting on his lips. He was wearing a tight black shirt and a leather jacket, both of which made Mrs.Wembly's lips turn into a disappointed frown.

"I thought we discussed this," she stated, her nose wrinkling as she pressed her lips together sharply.

"You discussed it. I ignored it," Mason shrugged, taking his bag from where it had been tossed the day before. Mrs. Wembly had given up putting it in the assigned section five months ago when Mason had decided his commitment to his rebellious persona. "My grades are fine. I play a sport. Why do you care what clothes I wear?"

"Because this senseless rebellion will land you in jail or doing drugs," Mrs. Wembly told him tightly, turning away from her failure of a child. "I expect you back home by eight."

"One," Mason answered, leaving the house before Mrs. Wembly had the opportunity to dispute. He walked to his black Mercedes-Benz classic, a gift from his parents after the Johnson's gave their daughter, Willow, a Harley-Davidson. He didn't like much about Willow Johnson, but her red Harley was always something he could appreciate. It glittered in the Johnson's driveway, each metal piece shined to perfection. But Willow Johnson herself was stubborn, outspoken, and passionate enough to ignore everyone else's opinions. He couldn't stand her. Mason didn't follow his mother's example on much, but the feud with the Johnsons was always something they could agree on.

He reached school within seven minutes, claiming his usual space in the parking lot with ease. The fall air hadn't turned cold yet, so people were resting on cartops talking or kissing, embracing the last few days of weather warm enough to forgo sweaters. It didn't take long for Chloe to find her way over to Mason's car, her blonde hair shimmering under the fall sun. She was wearing a pair of jeans with a tastefully plunging v-neck top, just deep enough to display eighty percent of her cleavage. Mason didn't really like Chloe, but she seemed to like him -- persistently -- and who was he to deny the head varsity cheerleader?

"Hey Mason," she greeted, her voice husky as she fluttered her eyelashes hyperactively. She looked a little silly as she exaggerated all of her actions, waiting for a response from Mason.

"Wanna go make out in the janitor's closet?" Mason suggested, trying to put an end to Chloe's charade. She seemed to be trying harder than usual, as if something was bothering her. But he didn't care, because he didn't have to.

They spent the next fifteen minutes kissing and groping in the supply closet -- the lights turned off because Chloe said that it set the mood. She had disheveled his silky brown hair enough that it had started falling over his eyes, with her hard pulls as they had kissed. But just as he wrapped his hand around the handle to the door of his timely exit, Chloe placed a dainty hand around his bicep.