Siren's Song. (Princess Diaries.)

Chapter Six: Home Sweet Home.

AFTER SWIM PRACTICE, I drive myself home instead of taking the bus. As I'm driving, I hear the crackles of my car radio and turn up the volume. And immediately wished I hadn't. My red velvet cupcake from Debbie's Bakery is sitting on the passenger seat, un-opened. I haven't touched it yet. It was still in the white cardboard box with a shiny, ruby-red bow tied around it and two birthday candle-molds reading, "16." It was so sweet of my friends to do this for me. And I know I should feel excited. But I just didn't feel like celebrating...or eating. I glance at the cupcake box and sigh quietly. What was I going to do with a giant red velvet cupcake? Eat it. Yeah, right.

"Captain Edgar Jones's Crew has been Missing At Sea for the past 48 hours. At this time, they have called in Emergency Crew Members to locate the boat or bodies of their recently departed sailors. We cannot confirm or deny that Captain Edgar Jones and Mr. Elijah Gilmore, one of Captain Edgar's highly respected sailors, is still alive. At this time, we can only hope and pray that they return safely home to the people who love them. And we are doing everything we can. Now, here's Kevin Gibson on your nightly weather report."

I shut off the radio angrily and fight back frustrated tears. Then I roll down my car windows and breathe in the fresh, October air. The air always had a hint of sweetness to it and my mom used to take me on color walks during the colder months. I would be in my purple and white jacket, my favorite blue jeans with grass-stains and tears in the fabric from running around everywhere and climbing trees, and a fuzzy, knit grey hat with a pair of matching gloves. My tennis-shoes would be Velcro and usually had the color scheme of hot pink, black, and white. I would be on my dad's shoulders and reach up to touch the leaves. I remember my mother, who was walking behind us, taking a picture of me and my dad. I only knew because I heard the soft click of the camera in the background. I turned my head and smiled directly at her. She quickly snapped another picture. I was eight years old and my front teeth were missing. My hair was in two miniature french braids and I had a light coating of brown freckles across my nose. We did a lot things outside together. It was just nice to be outdoors, sometimes, and smelling the fresh air all around us. My family and I were just very active that way.

I remember when I was a little girl and my dad wanted to show me how to play football. I was ten years old and didn't have an older brother or sister around the house. Marley, my older sister, was usually busy with high school and her part-time job at the Cider Mill, which was just a small, red barn a couple of miles down the road from our house. And I didn't have a brother, anyways. The air was humid because it was mid-June and my mother had made homemade ice pops for a summer treat. The flavor of the ice pops were Mt. Dew and I helped her make them in the kitchen while dad watched baseball on the flat-screen. I was laughing at something my mom had said and eating a Mt. Dew ice pop when dad suddenly stood up from the couch and looked right at me with a huge smile on his face. I was eating my ice pop and giggling as mom put the rest of the Mt. Dew in the freezer to freeze for exactly two hours. I was wearing denim Capri-pants and a red tank-top with a pair of hot pink and black sneakers. My long, curly brown hair was extra frizzy because of the heat and I held my bangs back with a very sparkly, purple hair-clip shaped like a flower.

"Wanna play a game?" Dad asked me. I was taking another bite of my ice pop when I looked back at him.

"Sure," I said, and hopped off the Island Counter with the ice pop still hanging in my mouth. Dad lifted me up onto his shoulders, opened the front door, and walked outside into the warm, yellow light. He then walked into the garage and took out his signed football from one of the blue bins we normally used for storage. I noticed the signature written in silver permanent ink: Tom Brady. I think he was the quarterback for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Dad walked out of the garage and set me gently on the grass. He was wearing his favorite baseball cap and took it off of his head to place on mine.

"Do you know how to hold a football?" He wondered aloud. I shook my head no in response.

"Well, you want to make sure your fingers are always on the white lines. But at least three feet apart," He explained. I nodded in understanding.

"You have to place both of your feet shoulder width apart. Like this," he continued to explain. He then spread his legs out and stood in a comfortable-looking stance.

"And once you have your footing all figured out? You just release the football and let it fly," he said. That's when he threw a spiral football and it landed a good few inches away from us; near the tire swing.

"Easy, huh?" he looked at me. I smiled politely and then he ran to go get the football and bring it back. He returned from retrieving the football in a matter of seconds and handed it to me. I took it gingerly in my hands and just stared at it with a blank expression on my face. I wasn't good at this kind of thing. And I was already nervous enough. He smiled kindly at me and got into his stance again. He positioned his hands like he was still holding the ball, took a step forward, and let the imaginary ball go. He nodded at me in encouragement and I began to get in my own stance. I placed my fingers on the white lines; three feet apart. I placed my feet in the right positions and dug my sneakers into the grass. I was ready. I brought my hand that was holing the football back and let it fly. I watched the football spiral into the air and then land right next to one of our Apple trees. I looked behind me and saw dad clapping for me. And I smiled hugely. He held out his arms for me and I jumped into them. He tipped the front of my baseball cap and I wrapped my little pudgy ten year old arms around his neck.

"That's my girl! We're gonna have to start calling you Tom Brady from now on," dad said.

"All I did was throw a football?" I muttered in clear confusion and with less enthusiasm.

"It's all about technique, young grasshopper. It's all about technique, and you've got it," he complimented me with glowing pride and unconditional love.