The Year I Became Isabella Ande - Jessica Sorensen Page 0,13
figure out a way to get Hannah, The Wicked Wench of the Anders’ House, to be nicer to me.
No, I can do this, I tell myself. I need to be more optimistic. I have a whole three months to figure this all out.
The Sunnyvale Bay Community looks like an ordinary apartment complex, except all the tenants are fifty-five and over. Grandma Stephy moved here about a year ago after my grandpa passed away from cancer. While my grandpa was a man of few words, he was probably my favorite family member besides Grandma Stephy. Whenever I visited, he’d take me down to the gas station to buy a soda and candy. We’d cruise on the back roads in his old truck, listening to old country singers, mostly Hank Williams and Johnny Cash, with the windows down, even if it was wintertime. He never took Hannah with us. Said she threw too many tantrums. Our drives always made me feel special, like someone actually wanted to spend time with me, like I was more than just Hannah’s dorky little sister who no one ever wanted around.
Man, I really miss those days and our drives.
“I’ll get your bags if you want to go up,” my dad says, interrupting my thoughts as he parks the car.
“Sure. Sounds good. Thanks.” I climb out of the car and head up the path to my grandma’s apartment.
I knock before opening the door and strolling inside. As I step foot over the threshold, my shoe bumps into Beastie, my grandma’s fat, old calico cat, and I fall flat on my stomach.
The cat hisses at me, like the crabby old fart he is.
“Dammit, Beastie,” I curse as I roll over onto my back, rubbing the knee I banged against the floor.
He growls and the hairs rise on his back as he scurries at me with his claws out. I scramble to get to my feet, but right as his claw is about to reach my leg, a pair of hands wrap around his belly.
“Now, Beastie, I thought we talked about this.” My cousin, Indigo, who’s two years older than me, scoops up the cat and lifts him so he’s eye level with her. Looking him dead in the eyes, she lectures, “It’s rude to trip people then try to eat their faces. You’re not a zombie. You’re a cat.”
Beastie hisses at her in response.
Sighing, she sets him back down on the floor and offers me her hand. “I’ve been telling Grandma Stephy that she needs to teach him some manners, but she says it’s useless, that he’s too old and already stuck in his ways.”
“She’s probably right.” When I take her hand, she helps me to my feet. I massage my achy knee. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what’re you doing here? I thought you were in New York attending art school.”
“I was.” She tucks a strand of her blood red hair behind her ear and fiddles with one of her gauges. “Some stuff came up, though, and I had to leave.”
“Did you move back home?”
“Nah, my parent’s didn’t want to,” she makes air quotes, “‘encourage my dropout behavior’. I think they thought if they didn’t let me move back in that I’d go back to school.” She rolls her eyes as her hands fall to her sides. “I tried to explain to them that I didn’t dropout, that the school decided it was probably for the better if I take a permanent sabbatical. But you know parents. They hear what they want to hear.” She glares at Beastie as he hisses at her from underneath the coffee table. “Thankfully, Grandma Stephy took me in until I can figure out what the hell I should do with my life.”
I want to ask her what she did to get kicked out of school, but I don’t know Indigo that well. Her mother is my father’s sister and the two of them rarely speak to one another, other than when we’re at family reunions, and even then, the conversation is strictly formal. And my mom refuses to speak to hardly any of my dad’s relatives, because she says they act like a bunch of hippies.
All I really know about Indigo is that she’s into art and self-expressionism, through painting and with her body. I once heard her call her body a canvas. She has tons of tattoos and several piercings and does all sorts of crazy stuff with her hair, even shaving her head one time.