SOMETHING LIKE THAT (Unedited Chapters 1 and 2) YA Romance

CHAPTER 1

“What do you think?” Mom gestures in a Princess Kate kind of way, giving the impression she’s introducing the Buckingham Palace as our new place of residence.

It’s not even close, and honestly, doesn’t deserve the swooping gesture of grandness at all. What in the world was she thinking buying Norman Bates’ house?

She drops her arm to her side when I don’t say anything. “Okay, I know it needs a lot of work, but I want you to look past the cosmetics and see its potential. This house could be amazing.”

It could be, I give her that, but the kind of remodeling this house is going to need will require money, lots of it, and since having large amounts of money isn’t something we Walker’s have ever had, I’m certain we’ll be living in squalor for an indefinite amount of time.

She points to the overgrown flower beds. “A bit of elbow grease and a good pair of gardening gloves and we’ll have it spruced up before you know it. And look at that tree!” She motions to the giant tree with its drooping branches. “We can put in a tire swing. You’ve always wanted a tire swing!”

I cross my arms over my chest, doubtful. “First of all, what do you mean ‘we’ and second of all, I’m not six.” A tire swing does sound good, but I refuse to admit that.

Mom tilts her head to the side, and smiles at me in that way which usually gets me to cave, but not this time. “It’ll be fun,” she says. “We can bond over gardening, and just imagine how much closer we’ll be when we repaint the house together.”

“We’re painting the house? Us? You and me?”

“Sure, why not. We can totally do this.”

“Do you even know how to paint a house?” I’ve never seen my mother paint anything let alone a whole two story building, and even though she’s hoping her enthusiasm will infect me, it doesn’t. Someone should remain rational since she has apparently gone insane.

“No, but we’ll Google it and watch a few YouTube videos. How hard can it be?”

 “Well, then this should be interesting for sure.” This adventure of hers is quickly spiraling in a direction I don’t want to go. Had I known that agreeing to pick up and move to a small town out in the middle of nowhere would lead to practically rebuilding a house, I would’ve put up a protest instead of not protesting at all. I doubt Mom’s ever owned a paint brush.
She puts her arm around my shoulder. “How about if I let you pick the color for the house, any color you want.”

“Awesome. Let’s paint it black.”

She gives me a quick squeeze and kisses the top of my head.  “Alright, Miss Snarky, black it is.”

“You do realize this place looks haunted, right?” It does. It really does.

“How else do you think I got such a killer deal on it?” Her choice of words could use some work. She squeezes me again, and leans into me a little more. “I know this isn’t the ideal circumstance, and I know you don’t want to be here, but I really think that if we give it a try, we just might surprise ourselves. We might end up being happy, really happy.”

“I was happy.” That’s not necessarily true. Life in California had become less than stellar, but the longer I look at this house with its peeling paint and rotting porch stairs, I’m thinking we actually had it pretty good back in Los Angeles. The tiny apartment in the shady part of town isn’t looking half bad any more.

Mom sighs and keeps her eyes on the house. “But I wasn’t happy.” She glances at me and a sad smile curves the edge of her mouth. “I need this change, Remy. I think we both do.”
We both stare at the old house, quiet, lost in our own thoughts. Maybe living here won’t be so bad after all.

“Nobody died in there, right?” I ask.

Mom’s sad smile turns into a genuine smile, hopeful. “As far as I know.”

“You didn’t read the fine print, did you?”

Her grin grows wider. “Who reads the fine print anymore?”

“Someone could’ve died in there. A whole family could’ve been slaughtered and we wouldn’t know about it because you didn’t read the fine print.”

“Oh, how I love my dramatic girl!” She wraps both arms around me and hugs me tight, giving me a little shake to complete the process. “I feel really good about living here. The fresh air and small town living will be good for us.”

“So that’s what that smell is.” I could’ve sworn the smell came from the back end of a cow.

“Well, we better get ourselves situated. Tomorrow’s a big day for both of us. You’ve got school and I’ve got a book store and café to organize.” She squeals and does a strange little dance. “My own business! I own my own business!”

Sometimes I wonder who the child in this relationship is. “I can stop by after school and help if you want.”

“I do want. That would be great. The sooner we get it ready, the sooner I can open the store and start making money.” She squeezes me again. “Money makes the world go round you know.”

“I thought it was love that made the world go round.”

“Nah.” Her grin widens. “I’m pretty sure it’s money, but love is nice too.” She sighs. “I’m ready for this change, Remy. We have our own place now and by running my own business, there’s no more worrying about being laid off again. I’m the boss, and I’m pretty certain, well, eighty percent certain, that I won’t be firing myself anytime soon.”

Her enthusiasm and naivety is sweet. I didn’t want to crush her spirit by telling her what I learned about running small businesses in my economics class last semester—fifty percent of start-ups fail in their first year—so I keep my mouth shut.

“You’re the new neighbors, huh?”

Mom releases me and holds her hand out to the strange man approaching us.

He reminds me of a lumberjack, all dressed in flannel and his face scruffy from missing too many shaves, his hat on backwards. Only this isn’t Alaska, so his look isn’t quite right for Connecticut. But then again, maybe it is. I’ve only lived here less than a day. Maybe flannel is all the rage here, and I’m the one looking ridiculous and misplaced.

He doesn’t take her hand, but shoves his own in the front pockets of his jeans as he stares at our house.

It peeves me that he disregards my mom like that, but Mom doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. She goes on smiling and shoves her own hands in the front pockets of her jeans. “You must be Beau. You live on the other side of the pond, right? The house with the weeping willows?”

“Miss Jeanette told you about me.” It’s more a statement than a question. He’s still looking at our house, very antisocial like. He hasn’t even looked at me once.

“Who’s Miss Jeanette?” I glance between the two of them.

Mom waves me off. “She was being friendly, trying to make me feel comfortable about my decision to buy the place. Jeanette suggested I ask you about the roof, said you might be able to take a—”

“I don’t know anything about this roof.”

“Who’s Miss Jeanette?” I try again.

Mom removes her hands from her pockets and places them on her hips, ignoring me and giving her full attention to him. “You own a construction business, but you don’t know anything about roofs?

He releases his breath, still not looking at either of us. “I didn’t say that.”

Mom glances at me, frustrated. I shrug. This guy’s a weirdo, which is scary because he’s one of our closest neighbors. We only have two from what I can tell. I sure hope we never need to borrow eggs or anything, or if we do, that the other neighbor is a lot more accommodating than this guy.

“I know roofs.” He taps his chest. “Boy, do I know roofs, but that one…that one is over a hundred years old.”

“Jeez, a hundred years old?” I look to my mother. “Did you know you were buying an ancient house?” Old and possibly the site of a mass murder. I can’t wait to begin my new life here.

“What difference does that make? A roof is a roof is a roof.” Mom looks at me for confirmation, and I shrug again. Roofs aren’t my thing. She turns back to him. “If you can’t fix it, then maybe you can give me the name of someone who can.”

That’s when he finally looks at her with his forehead crinkled and his brows raised. “No, I’ll look at it. Anyone else may try to convince you to put a metal roof on this house, or something equally as stupid.”

“I don’t mind a metal roof.” Mom shrugs and smiles. “They come in fancy colors, right?
Maybe I can choose red or better yet, bright blue! That would liven things up around here.”

I can totally tell she’s kidding, but Beau’s face takes on a shade of red that’s a bit concerning.

“I said I’ll look at it and I will. This isn’t some California house you’ve got here. This”—he waves his arm at the house—“is a part of history and should be treated with respect. A metal roof would ruin the whole thing and diminish its value.”

The town’s folk must be talking about us for him to know we’ve moved from California. Interesting.

Mom tries to hide her smile, but doesn’t succeed all that well. “I’d never put a metal roof on this house. I was kidding with you.”

The color in Beau’s face lightens, but his eyes squint at the corners. I don’t think he likes us. Actually, I don’t think he liked us before he even came over to talk to us. But now, his dislike is actually based on something a bit more concrete.

“You’d want to try to keep as much of the character and integrity of the house as possible.” He walks around a little, taking in the full-scope of the house and its lack-luster roof. “I won’t know for sure what we’re dealing with until I pull a few shingles.”

Mom nods. “Of course.”

“What are your plans for the porch?”

Mom shakes her head and once again she looks at me. Why she keeps doing that, I have no idea. I know as equally as much about porches as I do roofs. Getting nowhere with me, she looks at Beau. “I don’t… I mean, is there something wrong with the porch?”

“You mean the sloping to the left didn’t tip you off that something’s wrong?” Beau points to the rickety structure. He’s right. I see it now. The porch does angle downward, and since he’s pointing it out, I can only assume it’s not meant to do that.

Mom’s face falls a little, and she’s blinking a lot more than normal. I’ve known this woman my whole life, since birth actually, and can read the signs pretty well. She’s panicking. It may not look like she is, since she’s standing there, unmoving with a semi-smile on her lips, trying to hold it together, but the rapid blinking gives it away.

“How hard would it be to fix the porch?” I ask.

Beau looks at me. He seems to take a moment to process my presence, as if I’d just appeared from nowhere instead of having been there the whole time. “Jack up that side of the porch, replace the footings and add more dirt. Shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Is that something you could do? After you look at our roof?”

“Probably.”

Mom’s still in panic mode, so I sigh and take on the role of the adult and allow her time to process. “First, how much do you think all of this will cost and second, how long do you think it will take to complete?”

He stares at the house again and rubs his whiskery chin. “That’s hard to say.” He glances at me briefly. “On both accounts. I won’t know the answer to either of those questions until I take a closer look and see what I’m dealing with. But I’d estimate that you’re looking at two or three thousand dollars to get it where it needs to be and maybe three or four months to complete the whole thing.”

“Wow. Two or three thousand dollars, huh?” Mom adds the bobbing of her head to her insanely amount of blinking. “You don’t by chance like coffee and books, do you?”

Beau gives her an odd look. “Books not so much, but I don’t mind a cup of coffee now and then.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d be willing to look at my roof and porch in exchange for a lifetime supply of coffee, all you can drink?” Mom’s smiling, turning on the charm. To be fair, she is pretty charming, but I’m doubtful it’s going to work this time. “I make a wicked cup of Joe.”

“Are you being serious?” He glances from her to me. “Is she being serious?”

“Mom’s opening up a book store and café in town, and so financially things are tight right now. If you don’t take us up on the coffee offer, we may have to live with the rotting roof and sinking porch.” I do my best to look pathetic and more child-like than my actual sixteen-year-old self.

Between Mom’s charm and my pathetic puppy-dog eyes, we’ve managed to get ourselves out of some pretty sticky situations in the past. We use it where we can when we have no other choice. But Beau doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to fall for such shenanigans.

He releases his breath, stares at the two of us, and finally nods.

Holy crap, he’s caved!

“Okay,” he says. “I don’t think a lifetime supply of coffee will be even close to meeting all my costs, supplies and labor, but that roof and porch do need some looking at and the sooner the better.”

Both mom and I nod.

“I’d hate for that roof to fall in on both your heads.”

Me too.

“I can front the costs, and you can make payments as you’re able. I’m not a bank.” He waves his finger at us. “I don’t want you thinking you can walk away and not pay me back, because coffee or not, I expect to be paid. Dollars, real dollars. Not coffee beans. Otherwise, I’ll come back here and remove the entire roof if I have to and leave you looking up at the stars.”

Mom throws her arms around him. “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

Beau stands there stiff and awkward, but after a few seconds he pats her back in a friendly way. “No problem.” Mom doesn’t let go and he gives her a second pat. “I’ll come back tomorrow, take a closer look at things, and give you a better idea of what we’re up against.”

Mom releases him, and I think he uses the separation to get as far away from us as possible. He waves us both off, as Mom steps toward him again, says he’ll be back, and starts for his place on the other side of the pond. “Tomorrow,” he calls.

Mom returns the wave and stands there for awhile, watching him go.

“You okay, Mom?” She’s awfully silent, and I’m unsure if I should be worried or not. I slip my hand into hers.

She turns to me, tears glistening in her eyes. “I really think I’m going to like it here.”

CHAPTER 2

Somehow at one time or another, someone had decided that upgrading the inside of the one hundred year old house would be a good idea. Unfortunately, that same someone had upgraded it during the nineteen-fifties, and it hadn’t been touched since. It’s cute and somewhat nostalgic, but I can’t help but wonder how exactly our more modern day things would fit in such a place.

Mom seems to be wondering that too as she turns in circles, while holding her terra-cotta planter filled with home-grown alfalfa sprouts. “I don’t think this is going to match anything.”

“Honestly, I don’t think anything is going to match.”

“So, you’re saying any place is as good as any other?”

I shrug. “Pretty much.”

“Good.” She sets the pot in the middle of the bright yellow Formica kitchen table.

“Do you need any more help down here, or is it okay if I work on my room? I’d like to get a little more settled in before tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

She nods. “Sure, sure. I’ve got it handled down here now that I know it doesn’t really matter where I put our stuff. It’s all going to clash anyway.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Just as I’m about to leave and head upstairs, she pulls me into her arms and squeezes me to near suffocation. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Every single day,” I choke out the words.

She releases her anaconda-like hold on me, but takes both my hands in hers. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. You know that, right?”

“That’s what you keep telling me.”

“And I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d go through it all over again and again, because you’ve turned out pretty good for having a teenage mom raise you.”

“Good to know.”

She smiles. “Now, it’s your turn to say something nice about me.”

“I like your hair. It’s all glossy.”

“That’s called not showering, but thank you.” She winks, releases my hands, and swipes my behind playfully. She’s always swiping my behind. Moms are weird like that. “Go on and take care of your room, Smarty Pants. I think I’ll tackle setting up the TV and VCR.”

Yes, she said VCR. Mom doesn’t believe in DVDs, says they lack something that video cassettes do not. She’s never said exactly what they lack, but apparently they are inferior in every way.

“Are you sure you can handle that yourself?” I ask. Maybe my room can wait.

“And are you saying I’m technology inept?”

“I think we both know where I stand on this issue without me having to put it into so many words.”

“Fine.” She motions for me to go. “But do you think you can hook it up after you take care of your room? I was thinking that watching old reruns of I Love Lucy might be a great way to break in the house. You and me, popcorn, M&M’s, the couch, the TV, what do you say?”

I glance at the microwave clock. “Don’t you think it’s getting kind of late for a movie? You’ve got the café and I’ve got school.”

“Eh, you can sleep during biology, and I’ll catch a cat nap in the supply room tomorrow.”

“What a great way to impress not only my new peers and schoolmates, but also my teachers as well.”

Her grin widens. “I take that as a yes then?”

“Fine,” I say. “Give me an hour.”

She nods. “An hour it is.”

***

The house might be creepy, old, and possibly the site of a mass murder, but my room is incredible! It’s larger than any room I’ve ever had before, and the angled ceilings make hanging my posters above my bed all that more wonderful—I can actually look up from my bed and see them.

I think our last apartment could’ve fit in my room alone.

The wood floors creak a little with each step, but I toss down several mismatched throw rugs and the noise seems to soften. I’ve arranged all of my book shelves, packing in as many books as space allows and arranging the spines alphabetically. Not by author, but by the color of the cover—I like the ombre effect. Even though there’s no more room for books in the three bookcases I brought with me, I unpack the remaining boxes and stack the books on the floor next to them. I make a mental note to search out a thrift shop and purchase another set of shelves while I’m in town. Heaven knows there’s plenty of enough space in my room for another one. Maybe even two.

I fluff up my bean bag in the corner, add a zebra striped pillow, and create the perfect reading nook. The floor lamp is the final touch for the space.

My desk is organized with my laptop, my manual pencil sharpener, my notebooks, and a picture of Albert Einstein. Crazy hair and all.

I would say the room is coming together and feeling a lot more like me with every unpacked box. Clothes are hung in the closet and my dresser drawers completely arranged the way I like it –t-shirts in the top drawer with underwear and socks in the bottom. My posters of Marie Curie, Jane Goodall, and Elizabeth Blackwell are hung by tacks on one sloping ceiling, and the periodic table, the world map, and a kitten clinging to branch that says, “Hang in there” on the other.  The kitten poster is clearly outdated and I’ve become a little too old for such things, but Mom gave it to me when I was five when I was going through a hard time—the pressures of a first grade spelling bee—and I don’t have the heart to toss it out. I totally kicked butt at the spelling bee, and so the poster, according to Mom, has special magical powers. How in the world could I ever get rid of something with magical powers?

I place several small colorful pillows on the window bench as a final touch—another great reading space—and I feel nearly complete. The room has a musty smell, and I reach for the large windows to let a bit of evening air in to freshen the place up, but I stop and I stare. My hand still perched on the window latch.

We have two neighbors. Beau, who lives across the small pond, and the neighbors, who I’ve yet to meet, living in the house next door.

The light of the moon plays off the boy’s pale skin and features, creating a ghost-like appearance, which is more amazing and beautiful than frightening. It’s as if the moon light has searched him out, the way it falls perfectly through his window while totally avoiding mine.

He’s staring up at it, eyes closed, allowing the white light to bathe his face much the same way a person might let the warmth of the sun wash over them. There’s something serene and Zen-like about the way he sits perfectly still, enjoying something so many of us take for granted.

I shouldn’t be watching him, there are laws about that kind of thing, yet I can’t turn away.  To be fair, he had to have been watching me through my drape-less windows—our house had been vacant for nearly a year and my window, with its bright lights spilling into the darkness, lines up almost perfectly with his. He had to have noticed me.

Maybe I should be a little concerned, now that I think about the possibility of him watching me without my knowledge, but I’m not. It’s not like I changed my clothes nor did anything else equally as embarrassing, though I did hang up a kitten picture.

His eyes open, but he doesn’t look at me.

I shift out of view, enough that I can continue to watch without him knowing it.
He pulls up the hood of his jacket, tucks it around his face, and then swings out of his open window and onto one of the thick branches of the tree that grows between our two houses. Like one of those guys who run and jump over walls and do flips off buildings, he manages to climb down the tree effortlessly and within a manner of seconds. Apparently, he’s done this before.

I adjust myself so I can get a better look at this mysterious agile boy, thinking I’m still out of view. But once he reaches the bottom with his feet firmly on the ground, he looks directly at me.

My heart seizes and my lungs freeze. Oh my gosh.

He stares at me for what feels like an infinite amount of time, and I’m unsure what to do. Not that I could do anything in my frozen state had I actually known what to do.

He lifts a hand and gives me a simple wave.

I wave back.

He then turns and sprints away into the night.

“Whatcha doing?”

I spin around to find Mom standing in my doorframe. The smile on her face is clue enough that’s she’s seen at least my side of the exchange, but I still answer with, “Nothing.”

“You sure?” She tries again.

“Yeah, no. I mean, the neighbors.” I point at the house next door as I stumble over my words. “They… who?”

She smiles and takes a few steps in my room. “How is it that my bright, straight-A, honor roll girl can’t come up with the right words to say in this moment.” She holds up a hand as I’m about to try again. “Don’t tell me. It’s a boy, right?”

“No. I just.” There is no use in trying to hide the facts. I’m not a very good liar. I motion to the house next door and Mom comes to stand next to me. “A boy climbed out of that window over there and then climbed down the tree like an acrobat or something.”

“And you liked it?”

“What?”

Mom’s smile has grown to full-on cheesy. “And you liked it?”

“I didn’t like it, and I didn’t not unlike it either. I wasn’t watching him because I wanted to. It was just kind of happened.”

Mom kneels on my window seat, unlatches the window, and swings it open. “This tree here, you say?”

I nod.

“Hmmm… I’m thinking I may need to see if Beau can add branch removal to the list of things I am going to forever owe him for.”

“I’m not going to climb out any windows if that’s what you’re thinking.” We have a pretty open and trusting relationship that if I ever wanted to go somewhere in the middle of the night, I’d simply tell her and then walk out the front door. Of course, she’d probably want to tag along, but that’s beside the point. If I wanted to go somewhere, I totally could. I didn’t need a tree.

She wags her finger at me. “I’m not so much as worried about you shimming down a tree as much as who might try and shimmy up it.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Mom.” Seriously, I really don’t.

She shuts the window and locks it before sitting on the bench and looking at me. “That’s what my parents thought too, and look how that turned out.”

She’s referring to the fact that she got pregnant with me when she was fifteen. It doesn’t bother me that she says this. It is the facts after all, and I also know that even though my showing up in her life was ill-timed, she doesn’t regret a thing. She’s always telling me how I’m the best thing to happen to her.

“I promise I won’t let boys in my window,” I say.

“And”—she points over her shoulder to the tree—“a chainsaw to those branches will ensure that you will always keep that promise.”