Finding Home
Finding Home
Lauren K. McKellar
Moody, atmospheric, and just a little bit punk,
Finding Home
takes contemporary YA to a new level of grit…
When Amy’s mum dies, the last thing she expects is to be kicked off her dad’s music tour all the way to her Aunt Lou in a depressing hole of a seaside town. But it’s okay — Amy learned how to cope with the best, and soon finds a hard-drinking, party-loving crowd to help ease the pain.
The only solace is her music class, but even there she can’t seem to keep it together, sabotaging her grade and her one chance at a meaningful relationship. It takes a hard truth from her only friend before Amy realises that she has to come to terms with her past, before she destroys her future.
Lauren McKellar grew up in a beachside town north of Sydney, Australia. A self-confessed nerd, Lauren spends every spare second she has writing books and hungrily devouring new releases from her favourite authors. With a passion for Young Adult and New Adult fiction, she especially loves stories that are real and flawed.
Lauren is a magazine editor and freelance fiction editor. She juggles her time between editing, writing, and going for long walks on the beach with her partner and their two puppies.
She loves to meet new people, so feel free to chat with her on
Twitter
,
Facebook
, or on her
blog
.
Like any writer, I have a whole host of people to thank. Firstly, my thanks to you, the reader: you’ve bought my book instead of buying a coffee or a small meal at McDonalds, and that’s really lovely of you! Like all new authors, I love reviews, so if you do take the time to stop by Goodreads or Amazon to write one, I will shower you with virtual chocolate.
Secondly, thanks to Escape Publishing for having faith in me and taking this book onboard. It felt so nice to have my awkward emails answered!
Thirdly, to my fantastic beta readers: Deb, for showing me what a good critique partner really is; Anabel, for picking up the little things I would have missed; and of course, the lovely Stacey, for answering countless questions starting with ‘Could I/Would I/Should I?’
Of course, I have to thank my lovely girls from Aussie Owned and Read: Emily, Katie, Kim, Sharon, Stacey and Suse, you make me laugh and you’re there when I cry. Your support means everything. And from fellow Aussie writer stock, I have to thank Rebecca for teaching me about the mysterious world of blogs and the internet. It really is true: Writer people are the best kind of people.
I wouldn’t have been able to write anything if I didn’t have such a supportive family. Dad, no creative endeavour would ever have been possible without your faith. The same goes for Mum, Kristy and Andrew. Thanks so much for being fabulous and letting me talk the loudest at the dinner table. I love you guys!
Delle, you also get a mention in this Oscar-length speech. You read my firsts and listened to every up and down in my writing journey. You’re like a sister to me, and I’m so happy to have you in my life.
Last but not least, I have to thank my fiancé, Peter. For playing hypothetical pool and nutting out plot points; for giving me space when I was in need of a nap; for always, always making me laugh, even during serious arguments about the electric blanket; you said it first, and it gives me great pleasure to plagiarise you: you’re the best thing I have.
To Nan and Poppy, for always fostering my writing dreams
(and for keeping me fed with countless little cakes)
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
‘Amy, we need to talk,’ Dad said.
I sat across from him at a table in a crowded restaurant that was full of the usual Sunday morning types. Dad looked completely different to the man I’d seen onstage the evening before. Then, his look had been slick: ripped jeans, designer shirt; now, he appeared a lot older than his 37 years and more tired. His hair looked a mess, sticking up in all the wrong places, and his clothes were dated.
‘About what?’ I sipped my orange juice. The cool liquid helped my head, which throbbed from my efforts of the evening prior.
‘Your behaviour at the show,’ he finished. It hadn’t happened yet, but
—
oh, yes, there it was — the sigh. That inevitable exhalation that always seemed to occur just before Dad did something he didn’t want to do. ‘You’re seventeen. You know full well that you shouldn’t be drinking.’
‘I’m 18 in three months. And so what, anyway?’
‘So you can’t keep acting like this.’ A frown creased his face.
I twirled my straw around. Little flicks of juice spun up the sides of my glass, creating a tiny, orange mosaic. ‘It’s not like I do it all the time.’ I shrugged.
‘Just every time you come and see the show. And when you’re not at the show, you’re in a hotel room by yourself.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s not normal, it’s not healthy, and I want you to stop.’ He ran his hands through his thick black hair and stared me down. His craggy face was a minefield of peaks and troughs, and he had the sort of distinguished nose that would make an actor on
The Bold And The Beautiful
jealous. It felt weird to think of the thousands of middle-aged women who had worshipped him onstage the night before. To me, he was just my dad and a pain in the ass, at that.
A lady strutted her way over to the table. ‘Excuse me, but can I please get your autograph?’ She threw her blonde curls over her shoulders until they were resting on her double D-sized boobs, and then shoved a piece of paper under Dad’s nose. Two tables away, a group of women in their early thirties were giggling, whispering, and pointing in our direction. I averted my gaze. It was enough to make me sick.
‘Can we get out of here?’ I squirmed in my chair.
Dad ignored me, signing the napkin and making polite small talk with the lady. She leaned forward again and touched his shoulder, tossing her head back when she laughed. It would only be a matter of time before she would reached across the table to grab something and ‘accidentally’ brush her breasts against his chest. I think a tiny bit of vomit actually began to work its way up my throat and into my mouth.
‘I’m leaving,’ I said, grabbing my bag from the floor beneath me.
‘Amy, wait.’
‘What?’ I spun around. The blonde had retreated to her table, and Dad was now indicating I should sit. I did, rolling my eyes and letting my bag slump to the ground. I’d had enough.
We sat in silence for a while, studying each other.
‘I think you should go to your aunt’s.’
‘For a holiday?’ I asked, my brow furrowing.
‘No, Amy,’ he said, sighing. That brought Dad’s total count for the day to two. ‘To live.’
The words resonated in my head, sounding over and over again, like I was in a church hall or a bad horror movie.
To live, live, live, live
.
Dad was sending me away.
‘What? Why?’ The questions tumbled out of my mouth. Why was he doing this? Was leaving me for his fans not enough?
Dad almost whispered the words. ‘Just until the end of high school.’ He leaned over to put his hand on my shoulder.
I shook it off. ‘But…but why? I’m getting good grades!’
‘It’s not grades I’m worried about,’ he replied.
My voice rose in panic. ‘You don’t care about my education?’ People had started to stare.
‘I didn’t say that. I just…I think you should go to your aunt’s and finish your studies at an actual school.’ He clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers as if he was praying. Clearly he hadn’t thought he’d be getting this reaction.
‘But I barely see you as it is.’
‘That’s not true. We spend all day, every day together. It’s just nights that I have to work.’
‘Sitting in the back of a bus while we drive all over the country hardly strikes me as quality time, Dad.’
‘Then what difference does it make if you’re at your aunt’s instead of here?’
‘You’re trying to get rid of me.’ His question hurt, stabbing at my insides. How could he hate me so much that he’d want to send me away?
‘I’m not trying to get rid of you, but this behaviour is unacceptable and you just don’t listen to me,’ he said. ‘Maybe staying with Aunt Lou will do you some good. Plus, this means you can hang around people your own age again.’
‘I can’t
believe
you,’ I blurted out.
‘It’s for the best. I’ll visit you, and —’
‘It’s for the best?’ I asked. ‘Sure, I don’t have a mum, so what’s best for me is to not have a dad, too. You know you drove her to it, right? What happened to her was your fault!’
Silence. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened.
As far as I was concerned, it was true. If he hadn’t decided to pursue a career in music, we wouldn’t be having these problems. We would still be living in our old apartment, and Dad would be spending every spare second with me, teaching me the keyboard and singing me to sleep.
And Mum would still be alive.
Finally, he spoke. ‘It’s only going to be for a few months. Nothing between us will change.’
‘You’re right,’ I replied. I stood up and grabbed my bag again. ‘Because you don’t really act like much of a father now, anyway.’
‘Oh, Amy. My life isn’t normal. I only want the best for you, and I promised your mum I’d give you that.’ His dark eyes were drawn and red. Lately, severe wrinkles had begun to develop at the corners, even though he was only 37. My dad, the aging chart-topper.
I hated him and his stupid job. How could he just ditch me after all we’d been through together?
‘Dad, I promise I’ll stop drinking,’ I said, trying to bargain.
Don’t send me away.
‘Good.’ He smiled.
‘Don’t leave me,’ I whispered. But he was already on the phone, responding to Joe, or his tour manager, or his sound guy, or possibly even the president of the Stevie D fan club.
It was done. I was leaving. Even though a few months ago this had been exactly what I’d wanted, things were different now. Mum wasn’t by my side, and we weren’t leaving to escape the madness together. My dad, the only immediate family member I had left alive in the whole world, didn’t want me. Now, I’d have no one.
One thing was for sure — there was no way I was ever going to forgive my father for this.
I walked through the gates of Cherrybrook High and felt as though I was stepping onto the face of another planet. Sure, I’d been a regular school-attending student a little over three and a half years ago, but so much had changed since then.
The grounds weren’t too different from what I’d expected. A small reception block sat next to the school gates. A long field of motley-looking grass stretched out to the left, with basketball and tennis courts behind it. To the right were the school buildings — drab, stale blobs of brick, arrayed in all shapes and sizes.
I strolled toward the reception block to pick up all the mind-numbing paperwork that I knew would go along with starting at a new school.
Boredom, here I come.
‘Hi, my name is Amy Detrinella,’ I announced to the short, stout secretary that stared down her nose at me from behind the counter.
‘You’re new, then?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Here’s the welcome pack.’ The woman tossed me a manila folder with my name printed on top in neat capitals. It was the only one on the desk in front of her. ‘We don’t usually get mid-year intake students.’ Her words felt like an accusation.
‘The map is on page three and the schedule is on page four. If you’ve got any questions, come see me,’ she said, adding a ‘good luck’ before turning back to her computer and starting to type.
I nodded my thanks, took the file and moved away from the counter. So that was it, huh? A piece of paper and I was off, heading straight into my final year of high school. For a second, I wished I was back in the stupid old tour bus with my dad again, but then anger began to well up inside me. As if I would want to be back with him again, even for a second.
I took a quick look at the map and timetable. It had been a while since I’d been in school, but I hadn’t forgotten how stupid students struggling with paperwork looked from the outside. Once I’d found my bearings I shoved the folder in my bag, smoothed down my hideous tartan uniform, and set off in what I hoped was the right direction.