True Intentions (3 page)

We walk with the speed of snails down the ramp, heading to the airport terminal. Grandma and Grandpa are standing there with smiles. Thank God they didn't bring a stupid sign.

"Cheryl, Ava" Grandma shouts, waving her little hands in the air. Her small frame is like that of an older child, maybe around the age of twelve. She looks pretty good for her age, considering she's in her late sixties. Her silver hair falls slightly short of her small shoulders. There are a lot of wrinkles on her face, especially around her eyes. She looks happy, an emotion I haven't seen for a while. Immediately after the accident, my grandparents travelled to Chicago and helped my mom with all the funeral arrangements. I feel guilty since I barely remember seeing them during that brief time. Most of those first few days after the wreck are a complete blur to me.

It seems as if I'm looking at her for the first time.

My grandpa stands beside her, appearing tall compared to her tiny frame. He is six years older than grandma, but is still in really good physical shape from cutting wood around their log home since his retirement a few years ago. His skin appears to be much older than my grandmother's is, maybe from being out in the sun all the time back when he worked construction. His expression looks very serious, but, as we approach, the corners of his lips turn into a half-cocked smile. My mom scampers over to my grandparents and proceeds to hug her mother so hard, I think she is going to break my grandmother in half. I can't remember seeing her happy since . . . .

"Ava, darling . . . . We're so happy you guys are here. We've missed you so," my grandmother says, interrupting my thoughts. My focus turns back to the present.

"I miss you too, Grams," I confess while I try to squeeze her tightly, mimicking my mom.

"Well, don't you worry dear, we have plenty of time to catch up," she reminds me, winking. A sincere smile sweeps across her face. At that moment, my mother grabs my hand and squeezes tightly.

My grandfather stands with his hands in his pockets, waiting for his turn to embrace me. He grabs me tightly before I have the chance to say hello.

"Hey there, Pea," he laughs, rubbing my head.

He always called Aiden and me his sweet peas, since we were twins. I guess the saying "two peas in a pod" is where he got that silly name. While hearing my grandfather use that nickname, flashbacks enter my mind, memories of being younger and Grandpa playing with us on the floor. And times like learning how to water ski and Grandpa yelling from the boat, "Come on Pea, you can do it." That was the first time I attempted to get up on skis, and if I'd have my way—my last. Of course, with my athletic abilities, I wasn't very successful. Aiden accomplished the task of skiing the very first time he tried. It was depressing, but that wasn't the first time he'd demonstrated he was more physically gifted than I was.

Thinking back to that day reminds me how much I loved being at this lake that summer. Grandpa called Lake Arrowhead the "Alps of Southern California." The natural peacefulness has always lured people to these mountains for relaxation and as a weekend getaway from Los Angeles. To me, Lake Arrowhead is a great place to visit, but Chicago is my true home. This California community isn't about to change that lifelong feeling.

"Ava, are you nervous about starting a new school?" my grandma asks, interrupting my vivid flashbacks.

Unfortunately, the schools in Lake Arrowhead—two elementary schools, one middle school, and one high school—are very small. It's an everyone-knows-everyone kind of place. That makes it way too easy for teachers to keep tabs on all the students.

At least in Chicago it was easy to get away with things, like skipping class. Does she actually think I'm looking forward to a major culture shock going from more than two thousand students to a mere fraction of that number?

"I guess," I mutter while shrugging and picking up speed toward the baggage claim area. Even though I just got off the stupid plane, I miss my friends, especially my BFF Mallory. She has been the one friend who was extremely supportive through the last few months, always looking out for me through this entire mess. I feel guilty leaving her after all she's done for me. I feel like I'm a traitor for abandoning her. We promised we would keep in touch through email, texting, and calling one another often, but it wouldn't be the same as seeing her almost every day.

Sometimes when I think about everything that has happened, anger builds up inside me like a raging volcano ready to erupt. I get angry at Aiden and Dad for leaving me, angry at myself for not stopping them from going that day, and angry at God for letting this happen and ruining my life.

What did I ever do to him?

I'm going to start to cry if I don't do something, so I try to refocus and stop my negative, whining thoughts and shift my attention to Mom's conversation with my grandparents over house hunting. It's not like I have much else to do while waiting for my overstuffed suitcase.

We're planning to stay with my grandparents while we check for available houses in the area. They live in a modest, log cabin, so I assume it will be cramped there while we look for a place of our own. According to my mom, I will have the entire loft upstairs to myself since all the other bedrooms are downstairs. At least that will guarantee me
some
privacy. I am completely clueless on how long we will be sharing a living space with them. Since they have lived across the country my entire life, I'm not sure how this arrangement will work. It's totally different spending one week a year with your long-distance family members verses moving into their home.

As we approach the claim area, my mom continues to explain details of our trip.

"Our flight wasn't bad at all. Even security was much easier to get through than I anticipated."

"That's good. We were worrying you would have trouble and miss your flight,"

Grandpa says with a snicker.

My mom is known in the family for always being late to absolutely everything. It is a family joke to tell her to be somewhere thirty minutes prior to the time you actually want her to arrive.

"Very funny, Dad!" she exclaims, laughing at his comment.

Wow . . . I'm in disbelief.

It is so strange to hear her laughing and also somewhat uncomfortable, yet surreal, hearing her call him Dad. Especially since I'm fully aware I will never address anyone as Dad again. He is gone forever . . . .

A fake smile forms on my wary face while I attempt to get involved in their conversation rather than having my own pity party.

"Would you guys like to stop and get something to eat before we head home?"

Grams suggests with her eyes gleaming at us, looking hopeful.

"Sure, that would be great," I answer quickly, anticipating my mom may respond she isn't hungry.

Gramps decides to take us to some foods critic's favorite,
The Saddleback Grill.
It's not like there's very much food competition in this community. I can easily count the number of restaurants on both hands—maybe even on one.

I eat in silence while my grandparents tell me all about the outdoor activities to do for fun around here: hiking, canoeing, fishing, and yachting. Grandma even mentions the bands that play at the lodge from May to September.

"What about volunteering?" I ask, thinking of different activities to keep me busy.

"Volunteering?" My grandfather repeats, appearing stunned like I cursed or something.

I start to nod, and my mother immediately chimes in.

"Ava likes to volunteer for organizations. She volunteered in a play program for inner-city schools back in Chicago called
Safe Play
. She taught the skill of play to elementary school children around the area."

My grandfather chuckles at my mom's explanation. "Since when do you have to teach children how to play?"

I dive into the story of how in high-crime areas, and with parents being the creators or organizers of kid's sports, children don't learn the skill of play. They don't learn how to set up their own rules, play fair, show empathy, or resolve simple conflicts. A college student discovered this phenomenon and developed a program to help elementary students learn the skill of play. I point out this program's core training has helped make recess successful in multiple inner-city school systems around the entire nation.

"Ava, there aren't many
inner-city
schools around here. You better find something else to fill your time, honey," he replies, still laughing.

Great . . . .
I just discovered another reason to
love
Lake Arrowhead, as if I need more reasons why this place is a horrible fit for me.

Chapter Three – First Impressions

I'm dreading today, the first day at my new school. I've spent the last hour standing in front of the mirror painfully trying on a thousand outfits. The last thing I feel like doing is eating. But Grandma insists on making me eggs and bacon. A lump grows in my throat at the simple, painful thought of telling her no. She tries to make small talk while cooking, but I make sure all of my answers are a simple yes or no. I quickly say goodbye and hurry out the door. It doesn't take very long to make it down the narrow, winding roads to the high school.

Once I reach the school parking lot, I nervously stare out the front window. Rim of the World High School is now officially my new school. Even the name sounds weird to me, much less the fact this school has only about eight hundred students—two hundred in each class, freshman to senior. It sucks. I'll be finishing my junior year here where I know absolutely no one.

There are several expensive cars in the lot. It's like finding a needle in a haystack to find a car other than a BMW, Audi, Mercedes, Volvo, or Lexus. I roll my eyes doubting these are the teachers' cars. The closest building clearly read "Rim of the World High School Office" in large letters. I see another parking lot to my left, and although I can't read the sign at the entrance, I see an older man getting out of a SUV. I let out a slight sigh and decide to stop second-guessing myself. My eyes widen; I can't stop starring at the students' cars. Apparently, Grandpa is right: no inner-city kids here.

My 1999 black Jeep looks so plain compared to the other cars. Guess I'm the needle. I'm not complaining. I'm actually grateful my grandfather has this older Jeep versus me being without a car or stuck driving their Buick Regal. I'm not sure which of those two options is worse? But thankfully, Grandpa thinks I need a vehicle with four-wheel drive in this mountain community.

There really must be a God.

My Jeep does have one big drawback; it's a five speed. A video with me driving a stick shift has to be worth some sort of prize as a funny video for
YouTube
. I barely have any driving experience to begin with, much less with a five speed. I've only read about them in driver's education. Never in a million years did I think I'd someday actually drive one. Luckily, Gramps has been very patient, taking me out driving for several hours a day. But today, I'm completely on my own . . . . Yikes!

The noises of some other cars pulling into the lot interrupt my thoughts.

"Thank God," I mutter, realizing some students here actually have normal looking cars. At least now, there are a couple more needles. Maybe I'll eventually fit in here after all. I turn off the ignition and make my way toward the front office.

Rim of the World, here I come . . . .

The weather is extremely pleasant, considering its February and over 60 degrees.

It's usually only in the 10-20 degree range back home this time of year. At least I have that benefit working in my favor.

How can I stay depressed with great weather?

I open the large, framed door to the school with my hunter green backpack strung across my right shoulder. I brought this backpack 'cause it matches the atmosphere here. After all, I'm in the middle of the San Bernardino National Forest.

Plus, I'd rather carry a backpack over a purse any day.

There it is,
I think to myself, noticing the office sign up ahead.

I walk briskly to the office, fearful of drawing too much attention from students out in the halls.

"Miss O'Brian?" a tender voice says in a low tone from behind the desk. I have to search around the counter to see who is actually talking to me. Yet she has a clear view of me coming inside the door.

"Yes." My voice is barely audible.

"We have been expecting you. Welcome to Rim of the World High School." A slight smile sweeps across her face while she looks me over. I'd guess she is in her late twenties or early thirties. A stunning diamond sits on her ring finger.

"Thank you very much," I manage to spit out, attempting an artificial smile. I'm trying not to appear as miserable as I feel starting a new high school in the middle of the year.

"Here is your welcome packet," she exclaims. Her enthusiasm is nauseating.

"Enclosed are several important items: a map of our school, your class schedule, your parking pass application, your locker number, and combination, and, lastly, a contact directory of the school faculty."

By her exaggerated expression to a simple welcome packet, it must be her creation.

"Oh, uh . . . thank you. This valuable information will be very helpful," I agree, once again throwing out my fake smile.

Maybe an Oscar could be in my future? I am pretty close to L.A.

"Please let us know if you have any questions or concerns." Then she looks down, getting reabsorbed with whatever project she was working on prior to my arrival.

For several moments, I stand against the counter not wanting to leave the safety of the office.

I think I can, I think I can,
I remind myself, remembering my dad reading the story about the little, blue train that overcame self-doubt.

I can do this.

I tuck the informational packet under my arm and head out into the unknown.

It's like driving in a strange, new city without a real-time GPS. Once outside the office, I sit on an older, wooden bench and look for my first classroom on the overly complicated campus map.