Chapter 17 (post one)

Note: I'm not sure if this chapter has repeat information in it or not. I edit my story as I go along and I'm not sure what the version on this blog is. Anyways, this is just a little random history blurb. I'm thinking I'll have to work it into the text better, but I'll do that later. lol.

Chapter seventeen, section one (pg. 50 for my reference):

I missed my home.

Opening my eyes in the morning, I’d look around my room, then close them and picture my room back home. The walls were yellow, my duvet pale purple and there had been pictures of friends and family hung in white frames on the wall. My bed frame was an antique that had belonged to my grandmother, who had said it was from the 1800s, but my father had said it was from the early twentieth century. I hadn’t really cared; I just liked the way the layer of cream paint was peeling off the ornate details on the posts.

I would remember the way the sun shone through my white curtains on Sundays when I had slept until noon, highlighting my bright white desk and reminding me of the homework that was sitting there waiting for me.

My mother had always been home in the mornings on weekdays, but on Sundays she’d attended yoga at the YMCA and wouldn’t be home until one. So I’d get up and wander downstairs to make breakfast for my younger sisters and myself. Even if I slept until noon, I’d taught them to not wake me up by rewarding them with pancakes at 12:30 pm.

Noel had been three years younger than me. With blonde hair, our mom’s eyes and an olive skin tone from somewhere in our mothers European background, she was the prettiest one, but you would never guess it by the way she dressed or acted. In my hand-me-down Seven jeans that were a touch too big and a t-shirt from a sales bin, she’d help me with the pancakes on Sundays.

Izzie had actually been our half sister. Shortly after my mother separated from my father, my mom had dated a man for a couple months who had gotten her pregnant then moved to the other side of the country. I think Izzie met him a couple times, but she referred to our father as “Dad” the way we did. At age seven, she had been ten years younger than me, the youngest of the three of us, and had broken our heart every time she looked at us with those huge brown eyes. She’d always gotten extra maple syrup on her pancakes.