Town Troubles

The lake house was a memory now, a shimmering mirage of sun-drenched days and the endless blue of the water. Grandma Lois, bless her heart, had started to get a restlessness in her bones, a yearning for paved streets and neighbors who didn’t smell faintly of fish. And so, we moved. To town. It wasn’t a bad town, not really, but it was a town nonetheless. The houses sat close together, their windows like watchful eyes, and the air hummed with a different kind of energy, one that didn't involve the lapping of waves or the call of loons.

My new bedroom was smaller than my old one, painted a pale yellow that felt too bright, too cheerful, like a forced smile. The lake was a distant whisper, a place I could only visit in my dreams. Grandma Lois still made sure I had butterscotch discs, a small comfort in a world that felt increasingly unfamiliar. But there was no swing, no sturdy oak tree to cradle me. My grandpa, Ches, still made his way to Mrs. Pete’s every morning, but now the chatter was about school districts and property taxes, not about the best fishing spots or the changing of the seasons.

School. The word itself felt like a heavy stone in my stomach. I started a year late, a consequence of my time with my father and stepmother. The other kids had already formed their cliques, their laughter a secret language I couldn’t decipher. My clothes were a constant reminder of my difference. At first, it was because I didn't have a say. My mom, when she was around, bought what was cheap. Then, as I got older, it became about money. Or the lack of it. While other girls sported bright, brand-new jeans and colorful t-shirts, mine were often hand-me-downs, a little too big or a little too small, faded from too many washes. I’d catch the quick glances, the silent judgments, and my cheeks would burn.