"Oh those eyes, I thought you were a really nice guy." ~ Bridgit Mendler (Blonde)
The car ride itself was taking a good hour or so. I was left in the backseat with my black Nike duffle bag, listening to music. While both Mr. Clinton and Mrs. Anderson were in the front seats chatting it up.
If I didn't know any better, I'd say that we were going into the midsts of nowhere. For all I know they could stop the car, kick me out, and leave me here. For the past twenty minutes I've been watching the snow covered fields passing us by as we go. All of the fields looked the same by now, flat land covered in white fluffy snow. It looked like somebody had sprayed out thousands of cans of whipped cream. Looking all lopsided after it has been left out to sit for a while, that's what it looked like. There was nothing better to do, just stare. I counted four cars, there have only been four other cars on this road in the past half hour. The radio stopped working a long time ago, not being able to pick up any signals. I was left here in the backseat, sitting on the stiff leather seats with nothing better to do but to look out the window. Watching naked tree covered in snow after naked tree pass by as we keep driving on this never ending round. Mr. Clinton and Mrs. Anderson had said that the foster house was close to home. But right now, it doesn't seem so close.
After another twenty minutes of watching the fields go by, we pulled into a nice suburban area. The houses took up a lot of space. They looked small from the front side in width but each of them were at least two stories high. When you look at the house closely you can see that it extends on further into the back, figuring the house into rectangular looking buildings.
I noticed that every house had a two door garage, and every car outside the house itself were nice rich people cars. Mustang, Audi, Porsche, and every other type of rich car you could every think of. These people were rich. Half of the time rich people equaled to snobby little conceded brats. I have never had a good relationship with rich people. The ones at my school that I've met before were always too into themselves. Now of course there are some really nice people that have money, I just never really talked to them myself.
Mr. Clinton slowed the car down in front of a brown brick layered two story house. In the driveway stood a black Ford truck and blue Mustang. The front lawn was freshly cut with brightly colored flowers outlining the driveway leading to the front door. It was a nice house. Hopefully, nice people lived in it.
The man that opened the door was tall dark and mysterious. The black sweater vest he wore over the red polo shirt made his light chocolate eyes stand out. His hair almost black but you could almost see the slightest hint of brown as the dark moonlit night reflected off of it. Although that wasn't the only thing that caught my attention. His smile. It was fake.
"Good evening Mr. Hanson. I'm Chris Clinton."
Mr. Clinton reaches his hand out to the man. Watching there hands I see Mr. Hanson's knuckles turning white, squeezing Mr. Clinton's hand a little bit too hard. As if he was challenging him. Releasing the stone hard grip he had on Mr. Clinton's hand he looks at Mrs. Anderson and puts on a smile.
"Macy Anderson."
Putting her hand out she is surprised when Mr. Hanson brings it up to his mouth. Kissing her knuckles, his beard tickling her skin.
"Jacob Hanson, it's a pleasure."
His voice low and raspy when he speaks. Adding on to the mysterious man facade.
"And this lovely little lady is Jamie Stevens."
Mr. Clinton introduces me after giving me a stare down, telling me to introduce myself. That didn't happen.
YOU ARE READING
New Beginnings
Teen Fiction"Human beings are deceiving to the eye. They are not all what they say to be." It is hard losing a family. But it is even harder when you slowly start losing yourself too.
