Mismatched.

One

“So this is California?” My Uncle Roman looks at me in the mirror above the dash, a smile faint on his lips.

“Yes, Carlo. What did you expect?” I just shrug, not planning on answering. For one, I didn't expect it to be so normal. With the exception of the palm trees of course. It sort of reminded me of home, save for all the American accents. They all sound so slow and harsh.

I turn my head to look out the window and watch the buildings fly by. I keep thinking that we're driving on the wrong side of the road. Yet another thing different from my hometown of Como, Italy.

The house my uncle pulls up to is nothing less than a mansion. My family had been well off but this was astounding! A large fountain is the first thing I see. Marble columns supporting the huge roof. Typical Hollywood mansion. My sister, Isabelle jumps out of the car and practically sprints towards the front door, slamming the car door in her haste.

Roman chuckles and glances back at me as he pops the trunk of the car so I can get our luggage. I don't have much, just a duffel bag. Isa, on the other hand, has at least three suitcases.

Too big. Those are the first words that come to my mind when I enter the house. Everything was sleek and modern and impersonal. The house just didn't look lived in.

“Mine!” Isa shouts from somewhere inside the house, claiming her room. I shake my head, regardless of the fact that she can't see me. I trudge up the dark cheery wood stairs and I find myself stepping to the left on the eight step, the one that had always squeaked at my old home.

No, I mentally chastise myself. This is your home now, so get over it.

I open the first door I see on the long hallway and I crinkle my eyebrows together in distaste. It's purple for one, and secondly, it's far too big.

The next room is the same, just in yellow. Who did Roman let decorate this place? I just walk to the end of the hallway, hoping that the bright assault of colors was limited to the front of the hall.

Perfect. The room is a light creme color, almost white. The room is small and has two windows that face the backyard. A black, brass, queen size bed sits in the corner beside one of the windows with a bedside table beside it.

I gently set my Macbook atop the desk on the other side of the room and throw my bag on the bed. Unzipping it, I take out my clothes and toss them into the dresser and my shoes into the closet. Lastly, I take out all of my art supplies and set them beside my laptop. Charcoal, paints, pencils, even crayons. I organize them into the many drawers in the desk, save for my sketchbook; that always stays with me.

“Carlo, I want you to promise me that you'll never lose this.” My mother says, handing me a green sketchpad filled with pages and pages of smooth white paper. “Draw in it whenever you're excited or anxious or unhappy. It'll make you feel better.” I run my fingers over the smooth cover of it and smile a crooked nine-year-old grin. “Thank you, mother.”

The memory hits me, physically knocking me back a step so that I stumble back into my bed.

“What are you doing with this book? I thought I told you to do something productive, not draw in this stupid thing!” My father scowls, snatching my sketchbook from my young hands and proceeding to throw it carelessly to the other side of the room I share with Isabelle, my eight year old sister. “Most kids your age are having their parents beg them to quit playing soccer and come back inside for dinner, but no: I have to force you out of this damn house! You are useless Gerrimo! Useless!” I pale at the use of my middle name and lower my head so I don't have to look him in the eyes. I don't want to see the anger in them. For a minute my father stands there, breathing heavily. After I don't say anything he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I run to Isa who sits cowering in the corner, crying quietly. She's such a good girl. She knows not to draw attention to herself. I hug her and smooth down her dark brown hair, something my mother used to do. She whimpers and clutches onto me tighter. “It's okay, Isa. It'll all be okay.”

The anger of the memory has my hands in tight fists with an ache to hit something. My wolf is begging me to let him surface. He wants to go for a run and I give in, jumping off my bed and going down the stairs two at a time and sprinting out the door.

“What?” I hear my uncle ask Isa. “Just let him run, Roman.” She advises, used to my outbursts.

I toss off my shirt mid-run and my shorts follow. They're carelessly slung behind a tree, leaving me in just my boxers. I subconsciously move over and let my wolf take charge of my mind. A slight tingle and there I am. My wolf is tall and skinny, just with a little muscle just like me. Working all day at your fathers vineyard will do that to you. At the mention of the word 'father' my wolf growls and takes off in a full sprint. Trees flash by and smaller animals cower behind whatever they can find. This is my sanctuary.

My run leaves me panting and my tongue lolling out of the side of my mouth. I make my way back to my clothes and tell my wolf to scoot over on my brain. He complies and I shift back into myself. Shrugging my clothes back on I grimace as I see my phone.

23 missed calls

57 texts

Almost all of them consists of, 'where are you?' Yeah, I didn't tell my friends I was moving. A shit friend I am.

I stumble on the steps that lead to the house. I hadn't even noticed I was here.

Oh my God. Do I smell ravioli?

Jogging up the steps and into the kitchen I smile at the sight of cans of chef Boyardi on the kitchen countertop.

I grab a bowl and dump the contents of the can into it and shove it into the microwave. I stand there impatiently, bouncing on the balls of my feet. I grab the bowl as soon as the timer goes off and dip my spoon of into it and shove the delicious food into my mouth.

Hot.

“Hot. Hot. Hot. Hot!” I repeat, fanning my mouth. Why the fuck didn't I remember it was gonna be hot? Ow!

I hear a giggle and turn to see Isa standing there openly laughing at me while my uncle just stands behind her, raising an eyebrow at me. I have to admit, I probably look like an idiot with my mouth open and ravioli hanging out of my mouth.

Swallowing the hot molten noodles, I set down the bowl and stalk towards her, grinning.

“Oh so I'm funny, eh? I'll show you funny!” I grab her and start tickling her sides, my grin growing wider at her squeals.

“Alright you two, cut it out. Oh and um, did I tell you you're starting school tomorrow?” He looks down at us sheepishly.

“What?” Isa shrieks. “Tomorrow? I don't have an outfit or anything! And all my purses were cool in Italy but they're last years fashions here!.....” She keeps ranting but Roman and I just look at each other, dull looks on our faces.

School eh? I really hope its not like those shows on TV.

I climb into bed that night, exhausted. After dinner we had listened to Isa's rant a little longer until she stomped upstairs into her room to look for an outfit or something. I love my sister, but God she could complain.

Roman and I had gone into the living room and played Call Of Duty against each other and man, my uncle could play.

I slid all my alarms on my phone on and began the prayer I had recited ever since I could talk.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

I have one thought that circles through my brain, almost like a lullaby.

I miss my mom.

“Hurry up, Isa!” I yell from the bottom of the stairs. I hear her trip as she comes down the hall above and then a bunch of curses in Italian.

I had a granola bar for breakfast before realizing that school started earlier here and that I had thirty minutes to get us to school.

We fly through traffic in one of Roman's cars. Cars honk at us but when you live in a crowded Italian city for most of your life you get used to getting through traffic.

I drop Isa off at the middle school and there's only one word on my mind when I pull up to my school.

Fuck.