Amaranthine

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places &  incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business companies, events or locals is entirely coincidental.

No part of the publication and its associated content may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

Copyright © 2011 Leah Crichton

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-9878234-0-3

ISBN-13: 978-0-9878234-03 

 

Vexatious: (vek-sey-shuhs)

causing vexation, troublesome, annoying, agitating, afflictive

full of trouble and disquiet; disturbed

Vexatious.

Most parents were vexatious.

Except mine.

They had crossed over that invisible line from vexatious to utterly insufferable a long time ago. Sixteen years, two hundred three days, seven hours and nineteen minutes to be exact—right around the time of my birth. The evidence was indisputable and documented right there on my birth certificate under Given Name. I'm positive it was that moment, the one when they held me in their arms and decided to stick me with the name Ireland, that fated me for a life filled with disaster and epic disappointment.

I learned a long time ago it was better to accept fate than to fight it. So my non-existent enthusiasm had nothing to do with my parents' lack of regard for socially acceptable norms, and everything to do with the rate at which my disaster prophecy was manifesting. This latest fiasco of theirs confirmed my beliefs, proved that my existence was indeed a calamity and made me grieve for the charming little town we left behind.

Moving across the country from our home to a sprawling metropolis was unforgivable, to say the least. Never speaking to either of them again bumped everything else from the prestigious number one spot on my to-do list. Kissing Derek Worthington had held that sacred ranking since sixth grade, so they'd managed to do a whole lot of bumping.

I hadn't moved an inch for the last several hours—not even so much as twitched. As the miles passed, my legs tingled with a terrible case of pins and needles that I was doing my best to ignore. I leaned against the car door and stared out the window, trying to absorb anything other than the green of the trees meshing with the slate colored mountains in a fantastic blur. My dad had a lead foot and the car was going too fast, so the task bordered on impossible and simply not getting carsick seemed like a far more realistic endeavor. 

My muscles were on fire and begged me to move, but I refused to budge on the grounds that moving equaled surrender. I wanted my parents to feel the weight of my anger so there would be no doubt in their minds how I felt about their adventure.

I glared at my older brother, Luke, who sat beside me with his nose stuck buried in the pages of a book. His carefree attitude made me insanely jealous. He looked up. "What's happening, I.Q.?"

The 'Q' stood for Quinn, my middle name. If I could ever be able to figure out why it wasn't my first name, solving the mystery of how they put the caramel into those candy bars would be a piece of cake, pun intended.

"Nothing," I mumbled, tracing my finger along the white circle of my iPod.

Here's the thing with Luke. He is a super perceptive individual, particularly when I was angry. He rolled his eyes and shut the pages of the book he was so damned enthralled with. "It's not the end of the world, you know."