Welcome to Deadwood

Chapter Three

   That afternoon I jogged home, through the woods, as rain seeped through the gaps between branches, soaking into the fleece of my sweatshirt. I hurried, to avoid the bad weather, and leapt up the front steps to my house, yanking open the front door and shivering as I instantly removed my jacket. My mom was sitting in the kitchen, reading the local newspaper and sipping at a mug of herbal tea. She glanced up and smiled, instantly going to the fridge and pulling out a plate with a cupcake in the centre. 

   “I thought my brave little boy deserved a treat,” she smiled, her blonde bangs getting caught in her eyes as she ushered me over to the counter island and told me to sit down with her. 

   “Thanks, but I’m not that little anymore,” I beamed, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, just to accentuate how much taller than her I was. I perched on a barstool opposite and picked up the cake, taking a big bite and ignoring the crumbs that tumbled from my lips, all across my chin. My mom laughed and passed me a napkin, trying to tidy up after me. A piece of bright blue frosting smudged across my bottom lip. 

   “You’ll always be little to me,” she cooed, leaning with her head tipped to one side curiously, as if she was just waiting for me to crack up. “So,” she dragged out the vowels, as if I would understand what she was about to ask before she had even asked it. “How was your first day?” 

   “Umm, it was,” I paused and finished my mouthful of food, trying to think of the best way to describe what had happened that day, “it was good, a little different, obviously, but not as terrible as I had expected it to be.” 

   “That’s great!” My mom exclaimed with wide eyes. “I knew it would be okay! Did you make any friends?” 

   “I made a couple,” I nodded, licking my sticky fingers. 

   “Well, come on,” she said eagerly, “tell me about them.” 

   “There’s this one guy, he’s kind of cooky,” I shrugged, rubbing my hands together, trying to warm them with the friction. “He’s nineteen because he failed his senior year and has to redo it, but he’s also this kind of maths genius and tortured artist.” 

   “His name?”  

   “Isaac,” I replied. “And then he has a friend called Leah, who’s a year younger than me but got to skip a grade. She’s nice, kind of immature, but I like them both together, they’re cool.” 

   “That’s just great, darlin', and the classes? Were your teachers nice?” 

   “Yeah, it was all fine, mom,” I jumped up and left my plate in the sink, taking a glass tumbler from the cupboard over the sink and filling it with water. “I’m going to go upstairs, I’ve got some work to do,” I swung my rucksack over my shoulder and started up the steps. 

   “Okay, but don’t work too hard,” my mother called to me, from the bottom of the staircase, “your dad will be home soon and I’ve cooked him his favourite.” 

   “Alright,” I shouted back, closing my bedroom door behind me and falling across my bed in a mess of dank clothes and tangled hair. I dropped my bag to the floor and pulled my laptop from the nightstand, lifting the lid and leaning over it with intrigue. 

   Ever since that afternoon I had been waiting until the time when I could get back home and onto the internet, to search for any information on her, that girl. It was something I couldn’t explain, the way I was completely engaged by her, captivated. I had never heard her voice, had a conversation with her, but the rumors were enough to interest me, that and the way her skin had seemed so delicate in the sunshine. Amaya Young, so strangely naive looking, but with a darkness, a side that no one understood. This is what I liked the most, there was so much more to her than at first glance.