The Things We Live By

three - ruth

Chapter 3

"Natan and I are gonna check out town. Do you want to come?"

My father's head doesn't retreat from the doorway in spite of the very flat stare I give him, so I try a different approach. "I'd rather shoot myself in the head, to be honest."

Dad winces. "Ruth," he sighs. "You're here. It's done. You're not going back. You might as well try and make the most of it."

"I am, Father," I respond. "This is the most of it. This is the best it's ever going to get. Strictly downhill from here on out."

By the way Dad's jaw tightens, I can tell he wants to shout at me. I can't blame him, to be honest; I am being a pain in the arse about this move, but that's a right that I, as an a) teenager and b) fresh uprootee for the second - yes, second! - time, unabashedly reserve for myself. A telling-off, I could handle; but what he does next is worse. His face softens, he puts on a sad smile and he says, "It's okay. I understand that you're angry. Take all the time you need."

I try to keep my face composed, but a scowl inevitably escapes. "Yeah, whatever. Just go, will you?" I flop around onto my stomach on the unmade bed, the only piece of furniture in the otherwise bare room. When, a few moments later, I glance back to find him still standing there, I pointedly pull out the portable speaker out of my bag, link it up to my iPod and put on You Can't Always Get What You Want, turning the volume dial up all the way.

Subtlety never has been my strong suit.

The slam of the door sends vibrations through the thin walls, signalling that the poor tortured soul that is my father has finally gone on his adventure to the dangerous depths of Glenderry. I scramble off the bed and to the window, just to make sure; the brown station wagon pulls out of the drive and makes its way slowly, steadily, down the curvy path. I pop my head into Natan's room, and sure enough it's empty.

I sigh, the Rolling Stones still blaring in the background, and try to decide on the best course of action. Procrastination is always an option, one I am usually fond of and prone to pick in most situations, but I'm painfully aware that if I do nothing now, I'd be doing nothing but cultivating a little pity party in my innards and really, if there was something I hate more than bullshit it had to be a sob fest.

Instead, I trek down the stairs, speakers and iPod in hand, and stomp determinedly into the lounge where all of our boxes are stacked neatly against the wall, each labeled clearly with black marker. I spy my four boxes on the bottom row, right in the middle, and scowl, wondering what kind of atrocities I might have committed in a past life to deserve being here, in the Irish countryside, with all of my possessions buried under an odd fifteen heavy cardboard boxes.

"Snap out of it," I scold myself. I put my iPod on shuffle, take a deep breath, tip up my chin the way I always do when I need the extra boost of confidence, and get to work.

"These boots are made for walkin', and that's just what they'll do! One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you," I sing, slamming my foot down to the floor on the last word for emphasis. Unfortunately, the move doesn't go far in the way of effectuality, since my socks only manage to make a muted thud on the wooden floor, but I keep dancing; popping my hips exaggeratedly from side to side, strutting across the lounge to the beat of the music.

Until, that is, I hear a laugh from behind me.

I turn around with swiftness and agility fit for a cheetah, my eyes widening involuntarily when I spot the source of the interruption, leaning against the doorway, looking admittedly scrumptious with his mess of black curls and just-right jeans.