The Headline

Chapter I - Trading Freedom and Sunshine with Consequential Words

Chapter I

Trading Freedom and Sunshine with Consequential Words

It’s funny how words can be consequential. Just a few words can destroy someone, change their life completely, elevate them to utter bliss and yada yada yada.

Words, as insignificant as they may seem to some, can change the course of your existence.

            The words that changed the course of my existence were said by my father. “Mimi-Mouse, I accepted the job.”

            Usually, I would have been happy for him, maybe a little bit mad because he still called me Mimi-Mouse, and I hated the kiddy petname, but this time was not one of those times. Why? Because the job he was referring to was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean—an ocean I wasn’t actually accustomed with—on another continent.

            My innocent self would have loved to just ask, “So, when are we leaving,” but my reporter self, the one that was cool and composed and completely rational was in charge of the talking.

           

            Reporter tip one-oh-one, do not jump to conclusion too fast, make sure you have all the information necessary before you form your judgment.

            So I asked for the information needed, and the information needed only meant one thing.

            Dreadful Canada.

            The job was in fact a reporting contract, one to do some sort of documentary about the pretty unique political system in South Africa. We lived in dreamy sunny perfect Beverly Hills in California and in my father’s opinion the best scenario was for me to go live with my mother, in Canada, while he was away. The filming and documenting and writing would definitely take a year, my last High School year.

            One year in boring freezing Canada.

            Reporter tip one-oh-one; if you seek information, be perseverant and fight for it—or in this case, if you want something be perseverant and fight for it.

            And not living in Canada was something I really wanted.

            Of course, Dad wasn’t bending on this. He wasn’t selling our condo so of course I tried the “I could stay here by myself, I’m almost an adult, I can take care of myself” card. But all I got was, “I’m not going to let you re-enact every single teen movies about parents leaving for the weekend in the course of a year.”

            I also tried the “please, please Daddy, then just bring me with you.” For that one I got an “I’m going to be really busy there, I’m probably never going to be home, and I don’t want to leave you alone all the time, in a foreign country.”

            Of course I could have mentioned that a) He was never at home here, and I was used to it, b) technically the United States were a foreign country since we were both born Canadian, c) I really didn’t want to go back to Canada or d) I just really wanted to stay with him.

            But I used none.

            What was the point anyway? He had already made up his mind and I had to suffer through it even though living in Canada implied a) freezing my butt off, b) changing my oh so loved phone because my network didn’t work in Canada, c) not living with my dad, d) living with my mother I barely ever saw, e) oh have I mentioned freezing my butt off?

            Canada also implied my twin brother, because yes I had that. We had been close when we were in diapers, but now, not so much.

            My friends always found that odd when I mentioned I had a twin brother I barely communicated with. In their head, twins seemed more like Siamese twins.

            Seriously, what made people jump to the conclusion that twin were close? We spent nine months pretty much wrapped around each other, stuck in our mother’s womb. Did we really need more quality time after that?

            I didn’t have anything against my brother. I just didn’t really know him anymore.

            My parents were young and married when my Mom gave birth to us. We still lived in Canada. Two years later we moved to New York, so my father could pursue his career. Three years later they were divorcing and Mom went back to her hometown with my brother and Dad stayed in New York with me.

            I visited my mother two times a year—one week during Christmas and two weeks every summer—but most of the time I would just hide in the guest room with a book or my music on. And I would be too overwhelmed with great aunts that wanted to pinch my cheeks, grandparents that wanted to hug me all the time and distant cousins that begged for my attention and kept asking “You remember me, you remember me?” to really have time to get to know my mother and brother.

            My brother also visited me and my father two times a year—one week during Thanksgiving and two weeks during the summer. But again, I never really spent any time with him, and usually just went out with my friends instead.

            I felt bad about it, but what was I suppose to do? I loved my life with my father, I loved my life in California with my friends and my shopping spots and my days at the beach. I wasn’t going to give that up just to have family quality time.

            I loved my life, but my father didn’t exactly love his job.

            My father was a reporter. A great one. He had such a way with words—he could make a cat stuck in a tree into a suspenseful story that had you bite your nails. He knew what words to use, and how to use them.

            But for the last few years, his reporting skills had been use over celebrities—what more could you expect when living in the capital of the rich and famous?

            The job in South Africa meant a real reporting opportunity for him, one where he could write and do actual research about the political scene, and where he wouldn’t have to chase girls that thought they were the queens of the world because they had one hit song.

            Being a daddy’s girl I knew I could have tried other arguments, I knew I could have made him turn down the offer; I could have played the “please, please Dad, I have a life here, a good life. I have friends I love and I’m on the verge of going out with one of the cutest boy in school, which is also, mind you, a senior while I’m a junior. Okay, he’s going away to college next year, but still that’s an entire summer dating an almost college guy who is very hot!”

            I didn’t do it. Because it would have been selfish of me. And at least I could use the argument “you abandoned me to Mom” every time I would want a big present. Especially since moving to Canada meant leaving behind my cute car because I would go by plane and not by car, because Canada was sooooo far!

            I didn’t do it because in the end, I was a daddy’s girl. And it always ended up this way—even if I wasn’t okay with my father’s decision I would always follow it. It’s not that I didn’t have a mind of my own—I was just used to the fact that my father had a better one than me. My father was my model, my hero, and so, whether I liked his decisions or not, I would follow them.

            But it sucked hardcore because who wanted to move away for their last year of High School, to go up North, like north, north, north, freeze their butt off, to live with their mother that was probably controlling when they were use to freedom and sunshine!

            I loved my life of freedom and sunshine, why did I have to trade it for restraint and clouds?

            So with those few little words, my world as I knew it ended.

            And a new one began.