California Dreaming

Like the Atlantic

I wake up to the smell of burnt toast, which is not unusual. My mother is notorious for her inability to prepare even the simplest of meals. The dinner she prepared last night consisted of undercooked chicken and soggy vegtables that I pushed around my plate with a fork, contemplating how quickly I would have to shove the food down my throat to avoid actually tasting it. When I was in elementary school, she would even forget to put one of the two critical spreads in the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she would pack me a for lunch.

I grab my glasses from the desk beside my bed and head downstairs in my pajamas, my hair slightly disheveled. My mother is leaning over the counter when I reach the kitchen, staring at two blackened squares.

She looks up at me with large, guilty eyes. "You don't mind fixing yourself a bowl of cereal again, right?"

I'm already opening the cabinet where we keep the Wheaties. "Not at all."

I take a seat at the table with my homespun breakfast and watch the news with my mother. The president has said something controversial again, and a hurricane has ravaged a community on the other side of the country. I keep waiting for a positive headline to appear on the screen, but I guess there's nothing uplifting to talk about.

My mom clears her throat. "Any plans for today?"

She has asked me the same question every morning for the past two weeks, and my response has been pathetically consistent.

Stay home. Watch soccer.

I can tell that she wants me to get out of the house. California is full of things to do, and my intentions to spend my vacation alone on the couch must dismay her.

"Yeah. I heard there's a complex a few blocks away. I was gonna take a ball down there and shoot for a bit."

Her expression instantly transitions from heedful to exuberant. "Really? I mean, that's great, Tobin. I'll drop you off there on my way to work."

I nod and pull out my phone. I'm not opposed to leaving the house; I'm just unfamiliar with the world that exists outside of these walls.

New Jersey was full of familiar people and familiar places. My summers consisted of teaching kids how to properly kick a soccer ball at the local YMCA, heading to the Shake Shack next to the movie theater with my friends, and playing soccer at the local complex until the gardener switched off the lighting system. Practically everyone in town knew me as the daughter of the sheriff, so I could scarcely walk down the street without being greeted by a pedestrian. I always returned their waves and salutations, though it was not uncommon for me to have no idea who they were.

I didn't realize how much I loved the communal atmosphere of Basking Ridge until my mother and I landed in Los Angeles. The Golden State is full of strangers, and my desire to avoid them has deterred me from venturing outside to marvel at its beauty.

Once I finish my cereal, I head upstairs to get dressed and grab my ball. Though I'm anxious about leaving the house, I can't help but be excited about kicking the ball around for the first time in weeks. Going this long without setting foot on a soccer field feels almost unnatural.

Mom attempts to make conversation with me as she drives. My recent introversion has left her worried about me.

"Are you excited about school starting?"

"Um. Not exactly."

"Why, sweetie? I know you'll make so many friends."

"It's school, Mom. I don't think any teenager really enjoys going to school."

She spends a moment pondering my statement. "Well, I guess you're right. But at least try to be excited about it, baby. It's a fresh start. You don't get many of those in life."