Pinned but Fluttering

Chapter 18

A little late and not as long as previous chapters, but better late and short than never, right? LOL!!

Chapter 18

As the school bus rolled up to the end of the Blacks' driveway, I reluctantly made my way forward to the doors, smiled a quick goodbye at the grandmotherly driver, and stepped down from the bus...right into a deep puddle of muddy water that completely covered my boots to my ankles.

“Fabulous,” I muttered as the bus doors closed behind me, the bus pulling back onto the asphalt and lumbering on down the road to drop off other students at their homes after school.

Great. If my now soaked feet, despite the water-resistant boots (obviously not water-proof since I could already feel how soppy my socks became within mere seconds), were any indication, the rest of my day was going to suck.

Royally.

Adjusting my backpack more securely onto my right shoulder, I began the far-too-damp trek down the Blacks' very long driveway, attempting to avoid the additional mud puddles that nestled into every low point of the well-rutted dirt road.

With each step, I felt the frigid puddle-water squish between my nearly-frozen toes.

Gross.

I hated cold, wet feet with a passion; in fact, there were very few items lower on my list of least-favorite things than my present condition. Cold, wet feet made me feel cold and wet all over my entire body, and as I stepped carefully around additional puddles, I shuddered in my jacket, my teeth nearly chattering.

Maybe being stuck in my room for all these years possessed a tiny bright side: at least my feet were not frozen due to rampant puddle-exposure resulting in disgusting soppy, squishy socks.

The insistent drizzle continued, so I hunched over as I made my slow way toward the house, keeping my hood up and my head down as I skirted puddle after blasted puddle.

What was with that frickin' e.e. cummings, the poet who coined the term “puddle-wonderful”? Ugh...he had to be demented. But then, anyone who refused to properly capitalize and punctuate his poetry was pretty darn annoying, anyway. Bet his English teachers loooooved him....

Puddles weren't wonderful or cute. Nope. Puddles were a curse, pure and simple.

As I neared the house, I glanced up through the ever-present drizzle and, with a gasp of surprise, stopped dead in my tracks.

Jacob's beat-up truck was parked in front of the house.

Damn.

And the dreaded sound of voices raised in anger wafted through the gray drizzle toward me.

Double damn.

I stood there for a minute, weighing my options. I could run away, perhaps join the circus as “Isabella, the Girl with the Worst Luck in the World.” Or as “Isabella, the Girl with the Squishiest Socks on the Face of the Frickin' Planet.”

Or I could trudge forward, take my dues, and keep on surviving as best I could.

Stellar choices. I groaned quietly to myself as I let my mind run through a few possibilities.

Exactly why the hell hadn't I taken Mrs. Jane and Carlisle up on their offer to get me the hell outta here?

Oh, yeah. Because I'm an idiot who thinks she sees something in my former brother-and-best-friend and foolishly thinks she can save him. From what, I haven't a clue. From Billy? Definitely. From himself? Maybe.