Forevermore

Into the Mist

The faint outline of my face reflects off the glass as I stare out the window of my stepdad's pewter Jaguar. The cold outside seems to reach clear to my bones. My breath fogs the glass, and I wipe it with a finger and continue to watch the scenery pass by. Stark, jagged cliffs of gray rock. Desolate moors White signs written  first in Gaelic, then English. Old stone houses, whitewashed pop up every once in a while. The sky is dramatic, with enormous  swirling, dark clouds. Everything looks cold. Or dead. Maybe that's because I'm from Charleston, South Carolina, and I'm used to the sultry weather there. I already miss it, too. The constant warm sea breeze, the palm trees and ancient oaks draped in moss, the old plantations. Funny how I took that all for granted when I lived there. Now that I don't have it anymore, I want it back. Like I still want my dad back. He died the week after my thirteenth birthday and it's been just me and Mom for the past three years. Until now. 

 "Oh, Honey! Look at the sheep!" my mom says exitedly, and points out the window. "Look at their little black faces. They are so adorable!"

  I don't answer because I know 'honey' is an endearment reserved for my stepdad, Niall. He chuckles and lightly grazes Mom's cheek with his knuckle. I bet he doesn't find the sheep adorable as my mom does. Neither turns to ask my opinion. I glance over anyway and, sure enough, there are the adorable black - faced sheep, standing in a white downy cluster on the side of a hill dotted with purple - brown heather. I'd Googled heather before we got here, and saw that in June and July, the lifeless clumps would turn into gorgeous lavender blooms. But now in October, those blooms are so dead. 

  Pulling my legs up, I lead my head against the window and close my eyes. So much has happened lately, it's strange to think of it all in sequence. It's even stranger to think this is my life now. Before my dad does, I was your typical kid - except for being freakishly excellent at playing the violin. I hung out with my friends, had sleepovers, watched hours of classic scream fests, like the old Halloween and Nightmare on Elm Street. And since we lived only two blocks from the beach, my friends and I gathered there nearly every weekend. I had a big poster of Zac Efron from his High School Musical days hanging on the ceiling above my bed so I could stare at him as I went to sleep. 

 But after my dad died? I don't know. Thing just didn't have the same appeal to me anymore. I withdrew. Where I had been loud and silly and voracious before. I became quiet, and I wanted to be alone more often. My circle of friends grew smaller and smaller as I became more reclusive. Callie, my best friend, hung on the longest. But even she began to distance herself, growing closer to other girls. By the time I left for Scotland, it just ... wasn't a huge deal that I was leaving. We hugged, said good-bye,  and promised to keep in touch. Maybe to even see each other on long breaks. I doubt it'll happen, though. And honestly? It's okay. I became a major downer for a long time and didn't expect my friends to be dragged down with me. 

 Hopefully this will move will make things better. Maybe I'll meet some cool people at school, make new friends who will like and accept my for who I am now. I rest my cheek against the cool glass, scroll through my iPod playlist. I'm feeling a little old - school today, so Madonna's "Material Girl" plays through my earbuds as i continue to stare out at the wispy ribbons of mist.  

  I still enjoy many of the things that my dad and I shared, especially books, movies, and music.  Like Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes, which I still love. And because of Dad, I am one serious '80s music fangirl. Dad always said I was an '80s girl trapped in a twenty-first-century body. AC/DC, Whitesnake, Cyndi Lauper, Madonna - you name it. It definitely inspires the violin music that I compose and play. Which introduces me to the most important thing that  my dad introduced me to: the violin. I've been playing since I was three years old. My dad gave me my first instrument - a miniature working violin that he found at a yard sale of all places. I still have it too. It almost looks like a toy, but it really plays. And as young as I was, I totally remember my dad putting that violin in my hands, adjusting my fingers over the neck, and squeezing my other little hand over the bow.  I don't know why I didn't do what other normal three-year-olds would have done with a violin- which is wack something with it- but I just ... played. And I haven't stopped since. And when my dad died, my mom picked right up with the support of my music. She makes sure I never slack on my strings.