They Call Her Snow

This is...nice?

Wow. We drove all the way from Louisiana to move, here? I stared at the rickety old farmhouse in disbelief. We don't own any of the land around it, except the pond and a bit of the forest. The house is a pale yellow with a white roof, beautiful, in its own way I suppose. I take the camera out of my satchel. It's nearly dead. Of course. I take a few pictures of the house while my mom unlocks it.

I'm underwhelmed. The house is bare. The moving truck is arriving with our furniture in two days, so we have our clothes with us and will be eat out for a while. Great. Greasy fast food. I'm trying to go on a diet, my family knows that. Maybe that's the real reason we moved. To throw my eating (and sleeping) habits off.

I roll my eyes and head upstairs.

"First door on the right!" My mom yells for all the neighbors to hear. I turn and jiggle the knob, but it's locked.

"Or not," I mutter under my breath. Why does this always happen to me. "It's locked!" I yell back down the stairs. No response. Great.

I wander down to find my mother and Eddie in the kitchen. "Keys?" I ask, my eyebrow raised to how close together they're standing.

"Oh! Right," she says, fumbling for something in her pocket, "Here!" She places a cold, copper key in my hand.

"Thanks," I say, turning to walk back to my, newly available, room.

Once I get into my room, I glance around. Thin, pink lacy curtains lay over a wooden window frame. The room is painted a shade of mint green that resembles the tips of my hair. The bed...is in the moving van. That's just grand. Sleeping bags it is.