Slight Detours | Wattys 2015

(2) ALLY

Ten minutes into the tour, I'd already proved my father wrong. Eastlake High was nothing like my old private school. If anything, it was a regrettably mismanaged educational facility, which, in other words, meant that it was thoroughly subpar.

You see, moving all the way across the country was not my idea. I was perfectly fine living in New York among all the busy streets, pollution, and traffic. I enjoyed the disarray, even. Dad, on the other hand, thought that I needed a break from the city. He said it would do both of us good to breath air that didn't come out of a taxi's exhaust.

Real funny.

I'd tried to convince him otherwise, of course. Our pitiful attempt at a father-daughter argument had lasted approximately forty-five minutes, consisting of confused half-yelling and whisper-screaming. Questionable pros and cons were exchanged, as we're misconceived threats and bargains.

In summary, there wasn't much of an argument.

Eventually, the yelling spree had died down and the now relatively civil conversation had led to babies (don't ask) which, in turn, led to me asking dad about where he grew up. I'd always known him as a proud New Yorker. So, it definitely surprised me when he told me that he'd grown up in a small town called Verne situated right by the coast of Long Beach.

To be honest, I knew nothing about California. All I knew was that it was hot as hell, housed a significant amount of palm tress, and that more turkeys were raised in California than any other state in the country.

Nothing useful, basically.

For everyone's sake, it would be best of I stayed in New York. Unfortunately, dad was blind towards that idea.

In the end, I resorted to pathetic begging. Literally, I got down on my knees and pleaded my heart out. If there was one thing I feared, it was leaving New York. But no matter what kind of tactic I used there was no changing the man's mind.

I'd miss the pizza, snow, and that good old taxi cab driver named Bob but the departure was inevitable. Dad had grown up in California, it was his home, his paradise. And I couldn't change that.

It was no surprise that dad won, though. He always won. I should've known I was fighting a battle that I was destined to lose from the beginning. That way, I could've saved myself a few desperate words.

So, here I was in sunny Southern California, attending a stupid school tour which was supposed to enlighten me on Eastlake's top-of-the-line facilities.

Apparently, top-of-the-line here meant government donated computers and a poorly maintained lap pool. Well, at least there was a pool. I'd expected much less.

As much as dad tried to console me, the damage had already been done. I was stuck here for the rest of the summer with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

"C'mon, kiddo, it isn't that bad," dad said, obviously detecting the thoughts behind my frown. He flashed his charming, swoon-worthy smile, grabbing me by the shoulders. "You're going to love it here."

"Dad, I think that opportunity has already been ruined," I kid, hoping for a laugh.

He doesn't. Instead, he sighs

"You've been here for three days, Al. Give it a chance." His tone is heavy, tried even. It makes me think of myself as much more of a burden to him. I wanted to tell that this wasn't my decision in the first place. It was his.

The thought consoles me, convinces me that it isn't my fault. I chant it, turning it into my mantra.

"Okay, dad," I mumble.

He smiles once again, shifting his attention back to the tour. "That's my girl."

The stodgy woman in front of the pack, our guide, motions us over to the enrollment office. She flashes a stiff smile then disappears into the room. I break into a grin, thinking the that the tour is finally over. Suddenly, a middle-aged man with a serious case of grizzly hair slides into the hallway.

"Good afternoon, parents, enrollees," he greets in a thick, notable accent, "My name is Mr. Baer and I am the principal here at Eastlake."

I can't help but laugh at the irony. His name is absolutely perfect for him and his bouquet of facial hair. Hearing, dad shoots me a glare and I bite down on my lip.

Mr. Baer continues, "As you may have already heard from Mrs. Greene, your escort, this year, there will be summer programs created especially for new, incoming students. Workshops vary between sports, crafts and academics all of which are for free. You are all encouraged to attend," his lips from into a creepy grin, "And I look forward to seeing you again next school year."

His final words hang in the air as whispers and chatter fill the hallway. Among them are dad's persistent mini-speeches.

"Al, why don't you go?" he says with a new vigor, "You love school and homework, this would be perfect for you!"

Correction.

I love my old school back in New York. Richmond was one of the best private schools in the country. It was old, traditional. They even had the stereotype uniforms: white polos, skirts, and knee-high socks.

I mean, who didn't love knee-high socks?

"Dad, I don't think that that would be the best idea," I whisper, quietly appalled by the idea. I wonder if he heard me at all but his disapproving look is enough to tell me otherwise. I look away, embarrassed. "Look, I'm sorry, dad, but California isn't exactly my mug of coffee."

I force a laugh, but it quickly dies away. Humor, along with sarcasm, has already abandoned me.

"I know," he murmurs.

Pulling out his car keys, he maneuvers his way towards the exit. Slowly, hesitantly I trail behind him until we reach dad's black Mercedes. I let myself in the passengers seat, saying nothing.

The car ride home was empty except for the tranquil hum of piano. Beethoven's Claire de Lune sounds on radio, courtesy of dad's preset classical music channel. It is all he lets me listen to, after all.

I stare out the window, watching the sunset. Clouds burst in colors of orange and red, fading into indigo near the horizon.

Soon, the quaint, beachside bungalow I now call home comes into view. Its nothing special, just a one story structure painted a light seashell color. Wooden steps lead to the main floor and a small viewing deck sits on top of the roof. A white picket fence, along with a few miniature cacti, encloses the property.

Dad parks the car on the sidewalk, turning off the ignition. For a few seconds, we sit in awkward silence. I slump down on my seat, fingering a strand of rebellious hair. Guess my hair didn't agree with California either.

"Ally," dad starts, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm going to make a deal with you."

He pauses plotting out his words, choosing them carefully, "If you still hate it here by the end of the summer," he gestures around for emphasis, "We'll move back to the apartment in New York. But if I see you warming up, we stay. For good."

In the dimming light of afternoon, he looks older, more worn. Maybe, my fastidious demands have finally gotten to him. Obviously, he is neither happy nor enthusiastic about his proposal. But, at this point, my actions have given him no other choice.

"There's one condition, though," I look up, seeing his hurt expression, "Promise me you'll try."

A/N

Okay, guys I'm sorry this chapter isn't as funny as you expected but every book needs some drama... even humor stories. Anyways, this chapter is in Ally's point of view if you guys were wondering. I'm sorry you weren't able to see how Jared looks like but I'm PROMISE you'll see/read about his hotness in the next chapter!

Just so you know, the rest of Slight Detours will be written in alternating POVs. You need to read in both Jared's and Ally's views to understand the whole story :)

Next update: Tuesday... hopefully. Vote and comment in the meantime!