Lost

The Move

      Today's the big move to New York. Yay. Please note the sarcasm in my voice. Now, you're probably all like, what's up with this bitch. There's nothing wrong with New York. I never said that there was. I'm just not too fond of moving halfway across the country at the peak of seventeen to stay with some old coon I barely even know. And that was exactly what I was doing. I had dressed accordingly to the situation, throwing on ripped jeans and an Adidas shirt. If this didn't  scream "I don't want to be here" then I don't know what did.  

    I slummed down in my airplane seat and scrolled through Instagram on my phone. Everyone was tagging me in old pic's of myself and friends, saying how much they were going to miss me, and that I needed to try to book a concert in L.A. as soon as possible. I sighed, knowing that it would be a long time before I did any concerts. My uncle had forced me to move for a reason and it wasn't exactly to be the public eye, even though no matter where I went, the paparazzi followed. I let out another frustrated sigh. This was just great. I'm moving to New York in the middle of the damned school year. The middle of freaking Junior year. My birthday was coming up in less than two months and it looked like I was going to end up celebrating seventeen with my great grandma. Perfect. 

    A couple of hours later, the pane finally landed at my doomsday destination and I got off, silently fuming. It took 30 damn minutes to hail a cab and a whole other hour to get to grandma's house. She's gotta have WiFi, I thought to myself as I stared up at her Massachusetts Mansion. She's like, 58 years old. Why does she need a house this big? Across the street were houses just as huge. You know, it's funny, I didn't have this growing up, and now that I do have the money to have it, I don't want it. It just seemed like too much. My grandmother, though, did, however, grow up with this type of stuff, so as you can assume, she is very used to the privileged life. She was very prim and proper. Or that's how I remember her anyway. I sucked a deep breathe in as I prepared to knock on her door 

   "Ariana." She said, swinging the door wide open. Her thick Greek accent made me cringe inwardly, but outwardly I smiled a dimpled smile. 

   "Hi, grandma." I greeted her walking into her totally decked out house.  

   "Do not flare your nostrils at me, young lady." She muttered, shuffling pass me. Oops. The flaring of my nose isn't something that I can control, it just happens whenever I'm irritated. You see the appeal.  

 "Sorry grandma," I muttered. She glared at me.

"You have done it again. Young women do not flare up their noses like that, it is not proper. And what are you wearing? You look like you got hit by a bus. I don't know why you dress like that, you have money, no? I was told you have money with all your American singing. Why do you sing about boys all the time, young Greek women sing about men, not boys, and the things you were on that stage...gods help your demented little soul. Now, go change, and introduce yourself to your new neighbors across the street. And put on something appropriate. I do not want the young boy over there to think you are hooker. Go, change. Your room is first floor all the way down the hall to the left." I waited until she got done ranting, clenched my teeth and headed upstairs. She's worst than I remember.

I rummaged through my things peevishly trying to find an 'appropriate' outfit, but then I decided to just fuck it. I threw on some shorts and a big Tshirt and headed downstairs. Grandma looked at me and shook her head, mumbling something about having to pray for me. I opened the door and headed for the house across the street. The Autumn wind felt good on my skin, but I still couldn't help but miss the California heat. Knocking on their door, I mentally scolded myself for not really knowing what I was going to say to them. A girl around my age answered the door.