Yo Yo

Yo Yo: A Story of the Ups and Downs of Young Love

Chapter 1 - The Sullied Apple

Present Day - February 2011

   It was the twenty-first of February.

   It was exactly seven days since my mother had been killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver.

   It was exactly one year and fourteen days since I had made the stupidest decision of my life.

   And, it was exactly nine years, seven months and four days since I had met Jesse Rowe and he had insulted my hair.

   I was driving along the A615 just slightly above the speed limit. I had made this journey numerous times in my life, but this was only the second time that I had done it alone. Despite coming down the same road in the same direction twice a year for the past nine years, I had had to stop to double-check my route six times, and had taken the wrong turning twice. I was an hour behind schedule but that didn't matter. It had just been a vague estimation of my arrival time anyway.

   As I drove closer and closer to the turnoff, butterflies gathered in my stomach and my freshly-sweaty hands tightened on the wheel. I swallowed, trying to push back the nerves, trying to remind myself that I hadn't done anything that bad; but it didn't work. Partly because I knew that Jesse had had a point.

   That still didn't make me any happier about having to see him again.

   I had to remind myself - for the hundredth time - that I had made the decision to come here. Nobody had made me do it.

   I pushed the indicator and turned off of the motorway and then followed the signs through the gradually more rural-looking roads to Barmston village, and then the little symbol on the brown signs to the Barmston Holiday Camp.

   When the huge, bright red sign with the name of the holiday camp, its cheesy motto ("the camp for kids, adults and kidults alike!") and its basic rules on came into sight, I pushed on the brake and pulled on the indicator again, signalling that I was about to turn right although there was no one behind me. That wasn't a surprise.

   I turned into the familiar reception area, putting on the handbrake as my car rolled to a gentle stop outside of the sign-in window and manually winding my window down.

   Steve must have heard my car because he came to the window straight away. He smiled when he saw me. "Hey, Callie, it's good to see you again." The smile became sympathetic. "I'm sorry about your mum."

   I sighed. "So am I." I nodded ahead, changing the subject before the confusing feelings about my mum could hit me again. "I can go straight through, right?"

   "Definitely, go ahead. John's been getting ready for you all day." He winked at me.

   I rolled my eyes; I knew that my dad lived like a slob for the best part of the year, and cleaned up whenever I came for a visit. I wondered how he'd cope with having me around for good and not being able to leave gone-off food on the kitchen counters, or whatever it was he did when I was gone. "Thanks, Steve," I said, shooting him a smile before taking off the handbrake and driving on through.

   As I drove at the five-mile-per-hour limit along the narrow, curving roads, I didn't encounter a single person. There were only two cars in the guest car parking area. It was strange coming to the camp when it was like this. It was like a ghost of itself. It felt... odd. I supposed that it only felt like that because I hadn't known anything else, though; I usually only came here in July and December, and plenty of holidaymakers loved those times of year.

   I stopped the car and switched off the engine outside of the small terraced block of three houses, and then I sat in my car for a while, just looking at them. It was sort of funny how you could tell what a person was like just by looking at the front of their home. The one on the far left side was obviously unoccupied because, although the lawn was kept neat and the exterior in good condition, it had no life about it. There were no lights on and no curtains adorning the windows, and no nik-naks on the indoor windowsills. It was just empty. The one in the middle was predominantly feminine. Honeysuckle and roses grew around the sun-yellow front door and extravagant pull-on doorbell, and the flowerbeds were all filled with bright, colourful flowers. The curtains in the main window on the first floor of the house were a light cream - though perhaps I only noticed that because I already knew it - and, through the clear glass panes of the porch, I could see shoes stacked up by the door. There was a window in the roof, an obvious sign of a loft conversion, and every single window was wide open, making the most of the unseasonably warm weather. The final house on the right-hand side was much more modest. The front door was a plain brown colour with a brass knocker and the garden was messy; the lawn slightly overgrown, weeds beginning to sprout in the beds. It didn't matter too much, though, because its neighbour was so grandiose that barely anyone would pay attention to this house. It sort of faded into the background, mixed in with the nature of the site. It said an awful lot about my father; just the appearance of his house got his personality bang on.