newstorynewstornewstory!!!!!!!! readreadreadread!!! called Mistchild, heres a sneak peek:
Dealing with the death of my father has been the hardest thing I have ever gone through. They told me it was a drunk driver who hit him. No matter who it was, it doesn’t matter to me anymore, because my father, Michael Boicourt, is dead now. He’s never coming back.
And then, my mother packed up all our things, and moved us out to this hut in the middle of nowhere. Well, actually, a little town in Oregon called Estacada. But after coming from San Francisco, California, this was a speck of dust. We bought a two story house complete with moldy walls, and peeling paint.
We took a plane from San Francesco to Portland. We got a car, and started driving south. On the drive to Estacada, Davey, who is 10, became immersed in his handheld videogame, while Abbey, 5, fell asleep. It was just me and my mom. Sort of.
I turned on my MP3 player loud enough to drown out the engine of the car, but not loud enough to have my mom yell at me. That’s all my mom had been doing lately. Yelling. Or crying. Or yellingandcrying. Or worringandyellingandcrying.