Story: Zürich (all chapters) — Deviant Hearts Archive

[Author's notes: This is my favorite original fiction that I've written so I'm posting it here in the hope that others like it as well.]

#1- Zürich

I'm the kid everyone loves to hate. There's always something new to pick on me about and no one likes to hang out with the loser. Even other losers have more bearing than I do. I don't think my mother would like me if it wasn't her job as a mother. I know Dad doesn't. He harbors no guilt in saying that I am his biggest disappointment in life. “If you were gone, life would be perfect,” He used to say to me. I'm aware of that, but I'm just to big of a coward to kill myself. You know that story about how the loser gets the popular girl/guy to come around and fall in love?

That's a lie. Don't get braces, don't get glasses, don't get killer acne before puberty because she, or he, will not look past that and find the “inner beauty” that lies within. They might not even like you because they think that being smart is cute. It's not. It's degrading because they partner you with a moron on the soccer/baseball/swimming/track team,who doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground and expect you to get an A, because, hello, it's you.

I can't believe that anyone would fall for such blatant crap. I can't even believe that I'm writing in this but I am and I need to take a moment to remember why.

“Mom, why do I have to write in this notebook? It's gay,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes at me and pats my head delicately, tousling my hair. “Your therapist thought it would be nice for you to express yourself in the journal, even if it is 'gay' sweetie.”

“I don't need a shrink,” I grumble even as I take the notebook. “Everyday, starting tomorrow, you are to write in it, be it about your day or your observations, for half an hour or longer.” She holds her own up, in garish colors just like mine, and says, “We'll do it together. Just you and me, alright?” I nod, “Alright.”

It's crap sitting across from my mother, who's happily scribbling in her notebook and I seem to slowly be printing. I write fast but this is bogus.

The one part that isn't a lie is the crush on the popular students. They're all perfect and gorgeous and sit at one table and actually have food to eat instead of the cafeteria crap that you get. They even swear perfectly. Their damns, and fucking hells are like words of love and sincerity. I've also perfected the art of swearing but on me it's coarse. Tommy Graham, the soccer fullback, is a gorgeous specimen of a male, I have to admit. Curly light brown hair, bright blue eyes, the all-American boy. His sister, Tawny, is the captain of the cheer leading squad and the female version of him. You know, minus overly-large muscles. She's slender and kind and she once helped me up when I fell (read: got pushed) down the stairs. She's got a smile to light up the whole football field.

They come for him and stay for her.

The Grahams' live across my backyard. I see them everyday, even if it's just from my window or from my tree house. It looks like all Tommy does is play soccer with all his other, less then beautiful friends who really are as stupid as they look, and he's just as stupid as they are. Unfortunately hormones don't respond to other's brain cells so I'm screwed. Well, maybe not, but I can dream.

Tawny on the other hand is sweet and waves at me whenever she sees me. I wonder if I can go over to ask if she'll tutor me in calculus. It's not that it's difficult, it just doesn't seem to look anything like math is supposed to. Unfortunately I don't have any problems or courage, so that's a no. Waving to her is all I can do.

Chapter 2

#2 – Zürich

I should learn how to write better because Mom says I'm supposed to be reading certain parts of this to my shrink. He's not my shrink, per se. He prefers the term 'family counselor with a dash of condescending asshole.' Oh, wait the last part's me. He's short and pudgy and overly sensitive about anything I say and I'm pretty sure that he thinks that I have suicidal tendencies. I hate being smart because I can read through his lines and understand the things underneath.

“So this is your daughter, Sophie?” He asked when we first met. She nodded and I sank into one of the beanbag chairs he had tossed casually on the floor. He sat across from me in a garish orange one. I glare at it. I hate orange. My mother sits next to me and holds my hand. He and Mom have been having appointments for almost as long as I can remember and are on a friendly basis. Dad hates him, which is actually rare because he never comes right out and blurts it like he does with this man, and I can truly say that he is my father.

“My name is Fitzgerald Montgomery. You can call me Gerald or Mr. Montgomery, whichever one you see fit.”

He adjusted in his chair and brought a spiral notebook and a blue bic pen. I liked those pens, and I have one too. It's the only truly comfortable pen I've ever tried and I grow a molecule of respect for him. It is taken away again when he speaks once more.

“So, Zürich tell me about yourself.”

I've never been one to stand idiocy like this so I said, “Why don't you read your file on me if your interested?”

“Zürich, be nice,” Mom said. I closed my eyes and asked, “Do I have to speak?”

I heard the raspy sound of his hand rubbing his stubble and I prepared for something else moronic. He paused before he finally said, “It isn't required but we have another hour before our session ends, so it's probably best if you do.”

I nodded at him and for the next sixty-two and a half minutes, listened to my mother talk with Gerald about little inconsequential things that annoyed her. She hated that my father never lifted the toilet seat when he went to pee, and when he did he forgot to put it down.

She disliked when we used two cups instead of rinsing out the first, that my room was a disaster area she'd nearly lost a foot in, and she needed a new car but Dad was unwilling to do so until everything on it died at once and did so for over a week.

His words, not hers.

Dad may be rich, but I've never met anyone with a tighter wallet. Samuel says I'm like that too. Samuel is my overly-large teddy-bear. I won him at a carnival, where you knock over the milk-jugs. He says that because I didn't pay for him and he's miffed; I argued with the guy displaying him until he gave up and let me play. It's not that I pretend he talks, because I don't.

His mouth moves and his face shifts, and his tone is sometimes so caustic I feel welts rise on my skin, and my imagination isn't that great. He only does it with me though. Besides, he has a nickname for me that only he understands. Yar sounds like it's bear-speak for something but he refuses to tell me.

Dad told me, when he saw Samuel the first time, “I'm glad you have something to believe in.” He leaned against the door-way and stared at me, really looked at me, and said, “Humanity will let you down time and time again, but something that you earned will always give you hope.” I think that's the most inspirational thing anyone has ever told me.

Mom says I need to get with the program, and that no one has teddy-bears. Sometimes the reversal of roles between them is a shock to my system. Samuel claims that I need adventure in my life if little things like that make me pause. I get the feeling that he's right.

Chapter 3

#3- Zürich

Mom's finally decided that me going to my shrink was a waste of time. Apparently, he cannot treat one who does not wish to be treated. I wonder if telling her “I told you so,” is grounds for punishment. I still have to write in this though because it falls into the category of, “Mother-daughter bonding time,” and it's either this or the mall.

I hate this but the mall is like Hell; there's only so much lugging of stuff you can take before your spirit breaks. You start to feel like a mule and wonder if you should practice your braying in the mirror. I've never gotten farther than displaying my metal-covered teeth, as I usually come to my senses shortly after I drop the bags in the living room.

I eat dinner with Elga, our live-in maid, as my mother chatters to us from the living room about all the things that we bought and I'm slightly resentful because my choice wasn't a choice at all as I write while I eat. Elga may be German but she makes the best spaghetti I've ever eaten and I've eaten a lot of spaghetti. Once I'm finished she says something in German which I don't understand but the pointing and miming is universal. “Go upstairs and clean your room.” I throw all the stuff in my closet and tell her I'm done.

It's almost eight o'clock in the evening when I head into my tree-house to look through my father's old brass telescope and find a few constellations. After an hour according to my Mickey Mouse watch, I give up and spin it to see what happens. It lands at the Grahams house and I look through the telescope, curious. I squint and see Tawny's room, bathed in golden light, and her shirt off. A wide grin etches it's way on my face and I try to stare harder. It's only her back, but it does seem to be smooth and clear. She slips a shirt on, sans bra, and turns to close the window. She sees me and smiles, waving at me. I'm about to wave back just as she closes the window and shuts the blinds.

I have no problem with what I've seen and I go back inside. Elga is at my door, pointing and yelling in angry German. I understand just enough to know that shoving everything in the closet was a bad idea. She makes me take all my clothes, fold them, toss the dirty one's in color sorted piles, separate my socks from my underwear and put them all in the laundry room, and place my shoes neatly in the closet. It takes maybe fifteen minutes and she smiles at me when I'm done before she pats my head and goes downstairs.

I stick my tongue out at her back before I go to take a shower. It's long and hot, and my skin feels tight and stretched when I get out and get dressed for bed. There's a computer in my room, and I wonder if I should search the web yet for something to do but I decide against it. I have Family Guy DVD's and it's more than adequate against the Internet. I should tell Dad to cut it out of the bill; I think the only one that uses it is Elga and from what I've seen when I've gone down there to tell her to do something, she's been looking at porn. Gay guy porn at that.

I settle in my overly-large bed and watch one of the episodes where Stewie and Brian decide to start singing. I love the 'Pot Song' and I know most of the lyrics to it. I'm about to fall asleep when Mom slips in and checks on me. All children are partial to their mothers being the most beautiful creatures on Earth, at least according to Freud, but my mother puts them to shame.

Her hair is wavy and a soft brown, gray around the temples, and her eyes are brown as well. They're a soft brown, like the kind you see when you make hot chocolate. She says I lucked out on having green eyes instead and that they look “striking” against my paleness and the gray of my glasses frames. I don't care. She's delicate looking with a thin body and a cherubic face. I understand how Dad could have fallen for her easily, despite that. She has an aura that claims the room around her, that commands respect and adoration and I easily surrender myself to her. Dad and I are much more laid-back and if we do claim attention, it's bad.

The other day he donated a large sum of money to St Jude's Children Hospital because it was my turn to pick a charity for the month and they completely ignored that. When he flew to China talk to one of the Prime Ministers associates who was a friend of his from college, they had a field day and claimed he was meeting a mistress.

Now my mother is beautiful, but simple-minded. She understands that the news is bad and sometimes lies, but she doesn't understand why they pick on him so much and it makes her depressed. When she gets depressed she shops until I drop, and Dad almost has ulcers from the amount she spends on absolute shit. I agree with him on just about everything because I'm the one carrying it all. What the hell do we need seven bags of potpourri for? One of those smells bad enough.

Mom sits on the edge of my bed and pushes my glasses up. She smooths back my hair and kisses me on my cheek. “Sleep tight, sweetie,” She says as she leaves and closes my door. I wonder what the hell that was about since she hasn't done that since I was in the fifth grade. I watch another episode, the one where the portal to the ghost realm is in Meg's ass when Dad comes in.

He looks tired and he rubs his eyes behind his glasses. He's in a business suit and his tie is out of the knot I usually see it in. He squints and looks at me before he sits on the edge of my bed.

Dad has gray hair and teal eyes, and he always looks tired. I guess there's more to being a CEO than sitting on his ass playing poker with the executives. He looks at me and says, “You like it here?” I'm use to questions like this. He sometimes just asks a random question to see what I'll say. Sometimes he likes me, other times he finds me repulsive. I think he's bi-polar.

I nod and say, “Yeah, the house is pretty cool.”

He shakes his head, “I mean in this town. It's small and safe and all, but I'm asking whether or not you like it.”

I think about it and say, “I like the town but the people that inhabit it can stand to change.” He gives a single chuckle, ruffles my hair, and leaves, turning my light off. Mom says that I remind him to much of himself at my age and that's why he and I don't get along. I eventually go to sleep, wondering what possessed my parents.

My parents aren't affectionate, accommodating people which is why it freaks me out so much that they actually kissed me last night. I was the surprise from Hell, and then I have the nerve to not look like either of them. Dad was always scowling in our family pictures and he looked more tired than ever.

Chapter 4

#4 - Zürich

I remember the mailman from when I was little had reddish hair, pale skin, green eyes, and a lollipop for me every time he saw me. I was the only one that ever got one, let alone one every time he saw me. His name was Valentin Amiel and he was my mother's best friend.

The other kids were always jealous, according to Mom when I came home dirty and bloody after she's shoved me out the house, and they said that he did it because he felt sorry for me, then they'd take it and shove me in the dirt in front of my own house. I recall Tommy shoving me on the sidewalk and giving Tawny the lollipop since, “Strawberry flavored ones are girly.”

Mr. Amiel is the only adult that figured out that I like strawberry more than grape and he always made sure to save me one. That was during the time my parents were going through one of their moods where they hated each other with a fierce passion and he always winked at my mom.

He was one of the ones that rang the doorbell every time so we knew he'd come and Mom would go and greet him. He came twice, once in the morning in his uniform, and afterwards he came in jeans for dinner. That was when he gave me my lollipop.

I don't think Dad ever met him and he probably never would have realized that we saw him all the time if it wasn't for the fact that I got into photography around that time. My mom got me a disposable camera and I snapped pictures of everything that I thought was interesting. If you count it now, I had three times as many pictures of Mr. Amiel as I did of everybody else put together.

Samuel likes to say that he was my father figure and my role-model because I looked like him. That was true from the pictures of him and me together that I made Mom take.

My hair is curlier and lighter but besides that we had the same skin tone, and eyes. I remember that Dad stared at it and his eyes turned cold. Well, colder than usual. I somehow doubt that anything has ever warmed him.

“There's a special spot in Hell for him,” Samuel told me once. “Hot enough to make him take that damn suit off.”

I doubt that. In every picture that my father had taken in his adulthood, he was dressed in a full suit or tuxedo and never a stitch more or a stitch less. The photo effected him harshly and I think that was the start of his full campaign against me.

Before it was toleration with a hint of disdain. Now it was full-out ignoring. That was also the time Mr. Amiel stopped coming over and giving me lollipops. Mom said his route changed and he wouldn't be our mail-man anymore. He didn't come by after work but he still gave me my lollipop whenever he saw me.

Sometimes when I look through my photos with Samuel he'll look at me knowingly and I know that it's a secret between the two of us.

Chapter 5

#5 - Zürich

It's sometimes hard to believe but my parents procreated before me. I have three older siblings and they all find me embarrassing. It's one thing to have a younger sibling four year your junior; it's another all around to have one twenty years younger than you. My siblings are named Alfred, Genevieve and Lance. My parents have a thing for order, as you can tell. It's rather obvious that I was the last one just from my name.

Alfred is forty-one, Genevieve is thirty-nine and Lance is thirty-five. They all look very much like our parents. Alfred has blunt features like Dad with Mom's coloring. Genevieve has Mom's features with Dad's aloofness and Lance is a carbon-copy of Mom. I am fifteen and the closest person that I look like is our former mailman.

Samuel finds it horribly amusing when my siblings come to visit and they bring their children. I have four nieces and nephews. My oldest niece, Taylor, is nineteen and adopted by Alfred and his wife Yolanda. My nephews, James and Phillip, are eleven.

It's very, very embarrassing to have your niece's work-ethic compared to your own. My kindergarten teacher was under the impression that my niece, Rose, and I were siblings because our birthday falls on the same day and we have the same last name.

We found out that she thought that when Rose was writing her name, and she has much better hand-writing than I do, and she said, “Now, Zürich,” And let it be said that they never pronounce my name correctly. Zürich is pronounced zu-rik, not Zur-itch.

Anyways, she said, “Now Zürich, why can't you write like your sister, Rose? Her handwriting is much neater.”

I looked up at her and said, in my innocent childish voice that I still have, “Ms. Gergenoff, Rose is my niece, not my sister.” She flushed darkly, muttered something, and scuttled off. Rose and I looked at each other, shrugged, and continued writing our names.

In hind-sight it was both funny and embarrassing and they continue to compare us, since she skipped a grade. We'd been in the same class every year in elementary school and they always said she worked harder than I did.

That was untrue.

They found out in sixth grade that I was dyslexic and dyscalculic, meaning I was impaired in learning both how to read and to do math. Once they diagnosed me and starting using different tactics to teach me, I starting acing school and I'd collected more academic awards in one year than my siblings combined.

My parents were very happy, or at least my father stopped calling me a waste of space which equaled a trip to Disney World in his books, and Lance occasionally took me with him on trips around the state. He doesn't have children and says that I'm enough for him. The fact that he can just drop me off at home when he gets tired of me is probably part of the appeal.

There was no such change in Alfred and Genevieve and I doubt there ever shall be.

Taylor, on the other hand, finds me delightfully adorable and treats me very much like a doll. If I try to suggest something else she simply giggles, twirls a lock of her cornsilk hair around her fingers, gives me a kiss on the cheek and tells me, “Oh, you silly thing. That could never happen. Let's go and get Rose to bring us something to drink, right, Zürich, my darling?”

Sometimes, I think something's wrong with Taylor. She doesn't mind embarrassing me at all, but she's over-protective of me if someone else tries it. She bullies me whenever she sees me but prefers to be psuedo-seductive when outdoors. Sometimes she gets angry and pushes me in the dirt and tries to beat me up, and others she'll hang all over me.

She calls me her 'little girlfriend' and she almost had a fit when I started tutoring. Nevermind that she strings boys along like dogs to a steak. Yolanda says it's a stage but I'll be damned if I end up like her last boyfriend. We still can't figure out how he got from here to Kentucky.

Chapter 6

#6- Zürich

I'd never thought I'd say this but I love my father. We were sitting at one of our scheduled dinner's where all of the family, including Elga, are sitting at the table.

My mother, God bless her non-functioning brain, had just suggested that I get a job on a ranch for the summer. In Texas where it's about a million degrees during the winter.

Dad's loud, “Hell no!” still reverberated through the still air.

Alfred and Genevieve also looked surprised while Yolanda seemed confused and Genevieve's husband, Jordan, looked bored. Elga drained her wine, grabbed the bottle and drank straight from the mouth. Taylor was pouting up a storm and finally blurted out, “No! Zürich is mine and she can't go to Texas with a bunch of inbred hicks!”

Yolanda turned to her daughter and said, “Now Taylor, sweetie, we've gone over this. Zürich isn't a pet and you don't own her. And Texas is a very nice state with lots of cattle and greenery to the east.”

Taylor slumped in her seat and gave Mom a dirty look. Mom ignored her, a worthy feat, and turned to my father.

“Michael, you're always complaining about her work-ethic so maybe this is just what she needs. My cousin works out there so it's not so bad,” Mom smiled, hoping to disarm him.

It didn't work. Dad frowned darker, said, “No,” and that was the end from him.

“You mean that drunk con Joe who wouldn't know work if it bit his ass?” Lance asked her, skepticism rich in his tone.

Mom frowned this time and said, her gentle voice sharp, “He's reformed and he's been sober for over two years now.”

She looked at me and smiled, “He has a son about your age and he's taken in his neighbor's daughter as well.” Most of the time her smile made me do whatever she wanted but this time I met it with a dark scowl, the mini-match of Dad's famous one according to the photo Phillip shot just then, and said, “No.”

Mom pouted and seemed to shrink into herself. She'd used the tactic often to get me to go to the mall with her so I was mostly immune to it and turned back to my meal. I wasn't able to eat however as the doorbell rang then.

Elga was starting to look sloshed so I excused myself and went to answer the door. I looked through the peep-hole and, seeing no pamphlets, name-tags, or gaudy colors, answered it.

Tawny was standing there and smiled at me. It wasn't the sunny, bright one she gave at the games though; she looked almost awkward to me. She shifted her weight and held up what looked like a twisted piece of brass with teethmarks.

“I'm sorry about this. My brother, you know Tommy, he thought it would be funny to take it and give it to our new dog,” And here she flinched, “After playing soccer with it.”

I stared at it and noticed some of the parts looked like they were part of my telescope. I looked up at her and practically felt the pity flowing off of her. I felt my chest get tight and my eyes burn some. I took it, mumbled something, and turned to go to my room.

The brass telescope was from Dad's side of the family, handed down from generation to generation for eighteen generations. I was supposed to give it to my children and keep it going and here I was standing with a cold lump of metal. I clenched my teeth and went up to my room, slamming my door.

I hated people. In the instant that I slammed my door, the little faith I'd held in the general populace to be kind people that had matured and grown up in the summer, the little bit of hope that they weren't cruel enough to go onto my property and destroy what was mine was crushed and I felt my chest cavity implode. My sight was less blurry already and I sat next to Samuel.

He looked at the telescope and then at me. He shook his head, said, “Asshole,” and didn't say anything else.

Chapter 7

#7 – Zürich

I hid the telescope under my bed, curled up with Samuel who, for once, instead of bitching about personal space, let me, and took a nap.

My nap was so satisfying that when I woke up I decided to take another one. I rolled over and slept for another twelve hours. I was sure they checked up on me but I doubt they tried to wake me up.

I was at least partially bear since I could sleep for days at a time with no problem. It wasn't a problem, according to the doctors at the hospital when I was born, I was just dealing with stress. Other babies cried, I slept through tornadoes.

When I slept for over a week though, Mom got worried and called my doctor. Dr. Mansfield, who I call Leo, and I are close acquaintances as he visits often because my mother freaks over the slightest thing. I mean, a straight week of sleeping isn't that bad. It wasn't like I was dying or anything.

Apparently, I was dying. A week with no hydration is seriously bad for the human body and they hooked me up to an IV. Luckily, I stayed home. Elga was my personal maid for six days and my knowledge of the German language was growing by the hour with her so near me and I picked some things up. She constantly muttered about how degrading a job it was and how above this she was and how her mother didn't have to put up with this bullshit.

Somehow, I doubted this but I didn't say anything to her.

Leo came over everyday to make sure I was really recovering because, at least in my opinion, I don't think he believed that my mother and Elga would do a good job.

Elga spoke three phrases in English: “I work hard,” “She is gaining weight,” and, my personal favorite, “Fuck off Mr. Telephone Man.” You can guess which I taught her.

My mother spoke five phrases to doctors: “She's gaining weight,” “She's developing a rash,” “The rash is clearing,” “Thank you, doctor,” and “I'll sue you, bastard.”

Those aren't exactly the best people to help take care of a young girl. Leo tried to ask my Dad only to find out that telling him I was still breathing was not the way to get his assistance. Lance tried to only to start blubbering. I asked him why and he said I looked like death.

The only difference I could see was that the baby-fat on my cheeks was gone and I had high cheekbones that, according to my other personal nurse-maid, one commissioned by the hospital, “Really accentuate your face and eyes.” She then lapsed into teen speak that summarized, “Oh my God, I would so kill to have those eyes instead of my brown ones.” There was something about Edward Cullen as well but my mind automatically blocks anything it thinks is associated with vampires.

My two week-long absence from my tree-house made Tawny come over and visit. I resolved to sleep for a week again if it meant that I could see her on more desirable terms.

Yes, sleeping for a week and getting severely dehydrated and getting the hot cheerleader to visit and kiss my cheek was better than getting your family heirloom destroyed by a petty fullback and having his hot sister deliver it.

At the least I finally got her in my room.

She looked around, her pink mouth a perfect 'O' when she looked at it, and she finally smiled at me.

“Your room's so nice and pretty,” She said to me. “I was expecting something more,” here she paused thinking of the word, “morbid.” She sat on the edge of my bed and continued, “Maybe a wall dedicated to photos and the stars.” I looked at her and watched her pick Samuel up. He stayed in his teddy-bear form and didn't tell her to, “Get her dirty, greasy paws off of me.”

This meant he didn't like her. That being said, Samuel doesn't like anyone. He's a crotchety bear and seems to have the soul of an old man who shakes his stick at young children, but he does have good instincts. He talks to me and Phillip, my less rambunctious nephew. Phillip's name was Mwe in bear speak and I had a feeling his meaning would come easier than mine would. I held in a sigh.

Tawny cooed about how cute he was and how his bow-tie was the same color as my hair and how it was “aesthetically pleasing.” I nearly rolled my eyes and I knew Samuel was having a hard time holding his tongue.

Later, he told me he was thinking, “Who the fuck says 'aesthetically pleasing?' Honey, you better stick to 'cute.'” In addition to evil, old people he also channels gay men and Rosie O'Donnell.

I sat up and took Samuel from her, placing him on his desired position on the left side of my bed. I looked at her and said, “Tawny, why'd you come here?”

She smiled at me, this time it was edged with a little something besides the playfulness I was getting used to, and she said, “I can't come visit my neighbor?”

I stared at her, disbelief evident on my face, “You've never taken an interest in me before, so why now?”

She swallowed, played with the edge of my eiderdown and finally said, not meeting my eyes, “I wanted to get to know you. I mean, I didn't realize how much you were a part of my life until you weren't there and I was really sad about how Tommy broke your telescope and I felt bad for you so I came to see you.”

She tried to look up at me through her lashes but I didn't want to see her eyes. Though all of it sounded pretty and sincere, I understood it. She wasn't actually interested in me; I was a part of the scenery and now that I was gone she wanted me back to put me there and forget until I wasn't there again. She wasn't even really sorry about the telescope, which Tommy didn't know about because I only used it at night and he only practiced during the day.

I looked at her, “You told him about it.”

She seemed surprised at my random sentence and asked, “Told who what?”

I started to frown and I said, “You told Tommy about my telescope, didn't you?”

The muscles in her neck jumped as she swallowed nothing and said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, we were just talking one day and it slipped out and I thought everyone knew about it and I wouldn't have said it if I knew he was going to total it like he did.”

She continued on, ranting and begging forgiveness intermittently, until she broke down in tears and left.

Samuel turned to me and said, “Yar, you're growing up. Once, you would have jumped at the chance to be friends with her but now, you're using your brain, not your vagina and you let people do the talking, not you. You'll meet your Fawsah soon, I just know it.”

I didn't ask him what a Fawsah was and instead simply curled up with him and started counting stitches in my eiderdown.

Chapter 8

#8 – Zürich

In the week that I was asleep, it seems Mom and Dad talked things over and found that, while working with Joe was not desirable, Mom also had an uncle who worked in Illinois and ran a ranch. They weren't close, which was why she hadn't thought of him first.

Uncle Charles was the former deacon of a church until he found that his faith was not something that others shared and had then decided that working with honest animals was much better and had his own horse ranch.

I'd seen Charles occasionally at family reunions. He was a solid man, the same height as Dad with a sun-beaten face and hair streaked with gray and blond. He'd been intimidating then, but I was more concerned with his son.

Charles Junior was his daddy in all but age, height and temperament. Where Uncle Charles seemed apathetic to me but not avoiding, his son took time out of his busy schedule of shoveling food down his gullet to seek me out and terrorize me. He was like a bull-dog; fat, slovenly, and ready to bite. I was going to be on his territory and he was going to eat me.

When I told Mom that she simply waved it off and said to go pack. Dad was less enthusiastic than usual about getting me out the house. He sat on my bed as I packed my stuff up and helped me carry it to the car. Mom waited in the front-seat for us and was the only one smiling when we left.

I knew already, less than two blocks from my house, that I would be lonely. Dad wouldn't be there to ask me random questions, Taylor wouldn't be all rapid bi-polar and shove me and hug me in the same breath, Phillip wouldn't shyly ask me for a little help on his math homework because Rose, “uses big words to much.”

I wouldn't have James to pester me and monkey around in my tree house or Lance to tell me goodnight over the phone. No Alfred or Genevieve to give me an angry look when I said something that made Rose burst into giggles because she was the only that got it, no Elga to hand me sweets when my Mom wasn't looking, no Yolanda to nervously flutter her hands from my hair to my shirt and back and there would be no Jordan to look at me over his wine glass and raise an eyebrow.

Worst of all, there would be no Samuel to say something rude to break me out of my thoughts, to remind me that the majority of humans may have been morons but there would be a few that would help restore my faith in the whole. I doubted I would find them in this country.

Samuel decided that, although I was no full-grown I still needed to test my independence and decisiveness without him. He'd wished me the best of luck and sent me off with prayers to Ursa. I'd never had a chance to ask him just what that meant because Dad had come to help me get my things.

I looked at my Dad's steely face, lined with the bases of frown lines, and my mother's face, filed with laugh lines and happy memories. I could also see the lost nights under their eyes, deep dark bags. In the rear-view mirror I saw my own pale face between them, nothing happy yet nothing sad, nothing lost, nothing gained. I was not a hopeful person but I wouldn't automatically assume the worst if the world hadn't always shown me the worst. But perhaps it wasn't the world, so much as this town that had done this to me.

I sat back and asked, just as we got on the highway, “I won't be the same when I come back, will I?”

Mom looked at me but it was Dad that said, “Hopefully not.”

I wasn't sure whether or not to be scared.

Chapter 9

#9 – Zürich

The car ride was not an adventure. It was so far from an adventure that it can be labeled the anti-adventure and be called the opposite to end all opposites. Midway, just crossing the borders between Wisconsin and Illinois, the A/C gave up the ghost and died. The rest of the trip was spent boiling in the car because Mom didn't want my hair to get messed up from the wind.

Dad had looked at her and said, dully, “She's going to be working on a farm. Her hair will be the least of her problems.”

“Still,” Mom insisted, and tried to smooth it down from her position in the front seat. What that 'still' implied I couldn't quite fathom. Dad was right, as usual when it came to competing with Mom, I would be working at a farm, in the hot sun, doing menial labor red-haired people aren't meant to. At least I don't have freckles, I figured.

Eventually, the engine began to cough viciously and Dad pulled up at a rest stop. Several men in raggedy cover-alls stained with oil and grease came up and talked to Dad. He looked about as confused as I did, which is saying something, finally gave up and said, “I'll give whoever can fix it one hundred dollars.”

I've never seen men run that fast anywhere, jabbering about sparkplugs, carborators, and whole-new engines the entire way to a swarm of rusty pickups. One guy, older than the rest of them but slightly less greasy, said, “Well, son, you ain't got to do nothing to it. Let it cool down, put some oil right here,” he pointed to a valve, “and let her rip.”

Dad did as he said and in less than ten minutes, we we're on our way again. The man smiled at us with black teeth as Dad gave him the money and left. The car ran better than it had in years and hadn't wheezed once by the time we got to Uncle Charles' ranch. Everything else, however did not go so smoothly.

A police woman pulled us over and, with the swagger that all authoritarian's held, slowly ambled up to the driver's door. Dad had everything out by then and lowered the window.

“Yes, officer?” Dad asked.

She looked down at him, a feat since she must have been at least four inches shorter than Mom, and said, chewing her gum obnoxiously, “Did you realize you was goin' sixty-two in a sixty-five miles per hour zone?”

“No officer, I did not. Must be why you pulled me over, right?” Dad asked her. I could see him clenching his teeth. Dad may have never hit a girl, but cops were a totally different ballgame.

“No sir. I pulled you over because of that fire hydrant you got in the back of your car,” She said, jerking her head in the direction of the back seat.

I looked around to find it only for her meaning to hit me full in the face. I glared at her darkly, leaned forwards, and opened my mouth to tell her what she could do with her tazor, gun, and badge all at once only for Mom's delicate hand and Dad's much larger one to cover it.

She continued on, lifting her dark shades to look at me with granite eyes, “You're going to have to put a hat on that head. The sun catches that right and your blinded for thirty, forty yards.” She lifted the top of her hair for her own bright, orange locks to be seen. She gave us a slow smile and headed back to her own car.

Mom rambled about how nice she was all the way to a tourist shop, saying that, although it was neither as bright, healthy, or curly as mine was her hair was nice. Dad and I then waited another thirty minutes for Mom to go through every hat in the store twice, trying to find one that looked nice on me. She finally said she couldn't do it and asked me to pick. I grabbed a brown fisherman's cap, paid for it, and shoved it over my head as we left.

It seemed ironic that my Mom couldn't have picked a hat in half an hour but my two second pull had resulted in a hat perfect for me; my skin didn't seem quite so pasty anymore. Or at least it was perfect for teasing.

Mom looked at me and said, “Glad it's in brown and not in khaki because you would have looked like Jonathan Lipnicki.”

I hated that guy. Jonathan Lipnicki is the richest red-haired bastard anyone's bound to meet and people always claim that if my hair was spiky, we'd be twins.

It didn't count because they said that to everyone who's hair was anywhere from auburn to strawberry blond. There's a big difference between all of us but hair equals George from Stuart Little. I hated that movie, too.

It seemed huge to me, filled to the brim by crops and maybe twenty large, but glossy beasts in the fields, not even lifting their heads from the grass. Three taller ones were also in the fields, much better looking from the distance In reality, the ranch was probably only four or five acres, but prime land. The day seemed to be still and even, nothing rippling or causing an effect in the steady life.

The sun was slightly less unbearable outside the car, but the light made my eyes hurt. I placed my arm over my eyes and tried to shield them but the glow from other objects hurt. It wasn't as bad as it was at home where the concrete would amplify it and beam it straight to the back of my brain. When I was able to see again I found my uncle and cousin shaking my dad's hand and hugging my mom.

When Uncle Charles approached me, he took my face in his surprisingly soft hand and arched my face upwards. He manhandled my head, peering at my eyes, my ears, looked at and around my head and finally said, “At least you don't have freckles. It's bad enough your hair can be confused with a traffic light and it'll spook the animals, I'm sure.”

He let go and headed into the house, one of his hands on my mother' back, the other with my suitcase, and his son following after a quick sneer. I shook my head and took my duffle bag and went after them.

Chapter 10

[Author's notes: Chapter 10 of Zürich. Thanks for the reviews and for even looking at it. It's a small update, I know, but it's necessary for later chapters.]

#10 – Zürich

Lunch was a quiet affair, with Mom occasionally saying something that no one cared about. Once that was over Uncle Charles led us outside and backed away so we could say our goodbyes. Mom kissed my forehead, told me to be good and got in the car. Dad nodded at me, shook hands with Uncle Charles and started the car. Uncle Charles led me towards the house again, his hand on my shoulder.

“Tell me what you know about farming,” He told me.

I thought about it, “They didn't really tell us anything in school but I'm guessing that it's hard work.”

He nodded, “Expect to never feel pain like this ever again unless they bring you here again next summer. You and Charlie will be sharing a room since we don't have a lot of space.”

I nodded and I imagined that it was better than Lance's couch, which was known to sprout weird things in the night. I figured it was a bachelor thing although he was the only bachelor's couch I'd ever spent the night on.

The room was slightly smaller than mine was, with two beds on opposite sides of the room, both next to windows. The walls were painted a soft cream, the carpeting was brown, and their were two dressers, one by each bed.

After I put my stuff away, he put me to work. I basically walked around and shoveled cow shit into a wheel-barrow and once that was done, I rolled it far away and dumped them all in the same hole. It was simple stuff, but time-consuming and the heat didn't help. I didn't realize just how much cows crapped until then. It was already eight o'clock when Uncle Charles called for me to come in, wash my hands and help myself to dinner.

The next three or four days felt like they were on repeat. I'd get up, Charles Jr. would push me and use most of the hot water for his shower, I'd shower, have breakfast, we'd all go out in the fields and work, I'd go in for dinner at about eight, help wash dishes, watch some cartoons since all the other channels had really thick accents, take another shower and go to sleep.

One day Uncle Charles called me in early to help with dinner, something he and Charles Jr. did. I figured it was a father-son bonding... thing or whatever so I was surprised when he made me wash my hands and start peeling potatoes.

I reluctantly told him, “I don't know how to do anything in the kitchen.”

He looked at me and said, “I can't believe that your mother never taught you how to cook. She was one of the best meatloaf makers in the town; but then again that was all she could cook.”

I blinked, “Mom can cook? The only food I've ever seen her get is from the delivery guy when Elga has days off.”

He chuckled a little and said, “With hands like yours, I suspect you may do better than she did with this part.”

I frowned a little, confused, and looked at my hands. I had small hands with chubby fingers, a small cut on my left middle-finger from getting pushed onto glass once, but other than that flawless since I wore gloves. I don't think that they meant to go that far, because they all scattered instead of staying to gloat.

“What's wrong her hands?” I asked. He smiled down at me and said, “Absolutely nothing. You use them for things instead of letting them go to waste; that's how I like my kids.” It was a good thing we started early because I held up dinner by at least a half an hour with how slow I was peeling them, trying to keep from cutting myself. By the end I was slightly better and I found out how to fry steak.

After that it was pretty much routine and I finally stopped looking like I “might blow in the wind” as Uncle Charles said.

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be pleased with that or if I should be insulted.

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Originally, this is the scene that started Zürich and I figured you guys would want to see what it would lead up to.

Scene:

Tawny was drunk. That was the only thing I could think of that would warrant her being all over me in public. Most of the time, she avoided contact with me, refusing to so much as look me in the eye, let alone try and fondle me.

Now she was slippery as an eel, trying to touch me in inappropriate places, and making it damn near impossible to bring her to the bedroom. I carefully lead her to the bed, her loud breathing harsh in my ear. She giggled some and moved on the bed when I released her. She bounced slightly before she laid down, her long legs falling off the side.

Her blue eyes were hazy from the drinks she'd had, and she pulled me down next to her, before kissing me. She tasted sweet, like always, but bitter with the drinks and some foreign feel as her tongue pressed into my mouth. It was chalky and thick, and invaded every corner of my mouth. I bit her tongue, the sharp taste of blood welling in both of our mouths. I pushed away from her, trying to wiggle out of her grasp. I failed.

She continued to giggle, saying, “What? You don't like me?” She didn't wait for an answer as she grabbed me again, and even in her inebriated state her strength was greater than mine. She pulled me again, so our faces were level. A small line of red edged onto her lips and she licked it away, slowly and seductively. I dry-swallowed and said, “Don't.”

“Don't what, Zürich?” She asked her rich voice soft. Her mouth radiated heat next to my own, and the heat from her breaths barely brushed my mouth as she breathed from her gorgeous lips. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something that might encourage her. Denying her this after everything else that I had given her was not holding out well. She met my eyes again, her eyes shiny like the river rocks I'd skipped with Nina, and moved her hands from my shirt to my cheeks, holding me there. I watched the column of her throat shift before she said, “Please, Zürich, can we do this just once before I go? I'm going to go to college and you'll be a thousand miles away and I need this one thing from you.”

I clenched my teeth and tried to ignore the desperateness in her hands and eyes, searching for a way to say no. I tried to imagine anything else and I could only come up with Nina holding my hand, and kissing my cheek. I closed my eyes, put my hands on her wrists and squeezed her pressure points. The other girl let go, cradling them to her chest. I stood up straight and said, “I can't do that Tawny. There's a girl waiting for me that won't abandon me every time her reputation is in danger and I need to go to her before I screw that up too.” I exited the room and left the house, the party even more rowdy than before. I walked, and then I ran all the way.

I was panting and bent double when I got there, and I quickly thought about how to get her to see me. Her voice, soft and confiding, in my ear repeated, “I've always thought it'd be romantic and cute for someone to throw rocks or some shit at my window. It's real dorky, I know, but it's the thought that counts.”

My aim sucked ass, but I was still willing to try. I grabbed some of the gravel and pitched them to her window. The soft plinking noise sounded loud to me and I waited anxiously for her. The light went on and I threw some more, praying for her to hurry up. The curtains parted, the window opened, and Nina looked out sleepily. Her eyes were half-lidded and I could practically sense how tired she was. Her sleeping shirt was wrinkled and creased in places, her arms out in the cool air.

“Nina!” I hissed. Her dark eyes looked down at me and she frowned, “I thought you were going to Tawny's party?”

I shook my head, “I need to talk to you.”

She raised an eyebrow and pointed to the ivy on the wall heading to her sill. I climbed up quickly, entered her warm-colored room and sat next to her on the bed. From one bedroom to another, I thought.

“So what'd you come over for?” Nina asked, “Because you've been ready for that party forever.”

“They're about to have a puking contest,” I said. It was actually true; Brandon Wilks and Brody Gross were starting one now on the front lawn.

She rolled her eyes said, “No really, what's going on?”

I swallowed and said, “I couldn't figure out what to do.”

“About?” Nina encouraged.

I finally blurted out everything up until the bedroom incident and said, “I mean, we've kissed before and all, but she wanted to go farther than that. I don't think that I could ever do that with her.”

Nina hit me hard on my arm. “Moron! You've been talking about her since I met you and you haven't stopped yet!”

I rubbed my arm and said, “I know, but it's different. I was ready to do it but when she tried to all I could think about was you.”

She stared at me and said, blinking, “What?”

I took a deep breath, “I could only think about you when she tried to kiss me.”

Nina stared at me and then hit me again, “Stop bsing, you just didn't have the balls.”

I didn't bother trying to say anything else.