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xoxo
Kat
Fresh Start
A Short Story – prequel to
Taking the Reins
by
Katrina Abbott
Copyright © 2015 Katrina Abbott
First edition. February 2015
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
“Brooklyn”
“You’re going back to the States.”
My fork halted halfway to my mouth, the peas sliding off and back onto my plate as I looked up at my father incredulously.
“What?” I asked, even though I’d heard him perfectly well. Just that when he’d opened his mouth half a second ago, I’d expected him to ask for the salt or for me to pass the platter of ham. But this. This wasn’t food-related. This wasn’t even boring news-of-the-day related. This was life-related. And huge at that.
“You’re going back to the States,” he repeated, his face serious, which quashed my follow up question of: You’re kidding, right?
As I sat there, I analyzed what he’d said because he was a very literal guy and he always meant every single word he said. Not we’re going back. You’re going back. Big difference. Because if I was going back on my own, I wasn’t returning to our old life in Denver; the only reason we’d been there was because Dad had worked at Buckley Air Force Base, and if he wasn’t returning to the area, I seriously doubted I would be.
I’d always known it was a possibility that I’d end up moving again, but I guess after two years in London I’d started to get used to the idea of staying in one place indefinitely. Never permanently, I guess, but for an extended stretch. At least long enough to finish high school. But no, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, I was getting shipped back to America to start over. Because high school alone wasn’t hard enough and now I was going to start at a new one halfway through.
“What about you?” I asked, looking between him and my mother as we sat in our London flat over what was now a ruined dinner. Not that my life was so incredibly stellar that moving (again) was going to ruin my entire life, but starting a new school in junior year? Ugh.
“We’re going to be staying here for the foreseeable future,” Dad said.
“So where am I going?” was the next logical question. My one living grandparent—Dad’s mother—was in a senior’s apartment complex in Florida, so I knew I wasn’t going there. That left me out of guesses.
“There’s a boarding school in upstate New York. It’s a great facility and comes very highly recommended,” Mom said. “Considering what we’re paying for it, it better be,” she added.
“It’s the best education money can buy. And the security there is the best in the country,” Dad said. “If you’re going to be half a world away, I need to know you’re safe.”
Which of course was always a concern because being the daughter of someone who fought terrorists for a living means safety is always job one.
“And you’ll be closer to Robert at Yale,” Mom said. Dad glanced over at her and nodded, then put his hand on her arm because she’d begun to tear up a little. Mom was normally a rock, but she didn’t like her kids being far away, so sending me off had to be tough for her. Obviously this was Dad’s decision and probably had something to do with his job. Not that he’d let on.
“Do I have any say?” I asked half-heartedly, because I already knew the answer. The decision had been made. I was going back to the U.S. whether I wanted to or not.
Dad screwed up his face in what I’m sure he thought was an apologetic look. “You can choose your courses.”
Mom cringed as she glanced over at Dad. “I already submitted her forms.”
Perfect. I sighed and rolled my eyes. “What’s the place called so I can at least look it up?”
“It’s called The Rosewood Academy for Academic Excellence.”
“It really is the best school,” Dad assured me. “I want you to get the best education possible and I know this will be the place for you.”
“You’ll fit right in,” Mom added with a weak smile.
They were totally overselling the place which was not a good sign, but it’s not like I could fight them on it.
I nodded and looked down at my plate. “When do I leave?”
“Two weeks,” Dad said. “I’ll be in Geneva, but your mother will take you to the airport.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be happy they were letting me go on my own all the way back to the States or mad that they were basically shipping me off. I guess it didn’t matter; I’d learned long ago not to take most of what they did personally.
“That gives you time to say goodbye to your friends,” Mom said. “And you can keep in contact with them by Skype and e-mail,” she added. More overselling.
What friends? I didn’t say. Not that I was hated at my school in London, I’d just never really fit in. Maybe knowing I could have to leave at any time made it hard for me to even want to build relationships. But maybe this could be a fresh start. Maybe this would be my opportunity to start over at a new place and get some real friends and—dare I hope—a boyfriend.
Dad suddenly got up from the table and turned toward the china cabinet and pulled out one of the drawers, reaching for something. He turned back around and sat down, sliding a large beige envelope across the table toward me. I looked down at it and then up at Dad, who nodded toward it.
It wasn’t sealed, so I slid my fingers in and pulled out the two passports—the only contents of the envelope. The first one was mine. The second one wasn’t, but had my picture in it. I knew what that meant.
“You’re now Brooklyn Sylvie Prescott,” Dad said, confirming my guess.
It wasn’t the first time I’d taken on a fake name, so I just nodded and slid the pile back into the envelope. At least the Brooklyn part was real. I bet when my parents had named me that, they didn’t realize at the time it would end up being one of the most popular names for girls my age, a fact that was both annoying and convenient at the same time.
He gave me a moment to process before he continued, “The regular protocol is to be followed. No social media. Avoid pictures. No one gets the real story. Understood?”
“Of course, Dad.” I said, like I had countless times before. My commitment to following protocol could mean the difference between life and death. I got that. Still. Someday it might be nice to have something of a normal teenage life.
As my parents turned their conversation to world news and politics, I tuned them out and looked through the window to the London skyline. I was going to miss the city that had been my home for two years. I would also miss the people I’d come to know, even if they weren’t precisely friends. But as I watched the city beyond our window, a tiny seed of excitement began to germinate inside of me.
Until later in my room when I Googled the school.
My parents were right in that it was very highly esteemed. It looked like a nice place in that old ivy-covered brick way and even had its own stables right on campus. But they forgot to mention one important fact. And I had to think they totally did it on purpose: The Rosewood Academy for Academic Excellence is an all-gir
ls school.
Sigh. So much for that hope of finding a boyfriend.