My mother has an orange tree on the front porch. The porch is really not a porch, but is actually the edge of the concrete pad the motorhome sits on and where Mom put two lawn chairs. She likes to pretend its a front porch and on nice evenings, she sits outside, next to her orange tree waiting for my dad to come home.
We live off Parker Road in Bob Norman's Lifestyle Links Luxury Home Sites ("The golf lifestyle you deserve!"). If you have lived here more than five years, you know it used to be Mira Point Country Club. The Country Club signs are still up around the golf course and clubhouse, but Mr. Norman makes it clear that the new name is sticking.
My father is out selling. He may be at a used car lot or at trucking company or maybe looking over some spec work at a SpecShop somewhere, but whatever, he is always selling. "Seven days a week somebody wants to get rid of some money and I want to be there when it happens" my dad always says.
My mother is not by her orange tree but inside at her "office" - the fold out table where we eat dinner. She has papers and address books spread out next to her laptop and she is trying to put together some type of function. If she can get enough bodies in a room, she can get a good percentage of whatever goes on. Hey, it pays the bills. I hope she takes me shopping this weekend I want to get some new Strauss Jeans. Everyone who is anyone will be wearing them this year.
My brother and I go to Lakeside, I'm in the eighth grade and he's in sixth, but acts like he's still in first grade. It's my last year before I apply for high school. West is closest, but I really want to go to JP, short for John Pearce High School, because my two best friends, Maddie and Lauren, are going there. My dad says the tuition will decide where I go and how much business he can bring in to pay it. He heard the teachers at JP have a higher customer service rating and they back it up with a 60 day money back guarantee. Parents are such dorks.
Mr. Breslin next door just pulled up in the pickup he shares with my dad and Mr. Daughtry. The back is full of white boxes sealed with heavy tape. I know he has been bragging about a big spec job he has been working on for the past month. Something about Jen-Lo or La-Lo perfume. Like I would want to buy that stinky stuff. They pump that stuff out on the east side and their schools stink.
Sometimes, I miss my old house. Having my own room and not having to listen to Mr. Breslin yelling on his phone like he does every morning. I liked taking my laundry downstairs to wash it rather than having to haul it across the 17th to the club house laundromat. I miss being able to turn on a television and watch nothing for four hours before dinner.
Oh well. It's not coming back and who wants it anyway. We are free and clear. And living at Bob Norman's sure beats a tent at Wally World. A girl in my biology class lived there until everyone found out. She left sometime after that. It was too bad, she seemed really nice.
I hate it when I read online about a goofy teen age girl like me who whines about how the world has changed. Girls are such drama queens. It's not like we are covering our heads with sheets in living in mud huts. Get over yourself.
Dad is home. I heard the breaks on that noisy bus thing he takes with a bunch of other dads and moms that drops them off on Parker. I hope he got a big deal today and got the Swip refilled. I really want to get some of those Strauss jeans.