Haven wood Falls High Novella: Somewhere Within

CHAPTER 1

I glanced at the boxes still waiting to be unpacked as I attempted to relax in my new bedroom. The excitement that generally accompanied a new house was missing. I felt like we moved more than we stayed still. My dad had assured me this would be the last time, and while I thought he believed that to be true, I had my reservations.

My first memories of moving took place at age seven. I don’t remember all the details, but I do recall a loud commotion, after which Mom had run out to the backyard to get me. She rushed me into the car, and we left. Just like that. No goodbyes to the neighbors. No “grab a few things for overnight.” We just left. Two days later, my dad arrived at our hotel room, two states away, driving a moving truck containing all our belongings. At the time, I was afraid to ask what happened, but it had certainly crossed my mind with every successive move. I’d had an unpleasant sensation down in my gut each time I attempted to mention the subject, so I’d always chickened out.

So there I was, on move . . . what was it? Move eight? Yeah, I thought this was move number eight. One would think I’d be used to starting over, and over, and over. But the truth was that with every packed box, I felt like I’d left a part of me behind. Even if that part wasn’t important, it was a segment of my scattered life that no longer felt valid. Those memories now lived in the past.

This latest move had been prompted by a family member. It turned out I had a grandfather here in Havenwood Falls, Colorado. My parents had never talked about him before, so I’d assumed my dad didn’t know who his father was. It was the only logical explanation for never hearing about Grandpa Mills. You couldn’t talk about someone you didn’t know, right?

My parents had received a letter that my grandfather, Lawrence Mills, had become very ill, and was possibly dying. Mom and Dad seemed frustrated by the phone conversations they’d had with him afterward. Ultimately, I held the impression they’d decided it was time to mend fences. Granted, they’d never told me what busted the fences to begin with, but maybe someday I’d learn all the deep, dirty family secrets. All families had a skeleton or two in their closets, so I’d heard. I suspected my family to be no different.

I stood and opened the box closest to my bed. It contained some of my clothes and the most beautiful jewelry box I’d ever seen. It’d been a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday. I hadn’t actually had that birthday yet, but it was only about a month away. Dad had said that he wanted to give it to me before the move. “Something special for your new room,” he’d said. I thought he’d been attempting to bribe me so I wouldn’t complain about changing houses and schools yet again. It kinda worked.

I ran my fingers over the smooth metal casing, and I could almost feel it vibrate beneath my fingers. I didn’t know how to explain it, but it felt as if the box itself was alive. Every time I touched it, I felt a zing of positive energy pulse through me. No doubt these sensations all took place in my mind, but I allowed myself to indulge the fantasy just the same. As long as I didn’t say it out loud, I should be safe. Admitting it to others would have been like saying I’d grown a third leg, but no one could see it.

I placed the gold box on my nightstand and studied the intricate design on the lid, which looked much like a maze, with lines darting out from the center in odd geometric patterns. From the moment I laid eyes on it, I’d tried to figure out if there were some kind of labyrinth hidden in all the chaos, but if so, I had yet to solve it.

Regardless, it was another great addition to what my mother lovingly called my “jewelry hoard.” I did have a slight obsession with jewelry, but really, what teenage girl didn’t? I wouldn’t call it a hoard.

“Zoey, here’s another box with your name on it.” Dad pushed through my bedroom door and set the box on the bed beside me. “Sheesh, that’s heavy. What do you have in there? Anvils?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Yes, Father. I have an anvil addiction. You’ve found me out.”

He smirked. “So much sass in such a little person.”

I reached over and pulled the tape from the top of the box, then glanced inside. “Oh,” I said.

Dad simply raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

“It’s my jewelry boxes,” I said quietly.

His soft laughter followed him to the door, and he sent me a wink. “Enjoy.” He walked out of the room and gently closed the door behind him.

I looked into the box again. I had several jewelry boxes, most of them very full. Okay, maybe I do have a jewelry-hoarding issue. Is there a therapy for that?