High by @((Y^!@ Allyvia (motivational novels for students txt) 📕

“Lucy,” Claire Edwards sighed, her face relaxing into some expression that resembled understanding and pity, combing her fingers through the curly strands that had escaped the elastic at the nape of her neck. “C’mon, your father’s almost here. Please, Lucy, get out of the tree.”

Lucy shook her head, and began climbing even higher up. For someone of seventeen, she knew she was being childish, but Lucy did not want to go to her father’s for the weekend. She would have much rather sat in her tree for the rest of the night, thinking of Nick Keating and pondering how she could vex her father and wondering what Kingsley was doing with Amanda Nichols right about then, and then complain about the whole thing in her purple journal.

The garden was eloquent, something Richard Abrahams took pride in, and filled with a certain je ne sais quoi that Lucy found sickening. Little rustic, charming lanterns hung from rods stuck in the ground, and a little man-made koi pond rippled and gurgled from its little exalted island of little baby blue hydrangeas and little yellow poppies. The tall, old oak Lucy freely hung from sat in the midst of little flowers and little koi ponds and little charming, rustic lanterns, but unlike its surroundings, the oak had not been intended for the garden. The oak, unwanted, was supposed to have been chopped down years ago.  But the oak had grown on Lucy, becoming something real in the midst of the plasticity the Abraham/Edwards clan had so carefully aired.

“Lucy... will you please get out of the tree? I know you don’t want to go-”

“Not wanting to go is when you have a root canal. Not wanting to go is spending an extra hour after school. This,” Lucy cried, grabbing hold of another branch and swinging, “is begging you. Mother, please don’t make me go.”

Claire Edwards, sighing, sat down on the copper-painted, vintage-looking bench that was placed on the little bridge that led to the koi pond. She, those golden bangled jangling around on her wrist, looked up at her daughter in frustration. Claire knew her daughter hated going to her father’s every other weekend, but it was something that Claire knew she’d regret if she let Lucy skip every time.

“Please, Lucy. I know you don’t like going-”

“I hate going,” Lucy interrupted, crossly glaring down at her mother and sitting down on a thick large branch.

“-but your father has been looking forward to this all week,” her mother insisted persistently. Her tired, dark eyes flickered to her daughter, who was sitting in the branch right above her head.

“But what about your new gallery dealing? Can’t I stay, for moral support,” Lucy insisted, her features darkening when she caught sight of her father’s car pulling into the circular driveway from high above the topiary hedge that separated the driveway of their old-money built mansion and the vintage, wild-looking garden.

“Lucy,” Claire sighed in defeat, “if you go to your dad’s for the night, I’ll tell him you have to be home tomorrow for the opening.”

Lucy, her eyes widening with excitement, sat up a bit straighter. “Really,” she grinned, the hope in her voice almost as loud as the slamming of her father’s car door. As if on cue, Lucy heard her name being called, and the garden gate swung open.

Lucy looked down at her dad, and grimaced. What, in all honesty, had her mom seen in her dad? Allan Edwards was handsome, sure; he was rich, sure; he was-- and although Lucy questioned this at times-- an all around okay guy. But he was boring.

His house, the kind that flaunted new money, was practically made of glass. Everything felt lifeless and cold, like the chrome kitchen and the almost alien bathroom. Everything about her father- from his fancy new sports car, to his house, to Allan Edwards himself- said impersonal.

He had grey eyes, the sharp, bluish grey that seemed void of feelings, which Lucy sometimes thought was true. His hair, cropped short, was a silver blond that Lucy used to adore. Lucy used to adore her father, at least until he met Liza Ricci. Lucy parents, who had divorced in third grade, were basically polar opposites, so it was only a matter of time before Allan found someone more like... him. And who was more like him than Liza?

Liza looked like a bird. She had a beak nose, causing Lucy to refer to her as ‘Step-Mother Hen’, although the nickname was not one of endearment. Step-Mother Hen was the farthest thing from maternal, by any means, however. Like, once in seventh grade, Lucy had put some tinfoil in the microwave. After the ball of tin erupt into flames, Liza became more worried about the five-hundred dollar machine than the frightened Lucy, who was soaked thanks to the fire alarm sprinklers that were scattered throughout the house.

“Claire,” Allan curtly nodded, acknowledging his ex-wife with something that could only be classified as a stiff coldness. When he caught sight of Lucy in the tree, he rolled his eyes. “Lucy Vienna Renee, I texted you an hour ago to be ready.”

Lucy, biting the inside of her cheek, swung her legs over the branch of the tree and pushed herself off the branch with an ‘oomph’. “I’ve been ready, Dad. And, I was out with a friend-”

“A boy?,” Lucy’s father pounced. When Lucy didn’t respond, her father exhaled loudly.

“Did you know about this,” her father asked, turning on Claire Edwards quickly. Claire, finding his paternal instincts slightly comforting, nodded.

“Nick is a nice boy, Allan,” Claire insisted amusedly, thinking back to all the things Lucy had mentioned about him, although it wasn't much. Lucy groaned.

“Nick is just a friend, Dad,” Lucy insisted, before grabbing the bag at the base of the tree. After giving her mother a hug, Lucy pranced to her father’s car, which was still purring in the driveway like a cat. Only after she slid into the passenger leather seat of her father’s shiny Lexus did Lucy exhale.

She watched as her parents then began to fight. Lucy knew it was about the gallery opening the next day, and Lucy’s early departure, and smiled. It was only night with the Step-Mother Hen. How horrible could that be?

Nix, beaming despite his post-date anxiety, pulled into the crunchy gravel driveway that led to the tiny, one-story, grey house. On each side of the drive, weeds had begun to sprout, the yellow heads of the dandelions like little girls with tufts of bright canary hair. Climbing out of his beat-up car, Nix cut through the grass, avoiding the hazardous pile of GI Joe's and jump ropes and sidewalk chalk in the process.

 The house always smelled of baking breads and cookies and pies and rain. Nora Keating, a native Minnesotan, reminded him of the Pillsbury Dough Boy, with her pale skin and bubbly giggle. She always seemed to be cooking.

 The grass was wet, slick and squeaky underneath Nix’s tennis shoes. With spots of yellowed, dead grass scattered where Jack had left a tarp on the front lawn for almost a month, and little brother threw his bike for almost two weeks, the place was trash. 

 Although no one ever cleaned them up, a couple of dented beer cans and empty cigarette packs had been left by the front door. Joining the mess of aluminum cans and empty forgotten Marlboro cartridges, sat the orange, striped, one-eyed, three legged cat the Keatings had named Scooter. Scooter, a pesky stray who often wound up sun-bathing on the rickety front porch of that one-story grey house, mewed and rubbed against Nix’s ankle, purring loudly.

 “Hey, you lil’ bastard,” Nix chuckled, petting the orange tabby behind the ear, before opening the door and running his fingers through his hair. “You were supposed to be dead weeks ago.”

 Jogging into the house, book bag slung over his shoulder, Nix wove in skillfully between the minefield of soccer cleats and tennis shoes and sandals that cluttered the-- as his mother had insisted all the Beverly Hills wives call it-- ‘foyer’ and dropped his bag onto the floor by the kitchen entrance. 

 He could already smell the buttery, fresh bread baking in the oven and smiled widely. Just the thought made his stomach grumble.

"Mom," he cried, kicking his shoes off by the white trimmed doorway, looking around the bright living room. Light had somehow crept through the crack in between the curtains, shut purposefully he supposed, making the white walls seem so much louder and brighter. The old, color-threaded couch-- smelling of mothballs and the Febreeze his mother ritually sprayed on it hoping to cover said mothball smell-- sat in front of the TV, which was crackling with black and grey static. Jack, passed out in the ugly beaten blue recliner, snored, an empty beer can in hand.

 Nix, shaking his head at the sight of his mother's common law husband, walked through the house, his instincts leading him to the kitchen. He was right of course, finding his mother perched on one of the stools, holding a frozen pack of peas to her cheek. A ripple of horror shot down Nick's spine when he grabbed onto her shoulder, making her jump three feet in the air.

"Oh, Nick," his mother gasped in surprise, smiling weakly when she saw it was just her son, the fear in her eyes slowly trickling out, "it's just you."

"Mom," Nick began, his throat going dry then. Destitutedly, he wrapped an arm around his mother and pulled the bag of frozen peas from her cheek to see a sharp, red hand print. She avoided his gaze and shook her head.

"It was an accident."

She was defending him, making excuses for him once again. Nick, angry yet trying to soothe his mother, sighed.

"Right, an accident," he grumbled, pulling out a stool also, "like how it'll be a huge accident when I ram my foot up his as-"

Just then, the buzzer rang through the house, announcing the baking bread was done. As if on cue, the tumbling and rumbling of thunderous feet descended down the stairs. The three kids-- Laker, Harry, and Gina-- all blond and big-eyed, watched as their mother pulled the hot baking pan from the oven. Spotting the peas on the counter, Laker bound into the kitchen.

"Was he kickin' you around again," he asked, his blond brows pulling together in confusion. Nix shook his head and clapped a hand on his little brother's shoulder.

"Isn't he always," Nick asked sarcastically, watching as his mother stiffened, her back facing them as she set the pan on the cooling rack. Laker, looking into the living room, flared his nostrils.

"Mom, this is bullshit," he cried, the younger two Keatings looking at each other knowingly; another quarter in the swear box. Just then, the creaking in the living room had them all stiffening, Nick edging just a bit closer to his mother.

"Nora," Jack whined, his voice husky from sleep, his heavy, thudding footsteps bouncing around the kitchen with an unspoken weight heavying on each Keating's mind. Nick was protectively wrapping an arm around his mother; Laker ushering the youngest two Keating's up the stairs that lead to their attic bedroom. "Nora, are you almost damned done. I'm starving-"

He began, only to catch Nix's eye as he reached the doorway of the kitchen, shutting his mouth.

"Mom," Nick smiled,