Displaced Read online

  Displaced

  Jennifer Foor

  This book is dedicated to my nephew

  Kyle Gilliss

  12/13/99 – 10/5/18

  Special thanks to my beta readers, who helped make this book complete.

  Copyright© JMF PUBLISHING INC 2019

  This book is a written act of fiction. Any places, characters, or similarities are purely coincidence. If certain places or characters are referenced it is for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is not allowed to be offered for sale, discounted, or free on any sites not authorized by the author. This book may only be distributed by Jennifer Foor, the owner and Author of this series.

  Sharing this book is illegal, and doing so will grant you the guilt of forever being a douchebag to society. Don’t be THAT person everyone hates. Purchase a copy and feel good about your choices.

  Préface

  Mom’s Dead!

  Dad uses that excuse for everything. Take today for instance, I’m supposed to be starting a new public school this morning, but he’s yet to get me new supplies, or something remotely decent to wear when trying to make a good first impression. I haven’t exactly had much time to explore my surroundings and meet people.

  One year.

  One year and everything has changed. Dad can’t hold a job, or balance a checkbook. At this point, I don’t think he even knows where the latter is. This is the same man who ran his own contracting company. Now he’s sullen, broken, lost, and just plain worthless.

  Mom used to keep things organized, down to the way our socks were situated in our dresser drawers. She would iron our clothes while watching late night television, and spent her Sundays in the kitchen preparing meals for the upcoming week. We had a calendar that documented where we needed to be and what appointments the three of us had. She kept an accordion file for all of the bills and important documents. Mom was like Superwoman, except she’s not in a comic or walking around in a fancy suit sans cape. She was as real as anything could be.

  Even on the day she died, nothing was out of place. One quick run to the grocery store, because we were having pasta and out of parmesan cheese. She knew I wouldn’t eat it without the mouth-watering addition of, what I like to call, shake cheese.

  For a long time I blamed myself for that day. I know for a fact that Dad did, or still does. I can see it when he looks at me. Not even a drunken stupor can mask the resentment. It’s like walking on eggshells when I’m around him. No matter how many times I try to tell myself it will get better, I highly doubt it’s possible at this point. He’s either going to keel over from depression, or a bad, rotted liver. Either way, the clock is ticking on when the man will undoubtedly give up the will to live.

  Unlike Dad, I’ve come a long way in twelve months. Not necessarily an improvement, I’ve gone from living in an upper middle class world to having no class at all. I was popular, but undeniably compassionate. I enjoyed helping others and even donated my time at a local shelter for the homeless. My grades were the kind to make a parent proud. I played softball for the high school team, and managed the boys’ soccer league in the off season. We attended church, and after confirmation, I helped my mom teach the first and second graders. I used to be the person people came to with a problem and I would have helped them solve it no matter the trouble. When my mom passed away not one person wanted to be around me. They avoided me like a plague. I suppose I was too fragile to want the company, but I felt lost without the comfort of my so-called friends. It caused me to become bitter and unforgiving. Since I couldn’t find a way to forgive myself, I certainly wasn’t willing to forgive anyone else who disregarded my despair and went on with their lives like I never existed.

  After many arguments, in which I never seem to win, Dad convinced me that moving out of my childhood home - into a cheap foreclosure, an estate sale he managed to snag for next to nothing, was a brilliant idea. He wanted a place where we could start over and not have to explain what we’d been through. It sounds easier than it is, trust me. Everyone wants a back story. We crave it.

  It wasn’t until the sheriff showed up at our front door that I came to realize moving wasn’t a choice. We were being removed from our home for non-payment. Our house was in foreclosure and after the bank litigation was finalized, it would go up for auction. Good ole’ dad had neglected to tell me he’d received several notices to vacate the property. In hindsight, I know this was all part of his plan; to live in our house for as long as possible without paying a mortgage.

  In all of my life, I’ve never seen what took place the day that officer knocked on the door. Within minutes after being handed an official document from the mortgage company, we were escorted out of our home as a crew of men arrived and began the tedious task of taking all of our belongings from inside and tossing it out onto our lawn.

  Dad just stood there, his bare feet planted in our overgrown grass, watching in dismay as every memory, all of the pieces of Mom that still existed, were tossed out like yesterday’s trash.

  Neighbors began to get nosey. They huddled together and watched as Dad and I crumbled. I think everyone suspected this would happen, except for me. I’d been in denial. I’d believed my father when he said he wanted a fresh start. All of his lies built up to this torturous crescendo. I went ballistic, cursing and beating my fist into his hard, boney chest. I wanted answers. I needed an apology. Something.

  We were given three days to get what was of importance before a trash company came and tossed everything left on the patchy grass for everyone to see. Our whole lives were on that lawn. It rained. No. It poured that first night. Everything was drenched. Clothing. Pictures. Furniture. All ruined.

  Without organization, I didn’t know where to start or what to save. I did my best. I tried. Some photo albums were salvaged. My clothes could be washed, but my heart would be tarnished for the rest of my life.

  Then the move happened. The big life changing move.

  One might ask how we got the money to pay for such a large house, even at auction. We weren’t always in default on our previous home. Both of my parents worked full-time jobs. We lived in a big house with a hefty mortgage. Dad only stopped making payments when it got too difficult for him to focus after losing Mom. It was all so sudden and unexpected.

  He was smart when he realized we were in trouble. He made a plan after knowing it would be simpler to move to something cheaper within his means.

  He stopped making payments altogether, putting all of his money toward our new life. First Dad sold our family SUV and his boat. Then he did a job for a neighbor building a sunroom. He sold all sorts of crap without me even knowing. He knew from the get-go we were walking away and that his credit would be damaged, so he’d have to get something with whatever cash he could manage to wrangle together.

  I think he assumed we’d have longer for him to save up. I freaked out when he said we’d probably have to move to a trailer. Lots of people live happy lives in the small compact spaces, but I was already suffocating from the inside out.

  Out of luck, he stumbled upon the estate auction flyer while traveling to a place he called home as a kid; a rundown town in Virginia called Herald Heights - population less than nine hundred.

  We took refuge in a hotel for a week waiting for the big event, not even knowing if it was something we could pull off. Back then he didn’t tell me much, just that things would work out and we wouldn’t be homeless.

  Dad had reconnected with people he once knew, before meeting my mom. He’d lined up work for the spring, work he’s yet to start.

  We were doing all of this out of desperation. We needed a home, one we probably couldn’t afford in our current financial situation.

  I remember standing in the pouring rain during the estate auction. Only four other people came to bid. The house had been left vacant for years. No upkeep had been made. It was so overgrown with weeds that you couldn’t see in any windows or doors. It was trashed on the outside, and we’d soon discover just the same indoors. The once white exterior was chipping away, and the windows were so old they were single pane. Inside would be drafty and there wasn’t central air. There’s a boiler in the cellar for heat with vents that go up to the second floor. From what we’ve learned, the same original family owned the property from the time it’d been built nearly two hundred years ago. It’s a real shame the previous family members had to give it up. They lost their house and property for such a small amount. Dad says they owed less than twenty grand. I kind of wonder if something happened. Maybe someone got sick, or died suddenly like my mom. We lost our house that way. Sort of.

  All I can hope is that the family weren’t the ones we were bidding against. If I had it my way, I’d never want to look into their eyes and know I’m living in something that was once their home.

  We got the estate for a measly forty-five grand, but it was just about all we had. The bidding started at fifteen. We were sweating bullets as the amount kept rising. We ended up winning, obviously, but it wasn’t anything to celebrate. Now we’re scraping for pennies and this place is a disaster. An attending agent told my Dad it needed to be torn down and rebuilt. He didn’t think it was fixable in the state it was in. I’m embarrassed, but while I complain, other people are homeless and living on the streets. It could be wor
se. We have a roof over our heads, one with seven bedrooms. We’re together. That’s what Mom would want the most.

  Chapter 1

  I’ve been staring in the mirror for fifteen minutes looking at the ridiculous excuse of an outfit I’ve put together when the sound of a horn draws my attention. A quick dash to the window verifies my fears. A giant yellow school bus idols at the end of the dirt driveway.

  I’m not sure what’s more humiliating, starting school in the middle of a semester, or having to ride a huge tube of cheese with sets of eyes judging me. The ragged old book bag is from the start of first semester – still new, but at least it hides the fact that inside is only half of a used spiral notebook and a number two purple pencil with gold crosses on it that I happened to find in the back of a kitchen drawer. The previous owner was obviously a Jesus freak with all the crap we found when we’d moved in.

  My mother is probably rolling over in her grave right now at how unorganized we are now. Scratch that. Her remains are most likely somewhere in the attic. Dad could only afford to have her cremated and put in a cheap urn, and since we’ve moved, I know he hasn’t unpacked it.

  Speaking of the attic, I’m positive it’s haunted.

  While my dad mostly resides in the living room on the first floor, I’m forced to hide out in my bedroom, where mysterious sounds are almost constant. Seven rooms to choose from, I narrowed it down to two. The first was right across from the master, and had been decorated for a small boy. It had hand painted murals of dinosaurs on each wall. Dad said it would take a lot of coats of paint to cover, and I didn’t like the idea of being so close to the room he’d be in.

  The walls of the room I chose were covered in posters. The previous owner appreciated good music, but also had a liking to half naked Baywatch lifeguards with huge boobs. I feel like most of the posters are from the late eighties to early nineties. Some clothes left in the closet were also outdated. I even found something called a Walkman with headphones and cassette tapes. I kept the band photos, but burned the others. Inside the closet, I located dates notched into the hardwood flooring. Having no idea of their significance, I covered them up with items I’ve yet to unpack from boxes.

  Part of my problem is the resentment I feel for my father. I want reasons to piss him off. He’s determined to start this new path for us. At least, that’s what he says when he’s sober, which happens to only be a few hours each day, usually between the hours of nine to eleven in the morning.

  Being a bitter bitch will hopefully help me deal with this day. It has to.

  After grabbing a pack of saltines that had been left over from last night’s take out of soup, and some spare change I managed to wrangle from the pockets of a few pairs of Dad’s dirty laundry, I take a final look around the kitchen. The table was from a thrift store. Dad sold our Pottery Barn dining set on one of those quick sell sites to help pay for the cost of moving. Along with our bedroom suites and living room furniture, including an antique chest belonging to my late grandmother, everything was sold piece by piece until we were left with enough boxes to fit in a small rental trailer.

  In my room, my mattress remains on the floor and my clothes and other belongings are either strewn around it or remain in the boxes I brought them here in. While I should have spent the past week unpacking, I’ve been dealing with the repercussions of my past and my future. I’m trying to help make this place livable.

  Cringing as I walk out to catch the bus, I silently imagine what the people watching out the windows are thinking of me. The dilapidated home is embarrassing. They probably think I’m a vagrant or poor. Maybe we are poor. It’s a word I never thought I’d use to describe myself. Dad says it’s temporary. He sure as shit hasn’t given me any reason to think things will get better.

  Please don’t make me run. Please don’t make me run.

  I hear the air escape and my breath catch in my throat as the doors begin to close. I’ve never been a runner. My legs are short and my arms flail when I attempt to move at fast speeds. With a bag bouncing against my back, I go as fast as my feet allow. The driver apparently sees me mid-stride and halts her quick exit. I’m ready for this day to be over but it’s only just begun. Humiliation at its finest.

  To be honest, I don’t know why I’m trying to go through the motions at this point. What’s the use? Everything good in my life is ancient history. The only thing left is for me to get a job and make enough money to ditch this stupid southern town and my deadbeat dad.

  Some might question why I seem heartless. It would be easier to explain the birds and bees to an actual bird or bee. I’ve lost my mother, the rock, and the glue of our family. I’ve basically lost my father, my friends and the life we used to live. I’m bitter about Dad, because when I needed him most, still do, he’s too busy digging his own grave. I’m pretty sure he wishes he was dead too. I haven’t existed since Mom died, not really. Not in the way I should matter to him.

  That’s the ugly truth. I’m nothing but a reminder to him.

  I’m not saying this to make people feel sorry for me. I’ve dealt with enough remorse from the people who we once used to call family and friends. If only I could allow them back into my life without feeling like they’re judging me, pitying the fact that we’ve become sad shells of the people we once were. If anyone feels sorry, it should be me. I’m sorry I’m still in high school and unable to do a damn thing to prevent my father from losing his shit and giving up on life. I wish I could’ve gotten a job to pay our bills so we wouldn’t have lost our house and had to sell off most of our belongings.

  The bus doors slide back open with a squeak, and as I take the three steps up, I know I’m about to be judged from top to bottom.

  High school is nothing but a popularity contest. Attire, personality, ability to fit in, it is all required if you want to be considered cool. I used to be someone other girls wanted to be. Now I’m finding that I’m having to start over from the beginning again. Just like kindergarten. You either make friends the first day or shit your pants and live with the scrutiny of that action for the rest of your life.

  My pants may not be soiled, but my heart and soul are.

  At least twenty teenagers are staring back at me when I gain the courage to peer at each of them. The only open seat is in the very front, which I quickly take in order to stop feeling like the center of attention.

  Even though the bus is full of chatter, I somehow zero in on what some are saying about me. It’s meaningless gossip, yet it still makes my blood boil.

  “Her clothes are so last year. I used to have that same shirt. It’s probably the one my mother threw in the trash last month. My dad said dumpster diving is a real thing. If I was a homeless squatter, I wouldn’t be caught dead going to school.”

  “Can you believe someone moved into that house? Cringe-worthy!”

  “Duh, they must be distant relatives or something. No one else would dare want to live there.”

  “Her hair is full of dead ends. Poor girl couldn’t even afford a stylist. I wonder if she tried to use a wand and failed. Look how uneven those curls are.”

  As if riding the bus as a senior isn’t embarrassing enough, now I have to be nit-picked for every unimaginable detail these petty, heartless people can come up with. I know they’re doing what normal teenagers do, but I’m not that pathetic. My clothes are name brand. My long chocolate hair may have some dead ends, but the color is real. The highlights are from being in the sun and the curls, which I find annoying, become more boisterous when it’s humid. Today they’re more waves than ringlets. I’d run out of time to straighten and spray it, and frankly it was the least of my concerns.

  Now I’m pissed.

  After nearly five minutes, and having traveled a few miles, I reach my limit of ridicule. Turning around with a quick jerk, I narrow my gaze on the voice who started the slanderous bantering. My only goal is to show them I’m not breakable. If they want to welcome me with ruthless cut-downs, I’ll give it right back.

  The first thing I notice is the enormous hair ribbon fastened to a high-pitched ponytail. Having only seconds to scan her appearance for flaws, I find myself snickering at a set of atrociously drawn on eyebrows. They’re so ridiculous I’m surprised her friends are able to sit close and not feel humored. Appearing to find admiration in cave people, I arm myself with my own mockery and let it fly. “Maybe instead of running your mouth about me, you’d locate a mirror and fix your face. I haven’t seen brows like that in, well, never! What do you use to tame them, a horse brush?” A slow smirk forms over my lips when I notice her shock from my sudden audacity.