Buried Secrets

Chapter 3: Stranded in Kentucky-1

Chapter 3: Stranded in Kentucky

If I have to be exiled from Daytona for my “sinful behavior,” at least my warden is my favorite aunt. When you come right down to it, though, the whole thing sucks. I’ve been in Shively for three weeks, and I still expect to open my eyes in the morning and see the familiar pink and black walls of my tiny bedroom in our house in Daytona. I expect to hear my mom moving around in the kitchen, and to feel my cat, Mr. Strange, batting my cheek to wake me up. But then I open my eyes for real and realize, with a sinking sadness, that I’m now one of approximately nineteen thousand residents of Shively, Kentucky. Against my will, I might add. And the noises I hear from the kitchen come from my Aunt Penny fixing breakfast and packing my lunch. And Mr. Strange is back in Florida in the care of my friend Jess. And the walls of this room are a dull, putrid green.

Penny’s voice echoes up from downstairs, “Emelia! Look alive, now!”

At least Penny is a better cook than Mom, who tended to give me a pop-tart or dry cereal most mornings. Not that she didn’t care or anything; it just isn’t her thing to cook in the morning. Still, I like Aunt Penny’s cooking.

Another drastic change is the dress code at Butler. Khaki pants (no jeans), red or white polo shirt, a belt, close-toed shoes, no weird hair colors, etc., ad infinitum. No sweaters except for uniform sweatshirts. So bizarre! But I do get a tiny bit of satisfaction, vindictive as it may be, from the knowledge that my mom had to fork over the money for school uniforms. Thank the Lord they don’t make me wear a skirt!

I throw on my uniform (fast—no decisions), and grab my make-up bag; I’ll complete my minimal “beauty routine” while I gulp down my breakfast. The clock reads 7:05, and I’m already running late. It takes about half a minute to twist my straight red hair into a ponytail, then I scramble down the carpeted stairs. Stairs: another weird change to get used to. Not many houses in Daytona have two stories.

By the time I’d taken several bites of the breakfast casserole and gulped down orange juice, Aunt Penny has my bag lunch ready.

“Thanks, Penny—can you pick me up at 3:30 today? It’s the first meeting of the Creative Writing group after school.”

Penny thinks for a moment, “Sure, that’s fine. My last appointment is at 1:30. So see you then—3:30. Have a good one, Em.”

This is what she says every morning when I leave for school. Even though this entire exile business is pretty much horrible, Aunt Penny’s house is not such a bad place to be.