Chapter 3
As I had finished unpacking, I decided to go downstairs again, making sure I avoided the trick step on the way down. I noticed that Nick and Josie had already started putting their pictures up on the wall and neatly decorating the shelves and furniture with their ornaments. I noticed a small snow globe with a picture of me, Josie and Nick on my adoption day. October 20th. As I had no clue of my real birthday we had chosen the day of my adoption. Neither had I any knowledge of my real name, or any of my past since being abandoned outside the pub one frosty December night. Together, we had chosen Rose, a simple but in it's own way - unique name."Do you remember the opening of Celia's gallery?" Josie said fondly, looking at a picture of her and Nick standing by the gates of Josie's cousin's house.
"And the manky old flat we stayed in during Alicia's christening? Remember all the hotels were booked up," Nick chuckled, looking at another picture.
"No, never again! Put that picture away, I don't want to hear about it."
"And every half hour the whole house rattled because of those pipes?"
"I'm not listening," Josie said, turning her nose up.
I smiled, unable to resist. "And then you came home ... and the boiler had broken down."
Josie opened her mouth to retort something, but just at that moment, the front door crashed open, and a woman, presumably in her fifties came marching in. She had brownish hair, streaked with grey, and was wearing a leopard print jacket and short heels. I was almost scared at the amount of energy she seemed to posses, and found myself wishing I could slowly sink into the ground in her presence.
"I hear you're new in America, come from London, am I right? Yes, I am. I saw you arrive here. Welcome to Wickenridge. I'm Mrs Brockman. Meryl Brockman."
Nick and Josie exchanged an amused look as Mrs Brockman made herself at home, pulling out a chair and plumping herself down comfortably, placing a cushion on the chair before she sat. It didn't seem as though she needed anyone else to participate in her conversations, or even acknowledged that I was there, directing her speech only to Nick and Josie.
Mrs Brockman seemed surprised that I was there, noticing me for the first time.
"How old are you?" she asked, pushing her spectacles up slightly.
"Sixteen," I replied, trying to be polite, and not seem like I wished I was a tortoise so I could just sink into my shell away from her loud questions which was exactly what I wanted to do.
"You are extremely small," she remarked.
And you are extremely rude, I thought, not saying this aloud.
"And you don't look much like your parents."
"We adopted her nine years ago," Nick jumped in, saving me, shooting me an apologetic grimace.
"Hmm," Mrs Brockman sniffed. "I saw your car pull in, it's looking awfully old. There's a car wash down the road, Sampson should have you sorted out soon enough. He does pay a good price, you should be thankful he's here most of the weeks, that old Oakworth is a right menace - always charging me extra. I see this house is improving, thank goodness Mr Peterson has finally sent decorators in to this house, I've been telling him over and over again that this house is a disgrace to the village. I still don't see why he didn't earlier." She focused her attention on me again.
"You're enrolled in eleventh grade, am I correct?"
I nodded feebly.
"Well, so is my grandson, Kamil, I'll tell him to show you around."
I suddenly imagined a mini Mrs Brockman touring me around Wickenridge High.
"No, no - I'll be fine," I protested quickly, although it's not like she actually noticed.
She stood up, nodding at Nick and Josie. "Well, it's been nice chatting, but I must be off. Goodbye, Rose." She fixed me with her hawk eyes, and walked abruptly out of the door.
"Well - she's certainly...er...friendly," Nick stuttered, still in shock at this pompous character. "She's a little ...er...what's the word..."
I started laughing at the difficulty he was having, joined in by Josie. He began to chuckle too, and I smiled. America might not be as bad as my first expectations.
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