Page 3 of Save Me

The door whooshes open to reveal a tanned girl with long, inky-black hair, and piercing green eyes. Her figure is ridiculously model-like, and her sneer is genuinely unhappy to see me.

“We didn’t order pizza!” She frowns, then looks back inside of her mansion. “Hey! Did anyone order pizza?!”

“That’s ok, I don’t have any,” I reply, even though her head is still turned away toward whoever it is she’s yelling at. “I’m Beth, my mum got together with your mum, and now we’ve been forced into this situation?”

“Oh!” she replies on a long sigh while quietly deciding just how much of an inconvenience I am to her. “I’m supposed to find you a room…I forgot.”

Yeah, the smell of vodka on her breath and the distinct rolling of her eyes tells me she had a drink before acting on this task; to give up a room to the pathetic English girl who has now been forced upon her. I’m seriously contemplating turning around and walking back home, even though I have no idea which direction that’s in. I had been too busy whining to my mother on the way over to take any note of the surroundings.

“I guess you better come in,” she huffs, before opening the door a little wider. “Are you guys poor or something?”

“What?” That’s a strange thing to ask someone you’ve just met. “Er…what are your parameters for such a label?”

“Well, I just thought your outfit screams a little ‘take pity on me, I have no money and have to live off good will’ kind of a vibe,” she replies, sounding fairly blasé over her insult.

I blink at her a few times, expecting her to laugh or apologize for being such a bitch, but no. She continues to look me up and down like she truly believes in what she just said, and that it’s a perfectly acceptable statement to voice out loud. This is worse than the negativity I had arrived here with.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea how to answer that!” I reply bluntly.

She shrugs and marches onwards as though her perfectly reasonable question has been answered to within her satisfaction. Thank God the high school has a uniform if this is how one is judged. I follow behind her, no longer wishing to even try and engage in any sort of conversation, when she suddenly throws open a door to the side of us and gestures to the room behind it.

“Your room,” she says rather grandly, even though when I look inside, it’s just a cupboard with a dog bed inside of it. Directly in front is a washing machine and tumble drier, so at least I’ll have a healthy smell of cleaning products to add to the waft of dog hair.

“Will the dog be sleeping with me?” I ask tentatively.

“Nope,” she answers, popping the word between her ruby red lips, “he died last year. I think Mom’s washed it.” I stare back at her, amazed by her nonchalance, but she simply ignores me and carries on.

As I walk through the grandeur of Casey’s house, I try not to take note of the eyeballing that occurs whenever I walk past another new face. I’m studied as though I’m a weird, unfinished sculpture that they’ve yet to decide whether it’s going to be worth waiting for. The music thunders out of speakers that are hidden from the naked eye, while bottles and glasses of every shape, size and alcohol content are scattered amongst the clean, wipeable surfaces.

Eventually, we end up outside, which has a sizeable swimming pool in the shape of a kidney and is decorated with various mosaics that are reminiscent of Ancient Greece. Scantily clad boys and girls are laughing and chatting amongst the couples who are either flirting or full-on fornicating around the premises. My eyes practically bulge out of their sockets when I notice one such couple engaged in what looks like fellatio at the side of the house. They might well be trying to remain hidden, but unfortunately, their efforts aren’t working all that well.

Casey has noticed my pausing in her wake and turns back to smirk, looking beyond smug over my innocence to all of this.

“Oh, I say!” I mumble, sounding like the quintessential, British prude. She laughs at my horrified expression and no doubt pale complexion because I will happily admit, this is all very new to me.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Beth?” she asks, breaking me from my aghast thoughts.

“W-wha…I mean, no,” I reply, feeling very small for some reason.

“Well, don’t get any ideas about the boys here, they will all have at least one girl after them. I’d hate for them to ruin your country girl hairstyle!” She hooks up a perfectly shaped eyebrow as I stare back at her, wondering when a simple braid had become known as a ‘country girl hairstyle’.

“Er…that’s more than fine with me. I’m not on the lookout for one. I am happy just being me, thanks!”

She rolls her eyes without any hint of trying to hide it, then shakes her head and turns back in the direction in which she was originally facing.

“Hey, Casey?” I call out, feeling more than ready to end this uncomfortable tour. “I can sort myself out if you wanna go; I don’t need babysitting or looking after. You’ve shown me the broom cupboard, so I’ve got everything I need, thanks.”

She narrows her eyes in my direction, studying me for a moment or two while she considers her new options. Someone calls her name, and she instantly looks up, so I take the opportunity to slink past her, fake smiling as I do so. She shrugs her shoulders and begins to head back into the house where a few guys are gesturing for her to go and join them. Sighing with relief, I scurry away from the bad eighties porn film and head straight towards the back of the garden, which is hidden by trees and bushes. Thank God I brought my kindle!

Three chapters into my latest fantasy romance novel, and I officially want to get the hell out of here. If I was back in Texas, I would be hanging out with Meredith and Charlie, chillaxing and chatting about how dreamy Alexander Skarsgard is. Yes, it was a bit gun-happy, and a lot of guys thought they were Clint Eastwood, but they were polite, friendly and it was secluded. The nearest neighbors were at least a mile away, and the school only had a handful of students in each class. Everyone made friends because there weren’t a lot of options other than to just get on with one another.

Of course, once Dad’s security technology took off, he wanted to branch out, and because he had a number of business contacts this way, we all had to pack up and leave. I wasn’t exactly on board with it, to begin with. I had established friends and already had one major move under my belt, so why should I have to do it all over again?

We moved in the new year and Mum home schooled Riley and me, relenting to letting us put off school until the beginning of the new academic year. Riley took up with the boy next door, whereas I used my free time to explore the local area, spending most of it at the beach. If there was one thing I really missed back in Texas, it was the sight, sounds and smell of the ocean. We had practically lived on its doorstep back in the UK and being without it was harder than I thought. The calming crashing of waves drawing back and forth was a constant white noise for me back in my bedroom, and the contrasting silence in Texas had made it hard for me to sleep.

It was while exploring my favorite place that I finally made some friends, all older than me, and all completely different to the people I’ll now be going to school with. I could easily spend my days there, living the life of a surfer in chase of the latest set of waves, even if I am yet to master standing on a board. However, it’s the people that make it like a second home. At least I know they’re there, just a jump, hop and a skip away from where I live.

By the looks of this crowd, I’m beginning to dread school more and more; it looks like it’s going to be far too intense for the likes of me. I guess Casey is right in her assessment of me being a country girl. I thought the high schools portrayed in American films were two-dimensional representations concocted by Hollywood directors. Especially as I found the complete opposite to be true back in Texas. I remember teasing them all about it; we’d all have a good laugh about all the cliques that were misrepresented. They would then make fun of us Brits by putting on snooty accents or attempting a bit of cockney rhyming slang. They didn’t believe me when I told them that my grandmother was originally from America; that she was a woman whose ancestors could be traced back to at least the eighteenth century.

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