Page 2 of Transition

Opening my eyes to my mother’s perfect teeth and megawatt movie-star smile, I peered out of the car to look around my surroundings. I was met with the sight of a house with a porch, white picket fence, rocking chair, garage, the works. A small garden peeked out proudly from the side, and I would have bet my entire trust fund that there was a swing set in the backyard. It was the ideal American home and a far cry from the mansion we had lived in, but I had always thought the mansion was simply too big for the three of us anyway.

I opened the door to the car and stepped out, breathing in the clean air of Redwood while my mom joined me.

“Oh, I have a good feeling about this place,” she gushed, clapping her hands in excitement while I lugged our suitcases out of the back seat.

If I hadn’t seen her break down in tears with a bottle of vodka clutched tightly underneath her arm the night before my dad’s funeral, I would have sworn that she didn’t care about his death. However, Ihadseen her that night, and I was also a firsthand witness to how much they had loved each other, so there was no doubt that she was devastated. What amazed me was how fast she seemed to have gotten over it. Maybe she was just doing it for me?

We explored the house while waiting for the moving truck to arrive, and when it finally did, I was stationed inside, making sure the boxes were being taken to the correct rooms. Then I heard my mother yell for me.

There was something in her voice that I hadn’t heard before, and I was suddenly worried. I hurried out of the house, my Vans squeaking on the floor. I could see my mom staring at something behind the truck, but I couldn’t see what it was, so I jumped off the porch and ran. By the time I got to her side, I was breathless and had to crouch, hands on my knees and head bent to catch my breath. I finally raised my head and my breath caught again at the sight before me.

Standing before my mother was a boy that seemed to be around the same age as me or a little older. He wore a baseball cap, but I could see a mop of dark hair peeking out from underneath, and he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking me over with interest.

I instinctively put up a hand to tame my long, curly mass of blond hair, feeling a little self-conscious about the fact that my nose was slightly crooked from falling off a friend’s treehouse in middle school. I dusted the dirt off my clothes, painfully aware of the sweat that glistened on my forehead from arranging boxes. The mom jeans and wrinkled band T-shirt I was wearing did nothing to build my confidence.

Next to this six-foot-tall Adonis, I looked like a scruffy ten-year-old tomboy. I had never felt the urge to dress up like other girls do until this moment. Suddenly, my subconscious began to chastise me for not smacking on at least a little lip gloss and a dab of foundation when we’d woken up this morning.

I threw a reproachful glance at my mother, trying to convey the message:A warning would have been nice.

She was completely oblivious. “Katrina, bebé, I wanted you to meet Jake Grayson. He and his mother are our next-door neighbors.” My mom beamed as if she had just told me Christmas came early and I loved Christmas.

“Kat, Mom,” I mumbled. “I prefer Kat.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be rude, dear. Shake hands,” she said.

Alarmed, I turned to look at the boy, Jake and realized that his arm was outstretched, something I hadn’t noticed before. I felt my cheeks redden as I took his hand, and I could swear I felt a jolt.

Maybe he did too, because his smirk got even more prominent, and a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Katrina.”

He drawled my name, ignoring the fact that I had openly said I preferred it shortened. I glared at him, but he continued, unbothered, “We are going to have so much fun.”

His grip on my hand tightened, his boyish smirk remaining in place. I was sure my entire face was now red while my mom simply stood there, beaming at our interaction.

It didn’t take being psychic for me to know that Jake Grayson was going to be trouble.

CHAPTER THREE

Monday mornings were my least favorite; at least I had that in common with the average teenager.

I stood before the mirror, trying hard to comb my usually soft blond hair, which, for some reason, had a ton of tangles this morning. That, and the fact that I had found my favorite Vans chewed on by a rat, probably increased my fear of this turning into a bad day for me.

I considered those two occurrences bad omens because I never had a problem combing my hair, regardless of the weather, and I had been wearing those Vans for two years now without ever having an issue.

I just knew being the new kid was going to suck. Not that I’d ever experienced it, but I had seen how awkward it had been for new kids at my old school to adjust.

A knock on my door made me turn. “Come in,” I said and looked at the mirror once again with a satisfactory nod.

“Bebé, are you done? You are going to be late,” my mom drawled in that thick Mexican accent of hers as she peered into my room, opening the door halfway.

“I’m done, Mom.” I strolled to the bed and picked up my brown leather satchel. “We can go now.”

She raised a brow at my response and wrinkled her beautifully pointed nose.

“That’s what you’re going to wear? Katrina, what happened to the clothes I picked out for you?”

I looked down at myself, wondering what she was talking about. I had on a plain white T-shirt and dark skinny jeans paired with my tan Chelsea boots. My hair, which I had managed to untangle into its soft curls, was up in a ponytail. I had on a silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant my dad had given me when I was twelve. In my opinion, I looked good and ready to go.

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