Free A First Time for Everything by Kristina Ludwig

 
    “Tell me again why we’re moving?” I ask my dad.
    I gaze out the airplane window at the weird desert-land adjacent to San Diego: mountainous, sandy terrain with strange, scrubby black trees grasping for life. It looks as desolate as I feel.
    “Olivia.” My dad clenches his eyes shut in exasperation. “We’ve been over this before. San Diego is your stepmother’s home. It has the most temperate climate on earth. And my new job there pays twice my current salary.”
    “Yeah Dad,” I say. “We have been over this before. And it still sounds the same to me. What I want to know is where I fit into all this. It’s all about you and Essie. What I want doesn’t matter.”
    “Of course it does,” my dad says. “This is all about you. My new job means more of the ‘cool’ stuff you ‘have to’ have…and better colleges in a few years.” His eyes go dreamy as he adds, “We’ll be able to afford to send you anywhere.”
    “Daaaaa-aaaad,” I protest. “I’m only fourteen. And I don’t want to move so far away. We’ve never moved before!”
    “Come on O, it’ll be fun,” Essie yells from the aisle across from me. I wince; I hadn’t realized she’d been eavesdropping. “Moving’s not so bad. Besides, there’s a first time for everything!”
    I roll my eyes. “That’s a lame-o cliché.”
    As far as I’m concerned, Essie has no right to preach to me about moving. She’s not the one leaving her home and her friends; she made my dad and me do that. And furthermore, I hate when she calls me “O.” That was my mom’s nickname for me. Everyone else calls me Olivia or Livi.
    “You know what they say about clichés,” my dad says, winking.
    “That they’re used by people with no creativity,” I suggest.
    “Hey! Watch your mouth!” Essie exclaims, right as my dad says, “No. They were invented for a reason.”
    ***
     
    I detest Essie’s house. Oh, that’s right, our house now. It’s a ginormous, hacienda-inspired disaster, with a maze of bizarre shrubbery out front. Plus, it’s painted this hideous lime-green color. It’s soooo Essie, big and bold with zero class. I have no idea how my dad was ever attracted to her when they met on one of his business trips. I’ll chalk it up to grief over my mom’s passing away--and a healthy dose of mid-life crisis.
    I can’t deal with unpacking anymore. My new bedroom is Essie’s “office,” which she valiantly sacrificed for me. At least that’s how she made it sound. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep here. Images of Essie making work calls for the small publishing house she runs, bossing people around just like she does my dad and me, will haunt my dreams.
    I need to clear my head, so I decide to go for a jog. I change into my favorite hot pink running shorts and tank top. It’s perfect jogging weather; the golden warmth of the day has mellowed into the slight chill of dusk. I run down the sidewalk, each step taking me further away from my anxiety about this unexpected and unwelcome disruption of my life. I imagine that I’m jogging by my old house, the cute split-level on the wooded lot that is painted white, a normal color.
    I guess my anger must be obvious as I pound my sneakers against the pavement, because a deep, male voice behind me says, “Easy there, killer.”  
    I turn around, and suddenly I can’t speak, I can’t breathe, I can barely even keep running. The voice belongs to a devastating, class-A hottie. And now he’s jogging right next to me!
    He looks like a Hollister ad, not unusual for Southern California, but completely unlike anyone I’ve ever seen in real life. His tousled, sun-streaked hair is deliciously undone. Eyes bluer than the Pacific Ocean crinkle at the corners as he smiles to reveal straight, white teeth. His golden-brown skin is dewy with perspiration. Could he be any more gorgeous?
    I finally find my voice. I squeak out a high-pitched, “Hi,” the only word I’m currently capable of.
    “I’m