E.C. Newman
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Rock Star Angels
Chapter One - Gypsy
When I passed the large sign that welcomed me to Illinois on I-88, I almost turned around. True, I was beyond broke and everything I owned was in the station wagon I was driving. Illinois promised a place to crash and a rent-free existence.
But it also spelled FAILURE. With flashing red lights and the largest font available.
I was returning home.
I slowed my car down to the exact speed limit. I had to prolong this return as much as I possibly could.
Two years away hadn’t changed much. The flat scenery of the Midwest was the same. When I took the off-ramp for Carol Stream, I didn’t need my MapQuest pages anymore. I knew it all.
The restaurants, the streets, the landmarks of my high school years just mocked me as I passed them.
Na, na, na, na, na, na. You’re back. You’ll never leave again. We told you so.
Landmarks are very cliché.
I turned onto my street, no not my street, my parents’ street and found myself holding my breath. Part of me wanted to cry and scream and part of me just wanted to keep driving until the end of time.
I pulled into the driveway and turned off my car. I sat there for several seconds. If I got out, that was it. The end. My one rebellion would be over. The adventure finished.
“Paige, honey!!” I looked over to see the front door open and my mother standing there. She was walking towards me, a huge smile on her face. I knew it was only happiness she felt at the return of her prodigal daughter, but from my vantage point, that grin looked smug.
I opened the car door and got out, with a forced smile on my face. I’d be happy for her. She hugged me so tightly I think my ribs cracked.
“Still need to breathe, Mom,” I gasped in her ear. She backed off quickly, still beaming.
“Oh honey, I’m so glad you’re home. Look at you, you’re so skinny,” she expressed with concern in her eyes. I bit my tongue. After years of my parents worrying about my plumpness and encouraging exercise, this was what I got. Figured. “You have a good drive?”
“It was long.”
“Paige.” It was my dad’s voice next. He was walking down the steps over to us. He looked older. More gray in his hair, especially around the temples. But his expression was nearly identical to the one he wore when I left.
Grim.
“Hey Dad,” I greeted, standing awkwardly by the car. “Thanks for the money for gas.” It killed me to admit it, but gas prices as they were, I had only enough to feed myself on the three day drive from Los Angeles. I’d slept in my car instead of hotels.
He nodded and patted me on the shoulder before moving to the back of the car to grab my things.
“You don’t have a lot,” Mom fussed as we followed Dad.
I shrugged, grabbing a suitcase. “Didn’t really need furniture.”
Dad pulled out a large metal disk. “What is this?”
“My drums,” I answered, grabbing a bag full of clothes.
“You didn’t think to sell this?” He was horrified.