Next thing Cheryl knew, her dad had come down to breakfast one time and not started reading the paper. Instead he'd spoken to Cheryl and her mom about the lawsuit. He used vague terms. The upshot of it was, they were folding the business and moving down south, to a town that was near Provo but smaller. He didn't say how much smaller.
Laura had sat in the back seat of the car looking out the window, saying goodbye to Ogden and then passing through the refinery at North Salt Lake, then the capitol where her mom took her shopping sometimes, then past a couple of flat, squatty messed-up towns, and then they'd stopped for dinner in Provo. Except for the damn Mormons, Provo looked liveable. Dinner wasn't so hot and she looked forward to her mom's stuff in their own kitchen.
They weren't living in Provo. They had continued on past that and down into naked, raw hills of sagebrush and nothing else. Then they'd turned off the main highway and onto a dinky little road with no streetlights. And then they'd seen their new house, a big rectangle without even a lawn. The movers had already moved most of the boxes out of the truck.
Dad had actually been excited to see the place, and Mom put on a brave face. But Cheryl had refused to get out of the car.All night she'd slept on the warm fabric of the back seat, eating the sandwich her mom had been able to slip through the crack in the window. Cheryl fully believed that if she refused to get out of the car, her dad would see how much she disliked this new home, and he'd change his mind, and he'd take them back. He HAD to!
Finally, sometime the next day, Cheryl had almost peed her pants and had finally gone in to use the bathroom. In retrospect she had to admit it was pretty childish of a fourteen year old to stay in the car like that, but of all the lousy places her dad had to pick, why this one? Why this shitty place? Cheryl would never forget.
On the second day of school, Laura's mother laid down an ultimatum: This was the last time she was going to drive her daughter to school, and if she didn't want to take the bus, she could walk the five miles home.
In history class, she sat by Kent, the fat blonde boy, and Laura, and tried to focus on the lesson because God dammit, if she had to live here then she was going to kick ass in every way she could, to prove she could, not to impress anybody else, but to earn her way out of Goshen by the time she graduated. And she wasn't going to play the game of trying to be popular. The second day of school, she'd worn nothing that stood out--just some Levi's 501s, a plaid shirt and a down vest with a fur-trimmed collar and some Frye boots. Fuck 'em.
In math class, she decided to sit a little closer to a certain Blaine Chedister. She knew he lived in Goshen, and he was her neighbor, and though he was a Mo-Daddy (her new word for Mormon boys and it always made her laugh) he had also shown her he really did have a decent soul under that squeaky exterior of his.
Laura had sat in the back seat of the car looking out the window, saying goodbye to Ogden and then passing through the refinery at North Salt Lake, then the capitol where her mom took her shopping sometimes, then past a couple of flat, squatty messed-up towns, and then they'd stopped for dinner in Provo. Except for the damn Mormons, Provo looked liveable. Dinner wasn't so hot and she looked forward to her mom's stuff in their own kitchen.
They weren't living in Provo. They had continued on past that and down into naked, raw hills of sagebrush and nothing else. Then they'd turned off the main highway and onto a dinky little road with no streetlights. And then they'd seen their new house, a big rectangle without even a lawn. The movers had already moved most of the boxes out of the truck.
Dad had actually been excited to see the place, and Mom put on a brave face. But Cheryl had refused to get out of the car.All night she'd slept on the warm fabric of the back seat, eating the sandwich her mom had been able to slip through the crack in the window. Cheryl fully believed that if she refused to get out of the car, her dad would see how much she disliked this new home, and he'd change his mind, and he'd take them back. He HAD to!
Finally, sometime the next day, Cheryl had almost peed her pants and had finally gone in to use the bathroom. In retrospect she had to admit it was pretty childish of a fourteen year old to stay in the car like that, but of all the lousy places her dad had to pick, why this one? Why this shitty place? Cheryl would never forget.
On the second day of school, Laura's mother laid down an ultimatum: This was the last time she was going to drive her daughter to school, and if she didn't want to take the bus, she could walk the five miles home.
In history class, she sat by Kent, the fat blonde boy, and Laura, and tried to focus on the lesson because God dammit, if she had to live here then she was going to kick ass in every way she could, to prove she could, not to impress anybody else, but to earn her way out of Goshen by the time she graduated. And she wasn't going to play the game of trying to be popular. The second day of school, she'd worn nothing that stood out--just some Levi's 501s, a plaid shirt and a down vest with a fur-trimmed collar and some Frye boots. Fuck 'em.
In math class, she decided to sit a little closer to a certain Blaine Chedister. She knew he lived in Goshen, and he was her neighbor, and though he was a Mo-Daddy (her new word for Mormon boys and it always made her laugh) he had also shown her he really did have a decent soul under that squeaky exterior of his.
