Forgetmenots and Second Thoughts

Wren Montgomery sat motionless, her deep blue eyes glaring out the passenger window, fuming as she watched the blur of colors pass by her. The sun, still high in the sky, was warm and bright, yet the air was becoming frigid. Autumn leaves were beginning to gently fill the breeze, dancing as they were carried around the vehicle. She pushed her straight, chestnut hair behind her ears, allowing a few strands to fall into her face and leaned her head on the glass. She never wanted to leave, to move, or to endure the dreaded fourteen hour long drive. Slumped in her seat, she closed her eyelids slowly, wishing everything around her would quickly vanish.

“Tell me again why we had to leave.” Wren asked the woman sitting beside her, for what had to have been the tenth time that day. The woman, with her stern looks and proper posture, turned her head slightly, her slate grey eyes not off the road in front of her. Her auburn hair was arranged in a French knot and her tailored outfit set in dull, pale colors. There were no sign of laugh lines around her thin lips, no dimples concaved in her cheeks.

“To merely help a relative.” She simply put. Wren kicked her feet up onto the dashboard of the Ford, exposing her battered grey Chucks, loosely laced and destroyed. Immediately after, she was scolded and fiercely told to respectfully place them back on the car matt. Wren rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her lengthy hair. “He is ill, and can’t be ignored any longer.” The woman told her after a long, tense pause. Wren instantaneously whipped her head around.

“So we have to drive across the country and leave everything behind?” She spat, her words dripping in ice. She already missed Dover, Delaware, as though she’d been gone for a number of years. It was where she’d grown up and lived for an entire seventeen years. However, she had been forced to irately pack her belongings and be shipped across the country to live a remote area filled with smoke stacks and refineries, known to be Rodeo, California. Who’d ever heard of Rodeo? Although, Wren didn’t have anything against small towns—Delaware had been small enough to have been a town itself. The feeling of leaving it made her nauseas, and her head spin.

The woman was known as Ingrid. She was strict, stern, and played by her own rules. Instead of allowing Wren to call her ‘Mother’, she enforced that she only refer to her by her first name. “The label ‘mother’ sounds cold and distant,” Ingrid had told her daughter when she had asked why the rule was so. “It’s called respect. You’ll do as I say.”

Ingrid looked toward her daughter with eyes like piercing daggers, as if burning holes through Wren’s skull. Wren sighed, used to and expecting the treatment she was about to receive. She sank lower in her seat and threw her head back, her blue eyes staring at the ceiling of the vehicle. She slowly moved her eyes the right side of her, peering out the window once more, watching the warm colors swirl around and dance gracefully in the cool autumn air. Her nubby, chipped black nails tapped against the car door, anxiously awaiting the wrath Ingrid was to release on her at any minute; however she said nothing, but fortunately fixed her eyes back on the road in front of her.

It was at last that Wren could exhale as she sat up and noticed the ‘Welcome to Rodeo’ sign pass by the window. The area was grassy, yet a lot of the fields were patchy with tiny shrubbery. Off into the distance, Wren noticed dozens of tall, thin smoke stacks, wisps if thick grey cloud-like puffs escaping into the sky. The sky itself had filled with dreary overcast.

“We’ll be arriving soon. The house is just up this road.” Ingrid explained lightly, calmly. Wren continued to watching the passing homes, each tiny with their own plot of land, grassy green lawns covered in rustic leaves and twigs. Each lot was a carbon copy of the one next to it, with the occasional change every so often. However, as they pulled up to what Wren had thought was a corner, the Ford swung into a long, drawn-out dirt drive way and made its way to the Montgomery’s new home. Wren was in awe, her jaw on the floor as they got close enough to see the creamy white paint and green trimming. The windows were large and symmetrical, with a single door in the center. It was wide with two stories, and was gated with an old stone fence, moss creeping down the sides and along the top. More smoke was pouring out of the chimney that lay atop the grey roofing.

“We’re living here?” Wren asked, her words almost inaudible. Her mother nodded firmly and shut off the engine. Wren immediately snapped back to life, the reality sinking back into her mind. She bit her lip and unlocked her door, slamming it before she stood on the rocks and dirt bellow her. The heels of her grey converse dug into the earth as she turned, and began walking in the opposite direction of the house. Ingrid promptly opened her door and called her daughter’s name angrily, screeching and hollering for her to come back. Wren raised her hand and flipped her off, and continued to walk.

“I’ll be back later. Just going to look around the neighbourhood.” She shouted. Ingrid murmured something to herself and shut her door. She popped open the trunk and collected some of the luggage before making her way up to the house.

+.+

Wren’s extensive chestnut hair blew past her face as she walked. She had been out for almost two hours, and hadn’t seen anything she could consider exciting enough to make living in the town worthwhile. The air had undercurrents of crisp, cool breezes, with a dash of firewood, damp leaves, and a hint of pumpkin. Wren’s nubby knees poked through her distressed jeans, and the tiny hairs on her arms rose as a chill crept down her spine. Darkness had started to fall, and Wren suddenly felt the urge to turn back; yet she had come so far, and was in an unfamiliar area. She smiled as she came across a street sign and a chain link fence.

“Christie Road, huh.” She muttered, straining her eyes to read it in the dim lighting. Beside her, a stop sign stood, and in the near distance she could see a set of train tracks and a hill full of dead grass. She stuffed her hands casually into her pockets and dragged her feet along the road until she came to the tracks. She sat down and put her face in her palms, strands of her russet hair falling over her. She folded her knees up to her chest and sat in silence until she heard footsteps approaching her. Her head shot up and looked around, but lost her balance and fell face first onto the cold ground beside her. The footsteps began to get slightly more perceptible. Wren’s heart fluttered and began to beat out of her chest.

When she lifted her head from the ground, a pair of damaged black converse stared her in the eye. Her sapphire blues crawled up the owner’s faded dark wash jeans, slowly making their way to his full head of curly auburn hair and beady eyes. He arched an eyebrow and offered Wren a hand. She shook her head, her eyes still glued to his. She placed her hands under her chest and pushed herself up, stood, and faced the stranger before her.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped, glaring. Wren took a step back, not saying a word. Her eyes dropped from his while she brushed off any stray filth from her top and jeans. Her breathing started to become heavier as she swallowed the lump growing steadily in the throat.

He spoke again. “Who are you?” He asked, this time in a gentler tone. He took a step forward, as Wren took a small step backward. He raised a hand to his face and with his index finger; he scratched the side of his nose. Once again, Wren was silent. She wasn’t sure if she should answer him, or excuse herself. He took another step closer and sighed heavily.

“Look.” He started, “I’m not about to murder you. I’ve just never seen you before.” His voice was calm, caring. Wren walked back over to the tracks and sat herself down. She placed an elbow on one of her exposed knees and rested her chin atop of her hand. She stared off into the distance, getting lost in the deep silhouettes of the mountains and phone lines. Soon after, the boy walked over and sat next to her. Wren put her head down and peered over at him. His reddish brown curls fell into his face, his hazel green eyes making their way up to her cobalt blues, his lips forming into a crooked smile. Wren immediately looked away, her cheeks flushed with rosasia. She heaved a small, yet audible sigh and picked her head up, glancing in his direction.

“I just moved here. Like—,”Wren began, and paused. She thought for a minute, rolling her eyes to the left. “About three hours ago. Give or take.” She folded her tiny hands across her chest and gazed up to the sky, the cool breeze brushing her face.

“So why are you here then?” He asked her.

“Well what about you? This doesn’t seem to be a very nice side of town.” She huffed and glared sharply at him. His lips curled into a slight grin and he chuckled.

“Settled down there, Shorty. I wouldn’t be messing with me.” He advised her, the sly grin still apparent on him mouth, inching slowly toward each of his ears. Wren’s lips followed his lead and eased upward shyly.

“Coming from mister five-foot seven.” She giggled slightly, earning a light slap on the shoulder. The two were quiet for a long period of time. Wren’s deep blue eyes looked down between her legs at the dark charcoal and the cold metal track beneath her. She cocked her head to the side and ran a hand through her long brown hair. Finally, the boy spoke up again.

“Name’s Billie Joe.” He told her as Wren looked over toward him. She nodded politely and looked back down. He kicked a piece of charcoal with one of his Chuck’s and spoke once more. “Billie Joe Armstrong.”

“And I’m Brenna Montgomery.” She said diffidently, still hiding her face. “But to you, it’s Wren.” Billie snickered.

“Then Wren it is.”