Old Palmetto Drive, page 1
Old Palmetto Drive
S.E. Reed
Wild Ink Publishing
wild-ink-publishing.com
Copyright © 2024 S.E. Reed
Edited by Brittany McMunn and Nicole DeVincentis
Design and Layout by Abigail Wild
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-958531-62-4
ISBN (epub) 978-1-958531-57-0
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
For my husband and children—
my loves, my inspiration.
Contents
1. New York Princess
2. Death in the Swamps
3. Shattered Glass
4. Just Text Me Bitch
5. Fried Okra
6. That’s the House?
7. Circus Tent
8. Fishing Lures
9. Just Be Yourself
10. Mud, Mud, Everywhere
11. Ghosts in the Dark
12. A Million Acres?
13. Backwoods Barbie
14. Rusted Ford Truck
15. Pond Apples
16. Secrets & Secret Doors
17. Teenage Sleuth
18. Who is Mom, Really?
19. Brunch
20. Shopping 101
21. Get Away from Me
22. Who Killed Uncle Chuck?
23. Panther vs. Alligator
24. I’m Sorry
25. Gator Teeth and First Kisses
26. Surprise Visit
27. Proud of Who You Are
28. Me, Happy? Obviously!
29. Sweet Seventeen
Acknowledgements
About S.E. Reed
1
New York Princess
Mom is such a fake. She cried and screamed at Dad when he said he was leaving her six months ago for Heather. But I knew Mom’s dirty little secret. She already had divorce papers locked in the top drawer of her desk. Ready to whip them out and slap Dad across the face when the moment was right. She kept the key in the bottom of her jewelry box under a picture of her sister, my Aunt Kris... A place Dad never thought to look. A place I looked when I dug through her jewelry and dressed up to go out one night.
Maybe Dad knew it was coming. He is a Wall Street guy, after all. You know, smooth and polished, always gets what he wants. I’m sure being married to the most powerful divorce attorney in New York City made him think about divorce once or twice. Well, Mom was the most powerful divorce attorney in New York City.
Yesterday was her last day at the office. She really is, like seriously is, making us move to Everglades City, population four-hundred fifty-six.
Swamps and alligators.
Rednecks and Confederate flags.
Banjos and howdy Ma’ams.
No shopping malls for a hundred miles.
Even the ocean shoreline sucks, covered in something called mangroves. Which means no beaches.
I hate her.
“I still can’t believe Mom is making me move to some trashy swamp town in Florida,” I complain to my best friend, Ava, as I push open the double doors of my penthouse bedroom and drop my vintage, black-stitched, Fendi bag by one of the boxes. I ceremoniously kick off my Gucci slides, letting them fly across the room before I pull my long blonde hair up into a top knot. I hate that sweaty feeling behind my ears.
“Rian, how far is the swamp from Miami again?” Ava asks as she sprawls out on my king-size bed. Her dark hair cascades across the white, goose-feather pillows.
My lips curl into a scowl. “I told you, Everglades City is super far from Miami! It’s like driving from here to Philly or DC. I don’t know. Someplace stupid and really far away.” I walk over to the mirror and reapply my Dior lip oil.
“Ewe, that is so far. I still cannot believe this is happening to you,” Ava sympathizes. I glance over my shoulder and watch the corners of her mouth turn down like she finally realizes the gravity of my situation. I’ll be over a hundred miles from any major metropolitan city. For a born and raised New Yorker, it’s pure torture.
“Mom says there is a silver lining. She says moving to the country will be therapeutic for us,” my voice drips with sarcasm. “She said New York is not the center of the world, and I need to get over it.” I plunk down on the edge of my bed.
Ava and I look at one another and burst out laughing.
“I think Tori’s been hitting the Chardonay a little hard,” Ava teases and lifts her hand to her mouth with a pretend wine glass and throws her head back like she’s sucking it all down in one gulp.
“A little?” I smirk. It feels good to laugh with Ava, especially at Mom’s expense. Everything has been so grim and serious lately, which makes this move even harder. “Not the center of the world,” I mumble again and frown.
Mom’s wrong.
New York isn’t just the center of the world. It’s the center of the universe. It’s the City that Never Sleeps. The Big Apple. The City of Dreams. New York is my entire life. My friends. My school. My Dad.
A tightness sits in my chest when I think about how much I’m going to miss New York. I go over to the mirror above my desk and pull out my Dior Mascara. I slick on another coat of the rich, midnight blue, forcing myself not to shed anymore tears because tears and Dior don’t mix.
I watch Ava in the mirror’s reflection as she snuggles deeper into the mountain of pillows on my bed... I bite my lip. I think maybe she will look up at me with a tear glistening on her own cheek, scared to lose me as much as I’m scared to lose her. Instead, she just gets on her phone.
I look back at myself, normally a view I like to admire, but right now I look like shit. You can tell I’ve been crying every night since Mom sprung the Florida news on me a week ago. I put my hands to my face and hope no one noticed how tragic I looked at school.
“Gross! I look like I've been on a bender for a week. I’m breaking out and I didn’t even have time to get my roots redone. I’m sure there won’t be a salon anywhere close to swamp town either,” I complain. “Oh my god. Will I have to do my own hair?” I imagine holding a bottle of cheap hair color to my head and gag.
“And your own nails too. Better stock up on polish,” Ava adds without looking at me. I look down at my pink, gel-manicured nails.
“FUCK!” I slam the mascara tube down in frustration.
Ava’s smiling at something, casually twirling her dark hair with her free hand. Then she sits up and holds her phone out to me. “At least you aren’t Gina. Her new Gucci slides are so fake! How embarrassing. Should I tell her?”
I look at Ava, then at the image of our friend Gina with her fake Gucci’s. “Yes, you should tell her. What if it was you?”
“First of all, I can spot a fake a mile away. And second, you’re no fun when you’re in a bad mood. The old Rian would have laughed at that picture,” Ava whines.
“The old Rian?” I ask her.
“Yeah. New York Princess Rian. Now your Florida Rian,” she says all matter of fact.
Me, Ava, Gina, and Maggie are the New York Princesses, aka NYP’s. Every weekend we dress up and go dancing or shopping or out to eat. We hit up the spa and go to the movies and have sleepovers. We do almost everything together. Partially because we can’t stand to be apart, and partially because we all want what the other girl has. Sure, we each have our own interests, like Ava with her violin and Maggie and horse riding. Maybe Gina can’t spot a fake Gucci, but she is a superstar gymnast. We’ve been my best friends for as long as I can remember. The thought of leaving them is worse than the thought of coloring my own hair.
Mom told her assistant Darcy I should be grateful because in Florida I might “find myself” and not be so spoiled. What the hell does Mom know anyway? What a stupid thing for her to say. Maybe I like myself and my life just the way it is. Honestly, this entire move feels so unnecessary. One stupid little murder-suicide and suddenly everything has to change.
Okay, I admit, maybe I am spoiled. But how can Mom expect me to be happy or excited to leave the only life I’ve ever known?
“Seriously, Rian. Just tell your Mom you’re not comfortable living in a house where your relatives died because there might be ghosts. Tell her you want to move in with your Dad.” Ava puts her phone down for a second and looks at me encouragingly.
“God, Ava, don’t be such an idiot. Mom knows that kind of stuff doesn’t scare me. I mean, I barely knew my Aunt and Uncle. And if I could stay with my Dad, don’t you think I would? He’s not even in New York. He’s in Berlin on some huge project for work and won’t be back until the end of summer, plus Heather is with him.” I roll my eyes. Sometimes, it’s like Ava isn’t listening when I talk.
“Well, you could just call your Dad and cry and beg to go to Berlin with him for the summer instead of Ghostville. The guys in Germany are super hot.” She turns back to her phone.
“Going to Europe defeats the purpose, Ava. I want to stay in New York with you and the NYP’s! And you know my Mom will never let me live with Dad as long as Heather is around.” I rip the ponytail holder from my hair and run my fingers through my mane.
I don’t look.
I’m literally moving a thousand miles away and all she cares about is her chance at Spring Break in a #GoldBikini.
Damn her.
2
Death in the Swamps
“You girls want to order dinner for your last sleepover?” Mom opens the double doors to my room without knocking. She knows I can’t stand it when she barges in on me. I glare at her as hard as I can without making my eyes bleed.
“Thanks, Ms. Callusa I’m starving. Can you order pizza from Patsy’s and do you have anything sparkling?” Ava asks in her annoyingly sweet voice, the one she uses to get her way. “You know I can’t drink plain water.”
“Of course, Ava, and how about some anti-pasta and fresh cannoli’s with the pizza? I think we still have some Pelligrino in the fridge. I’ll go check,” Mom replies in the same annoyingly sweet voice.
God, they both make me sick.
Then Mom smiles at me with her perfect, every man on 5th Avenue wants to take her home for the night, smile and blinks her big eyes like Katie Perry. “Anything special for you Rian?”
I shake my head no, and she walks out, closing the doors.
My face burns. The audacity of her to act so fake. I want to scream, but instead throw the closest thing I can find on the floor, my old American Girl doll, Lanie. She slams against the door with a hard, plastic thump and Ava jumps.
“Rian, you need to relax.”
“Shut up, Ava.” The door to my room opens back up. I expect to see Mom telling me to grow up, but it’s just Darcy, Mom’s utterly devoted personal assistant. “What do you want?” I snap.
She folds her arms and looks around my room. “Whoa Rian, haven’t you even started packing? We are leaving in less than twelve hours.” Her voice is cheerful and her eyes are bright. I guess she’s looking forward to the trip. At least someone is.
“Why should I pack?” I flop onto my bed.
She picks up Lanie from the floor. “Because your mom is going through a lot right now. The least you can do is be a big girl and pack your own suitcases,” Darcy replies.
I give her an icy stare as she oh-so-gently puts Lanie into my Louis Vuitton side bag and zips it up.
“Yeah, well I’m going through a lot right now too.”
I put my headphones on so I don’t have to get any further lecture. Darcy shrugs and walks out. I look around at the mess. I guess she does have a point, maybe I should start packing my stuff for Murdertown.
I told Ava it doesn’t bother me that we’re moving to a house where my aunt and uncle died. But, I guess it is kind of creepy. I mean, what if there are blood stains on the floor? Or bullet holes in the walls? If it wasn’t for my two hillbilly cousins, Sam and Travis, we’d never be moving there in the first place. Mom inherited them and their house. It’s the same house Mom grew up in that’s been in her family for generations. Look, I know what people must think. Any sane person would fly down to sign the custody papers and bring my cousins back to live here with us in New York. End of story.
But no, not Mom.
She decided it would be best to keep things simple for Sam and Travis; the same high school and their friends and sports. Sam is going to be a Junior, and Travis is going to be a Senior next year, just like me. She said the trauma of what happened to their parents and finishing high school and applying for colleges will be hard enough on them without dealing with big city life. But me, who cares, right? Make me leave my city, my friends, and my life! She decided right after she got the call about Aunt Kris…without even asking me how I felt.
We were sitting on the white leather sectional together in the living room, watching an old classic movie, a thing we used to do sometimes, when her phone buzzed. “I better take this,” she said and jumped up and walked into the other room, sliding the big pocket doors closed behind her.
I knew something was wrong the moment she came back and sat next to me. “Rian, I have horrible news.” Her eyes were damp, and she smelled salty, but not in a good way, like after going to the beach. More like in the way you smell when you’re scared. “Aunt Kris and Uncle Chuck are dead.”
“Mom, oh my god!” I leaned over to hug her. She wasn’t shaking or sobbing. She was eerily calm. As if she’d expected something like this to happen. “Was it a car accident? A plane crash?” I asked, trying to make sense of it.
She took me by the shoulders and looked at me with those haunting, black eyes. “No, much worse. Rian, pack your bags. We are moving to Florida.”
“What? No way! I’m not leaving New York.” The words had flown out of my mouth with such rage. Every bit of empathy and sadness I’d had for my mom losing her only sister vanished when she said we were moving.
“No argument. Chuck finally did it. The bastard killed her. We leave in one week.”
That was it. She didn’t care that next year was my Senior year. She completely disregarded all of my hopes and dreams for my perfect New York life. The next few days had been a blur preparing for our departure. It was like I had stopped existing. Like our life in New York had been the thing that died, not my hillbilly relatives in a trashy murder-suicide. People she never seemed to care about.
Until now.
I start packing my suitcases, carefully placing my designer clothes in color-coded order. I feel sick with each handful that goes in. I can’t even look at my rows of shoes placed neatly on top of their boxes. Does Mom even care if they get scuffed when I rebox them? And my bags and purses! Oh god! Sweat beads around my hairline. I might have a panic attack… I’m sucking air in faster than I can exhale it. Seeing my custom-built walk-in closet in disarray is making my head spin.
I sit on my bed, trying to calm down. Ava is happily texting someone and smiling, completely ignoring me. I slump forward and put my face into the white duvet, debating if I should just start screaming.
My stupid bed.
I don’t even get to take it with me. Mom said Aunt Kris’s house is filled with extra rooms and tons of furniture, so we aren’t taking any of ours. Instead of screaming, I get up and walk out. The apartment used to be filled with art, statues, and modern furniture. The perfect Manhattan penthouse. Now the furniture is draped with white sheets, like ghosts.
I open the door to Dad's old office. He was in such a rush to divorce mom he didn’t even take any of his shit. It’s the one room, besides mine, that Mom hasn’t finished packing. I look out the window at the city skyline before slumping into his desk chair. I am going to miss this view so much.
“Rian, why are you in here? Are you okay?” Darcy bounces in wearing workout gear and her hair in a high ponytail. She carries a box labeled ASSHOLE and starts pulling things off the shelf, dumping them in without any regard. Probably just to haul to the trash. Mom thinks she’s so funny.
“No, I’m not okay. What do you think?”
“Honestly Rian? I think you’re being unreasonable. If you could have a little sympathy for what your family is going through, it would make all of this a lot easier, on everyone.”
I spin my Dad’s office chair away from her and look out the window again. I know she’s waiting for me to say something cruel. But sometimes silence is just as effective. She gets the point and doesn’t say another word to me. Once she’s gone I pull out a pencil and piece of paper from the desk. I start drawing.
The one thing Mom and Dad always agreed upon is how talented I am as an artist, but that’s where their agreement ended. Dad said art was a hobby. Mom said my talent should be cultivated. Mom wanted to put me in art school. Dad said that was too much pressure. They’d argue in circles, both trying to get the upper hand. Meanwhile, I was out partying with Ava or shopping with Gina. I stopped showing anyone my artwork a long time ago. What’s the point? It's not like I’d ever be taken seriously in the art world, look at me, oozing privilege–the exact opposite of a starving artist.
I keep sketching anyway, trying to calm down and let myself get lost in the graphite on the paper. Shading the buildings, etching the windows. The NYC skyline. It’s my city. My heart sinks. I guess it’s not my city anymore. I crumple it up and throw it across Dad’s pathetic home office.
