The Lyons Next Door (A Lyons' Heart Book 1) Page 2

  I went from being the poorest student in my school to the richest in the state.

  That’s when things really started to change, though. Everyone knew now. All of our neighbors, all the kids at school… I couldn’t go anywhere without someone mentioning it. We were at once the most beloved and hated mini celebrities in all of Dunnings.

  Something I never knew before my parents won the lottery is that most winners say it’s more of a curse than a blessing. It sounds strange, considering for most people it’s their dream to see those numbers match their own. But after the first month of this new life, I was starting to see what they meant.

  At school, I was treated way differently. Before, I was able to blend into the masses without a problem. I had a couple of close friends I hung out with, and that part of my life was mostly stress free. But things started to change. The popular kids suddenly wanted to be my friends, and then my actual friends started asking me for stuff. My closest friend, Rochelle, told me one day that her iPhone had broken. She asked, and I quote, “Think you could buy me a new one?”

  I had looked up at her from our lunch table with a snicker, thinking it must be a joke. But she hadn’t said it in a joking matter or with a kidding smile. Her eyes were dead serious, shocking me into silence. I had never known her to ask for anything before. Even with birthdays we didn’t give gifts, because usually, neither of us could afford it. To have her ask for something so expensive and out of the blue was like being blindsided.

  “Why would I do that?” I asked, somehow hoping, deep down, that this was still just a prank and she didn’t actually mean it.

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like a thousand bucks is going to make you poor anymore.” She looked at me expectantly, as if I was going to fork over the money right then and there.

  She had gotten the attention of our other friends at this point, everyone looking at me around the table like they expected me to do this, too. I could feel my cheeks turning red under their stares.

  “Rochelle, I don’t have that kind of money on me,” I said, trying not to wilt under the pressure I could feel surrounding me.

  She raised a red brow, as if she thought I was lying. “Then get it from your dad.”

  I couldn’t believe this. This wasn’t the Rochelle I knew. The girl who shared her lunch with me in fifth grade. The one who played Jenga with me after school when we were kids. “It’s not like I won the lottery,” I tried to explain. “My parents did. I’m not going to ask my father to give me his money just so that you can buy something with it.”

  I still worked both my jobs because I needed the money. And I wasn’t about to leech off of my parents for the things I wanted just because I suddenly could. But apparently, Rochelle didn’t have this problem. Even though they weren’t her parents.

  “Blaire, just give her the money. You’re making it out to be a bigger deal than it is,” one of my other friends, Justin, had said, shaking his head like I was being the difficult one. Everyone at the table tittered about my stinginess and laughed for the rest of lunch, leaving me to feel completely humiliated.

  That was the day I lost my friends.

  When I refused to give her the money again the next day, she said that I must not care about her, and she took herself out of my life. The rest of my friends slowly did the same, labeling me a “Penny Pincher”, the nickname and the story slowly spreading throughout the school. I was made an instant pariah where only days ago they acted like I was a rock star.

  But that wasn’t all. At home, things were no better. At least once a week my dad would find threatening notes stuck to his windshield, people asking for money. My mom would have people approach her at the grocery store, begging for anything she could give them. It didn’t help that we lived in a poor neighborhood where nearly everyone needed the money we now had. People we had known for years, friends even, turned on us when we wouldn’t spare all we could. Overall, my parents gave nearly ten thousand dollars to those who needed the money, and yet they would still come back, claiming it wasn’t enough.

  The day I came home from school, crying because some kids had defiled my locker again, my father finally said that it was enough. We couldn’t continue living our lives in fear anymore. It wasn’t worth it. That’s when my parents started thinking about what they really wanted to do with the money, namely, where we should buy a house with some of it. Mom had always wanted to live on the beach, and my dad had always wanted a big garage to tinker on stuff. I had always wanted a large bedroom to expand my painting hobby, and Nana wanted her own room, too. As long as it had those four things, the house would be perfect. And the further away from Dunnings we could be, the better.

  That’s when they landed on the shores of New York. A part of the eleven towns that make up the area of the Hamptons, Airings was a beautiful place with gorgeous homes and rich neighbors that hopefully stuck to themselves. My parents believed it was a place where we wouldn’t be bothered, and I had agreed with their plan wholeheartedly.

  Honestly though, we could have moved to Alaska and I’d be fine with it. Anything to get us out of Maryland.

  But there was a catch. A big one. My parents said that if we did this, we would never tell anyone where our money came from. A new start meant a new story. That way we wouldn’t be threatened with another move like this one. Whether it be caused by desperate people or judgmental rich people, our secret would stay ours.

  “Our business is our own. But if anyone asks, just say we got it through hard work and good fortune. Which is the truth.”

  We all swore on my dad’s words, and that was that. And now here we are, six months later, and it’s all still setting in. I half wonder if it ever will completely.

  Once I get done admiring my new workspace, reminding myself to thank my dad later, I grab Leopold and take him with me back down the stairs. Walking through two sets of halls and making a wrong turn before I find it again, I stop in front of the door to my very own bedroom. Earlier I had only given it a quick peek, too excited to go look at my new art room. But now, I give it a more thorough once-over after stepping inside, noticing the antique desk from our old house and my small twin bed that the movers set up for me. Other than that, everything is new. The white dresser is new, and so is the nightstand and small sitting area decorated with a few overstuffed bean bags. My comforter is a creamy yellow, working well with the light walls. I have a large picture window peering into my neighbors’ yard, a comfy, built-in window seat perched underneath it.

  Placing Leopold on the desk, making sure that he has a nice view of the window, too, I walk over to it, admiring the fluffy white pillows adorning the long cushion. I take a seat, feeling myself sink into it. I imagine myself in this same spot with a cup of tea and my sketchpad, or maybe with a good book, enjoying the sunset.

  As I’m living this small fantasy, my eye catches on something, namely the window not thirty feet away from my own. The neighbor’s window. It’s as if the two homes had the same builder, and they purposely made it so that the windows were directly across from one another, giving a perfect view into the other.

  Without curtains or blinds blocking the way, I have an eagle’s eye view into this particular room. I can see a dark sitting chair, and a desk littered with stuff I can’t quite make out. The walls are painted a dark color, but whether it’s navy blue or just stark black, I can’t tell. What looks like records are hung on the walls, their colorful covers lightening up the dark space. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a guy’s room.

  And as if he heard me, the occupant steps in front of the window.

  In the words of my Nana: dayum.

  The first thing I notice is that he’s tall. Even though his window looks like it’s almost floor-to-ceiling, he makes it look small, his wide shoulders going perfectly with his height. He has thick, black hair that’s short on the sides and only slightly longer on top, but there’s a curl to it, making him look younger somehow; even though I’d place him somewhere around my age, or maybe a ye
ar or two older. His skin looks perpetually tan against his white shirt and jeans, his ears covered in headphones. He slightly nods along to whatever tune he’s listening to, shuffling around his room.

  At this point, my face is pressed against the glass as I relax back into the cushion, oddly entertained by his menial task of putting a few books away, his mouth moving along to the lyrics he’s listening to. I wish I knew what song he’s playing.

  Just when I’m wondering if his eyes are as dark as the rest of him, he looks up from his phone, or iPod, or whatever it is he’s listening to. And like a scene in a corny movie, his eyes connect with mine across the expanse of our driveways, frozen to each other.

  I can’t believe that it slipped my mind that if I can see him, then he can see me just as well.

  I guess that’s one way to meet the neighbors.

  Within five seconds, the stare off is over, and his surprised expression disappears. With a freezing glare, he shuts the long curtains that were hanging out of sight, taking away my view.

  It feels like getting doused with a hose full of ice water.

  CHAPTER 2

  Blaire

  “How do you like your room, Nana?” I ask her after lightly knocking on her door and peering my head inside. Just like the rest of us, Nana got to pick what she wanted her space to look like. She went with light purple walls and dark purple accents, e.g. her comforter and curtains. The movers placed her favorite vintage dresser from the sixties in the corner, the bright pink color kind of ruining the aesthetic she had going on.

  She’s hanging a dream catcher above her headboard when she answers, “It’s lovely. How do you like yours?”

  Before I can stop myself, my mouth is telling her, “Good. The view is fantastic.”

  Aw, crap.

  She looks at me with a smile, not catching on to the fact that my skin just developed an embarrassed flush. “See the ocean from your window, can you?”

  Uh. “Yeah.” I think. I’m not really sure since I got a little…distracted.

  Walking around her room as she continues to put out her knickknacks, my hand trails over the silky fabric of her lavender vanity chair, matching perfectly with the vanity itself. It’s a nod to her past life, as she likes to tell me. A reminder that she was young once.

  My grandmother used to be a makeup artist in Hollywood when she was my age. She’d tell me about the times she did Marilyn Monroe’s makeup, and Judy Garland’s, and a whole host of other amazing starlets. That’s how she met Papa. He was a sound technician on movie sets. She’d tell me about their life in the entertainment industry while doing my makeup for fun, making me feel like one of the actresses in her stories.

  Sitting down in the delicate chair, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, pockmarked from age. A girl with wide hazel eyes, more blue than green, stares back at me, along with her pale complexion even though Nana claims we have Native American blood running through our veins. The blonde hair my mother gave me sits in a messy artist’s bun on her head, hardly ever let down since I never have the time to style it.

  Nana comes to stand behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders, leaning her head down to be the same height as mine in the mirror. When she smiles, I see my mother’s looking back at me.

  “My gorgeous girl,” she says to my reflection, making me match her smile. “How are you really doing with all of this?”

  I take in a deep breath, feeling it stall halfway past my lips. “Good. I think.”

  She laughs a light, lyrical laugh, still sounding like a girl’s. My Nana has always had this quality about her that seems timeless. She’s both classic and modern, edgy but sophisticated, all at the same time. She wears her pearl colored hair to her shoulders with bangs layered to the side, and continues to wear the sixties era clothing she wore before we won the lottery; the vintage pieces originals from her own closet, still fitting her frame all these years later.

  “You’re a strong girl, and you’ll make this transition with ease. You know how I know that?”

  I shake my head in the mirror.

  “Because you have your nana’s stubbornness in you, that’s why.” She grins in the mirror, and I chuckle.

  A little while later, we order dinner from a local pizza place, talking about the new house over pepperoni and sausage with extra cheese. Mom tells us about her plans to decorate some of the spare bedrooms the designer was ordered not to touch, and Nana talks about the wineries she wants to try that she somehow managed to find online. Dad ignores this and says that he’s going to organize the garage.

  “Do you have any plans tomorrow?” Mom asks me, a piece of cheese getting stuck to her chin. She pulls it off and shoves it in her mouth, Dad chuckling at her when he hands her a much-needed napkin.

  I shrug, taking another slice of pizza and putting it on my plate. “I figured I’d put my clothes away and organize some of my paints.”

  “Maybe when you’re done you can come and help me pick out paint colors for the spare rooms,” Mom suggests.

  The conversation quickly turns to arguing over what room will be Nana’s sewing room, and if she can get a wine cellar in the future, but my dad, ever the peacemaker between his wife and mother-in-law, decides to break it up by talking about the neighbors. “Didn’t see anyone out there at all today,” he says, cutting Nana off mid-sentence. “Surprising considering how nice it was, and with that pool of theirs. Must be they don’t have any kids.”

  In an instant, my heart seizes and I start choking on my pizza. Nana claps my back with surprising force until I’m regretting that extra slice.

  “Are you okay, hon?” Mom asks, her blue eyes worried.

  Face hot, I can only nod, taking another sip of water to clear my throat.

  “I doubt they don’t have any children. Did you see all the cars in the driveway?” Nana argues, cutting her pizza with a knife and fork once she sees I’m not longer at risk of choking to death.

  “That’s true,” Dad says, pondering. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves.”

  I nearly choke for the second time. I take a sip of water again before saying, “I thought we were going to keep a low profile?”

  “Just because we’re not going to tell everyone we won the lottery doesn’t mean we can’t have good relations with the neighbors. And besides, if they do have kids, it’d be nice if you could befriend them; try to enjoy this summer before you start your senior year,” Mom says innocently enough.

  But all I can think is, If Headphones Guy had anything to say about it, I doubt he would agree with her.

  Eventually the pizza runs out, and exhaustion starts to set in from the long trip up here. We all go to our respective rooms and call it a night. But before I go to bed, I cautiously step in front of the window to see if someone else’s curtains are still closed. When I look, all I see is black fabric staring back at me. But beyond it, I spot a warm light glowing from what I suspect is the desk lamp, a dark silhouette sitting next to it.

  ***

  When I wake up the next morning, I’m hit by a wave of confusion. This isn’t my room. And why does it smell like fresh paint? Sitting up, I look around and slowly start to remember that I no longer live at 274 Carrol Drive. It’s a strange but pleasant remembrance.

  Stretching, I scoot out of bed, walking over to my closet. Opening the doors, I see boxes of my clothes sitting there, waiting to be put away. I sigh, a stray piece of hair getting stuck in my lashes.

  Taking a quick shower, I walk back into the room, get dressed, and start to put clothes on hangers. The task doesn’t take long since I never had a big wardrobe to begin with. Then I put my laptop on my desk and arrange all my knickknacks, trying to make it look as much like my old set up as possible. When I’m done, I stand back and admire my work, knowing that when I arrange my art supplies in the turret, the satisfaction will be even greater.

  Downstairs I hear Mom call for breakfast, but I’m feeling too keyed up to eat. I really want to get to my art room and start organiz
ing. I bet the view of the morning sun on the ocean is stunning right now.

  Before I know it, five hours have gone by, and my art space is now completely up to Blaire code. My watercolors are front and center, followed closely by rainbow arranged acrylics and then my small paintbrush collection. Any time I got a bonus from work, or I worked overtime with the Kinny kids, I would take a small portion of it and go to the craft section at the store, sometimes taking hours to decide exactly which item I should spend it on. It was a luxury I didn’t want to take for granted. The collection I have now spans over five years of saving and scrapping, taking home art supplies from school that Mrs. Heron, my art teacher, said was no longer usable, but I would find a way to repurpose. But now…

  I picture myself walking into an art store and skipping down the aisles, putting anything I wanted in the cart without looking at the price. The idea is so bizarre to me that I have to shake my head to get rid of it. But still, the image puts a smile on my face.

  By the time I come down to eat, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and Mom is hard into her decorating plans while Nana is dozing in her room. I distantly hear Dad puttering around in the garage, so that leaves just me in the big white kitchen, trying to remember where Mom put everything yesterday. Eventually I find enough ingredients to make a sandwich, which tastes like nirvana after having felt my stomach grumble for hours on end.

  Putting my plate in the sink after I’m finished, I contemplate joining Dad in the garage to help him with his own organization. That is until I hear a delicate ting sound from the front of the house, figuring it must be the doorbell. But who rang it? If it were Nana, she would have just barreled through the door, but last time I checked, she had been out like a light. And with Mom in one of the rooms upstairs, and Dad in the garage, that can only mean…

  Ting.

  Crap.

  Looking down at myself, I instantly regret wearing my work clothes today. My jean shorts are spotted with paint and holes not put there by design, and my shirt is thin and worn from so many times through the wash. On top of that, I can feel the bun on top of my head slipping out of its tie, my forehead and cheeks slick with sweat. Gross.