1

c h a p t e r 1 

Peaches. That's me. It's a color, you know. More accurate that "white". I'm not white; printer paper is white, and clouds are white, and I am not white. I'm simply what Crayola was sincere enough to craft together among their 36-100 other frothy colors. Peaches. 

My name is Autumn. My birth mom says it's because of my hair; an orange, caramel-brown shade that reminded her of the leaves in November. November, coincidentally, was the last time I got to see my mom seven years ago; I was five, no taller than the work desk in my dad's office, and the whole world looked like a big bubble. A bubble with trees and cement, yes, a lot of those. 

On the morning of November 10th, 2005, I didn't really understand the concept of my mom laying in her casket. She just looked like she was sleeping, sleeping for a long time, and she didn't even wake up when aunt Glendy or my older cousin Michelle dribble tears all over her porcelain-looking face. All around the room were family I hadn't seen in years and community members that I saw all the time but never knew they were this close to our family. The hairdresser from two blocks down the street (she did my mommy's and my hair all the time!), the #7 cashier at the Safeway near my school, and even the local postman. All of them engaging in simple conversation and gathered together under the same roof would have really made my mom happy. (When she was alive, family members seldom visited. My dad said there were some family problems between my aunt and her, and most of my family had sided with my aunt. I do remember seeing my aunt there, but as it was time to say our final words, she bustled out the back door.) 

The procession of mourners, local shop owners and family members towards my resting mom advanced so quickly you'd think there was only a few of us. But before I knew it, my turn was up ("Oh, how brave she is. . . Doesn't she look just like Marianne. . . Poor young girl, she'll never know her mother. . ."). All the eyes in the room were on me, and everything but the ticking of the grandfather clock adjacent of the alter was dead silent (see what I did there?). I wrapped my small palms around my dad's fore and middle finger as I walked in sync with his stride up to the wooden chest that was now the everlasting home to my mom.

My dad lifted me up so I could "see mommy for the last time,"

"What do you mean, the last time?" I asked in confusion,

My dad looked down at my mother's laid out body. "Doesn't she look beautiful?"

"Yeah," I smiled. "Mommy, daddy says you look beautiful!" And at that moment, the whole family broke out in tears. The silent cathedral then had burst into sounds of a storm. And, even though I myself didn't quite comprehend it, I looked at my dad's tear-spotted face and began to cry as well. That was my first lesson about death.

Years later, I had a new mommy. Wendy is her name, and she looks just like my mom. The same green eyes, that hourglass figure, a few freckles here and there, and that dark, chocolate-mousse hair. If it wasn't for the height difference (my mom was rather short), I would have thought that she had come back from her grave. 

But, despite how she looked, her personality was not the same as my mom's at all. She was a bit rude, judgmental, had constant mood swings whenever she got too busy with work, much too assertive when she talked (no wonder we still didn't have any guests over), plus a high case of OCD (though she'll never admit it). It didn't take too long for me to notice that this woman had changed my whole life around. "Mom" had us move out of our woodsy, but cozy, Michigan home for a "cleaner" and "more urban" life out on the west coast, and ever since we arrived here in Bryant, Seattle, WA, we even stopped going to church. We stopped praying before supper. We stopped our once-a-month family ritual to the riversides for camping. We barely shared any family time together. And we most certainly don't seem anymore like the engaging, homely, and gallant American family of our past.
         My then-shop owner father was now a very successful CEO (never mind our current economy), investing cents in every local business he can grab then pumping dollars right out. He also holds a 3rd seat on the Washington Senate (how's that for a dad?). Though I'm not a big fan of his company, I appreciate his political work, as he acts almost like a balance for the rest of the committee, but I don't even see him anymore. And when he is home, he spends lots of time in his study (a small cabana in our backyard, complete with a heater, internet access, and a lock when he gets deep into thought and does not want to be disturbed... Hm, 'locks'. So that's how far this family has gone.)
         As for me, I'm just a 12 year old, rural-born, urban-raised girl in the 8th grade (I felt like I needed to push myself, so I requested to test-out of the 6th grade). Not a lot of people talk to me at school, but I shouldn't blame them. Some quiet girl who spends majority of her days in the back of the library, refuses to work with groups in class, and seldom lifts her head from Dante's Inferno... who would want to befriend her?
         I had many friends in Michigan, but here I'm just some lost soul. Appreciation from my teachers is one thing, but it's also quite embarrassing when your only 'friend' in school turns out to be Mr. Michaels, the science teacher (we both experienced alike situations growing up, so I have relied on him all my 8th grade career). There's a lot to me than my autumn shade hair and my forest-green eyes. I'm not some immature 12 year old, no. I wouldn't be surprised if my essay on world peace won the next Nobel Peace Prize.
         This world that we live in is full of misconception, judgment, and war, and in the world of 'peaches' discrimination still reigns...but peace and consideration are still abundant, you just have to have the right eyes to see it. There are many things on my mind, lots of things I want to say, but I doubt anyone besides Mr. Michaels would have the time (or care in the world) to listen. So I'm on a mission to uncover the misconception about the ethics of our country. To leak the truth of modern business leaders, and to show that beauty does not necessarily lay within in the eye of the beholder. Even if that means going through it alone.
          My name is Autumn Hawkman, and I'm a girl on a mission.