Another Unremarkable Wednesday

Rowan Greeve watches the new neightbours move in and thinks they're seemingly average. She couldn't be more wrong.

It was a wednesday when they moved in across the street. The DerLeon's. They were not particularly remarkable. They were not a large family. They were not a very small family. They did not have any obnoxious pets, or flashy cars. There was very little to say about the Derleon's at all. Very little but to note that that they were new.

 

"Huh. New neighbours are moving in today," my father grunted indifferently as he tossed his car keys onto the side table and stepped into the dining room. I didn't look up; I knew it didn't matter if I did.

 

"Yes. The trucks were there when I got home from school," I said flatly, turning a page in my textbook. He harrumphed and trecked into the kitchen in hunt of food. I heard him say from the kitchen, "They look normal enough."

 

That was what caught my attention. If my father, the mayor of mediocrity, thought they were 'normal enough', I thought there was something strange about them. Lifting my book onto the table, I moved to join my father at the window to observe the strangers.

 

The house across the street was quaint, of average size, with dark red trimmings and a moderate lawn. The car parked in the driveway was at least a few years old, blue. A second car, a few years older still, in black sat behind the moving truck. Two men were hauling a desk from the back of the truck. The first thing I noticed about those men was that the desk could not be heavy enough to call for two people, but just too awkward for one. The second thing was the striking resemblance between the men. They both had a wild beauty about them, in the lean cast of their shoulders, and the richness of their reddish brown hair, even in their facial profiles. After a moment, my brain informed me that they were obviously father and son.

 

The father was cleanly dressed with dark jeans, a fitted grey t-shirt and a casual brown sports jacket. The son was sporting black jeans, with a couple of silver chains on either side, a red hoodie and a grey beanie over his mop-top of hair. As they stepped off the ramp, a woman stepped out of the door, the sun catching on the silvery blonde hair that fell down her back in a shimmering fall. She said something, and the father's lips turned up into a loving smile. The son's face only hardened slightly. Then all three disappeared into the house and I turned away before they could come out again. I knew I'd be too intensely curious to leave it alone. I was already too intrigued by these beautiful new strangers. My father gave me a hard look as I turned abruptly from the window and began throwing ingredients I'd prepared earlier into the pot before he could start munching away the components.

 

After several long minutes, my father left and I hazarded another glance across the street. This time, I had to grip the counter to stay standing.

 

They were moving boxes this time, the father passing a box to the woman, but the son, the young man, was stopped at the edge of the ramp, a box in his hands, a lamp balanced on the box, and two encyclopedias balanced on the top of his head. His face was turned towards our house, and I could swear he was looking at me. No, I knew he was looking at me.

 

I couldn't help was drink in the memory of his face. Even across the road, I could see the freckles across his nose, and the piercing green of his eyes. His high cheekbones and dark lashes created an idealistic beauty, but the fierceness in his eyes, the feral undercurrent of his expression made his face wild, almost exotic. It was such a strange thing to see that I couldn't turn away. I could barely stay standing.

 

But it was only a moment, seconds long, before he turned and walked past his parents into the house. His father gave him a frown from where he was crouched before his wife, who wore a faintly worried expression, before picking up his own box and heading inside.

 

Only after all three of the strangers had once again disappeared into their home, I slid away from the window, leaning heavily on the counter. I had no idea why I was reacting like this. Why my heart was hammering in my ears, or why I felt like just lying on the kitchen floor and remembering his face. I didn't understand what was happening. They were just another family moving into another house. Nothing more.

 

I was just getting a grip on myself when my father came in, turned down the burner on the stove, and said, "Well, let's go."

 

Skipping the beat, I asked dazedly, "Go? Go where?"

 

He scowled only sightly. "To meet the new neighbours. They could probably use some help with all that furniture."

 

I rose soundlessly from the counter ledge and straightened my shirt. "Let's go then," I said, feeling my throat constrict with some strange panic at actually confronting these strangers.

 

We crossed the street in relative silence. The father stopped at our approach, just stepping onto the ramp, and smiled tentively. Now that I was closer, I could see the faint lines around his lips. My father extended a hand.

 

"I'm Patrick Greeve, this is my daughter, Rowan. Welcome to the neighbourhood," he said, giving a half-smile.

 

The other man seemed relieved for some reason. It made me suspiscious. "Thank you, Mr. Greeve. My name is Adonis DerLeon," he responded, shaking my father's hand. "This is certainly a warmer reception then I could have hoped for."

 

"We were wondering if you folks needed any help moving anything," Patrick said. Just like my father, straight to the heart of the matter.

 

Adonis cast a sweeping glance over towards the back of the truck. "I think we have it under control. I appreciate your offer though," he said with a good natured smile.

The appearance of the son disturbed the conversation only briefly. He moved up the ramp, behind his father, until Adonis caught his arm and with one abrupt pull, spun him to face front. "Evan, slow down for a second." He turned back to us. "Mr. Greeve, Rowan, this is my son, Evan. Evan, this is Patrick Greeve and his daughter, Rowan. They live across the street."

 

Evan surprised me once again with his face. I'd earlier figured him to be close to twenty, maybe twenty one. But up close, I could see that he could only be eighteen or nineteen- barely older than me. His body language was confident, but uncomfortable. It was strange. I'd never thought of those two adjectives to emanate from one source. I was unsettled to say the least.

 

He gave an almost convincing smile, and responded with a stiff, "Hello." His voice was low and musical, with a wild, uncontrolled undertone. I'm sure my heart started pounding erraticly.

 

There was an awkward pause before Adonis clapped his hands together and said, "Well, we should finish unloading, so I guess we will have to pick up this conversation again another time." I almost laughed. The conversation had reached the inevitable stalemate. Adonis DerLeon was obviously a well educated, well rounded man, whereas my father was a college drop out with an ill-will to deal with peole. My father nodded, relieved by the end of this awkward meeting. He and Adonis shake hands again. He offered his hand to me, and I shook it, but I noticed immediately the tiny flare of his nostrils as if he's taking in some delicious strange smell. "It was lovely to meet you, Rowan."

 

"You as well," I said politely, as I pulled my hand away. Something about that tiny sniffing action had me on edge. I don't know why. I gave a small wave to Evan, who flashed a real smile that took me off guard and said, "See you around, Rowan."

 

I managed a quick smile before walking quickly to catch up to my father. He gave me a sideways look. As soon as we were safely into our own home, he looked over at me. "He was cute."

 

Since my seventeenth birthday, and still without outward interest in boys, Patrick almost went out of his way to bring it up, as though to goad me into regular teenage girl behaviour. It only resulted in lots of awkward father-daughter talks that neither of us wanted to have. So I turned to him and said, "I'm not interested in dating, Dad. You don't need to start this."

 

I expected him to look relieved; he normally does, the lines of embarassment vanishing from his face. But this time, he continued to look at me with hard eyes.

 

"That Evan kid is different."

 

"How so?"

 

"I can't name it; don't make me try. But I just feel it in my gut. He's different."

 

"I will keep that in mind, Dad, when the impulse strikes me to romp around with the boy across the street." He only gave me a strained smile and headed into the living room. I did not know then that what my father said was more than true.

 

The DerLeon's were not particularly remarkable on that wednesday. And that was exactly the way they planned it.

Author's Note

There are a few spelling errors. I know. If you know the correct spelling, tell me. But don't berate me please.