Untitled, as of now . . .

Needs criticism.

     Charlotte Thrimbleton was a classy lady. She was tall and elegant, never a hair out of place, robed in nothing but higher-end designer clothes that had yet to see a smudge or wrinkle. She was always thinly polite, a quality she learned from her late father, a runner-up, but never the winner or, many local and state elections. She wasn’t as good at it as he had been and it was usually obvious, even to us kids, that she would rather have not come into contact with anyone. Charlotte was the head of the homeowner’s association in our little neighborhood of Shady Meadows and president of various children’s charities, which was as close as she chose to get to children, who, in her less-than-humble opinion were better off not being seen or heard. Even her teacup Chihuahua, which went everywhere with her, seemed to have a problem with anyone under the age of thirty.

     Yes, Ms. Charlotte Thrimbleton was a classy lady, which made it all the more hilarious when she fell into our pool during our annual summer cookout/pool party.

     Earth stopped spinning. Women gasped. Men choked on barely-veiled laughter and iced tea. We kids caught the look our mothers gave us and most of us managed to duck underwater or cram a hot dog in our mouths in time to stifle our giggles. My little sister Samantha, three at the time, laughed aloud before Mom was able to cover her mouth with her hand. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to find out what sort of reaction would exude from Ms. Thrimbleton.

     She spluttered to the surface, her tiny rat-dog whimpering pitifully as it fought to escape the clutches of Ms. Thrimbleton’s designer handbag and splashed its way to the side of the pool where my older sister, Cassandra, met it with a beach towel. After regaining her footing (and her breath) Ms. Thrimbleton snatched her sun hat as it began to drift away from her. It flopped back on her head with a wet splat. Slowly, and with as much dignity as she could muster in her current state, she sloshed her way to the to the metal ladder leading out of the pool. Wordlessly refusing the several women who offered her towels, the thoroughly embarrassed socialite proceeded to limp from the property, minus one Prada high-heeled sandal, which she left at the bottom of our pool.

     Three days later, there was a moving truck in Ms. Thrimbleton’s newly-sealed driveway. Dad said we shouldn’t have been surprised. She was only a hop, skip, and a jump from the loony bin. Mom smacked his shoulder for saying that, but we all agreed with him.

     Ms. Thimbleton had been our next door neighbor, she scolded, and we should feel sorry for not keeping our dog, Max, a huge English sheep dog, from getting under her feet that fateful day. But it wasn’t Max’s fault. He had been there first.

     We didn’t have to wait long for a new set of neighbors. The house on our right had been vacant for months since Mrs. Macready moved south to Florida, was filled with a family with two girls about my age and a teenage boy. The house on our left, most recently inhabited by the high-strung Ms. Thrimbleton, was taken over by a family with six kids – a set of twins, a boy and a girl, also about my age, a teenage girl and a set of triplet boys who had been born only a month before. My mom called the parents “the Crazy Couple,” but I thought it was great. Finally some life in this corner of the neighborhood.

     This was shaping up to be an awesome summer. And, though I didn’t know it at the time, one that would change my life forever.
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     This is only a title-less rough draft, with, I'm sure many more editions to go, but I thought I'd post it on here for critique. What do you think? Continue, finish, let it die?