Calla Finch has never really fit in anywhere; too Pogue for the Kooks and too Kook for the Pogues.
But a storm and the sinking of a boat may finally be enough to push her over. It's just up to her to decide which side of the island she lands.
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O N E
•OUTER CRANKS•
Let's get one thing out of the way: I'm not an addict.
Never have been, never will. The smell of weed makes my brain uncontrollably whir and the powdery cocaine makes my nose itch. Sure, maybe I should try to make this point at a time when my lips are free from bracing a skillfully rolled blunt and there are no tendrils of faint smoke curling up through the willow leaves, brain buzzing and giving a clear sign of the oncoming spinning that'll inevitably end with me puking up my guts.
But no, I'm not an addict. Maybe I'm more well-versed in the World of Drugs - as some may put it - than most people, but the word addict gives the impression that I have a problem, and there are no problems here, only solutions. Solutions given to me by the whirring brain and puking. Honestly, it's an art. Maybe even more of an art than the pencil drawing of a patch of daisies I've been on and off scratching at for the past hour I've been here.
Above me, the willow leaves enveloped me in a natural parasol wave in the slight breeze, small snatches of blue sky appearing for a second before hiding once again behind the tree. Grass tickles the small of my back where my shirt and shorts separate, pricking the back of my arms and legs with their freshly-cut tips, and stabbing my feet through my socks. Maybe I should put my shoes back on, but the laces are too confusing right now and I'll probably start crying if I try.
The quick beeping of a car being unlocked intrudes through my leafy cover, and I pluck the blunt from my mouth after one last drag and exhale the smoke slowly as I turn my head to the side just in time to see Ward Cameron walk down the gravel path from my front door to his car with another person so close behind it makes the former crunch of gravel seem like they have an echo. But instead of some Peter Pan lost shadow, the follower is a red-headed man: Tom Finch.
Now that's the real addict of the family. Tom Finch, father dearest. His steps are heavy against the floor, hand dropping like lead on Ward's shoulder. People say it's his business grip, a good thing to have for a respectful lawyer like himself. But what's respectful about defending rapists and assaultists, getting them out of jail with only a disappointed shake of the judge's head as punishment? I'd make an excuse for him, try to defend him, if I didn't have to live with him and know what he's like; experience it first-hand. Sometimes I wish someone would realise it too, but it turns out the King Kook facade is too strong and my partial fondness for weed a little too public for people to see past it.
It's like being stuck in a car with tinted windows on a busy highway where people are everywhere yet unable to look in. And he's been the same for all sixteen years of the road trip, however recently it's gotten worse and the faint smell of bourbon and whiskey, champagne drunkenness and overpriced beers follow him around like an expired colougn. I tried to get out last year: there's an art school on the mainland that takes in applicants every year and I wanted to send in a few of my drawings, break free of this highway, yet he turned on the child-lock and I missed the deadline because of his pathetic old-fashioned views of women. He shouted something about only whores become artists, though I'm not really sure because I was trying too hard to not wipe a glob of spit that landed on the tip of my nose from how close he was that I kind of tuned him out. So instead I escape with drugs.
