Beginning of Part 1. Untitled novel

      I hated the country. I hated the way it smelled of cow manure and old cheese, and how my eyes always caught the flying pieces of dirt the wind blew up. I hated the fields- they had no visual interest as far as I was concerned- and, if it was one thing I really hated, it was dirty, smelly animals. So I was having a hard time justifying why exactly I had decided to stay here for the entire summer.
         My grandpa was hauling my bags from the back of his truck, and I stood awkwardly by the front door avoiding flying slobber from the over-excited sheep dog, Rory. “How’s your friend, what’s her name? Keeley?” He yelled as he dragged my bags through the dirt and swung open the front door. It crashed into the cabinet behind it, but he didn’t seem to care. They obviously didn’t find it necessary to lock their doors around here.
         “She’s good,” I lied. My erratic, over-dramatic, energetic, and sometimes annoying best friend was one of primary reason for my summer vacation. Truthfully, I didn’t know how she was. She babbled to me often, mostly over the phone considering her unhealthy attachment to her boyfriend Harper, but I could usually only piece together fragments of her incoherent story.
         “And your parents?”
         “Still screaming at each other.”
He grunted and pulled my bags through the doorway, dropping them in the dinning room. Grandpa had always wanted to me visit the farm when I was a child, and every year I would decline. My mom would unsuccessfully try to convince me to stay, even for just a week. She’d even gone as far as to pack my bags and pretend she was sending me somewhere much more exciting. How’s that for parenting? My father would always stop it before my mother actually accomplished her childish stunt. He told her that I was more mature than she was, which would spur her into her manic tears and dramatic meltdowns. It was my typical mother; the go-to tactic for getting what she wanted was to turn on the water works. She whimpered and sputtered through her tear soaked lips until my father would give up trying to decipher her incoherent blubbering. I figured that’s how relationships were; fighting until someone got their way. It made sense, in a way, being selfish until your needs were met.
         My mother had it down to a science. Her eyes would start watering at the snap of her fingers, like she had leaky faucets on her face. I had serious doubts that my father bought into her ritual charade, but I could see the hopelessness on his face when he sighed and walked away. He was always the one to give in- my mother’s pouting lips stubborn and unforgiving. I think that’s what sucked the life out of him. All the defeat he’d become accustomed to through the years drove him to despise her. It’s a wonder their marriage lasted this long.
         Although they tried to keep the arguing to a minimum- which wasn’t hard to do considering they were rarely ever in the same room- I could see the hatred on their faces when they happened to meet each other’s eyes. It was in the body language too: mom’s shoulders squared and bold in his presence only to crumble when he walked out of sight; and dad’s tightly clenched fists before the confrontation and contracting when it was all over.
         Tired was a word he used often. He was tired of the broken pane in the coffee table that always snagged his socks, he was tired of the cat running underneath his feet, and he was tired of the broken doorbell, costing him dozens of collectable comic books. But the word he used most often was my name, probably since my mother never responded when hers was spoken. “Cavlynne,” he would say with an exasperated tone that never left, “what’d your mother do with my good suit?” “Cavlynne, have you seen my keys?” And on serious days, “Cavlynne, your mother is driving me nuts! Would you go and talk to her for me, please?” Good thing I was an only child; I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.
         I would do it anyway to avoid more sighing and disappointed head shaking. My mother was always in manic tears at these times, laying on her bed and practically pulling her hair out. When I finally calmed her down, I still hadn’t come up with a constructive reason for all the drama. Just, “Never get married, Cav.” That was half the  problem; I was supposed to be the mediator with no background information or explanation. Once she dried her blazing red eyes, she’d pull herself together and pretend nothing happened. By that time, my father would be gone, escaping unnoticed while I fixed his mess.
         She didn’t mind that he took off, at least outwardly. But her stiff movements gave all her emotions away. I could feel her hurt with everything foot step she took, floating through the house like a reminiscent ghost. She thought her childish pouting granted what she wanted, but it was apparent that it was a façade. She got her attention, just briefly, before it blew up in her face.
         Maybe that’s what drove her to her romance with Penn, who was half her age. She didn’t love him. She didn’t even like him, I’m sure, but he gave her all the attention she craved. It was easy for her to get dad out of the house, even with how little he was there in the first place. And he suspected nothing, or was in denial. Not like he had time to care anyway; he was too busy running around doing God knows what. For all we knew, he was out doing the same thing, but divorce was something we didn’t say in our household. My parents would rather live in a dysfunctional, emotionally draining relationship than admit to defeat and be the social scandal of the year.
         No one had even asked how I felt about it, not like I would tell them. I was far too conditioned in it to be upset. I went to school in the mornings and when I got home at three o’clock, my mother would be stashed away in her bedroom, giggling with Penn. Before dinner, my parents would pretend they were not secretly plotting each other’s murder, and plaster insincere smiles on their mouths. Their eyes weren’t so cordial. Besides, they were too busy hating each other to be concerned with their teenage daughter’s feelings.
         It wasn’t all bad though. I never had those embarrassing, awkward conversations, we never had the how-to-be-safe-on-your-date speech, and they didn’t keep tabs on my whereabouts. They had completely reversed their roles; it was like I had twins in their terrible twos. Having friends over was comical, let alone boyfriends, and I was embarrassed to have to associate myself with them. But we were family, and we had to take care of each other, right?