Chapter One

It was the twenty-fifth time in his seventeen years of life that Tripp sat in the back seat of a car, surrounded by boxes and bags as it pulled into a driveway of a house with a sign stuck in the front sign that read: SOLD.

"Well, isn't this pretty?" His mother said in that annoying as fuck cheerful voice she liked to use.

"Great porch," His father added, turning off the car. He turned around in his seat, arm resting near the headrest. "Whatcha think buddy?"

Tripp blinked. A long, slow blink. His arms crossed themselves over his chest and he stared at his father's face, red from the sun, with a blank look over his own features. Is that enough of an answer for ya, old man?

His father, Ben, sighed and got out of the car, slamming the door. The trunk was opened and boxes were taken out of it. The rest were with the movers who they had followed.

"Honestly Tripp," His mother, Georgia, sighed. "I know that you hate-"

"Ya think?"

"-moving but don't take it out on your father. It's for his job you know and without his job-" He didn't let his mom finish the lecture. He opened the door and slid out before she could register that he had gone. He could still hear her talking through the glass of the window.

He was tired of all the 'we have to move because it's you're father's job' crap. He didn't even know what his dad did for a living. Selling something, he guessed. Insurance maybe? Whatever. He didn't even care. All he cared that in one year, he would go away to college, preferably one far away from his family. In Canada. Peru. Antartica.

His lips curled in disgust as he looked around his new neighbor. Picture perfect example of suburbia. A bunch of kids were even outside playing a game of kickball in the street. The house, his temporary 'home', was colonial style. Sky blue with white shutters and a red door. A welcome mat already waited in front of the front door.

The movers went past him as they carried things into the new house. He stared after them, debating whether or not he should help. Yes…no…maybe…

He decided against it and went up the porch steps, through the front door, carrying nothing but his hoodie and iPod.

It was spacious, predictable. Staircase, living room to the right, dining room to the left. Kitchen in the back. A bathroom somewhere around there. A door to the garage, a back patio and spacious backyard. Upstairs, there were four bedrooms, three bathrooms. An office. Ten closets. He picked the bedroom furthest away from his parents' and went inside. A bed frame was already there. Windows that looked over the front and side yard. The walls were white, the floors a light wood. His bathroom had a shower with a tub, toilet, sink. A rod to hang towels on. Mirror with vanity lights.

"Want your mattress in here kid?" A mover rasped from the doorway. Tripp nodded and leaned against the wall while the guy hauled his mattress in, throwing it onto the frame with a dull thud.

"Good?" The guy asked. Another nod. Tripp could've sworn he heard the guy mutter, "What a talker," when he left. But Tripp didn't give a fuck.

The mattress creaked loudly as he fell back onto it. He lay there, spread out like he was ready to make a snow angel, staring up at the ceiling. He thought of Mac, his best friend back in Detroit. Before Mac, he never even had a best friend. It was hard to get close to people when you knew you would leave them in a couple of months. But Mac was a cool guy. He was destined for the NBA. He was smart, funny, and loyal. He had a job to help his family, who all lived in the projects, and kept a 3.73 average. He was everything that Tripp wasn't, but they still got along. Maybe that's why they got along.

The day Tripp left, he stood with Mac outside the diner, leaning against the side of Tripp's beat up Jeep.

"This sucks, man," Mac muttered, kicking the ground the toe of his Nikes.

"No shit," Tripp muttered back and fiddled with the zipper of his jacket.

Mac looked over at him. "We'll still talk to each other though, right? And maybe see each other on holidays…"

"You sound like a fucking chick," Tripp had said and stared up at the sky.

"Why are you always such an asshole? This whole Holden Caulfield act is getting old dude."

"Its no act Big Mac," He said and smiled over at the boy next to him. It was a tight smile, the ones he always managed to squeeze out. Smiler Tripp was not.

"Guess I'll be seeing you Tripster," Mac told him and reached for his hand. They shook, and then did the whole manly half hug thing, before putting their arms around each other in a tight hug. They probably looked like a couple of pussies, but, hell, Tripp was going to miss the living fuck out of his best friend.

Mac's hands slapped his back and his hair, which he had been growing out into an afro but really resembled a chia pet, scratched Tripp's cheek as they pulled away.

"Later," Tripp mumbled, climbing into his car. He backed out of the parking space, and saw Mac in his rear view mirror, hands stuffed into his baggy jeans, eyes staring after the car. He guessed that was why he stopped, stuck his head out of the window and yelled, "I'll call you when I get there," before speeding off back towards 'home' which had its own SOLD sign in the nearly non existent front yard.

Detroit was one of the few places he lived where he felt at home. He loved it and, given another couple of months, probably would have taken away the air quotes when saying 'home'. The school was great. He was known. Maybe not as popular as Mac, but just about. He was on the basketball team. He got a B+ in his algebra class. He had just gotten the courage to ask hotter then hell Amanda the head cheerleader with the mile long legs out. Then, of course, it all came crashing down when his father entered his room, told him he needed to talk.

"We're moving to Ohio. It's a great place, really it is."

Yeah, Ohio wasn't that far from Michigan. But it still wasn't Detroit. He had lived in mostly cities. New York. Hartford. San Diego. Las Vegas. Denver. Dallas. Indianapolis. The list goes on. But never in a suburb. Of course, Dickens Falls wasn't a small town. There was a downtown place, as far as he knew. Well, that's what he was told.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the familiar number.

"Yo?"

"Well, I'm here." Bitterness was evident in his voice. He sucked at hiding his emotions.

"You sound happy," Mac said.

"You have no idea," He said darkly and sat up, bending his knees and resting his arms on them.

"It can't be that bad."

"Remember that time we went to that party?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"Its worse."

"Fuck. That's bad." Mac laughed. His laugh always reminded Tripp of a goose. Or a donkey. "It'll get better. Soon you'll forget all about your nappy haired best friend

back in good ol' De-troit."

Tripp laughed. "Doubt it."

"Oh, hey," Mac said. "Mind if I ask Amanda out? I mean…since she's not off limits anymore right?"

Tripp felt a stab of pain, betrayal, in his gut. "Oh. Sure. Whatever."

"Awesome. That girl is smokin'"

"I know it," Tripp muttered, thinking of Amanda's long blonde hair, tan skin, and those skimpy little outfits that her curves just spilled out of…

"Tripp? You still there man?"

"Ah. Right. Yeah, I am."

"Great. Well, I gotta go. Ma needs help with Charlie. He's upchuckin' all over the kitchen."

Nice mental image. "Oh okay. Bye then."

"Peace."

So Mac was going to ask Amanda out. So what. So what if he hung out with the other guys from the team. He would go onto college, get into the NBA, become famous, have some Playboy bunny wife with a couple women on the side, and eventual die a rich, old happy fucker. And where would Tripp be? Probably somewhere in Alaska, mushing dogs. He would die a poor, lonely, dog mushing virgin.

"Knock knock," His mother said, rapping the doorframe.

He looked towards her. "Hey."

"Want to come help with the stuff?"

"Not particularly."

Mom sighed. "Honey, I know this is hard for you. But I just know we'll love it here."

"You've said that twenty four times. It's only been true once." He said flatly and stared at the wall in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he could see his mom enter the room. Then she sat down next to him on the mattress. He flinched as she touched his back. She sighed but set her hand in her lap.

"I know you miss Mac, sweetie, but you'll make friends. Maybe even find a nice girl." Tripp rolled his eyes. "Maybe if you just act…friendlier towards people…"

"Maybe I don't want to be friendly mother." He spat. "Maybe I want people to think I'm this huge dick. Actually, I do. I want them to think I'm a cock loving mother fucker."

He saw his mothers back straighten. "Tripp Benjamin Sampson! How dare you use such...such vulgarity in my house!"

"Whatever," Came his reply.

"Get downstairs," She hissed, "and help. Now." The door rattled when she slammed it. He stared at the piece of wood before shrugging, even though no one could see, and laid back down, throwing an arm over his eyes. Amanda materialized under his eyelids. He saw her lips, her neck, her tits, stomach, legs, and the tiny glimpse he had gotten of what laid between them...

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Breakfast the next morning was quiet. Mom was still pissed. Tripp heard her crying to dad when he passed their room the night before. Then he got 'the talk'. Don't upset you're mother. Be more respectful. Blah blah blah.

"The cable guy's coming today," Dad said, his voice muffled by the paper he held in front of his face.

"Good," Mom said shortly daintily taking a sip of her coffee as she read whatever trashy novel she saw on Oprah.

Tripp swirled his spoon around in his cereal and watched as the milk made a funnel. The lasting cheerios were soggy. He wasn't going to eat that shit.

"Do you have everything you need? For your room?" Mom asked, not looking at him and purposely used a disinterested voice.

"I guess." He told her and went to the sink to dump what was left in his bowl.

"Take the car. Money's in my purse."

Her tone was one of those, "You're not getting out of this so move your ass," kinds that moms liked to use. He stared at the back of her head, at her dyed blonde hair that the grey was just starting to resurface, until his dad poked his head over the newspaper.

"Did you hear your mother?"

Tripp grit his teeth. "Yeah. I sure did."

He got the keys, took fifty dollars out of his mom's wallet where, embarrassingly, every one of his school pictures was, and made sure to slam the door extra hard as he left the house. The tires squealed as he peeled out of the driveway and he wished, fucking hoped, that he made some nice skid marks.

Somehow, he found his way to the downtown, which looked like it belonged in a…fucking Nancy Drew novel or something. Brick sidewalks. Colorful awnings. He could practically see the girls in those poodle skirts walking along with their boyfriends, sharing a malt at the ice cream parlor. It was sickening.

It was hot and his shirt stuck to his back while he walked. No Bed and Bath here. Just…Carey's Crafts and Antiques Galore. Sweat dripped down his forehead and he used the bottom of his shirt to wipe it off. The jeans he was wearing suddenly felt really, really…heavy.

"It helps if you stay under the awnings," A voice from behind him called. He stopped, took a couple steps back, and looked to where he thought the voice had come from. Sitting under a tree on the grounds of a pretty impressive white building, was a girl. He walked closer, tentatively, like she was a freaking clown that was going to suck his brains out.

Her head was bowed over a sketch pad, where a pencil moved swiftly, making a pattern that looked like a bunch of random shit. Her hair was long, unkept like she just rolled out of bed, hanging in front of her face. What Tripp did know was that she had to be strange. Who wore a kimono dress with fishnets and dirty white Vans?

She looked up, blinked, and then said, "Who are you?" Her voice was like steam. Steam? So poetic Tripp. Very poetic.

"U-Uh," He stammered. "W-Who are you?" Smart. Real smart.

Of course the girl just had to be gorgeous. Not even Amanda could compare to the girl. Her eyes were a spooky shade of green, light and luminous, like sea glass. Wow. That actually was pretty poetic.I'm turning into a fucking pansy. Her skin was tan, a smattering of freckles over her nose, spilling onto her cheeks. Her hair was neither blonde nor brown, but in between. Not to mention the gigantic breasts he knew were hidden under that dress. Overall, she was the most beautiful…creature…Tripp had ever seen.

She was staring at him, eyebrows raised.

"What?" He asked, flushing slightly. He was totally caught.

"If you're done checkin' me out you horn dog, you're standing in my light." Her hand, nails painted a shimmering purple, gestured around her.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," He mumbled and turned around to leave.

He felt a hand tugging on the leg of his jeans. "Hey hey hey! I didn't say you had to leave. Come on! Sit down. Take a lode off. You're sweating like a whore in Church."

He looked over his shoulder and down, to see the girl and her slim hand clutching the back of his jeans. She looked up at him and smiled. Jesus Christ, she even has a dimple.

"…" He was lost for words. Girls always were his weakness.

"Fine," She huffed, letting him go, then gathered her things and stood up.

"Now," She muttered to herself. "Where are those glasses? Hm. Lets see…" She bent down and skimmed her hands over the blades of grass. She had a nice ass. Very nice. That dress was pretty short…short enough that if she bent down a little bit more, he definitely would have been able to see a hint of butt cheek…

"Fuck, you're burning a whole through my ass," She said and then exclaimed, "Aha!" When she turned upright, Tripp's face was red and she had heart shaped glasses with rose colored lenses over her eyes. He was glad. Witchy eyes…

She cocked her head. Looked at him for a second before taking a step back. One, then two. Cocked her head the other way and took a step in the opposite direction. Took another step…but decided against it and left one of her feet in the air, so she had to balance. She moved her arms out and wobbled, swaying and lurching, all the while staring at his face. Okay. So this girl was bizarre.

"You should smile more." She said finally.

"I smile." He said and looked past her head nervously.

"Not enough."

His eyes moved back to her face. "You don't even know me."

"I can tell. You need to smile. Not smiling is so….it's so fucking depressing." She stopped balancing. "Smile, you've got Frenches. Put your smile on your face, make the world a better place?" Why was that a question?

"I smile. I freaking smile all the time." Lie, but he didn't really care.

"Liar liar pants on fire," She sang softly and hitched a bad with fringe over her arm. "What's your name grumpy boy?"

He growled softly but said, "Tripp."

"Tripp…"

"Sampson."

"Tripp Sampson," She repeated, walking over to a bench and walked along the top. He scrambled after her and she used his shoulder for leverage. "Tripp Sampson. Tripp tripped Sampson. Sampson tripped Tripp. I like it."

"I'm glad," He said dryly. "And you are?"

"Eleanor Roosevelt."

"Ha. No."

"Ann Boleyn."

"Otherwise known as?..."

"Carrie Bradshaw."

"Really? Try again."

"Winnie O'Brien."

"Is that you're real name?"

She laughed. "Yup. In all it's glory. Winifred Beatrix O'Brien. Winn or Winnie are preferred, thank you very much."

"Winnie or Winn it is."

She hopped off the bench and tugged his arm. "Come on. Let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Why not?"

"You could be a clown looking to suck my brains out."

"You're brain isn't what I want to suck," She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, but he saw a blush stain her cheeks. "But I'm really not a clown. Not a big fan of noses that honk."

"Still," He said and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Come on Tripp Sampson. You new around here?" She asked and tugged on her hair. He noticed she had done that a couple times. And she bounced on her feet. And she shook her arm where stacks of bangles were…the list went on and one. Maybe they were nervous habits…

"I just moved here," He said cautiously.

She smiled again, but it was more of a smirky grin. "See? Come on. I'll show you around."

"No. But thanks anyway." She shook her wrist. The metal clanged together.

"Nice manners. Mama taught you?"

"Of course."

"Good woman. But you never, ever turn down a girl's hospitality," She scolded, placing her hands on her hips. Nice, curvy hips…He absentmindedly licked his lips.

"I can't. Gotta be back by…twelve." He said and hoped he didn't flinch. He always flinched when he lied.

Winnie shook her head and slowly backed away. "And she should have taught you…never lie to a woman. Or a girl who you're having dirty thoughts about. See ya later Tripp." And just like that, she skipped off. And she actually skipped.

How…bizarre. That girl, Winnie O'Brien was bizarre. Just…bizarre. There wasn't any other word that could describe it. He looked around himself. No one else was there. People had yet to come out. Maybe in a…he stopped as he saw a paper lying on the ground. One of Winnie's. He picked it up and held it in his hands. The paper was rough and thick. The lines on the page formed a face. A face with strong features, hair long and falling into the person's eyes. An exaggerated frown on his face. Underneath the picture in a loopy scrawl was the signature Winnie Bee O'Brien. And underneath that was the title: Portrait of a Loner. He angrily stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO A/N-Ok. I know what ya'll are thinking. Another story from mysocalledperfection, now known as Petals In My Palm? But the thing is...I just found the beginning of this chapter on my computer and I've been wanting to write a story from a guy's POV...so I decided to continue this story and finish the first chapter. And I kinda like it. Reviews make me SOOO happy. I shall be eternally grateful.