I know Hanson. It's ok, I'll wait until you've regained control of your breathing until I continue. Ugh...some of you people really annoy me. Anyhow, now that we've established that my life is worth significantly more than yours because I know the oh-so-illustrious Hanson boys and you don't, I'll continue with my story.
I moved to Tulsa when I was nine. My grandma had cancer and my family wanted to be closer to her before she passed away. So we packed up our life in Portland, Maine, and moved to Tulsa. Talk about culture shock. Considering Maine is on the Atlantic Ocean and called 'Vacationland' for a very good reason, moving to a land-locked midwestern town was a bit to swallow. None of my friends have even tried lobster before.
My grandma died about six months later, in January. Grandpa had died a few years back, so we inherited their house. I guess that's one of the perks of having just one child: you don't feel bad about giving everything to that person. My mom was the lucky one, I guess.
By the time she passed on, my sister and I were halfway through the school year so we stayed until the next summer. By then my parents had grown to love Tulsa and decided a smaller town would be a better place to raise their kids. Of course, Joey and I had no say in their decision. So now, six years later, we're still living in my dead grandparent's house in T-Town. I'm not bitter or anything. We go back to Portland for two weeks every summer, which is my favorite season anyway.
You're probably getting antsy for my whole Hanson connection now, aren't you. Well, hold your horses. Patience is a virtue, you know. That whole thing started the day we moved in. My mom, my dad, Joey my sister (call her Jolinda if you want a black eye), and I had just turned onto our street when some little punk kicked a soccer ball into the street, decided that our oncoming car wasn't dangerous, and ran after it. My dad screamed some unmentionable and slammed on the breaks. I guess he was under a lot of stress. Anyway, the tires made a horrible screeching sound and we all lurched forward in our seats. The little kid looked up in terror, frozen to the spot, and burst into tears. An older boy from the same front yard ran over to the younger one and pulled him out of the street. He gave a little half-wave (which apparently was supposed to mean 'I'm sorry that my idiotic little friend doesn't know how to look both ways and nearly killed himself') and pulled the kid into a house. My dad let out a shaky breath.
"Addy, go get that soccer ball and take it to those kids." my dad growled. I groaned inwardly. Why didn't Joey have to do it? I let out a huff of air and unbuckled my seat belt. I had to get on my stomach and crawl under the car to get that stupid soccer ball. Talk about first impressions! I walked sullenly up to the front door. My hand was poised to know when the door was pulled open by the older boy. The ball was snatched from my hands and the door was slammed in my face before I could say anything. I stood at the door for a second, wondering what had actually just happened, when our car honked. I turned around and ran through their front lawn. I slammed the car door angrily, wishing that we could hurry up and get to our house already, when my dad pulled into the driveway right next to the House of Kids With No Manners. I've never been really lucky, I don't know why I expected anything more.