Beehive

By 8:30 the next morning my host mom, Sharon, was pacing frantically throughout the kitchen, making brief pauses only to feel Steve's favorite recliner. That thing was on its last leg, so worn that there were clearly defined marks made by each of Steve's butt cheeks. A knock startles us.
"Oh my word!" Sharon exclaims, clutching her hand over her chest.
"It's him! Oh thank God." I exclaim, throwing the door open unsure what to expect Steve to look like. Would he be disheveled and covered in sweat? Perfectly combed over still? Yet instead of seeing some form of Steve, I am greeted by slightly plump lady with a towering beehive.
"Well hello dear, aren't you just precious. Are your parents home sugar?" Her southern twang is seemingly unreal, matched only by those seen in movies.
"Uh yeah my host mom is here" I manage to mutter back.
"Well I can't hear you through all that mumbling, now can I? Anyways my name is Loretta. I am from Southern Living, and I am here to interview the residents of this fine apartment. I suppose you will do."
"Is it him Rebekah? Is it my Steve?" Sharon shouts still clinging to the recliner.
"No Sharon, just someone here to interview us from Southern Living."
"Unbelievable. Where on Earth could this man possibly be? I have to go find him." Sharon finally detaches herself from the recliner and comes toward me and beehive hair lady. "Oh hello ma'am. Please do come inside. I am just headed out, but Rebekah here can take over."
Everyone calls be Bekah. My name is Bekah.
Beehive lady makes herself right at home, situating herself on the couch with various recording tools and notepads. "Alright dear let's jump right on in. Clearly by your accent, you ain't from round here, so what brings you to the great states of 'Merica?"
"Oh I'm just a foreign exchange student" I shrug trying to keep my answers as short as possible so I can shake off beehive lady. Even though Steve isn't my dad I feel a strange connection to him, enough so that his disappearance shakes me. I twist my pinky ring anticipating her next shallow question.
"What do you like about this town, I mean as opposed to wherever in Europe you're from?"
"Britain. I don't like it here as much. Kind of strange. Weirdly formulaic. Then the pattern breaks and it is confusing."
"Oh dear, I can't say I know exactly what you mean. Formulaic? I guess we can move on to the subject of decor! I notice you guys have quite a homey house. Nice big recliner! What inspired the feel of the house?"
"I couldn't tell you. I have only lived here for a month or so. But if you'll excuse me, I don't mean to be rude but I really must go now," and without even waiting for her over top response, I bust out of there and head for the calming paths of Howell Park.

6:32

I still do not know the name of this city. It is foreign and unfamiliar, despite my living here for three weeks now. My host dad Steve leaves every morning at exactly 7:48 am and returns at 6:17 in order to make his 9-5 job in a "timely fashion." My host family is so set in their routines it is ridiculous, and unlike the unpredictableness of bustling London. At school cliques are preexistent and seemingly very hard to infiltrate, which leaves me utterly alone. In order to pass my time I've taken to walking through Howell park, which is surprisingly picturesque. Large sprawling oaks line cleared pathways leading to a rusty playground, which is perfect for swinging and contemplating life.

I am swinging and wondering how Steve's combover remains perfectly positioned on his head throughout the duration of the day, and conclude that it must be gelled to his scalp when I hear a pop! I jump a little bit in my swing, and turn to see each light go out one by one, like a row of dominoes. An eerie feeling washes over me. Afterall, the park is directly located next to the cemetery, which is filled with looming tombstones casting shadows on the grass. Grabbing my backpack I get the heck out of there.

By the time I am home dinner is on the table. Even though it is the same meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes served every Tuesday, I am surprisingly relieved by the regularity of its presence. The power outage is a weird change in a very permanent city which scares me somehow. I shake it off and sit down to eat, which is when I notice the emptiness of Steve's seat across from me.
It is 6:32.