Chapter One: From One Country To Another

Staring out the window. I feel like this is not my place. I feel...out of order so to say. Sitting in back of this old rusted green bus, as I stare out the cracked dirt coated window, I can't help but overhear a conversation between an old man and a young lady with a farmers hat on.
The young lady shakes her head in disgust. "You know they have ten of them girls comin' from Afghanistan every week?" The old man hits his cane against the pole near the stairs. "It's a damn shame they don't pull their heads out of the clouds. No wonder there's more recorded rapes every day. They think bringin' those poor teenage girls to the U.S.A. is supposed to help us? Their just promoting statutory rape." The young girl sighs and then looks around, out the window, then behind her looking directly at me, then back to the old man. "I just wish, for their sake, for all of the girls sake, that God Himself is watching. 'Cuz Lord knows their gonna need all the help they can get."
I tune out of the conversation, scared for what lays ahead in my "Journey to Excellency." as they called it in my old school depression club. I have high hopes, though I know I shouldn't, because in the end they only get smashed. I hope whomever I end up having for adopted parents, I will be truly happy...and not as depressed as I have been since my parents died.
I remember it well. Like it was yesterday. The horrible day that a bomb had hit our little town sending shards of glass, bricks, wood, anything in the town into a million pieces in every direction. My parents happened to have gone shopping in the market for some rice and peppers when it hit. The old rice market man named Ramshee told me it was not bad, and that they did not feel any pain. I was a little happy to hear that. To know it happened quickly; and that they didn't suffer. But at the same time, I was left to take care of myself at the age of fourteen.
So here I am, being shipped to America to a bunch of white people who want to call me daughter. For what reason? I have no clue; because after the war, the U.S. didn't want anything to do with Afghanistan, Pakistan, and all the rest of the "stans." But still, here I am, siting on a bus, riding to New York City. To apartment building 27, room number 17 with a red "chevy" in the front. Whatever that is.
I crumple the paper with the address on it in my hand and then throw it in my bag. I look back up to see we've stopped at a funky looking place. With...pump like things stuck in big bins. "Uhm, excuse me ma'am?" I ask the bus driver. "What is this place?" She turns around and looks directly at me. "This is a gas station young lady, if you wish to get off and go to the restroom or grab something to eat, do so, but be back in the next thirty minutes." I stand up and thank her; swiftly getting of the bus knowing it'd be smart to stretch my legs. A smooth breeze wisps my dress around in every direction and I start walking toward the sign that says "restroom"; like the lady on the bus said. What is a restroom? I think curious.
I open the door cautiously with the picture of what seems to be a stick figure in a skirt, and walk in. The light is somewhat dim and one of them is flickering. My eyes adjust and I see that its where people go to the bathroom. Then I get it.
I do my business, and hurry washing my hands and heading back to the green bus. Only now when I get on. There is a boy. A very cute boy. Sitting in my seat. So as calmly as I can, I walk all the way to the back of the bus and sit behind him. Ignoring his existence. But no matter what I did, he turns around and smiles at me with his bright blue eyes and long black hair.
"Hello Beautiful. What brings you to the green bus today?" I blush at him calling me beautiful and just shrug. Seeming to have swallowed all my words. He smiles even wider, making me blush even more. How can one boy, have such a magnificent smile? And I already told myself I would never fall for an American boy; but he doesn't look...all American. He looks like he might be a little bit Asian. Maybe even Mexican.
"You don't talk much do you sweetheart?" What's with the names man? I think. Your making my skin go from brown to red. Shaking my head I find my words. "Not really. Not to strangers anyways." He holds out his hand and I go to shake it, but he takes it and brings it to his lips. "I am Matthew." I smile slightly. "I'm Tarehen. Pronounced like Tear-eh-hen." He smiles brightly. "That's a gorgeous name for such a gorgeous girl." I shrug, loosing my words yet again. He smiles once more, and then sits back in his seat when the bus starts moving.


~To be continued in Chapter Two~