Twelve-year-old Heather Anderson is the richest, most popular girl in the seventh grade. But when Heather's home is robbed one night, the Andersons are forced to leave their life of luxury and enter an entirely different world.


4. A Secret

   As they swerve up the long driveway, Heather looks at the frosty landscape around her. Once the huge white house with the collumns comes into view, Heather swiftly unbuckles her seatbelt and hops out of the car. She rushes inside and slides out of her faux-fur coat, leaving it on the marble floor. Heather runs up the grand staircase. "Hello, Miss Anderson," Victor greets her from behind. Heather turns on the heel of her boot, and gives Victor, her butler, a measly nod. It was no time for conversation. She hurries into her bedroom and locks the door. She yanks her drawer open and searches for the perfect outfit. In the drawer, which was filled with wintery outfits to match the season, she found a white and blue, soft, floral shirt. Heather threw it on and grabbed dark-wash skinny jeans and jumped into them. The doorbell chimed. Oh no. She slipped on metallic, silver ankle boots. Ding-dong. Her heart pounded. While running down the hall, Heather clipped on a snowflake necklace. Ding-dong. She sprinted down the stairs, fluffed up her brown curls and smeared on her Cinnabon Lip Gloss. Then, she slowly opened the door. "Hey, Anderson," the boy slid his hands in his jean's pockets. "Hey, Trevor....come on in!", Heather beamed.

   "So...Trevor," Heather looks up from her hot chocolate and sighs. "What?", he runs his hand through his gelled-back dirty blond hair and looks into her eyes intensely. "Um, well," Heather looks down again, "I called you six times on Sunday...and you never answered."  "Oh, that. Yeah, I was, um, at a football game," his jaw tightens and he sips his hot chocolate, avoiding her intense gaze. "Oh, I thought your football games were on Saturdays," Heather's voice trails off. "It got changed," he explains with a careless expression on his face. "Trevor...," she whispers. "What?", he looks up. She points to the frosty window revealing a white landscape and sighed. "It's winter."  He just stares at Heather, unable to explain why he lied about the football game, what he did on Sunday that was such an immense secret. "What did you do on Sunday, then?", Heather interrogates him. "I-I was just...just," he stutters. Just then, "Boyfriend" by Justin Beiber plays. Trevor searches his pockets and finally pulls out a sleek iPhone 5. "Hullo? Oh,ok. Yep. Be there in twenty minutes? K, bye."  A female voice talks on the other end. Trevor taps the end button and looks up at Heather nervously. ''Who was that?", Heather raises her eyebrows. "Ummmm, my mom," he grabs his leather jacket and shoves his phone in his back pocket, "I, uh, really gotta go, she's sick. Thanks, Heather, see you after break."  He stumbles out of the lounge and heads for the door. Heather frowns and races after him. She wraps her arms around his neck and plants a kiss on his warm lips. He pushes away from her and hurries out the door. Heather stands there, alone. She watches Trevor stagger down her driveway, disappearing in the white.


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