From the Perspective of What I Believe is Called "Normality"

A dismal, intimidating manor that looked like it was ripped straight from a crappy horror movie, my Uncle Isman’s house rose above me.
I’d met the man once or twice, at family reunions, but never since I was eight or so. And now my parents had sent me to spend my summer here.
I sat in Uncle Isman’s passenger seat and stared at the house.
“Are you coming, Isabelle?” he asked, opening his door again.
“Belle,” I informed him, then stepped out of the car, swinging my carry-on bag from the airplane onto one shoulder. I noticed with surprise that he had gotten my suitcase for me, but did that jerk me out of my teenage surliness at being carted off to the middle of nowhere for the summer? Of course not.
Distaste making my expression even meaner, I stared around at the trees, the grass and the whole, boring landscape. I bet there isn’t a mall or even a Starbucks within a hundred miles of here, I thought to myself, and grimaced.
This was going to be a boring summer.

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