doesn't have a name yet... D=
an excerpt

I dropped my duffel bag onto the sandy pavement and stared up at the white-washed house. At the sound of an engine, I turned to see my father back his green van out of the driveway.
A woman opened the screen door of the house and waved at me. “I hope you like sand!”
I smiled half-heartedly and started toward the house, lugging my bag behind her. “Hi aunt Ivy.”
“Oh just call me Ivy,” said Ivy as she held the door open for me.
Once inside, I dropped my bag and looked up at the living room. It was small, but comfortable, and somehow free of the clutter that always seemed to creep onto every surface at I and my father’s house. The spotless white couch and oceanic paintings successfully emulated a picture-perfect seaside cottage.
On the three hour drive there, my healthy imagination had summoned sand-caked carpets and musty bedspreads, but now that I actually saw the place I was glad I’d been wrong. I was still not completely happy about being there, though. While I was stuck with my aunt for the summer, my father was off leading a research ship that would be studying sea life around the Northern Atlantic ocean.
“Would you like a tour?” asked Ivy.
I nodded and followed Ivy as she led me into the kitchen. Compared to the living room, it was actually quite large. In the corner a large painting of a conch shell hung over a little white table with matching chairs.
“Do you cook at all?” asked Ivy curiously.
I shrugged. “I know how to make some things. My dad is a horrible cook, so if I want anything more than macaroni and cheese from a box I have to make it myself.”
Ivy smiled reminiscently. “I remember when our mother tried to show him how to bake cookies. He was very excited at first, but he got discouraged after the eggs got splattered all over the walls.”
I gave my first genuine laugh of the day. “I can just see him doing it,” I said with a grin.
They left the kitchen and went back into the living room, where Ivy pointed to the door that led to the bathroom and the door that led to the laundry room. Then I followed her up the stairs to the second floor, where my room was.
My room was tiny, but I thought that the large window that faced towards the ocean completely made up for it. The window was open, letting a strong, salty wind through and making the blinds dance.
“I’m having some friends over tonight,” said Ivy, “so I need to go start dinner. Why don’t you unpack?”
I nodded and went to retrieve my duffel bag.
When I got back up to my room, there was a giant, fat grey cat sitting on my bed as though it might as well have owned it. I made a face and attempted to push the humungous cat off, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Oh, I forgot to mention Fog,” called Ivy from the kitchen. “He’s the resident cat. Just so you know he had a tendency to steal the comfiest spots in the house and once he’s there he’s unmovable.”
“I just found him on my bed,” I called back.
Fog turned his head toward me and gave me a menacing stare.
I grimaced and started to unpack my things, feeling the eyes of the cat on me the whole time. I didn’t like cats very much, and this one really creeped me out. I can still remember the time when I was a little girl and the neighbor’s cat had eaten my hamster and left some of it behind on the doorstep. From then on, I couldn’t look at any feline without feeling a little sick.
When I was done unpacking, I took out my journal. It was a fat, old notebook, with a plain dark blue cover that had fraying edges. I found a stubby pencil the drawer of my bedside table and laid back on my bed with Fog’s head resting on my foot. With the ocean wind on my face, the smell of the sea, and the sounds of the waves crashing onto the sand, I admitted to myself that I felt relaxed. I didn’t even mind it very much when Fog rested his head on my foot.
I leaned back against the pillows and opened my journal to a blank page. The page adjacent to the one I was about to use had been written on during the car ride, and the handwriting was wobbly and uneven. I put her pen to the paper and began to write.