Short Works
Short Story: When hearts break, words heal. This story was previously published in the literary arts journal Lines From the Middle of Nowhere.
Short Story: They always say you find love when finally give up looking for it. This piece was previously published in the literary arts journal Lines From the Middle of Nowhere.
Creative Nonfiction: This is for Mandie whose story shouldn't have ended yet. It has been previously published in the literary arts journal Lines From the Middle of Nowhere.
Short Story: When you're at the bottom of the well, sometimes it's hard to know how you got there or how to get out. This work was previously published in the literary arts journal Lines From the Middle of Nowhere.
Poem: Heed the warning. This piece was previously published in the literary arts journal Lines From the Middle of Nowhere.
Short Story: When your whole life has been based around one person, how do you stand on your own two feet?
Poem: I somehow wrote a happy poem? This was previously published in the literary arts journal Lines From the Middle of Nowhere.
Trust
I trust him. I trust him with my heart, but the past week has been a rough one. He said he needed time to think about ‘things’, and I’ve given him that. Saturday he asked for space; today is Friday, I still haven’t heard from him. I can’t take the not knowing anymore.
​
So… are you still thinking about things or…?
​
Snapchat confirms what I knew before opening the infernal application three hours later. The message was opened, read, and left unanswered. The microwave clock reads 12:37 a.m.
​
I can’t take this… Why are you ignoring me? Did I do something?
Sinking into my comfy mattress topper listening to an episode of “Friends” isn’t helping. I wouldn’t be able to describe the plot if my life depended on it. It’s hard to know what the gang is up to when your eyes are glued to a phone screen waiting to see the little, filled in, blue arrow become an outline. I throw my phone down on the mess of teal, black, white, blue, and pink blankets at my feet that are tangled from all the tossing and turning of my mind. Chandler Bing’s voice reaches my ears, “It’s so hard to care when you’re this relaxed.” I glare holes through the television before flopping back and pulling my pillow over my face to stifle my scream of frustration. If my neighbors can hear me, they probably think I’m crazy.
Honestly, I can’t even say what I’m screaming at. Him? The TV? The universe? When my chest constricts and the pain of my dry, empty, lungs sends ripples of fire up my throat, I embrace the burning for as long as possible until my body saves itself, and I throw the pillow across the room gasping for air. The pillow connects with my door, then drops to the floor, but I am more concerned with the ache inside my rib cage. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress before launching my feet onto the cold tiles. Every time I feel their hard surface, I shiver thinking of all the other bare feet that crossed this floor before I moved in. The remote on the desk takes two steps to reach and I mute Friends.
Feeling the rug under my toes gives me comforting vibes. The soft gray fuzz warms me, and I curl my toes in and out several times thinking of when I did this in the sand by the lake with him. The sound of the lake rushing up at us, then fading back in on itself takes over my imagination. The feeling of his arms around my waist and his chin resting on my shoulder with the sun rays beating into our skin overpowers my senses. I close my eyes trying to imagine that moment again, but take in the sounds of my dorm building instead.
I can hear music coming from down the hall, gun shots from a video game the guys below me are playing, the familiar squeak and crack of the stairwell door to my right followed by the laughter and conversation of a group of girls, and the Kansas wind that echoes through the hollow center of Wiest that my window looks out to. After a moment, I hear shouting. I strain my ears and decipher it as a couple fighting. The yelling voices rise and rise until I hear a door slam and my imagination takes me to his front yard. His dad is in the house to pick up his little sister; every time his parents are together an argument or fight is bound to break out. I can hear the yelling from outside the house. His pickup door slams and he yells at me to get in. I trust him, so I obey.
Then I hear it. The familiar ding of a Snapchat notification. I throw myself at my bed, launching to its raised position like a dog for a Frisbee, and frantically search through the blankets to find the small hunk of metal that I’m so addicted to. I stop when I see that the name on the screen is not his, but my classmate’s. My fingers type the four-digit passcode with lightning speed, muscle memory taking over from the thousands of times my thumb has padded across this path. Before opening her message, my eyes glance at the arrow by his name. Filled in. That means he hasn’t opened it. That means he isn’t ignoring me, he’s just busy. It takes less than a minute to respond to my classmate and when I return to my conversation list the blue arrow next to his name is hollow.
Immediately, my heart starts beating wildly and blood is rushing past my ears. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding in my ears until I can’t take it. I put the phone down, slip on my moccasins, and leave the room. I do the slowest walk around the hallways of my floor five times before stopping in front of my door and staring at the sign that has my name written on it in swirling font. The sign was a gift from his mother for graduation. She said this way he would know which room was mine; except, he hasn’t been to see me since I moved in.
My hand grips the cold metal knob, and I figure I probably look like a crazy person – again. My shoulders rise and lower before I realize I made the decision to take a deep breath. I hear the knob turn and the small creak of the door as I push it open and shut it behind me before walking over to my phone. I press the circular home button and see a photo of my friends and I laughing with our arms wrapped around each other’s backs. We’re in a house – a stack of dirty dishes in the sink behind us – and I remember it took six tries before we could all agree that the photo was acceptable to post on Instagram. But there was no message blocking my view of our faces.
Why am I even still awake? I should just lay down and go to sleep. That’s easy, right? I roll my eyes at myself in the mirror. I think I might actually be crazy. Maybe that’s why he’s acting like this; two years of dealing with me, and he’s had enough. I busy myself with four more episodes of Friends, telling myself he just hasn’t replied yet because he is typing his answer in his Notes app before sending it to me. I trust him. I always have. I trust him blindly and without question because that is the kind of person I am. It’s 2:57 and I have had enough.
So is that it then? I’m not even worth a reply anymore?
I plug my phone into the charger and pull the blankets up around my neck. Eventually sleep takes me off into a black abyss of dreamlessness. When my alarm goes off in the morning, I immediately hate myself for staying up so late. At that thought, I shoot up and snatch my phone from its resting place. There’s a notification blocking our faces on my background. My heart leaps in my chest and I rush to unlock the phone. However, when I tap the ghost and Snapchat stares me in the face, my smile disappears and my toes go cold under the seven blankets.
I know what’s coming.
I stretch forward and grab my notebook and pen from the ledge. I wrap my wild hair up in a bun and begin writing: “I can taste the bitter, sting of heartbreak on my tongue. I wasn’t blindsided either. Cold has slowly been creeping over me day by day. The warmth I used to feel when I was talking to him has been fading fast.” When I feel brave enough, I tap his name and read his response.
Yes you are worth a reply, you did nothing wrong. I don’t like you like you like me, and that’s not fair to you, because you deserve so much more.
“Right now, I’m numb,” I can’t cry no matter how hard I try, “Deep down, I knew he was never going to truly love me. You can’t force a wild thing to love. Something that has been damaged by its past. Something that thinks love means nothing more than saying things you don’t mean and making promises you don’t intend to keep. All you can do is love them with all you have and hope they let you show them what love is – hope they allow themselves to love you back.” My phone dings again and his name fills my vision.
I’m sorry.
“In the end, all that will come of this is pain. This story won’t have a beautiful epilogue about how our kids look just like us, how our cute little house smells like pancakes every Sunday evening, how we kiss each other goodnight, and how we whisper I love you over my morning tea and his coffee.” My fingers fly across the screen, the placement of the letters on the keyboard are more known to me than my address on campus.
Me too…
“Honestly, I’m not even sure our paths will ever cross again. Maybe next year, at a party, I’ll see him with another girl dancing all over him. I’ll chase away the pain with another shot straight from the big plastic bottle filled with that cheap alcohol that tastes like gasoline. I’ll smile and dance like nothing is wrong while I’m crumbling on the inside,” the thought of his arms wrapping around another girl and pulling her to his chest just how he always did with me makes something inside me turn to stone and drop into my stomach. I take a few slow breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth trying to fight back the nausea that is making my head groggy.
“I was never what he wanted. I just tricked myself into thinking I was what he needed – what was going to show him real love and keep him close forever. Things like that never happen. That is just an image I have in my mind because of all the books I read and movies I watch. This doesn’t feel anything like the heartbreaks described in my books. Those are shattering. They rip sobs from your chest and make you feel like every thread in your heart is being cut. This just feels like emptiness,” I feel myself forcing air into my lungs ending in a sharp pain every time the oxygen reaches the place where my heart should be connected, “The only thing letting me know I feel anything is the sound of the pen moving across the page.”
My eyes follow the ink as is creates a continuous river of twenty-six different symbols that stream across the page like the LED lights of a heart monitor, “Words have always been my lifeline; they always will be.”
“When people fail and my thoughts are too destructive to keep inside, the words are there,” my eyes drift over to the forty-nine books sitting on my shelf. Some I have yet to read, others are the favorites that I needed to have with me during this life transition called college. “The words hold my friends, my heroes, my family, but most importantly, they hold me and who I am. Like a sweet caress, they hold me and tell me that everything is going to be okay.”
“I feel them in the air.” My skin tingles with the electricity surrounding me. Even the darkness can’t hold the words back. They are attracted to the sound of the pen flying across the page, striking and gliding and rolling and pounding against the paper. The words seem to be daring the page to respond, taunting the lines and denying to be held within their restraints. With every loop of a y or cross of a t the words remind the page what gives it its beauty.
“They aren’t inside my mind, flowing out of the pen through me. The pen pulls them out of the air and puts them on the page. The words help me to feel again. They bring about all sorts of emotions. The words won’t judge me.” The pressure in my head is lessening, and the tears are flowing freely now: the words did that. They broke down the walls in my mind and helped the pain escape, the pain that could have damaged me if it would have remained locked away.
“They are like vibrations in the air,” I can feel them now as the tears run down my cheeks. They understand. They know my hopes and dreams before I do, and they feel pain approaching and come to help cushion the blows.
“I don’t feel alone.” Breathing is coming easier, I feel the words healing my heart. They aren’t my words of course; I can’t even honestly say whose words they are. They belong to the air. I am simply the scribe.
“I will always love the words.” I try to come up with a way to thank the words for being a part of my life, but I can’t form the sentence. I realize it is because the words already know what is in my heart. They don’t need to tell themselves how much they mean to me.
“Nothing could ever change that.” A tear rolls from my cheek and splashes against the page, but the blue ink refuses to blur. I think of a phrase my English professor said and write it in large cursive letters at the bottom of the page.
“Trust the paper; trust the pen.”
Rattler
He rattles a warning
I should turn away
Anticipation rises
The steady gaze
of a snake approaching prey.
Nowhere to turn
I don’t want to run
My life is the price I’ll pay
I reach out my hand
He smiles
He moves my way
The snake devours me
To Be Loved By You
Hands.
I dreamt of hands that would hold mine with steady strength—ones that would wipe away my tears.
Eyes.
I dreamt of eyes that would look upon me with wonder—ones that could read deep into my soul.
Lips.
I dreamt of lips that would kiss me with intensity and tenderness all at once—ones that would whisper I love you.
Each time I felt I had found the one they belonged to, I was proven wrong. Whether it was timing, location, or anything in between, something was keeping me from them. For years, I lived worrying about the person I was meant to spend my life with.
Society filled me with the pressures of relationships. My mother told me she wanted grandkids. The elderly members of my church always asked when I was getting married. All my friends were getting engaged.
I had walls built up around my heart that defended against the emotions I felt. My heart was on the inside; then a wall made of stone, steel, bricks, and chain link; then my emotions; then another layer of walls, motes, and defenses. I wanted nothing to do with anyone that could hurt me. The best way to protect myself from letting emotions impact my heart was to isolate myself.
But then I saw a boy. He smiled at me, and I blushed. He was everything I thought I wanted: tall, handsome, kind eyes, genuine smile, nice laugh, deep voice, athletic, religious, et cetera. We texted, flirted, got to know each other. I met his friends, and he met mine.
After weeks and weeks, I asked, “Is this going anywhere?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, his palms grew clammy and a nervous sweat broke out on his forehead. He stuttered, mentioned how he thought I was a cool girl and all, but he just wasn’t ready for a relationship. That settled it. I texted, called, tried to get in contact with him, but he’d ghosted me. The only way I would ever hear from him was if, by some universal mistake, we ran into each other. Not likely.
I receded into myself again. For months, I remained content in solitude—I didn’t need a man to be happy. I was strong, independent, and powerful on my own. My friends pushed me to put myself back out there; my family pressured me to find a man. What they didn’t realize was how strongly I felt them breathing down the back of my neck every time I held eye contact with an attractive stranger. It was like he could see them too. And, just as quickly as his eyes found mine, they moved on to my friends or the girl across the room. I had no need for a man whose gaze could pass over me so easily.
Living in the secret room of my heart was much easier. I was completely content making eye contact with strangers and flirting so casually I didn’t notice it happening. Any man that tried to pursue me or talk to me or ask me on dates was blown off faster than the wind blows locks of hair off my shoulder.
I fell in love with myself. I took myself out with a good book or spent entire days doing things I enjoyed. I was content. I had finally found myself, and I didn’t need anyone else to bring me happiness.
Then I saw you.
Your eyes looked so deep into mine that I felt naked standing there on the sidewalk. I wrapped my arms around myself, not because of the cold wind whipping around us, but because I needed to hold my heartbeat inside my chest. I don’t know how the butterflies didn’t escape the pit of my stomach and blind you. I don’t know how you didn’t warm from the heat radiating from my cheeks.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t contain the swirling in my mind from the deep perfection of your voice. I couldn’t form words because your smile was melting all the thoughts that tried to form. A curl fell from its proper place, and you were like lightning. I had barely noticed its presence before you tucked it back behind my ear.
I noticed that.
Although it was twenty degrees outside with a wind chill to freeze bones, your hand was warm, strong, steady against my cheek. I said something then—it was probably ridiculous. You smiled, said something, and I laughed.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah, I’d love some.”
“I know the best place.” You offered me your arm. “It’s just around the corner.”
I smiled.
“This is the best place in town.” I barely heard you over the blood pounding past my ears. “Not as good as this place I went to in Costa Rica, but it’s still good.”
“Costa Rica?” I said the only thing my brain could latch onto.
You smiled down at me where my teeth were chattering from the cold. “Yeah, I spent a month down there this summer studying Spanish.”
“Spanish?” Complete sentences were impossible for me.
You nodded and held open a large glass door, gesturing for me to enter. The smell of coffee filled my nose, and your voice floated over my shoulder, “Do you speak any Spanish?”
I nodded.
That was it. That was when you turned my world around in spirals—making my world simultaneously bigger and smaller all at once. Your voice, deep and quiet, made me lean in and closed my world to consist of just us. But you spoke of adventures, and got me to speak of my own, and expanded my world to cross continents. We talked in those spirals for over an hour that day. Bouncing between languages based on which country we were telling a story from. I taught you lines of sign language, and you taught me bits of French. Together, we traversed the globe in a coffee shop. You hadn’t lied: the coffee was delicious, but the conversation was better.
That became our place.
We went on dates all over the city and created our own fun out of the small expanse we called home, but we always returned to the coffee shop.
I won’t ever forget the day you looked at me in the book section of the secondhand store. Your hand was poised, about to pull a book from the shelf while I had three stacked in my arms. Your smile was soft, and I could see a thought turning in your mind.
“What are you thinking about?”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you took two long strides and ended up face to face with me. Your lips were on mine before I could blink. My brain turned to putty. Your hand caressed my cheek. Your thumb traced lines along my skin. The books fell from my hands as your free arm wrapped around my waist, pressing our bodies together, and my palm slid against your chest until it rested at the base of your neck. When the kiss ended, you rested your forehead against mine.
I heard a chuckle leave your chest. “You dropped your books.”
My eyes fluttered open to embrace yours. I smiled bigger than ever before.
After weeks of dates and laughter, the question that had ended so many almost-relationships bubbled up in my mind. The day it was strongest, you took me out to the highest hill, and we sat looking at the city lights in contrast with the stars. The question was stabbing at me—a thorn in my heel. I knew if I asked there was no going back. The stars were so beautiful. They made me want to bury the question and let the moment be perfect. My thoughts rolled over and under and around my head.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
Your eyebrow raised. “That’s a lie.”
I took a deep breath. Opened my lips to speak. The words wouldn’t come out.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“It’s just…I’m scared.” My heart was pounding in my ears. “I just…I don’t know where you see this going. I don’t want to push things, but my dumb girl brain won’t leave it alone.”
“Don’t call yourself dumb. Why are you scared?”
Tears threatened to build. “Every time I feel myself falling for someone they leave. If you’re going to leave, I want it to happen sooner rather than later.”
Silence joined us, but a moment later you turned to face me. “I don’t know who made you feel that, but they were an idiot. You’re wonderful. I brought you out here to ask if we could label this. Would it be okay if I call you my girlfriend?”
I don’t know how my smile didn’t blind you from shining brighter than all the stars and lights from the city. “I’d like that.” You pulled me closer, and we sat back drawing constellations in the sky.
The moment was perfect.
My family was ecstatic when I brought you home. You fit in and stood out all at once, and I loved you for it. The old ladies at church loved the way you took my hand and leaned your head to mine to pray. My friends thought you were exotic and exciting, and they loved the way I spoke about you over glasses of wine and face masks.
Our adventures carried us over oceans and across continents. Every coffee shop we visited was compared to the one at home. Though some had better coffee or comfier seating, none were that corner shop in that tiny city in Kansas. Each time we pulled back into town from an adventure, we didn’t go home to unpack or sleep off the jet lag. We went to the coffee shop.
I won’t ever forget the day we walked into the shop and the baristas smiled at us bigger than usual. You kissed my head and ordered our coffee while I sat down and shook my coat off my shoulders. It was three years to the day that we had our first cup of coffee together. You rejoined me at the table, and we started our usual comfort of conversation. The barista brought us our coffee once it was made—that first sip warmed me instantly. We talked on and the conversation turned to us. We were whispering all the things we love about each other.
You looked down at my coffee then back up into my eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” I lifted my mug to my lips.
“I never want to spend a single day of my life without everyone who sees you knowing you are loved. I want every pair of eyes that look upon you to know there is someone willing to do anything for you—buy a house with you, get a dog with you, then another, come home from work to you, kiss you, love you.”
I smiled at you and took the last drink of my coffee. You always spoke to me like this.
I set down my mug.
There was something written on the bottom.
I looked closer.
Will you marry me?
I looked up at you.
You were on one knee—a beautiful ring gripped between two shaking fingers.
Tears appeared. “Why are you shaking?” A tear escaped. “You know the answer.” I slid down to my knees and wrapped your hand in mine. “I would love to marry you.”
Like a bolt of lightning, your arms shot around me and held me to your chest. We kissed, cried, smiled, laughed. You slid the ring on my finger. It was a perfect fit.
“My great-grandmother’s.”
Your hands hold me with steady strength.
Your eyes look upon me with wonder.
Your lips kiss me intensely and tenderly.
Everyone before you caused pain. But, without the pain, I would never have known how wonderful it is to be loved—to be loved by you.
Funny Glue
Dorothy dumps her Friday pills into her palm and swallows the handful with a swig of decaf coffee. She watches a group of doves pick at the corner crusts from the morning toast she tossed into the garden and remembers the marmalade on her tongue. A cardinal lands by the rose bush and turns a pasodoble with one of the doves until the dove snatches the piece and takes off with it. The losing cardinal bobs among the flowers in search of more, but Dorothy sees the other three birds take off with beaks full. She considers pulling a chunk off tomorrow’s bread to toss to the brilliant red bird, but before she acts on her compassion, a metal knocker creaks and pounds against the front door. She sets her coffee on the table and stands, pushing the bird to the back of her mind, and hurries toward the second knock.
Pulling the door open, Dorothy smiles. “Well, hello there.” Dorothy steps back and stoops to hug the tiny girl with blonde hair to her waist. “You and I have quite the date today.”
“What are we gonna do, Gran?” Her round eyes gleam.
Dorothy lowers her voice to a whisper. “Run back to the office and see what I’ve set up.”
The little girl bounds away down the hall. Once her figure turns the corner, Dorothy looks back to the door and meets the gaze of an older version of the child.
“Thanks for watching her, Mom.” Dorothy’s daughter’s eyes are filled with the same pity the rest of her children’s eyes have held for the past year and a half.
Dorothy knows they have been talking about her in their texting groups, trying to figure out who should check on her next and what activity or event they can send her off to. She has half a mind each time one of them drops by “just because” to tell them exactly who it was that changed their nappies and remind them of those years when none of them could even be bothered to call home once in a while let alone drop by “just because.” The only reason she holds her tongue is the knowledge that they are just trying to help; they are behaving exactly the way she raised them.
“You know you two are welcome anytime.” Dorothy reaches out to straighten the collar of her daughter’s blazer.
“Yeah.” Her daughter gently tosses a strand of hair over her shoulder. “I’d better get going. The parent teacher conference shouldn’t take long. Thanks again, Mom.”
Dorothy pulls her into a hug and kisses each of her cheeks. “Of course, my butterfly.” She holds the screen door and watches her daughter head down the steps toward her car. “See you soon.”
As her daughter pulls away, she leans over the middle console and blows a kiss. Dorothy returns the gesture and watches the car disappear around the corner.
“Penny, dear,” Dorothy calls, pushing the door closed, “do you want anything to eat or drink?”
“No thanks.” Penny bounds out of the office and toward Dorothy. “What’s all that stuff in there for? It looks like funny glue.”
Dorothy takes her granddaughter’s hand and leads her into the kitchen. “It sort of is like funny glue. I thought maybe today, instead of baking or reading, we could make some art.”
Penny releases Dorothy’s grasp and extends two hands out to retrieve the coffee mug from the table. “Like the art you used to make?” She moves as a sloth in the direction of the office, watching the liquid near the brim attentively. “I’m pretty good at art. My teacher always hangs up the pictures I draw her right behind her desk. I’ve never used that glue stuff, though.”
“Not quite like the paintings I used to do, but still art.”
Penny glances at her grandmother. “Why’d you take all your paintings down?”
Dorothy thinks of the canvases stuffed in the shed. “I just didn’t like to look at them anymore.”
“Well, you should make new ones,” Penny declares entering the office.
In reality, office is a loose term for the room. It’s technically the third bedroom that their kids talked them into putting a desk in once Penny’s mother moved out. Eventually, Dorothy added a small easel for painting and a larger table for putting puzzles together. Throughout the years, they added a small TV mounted in the corner of the room and a computer to the desk for hearts and solitaire. The kids got them set up on email and showed them how to do a search on the Internet Explorer. It was all very useless in Dorothy’s opinion. She preferred Larry’s Country Diner to the internet. The TV was her favorite part, especially when her son added the DVD player after Dorothy’s brother shipped her The Vicar of Dibley box set for Christmas.
“You can put my coffee just over there, then let’s get an apron on you.” Dorothy lifts the child-sized one off the back of the desk chair.
Penny sets the coffee on the table and turns with her arms stretched to either side. “But, Gran, these are for cooking.”
“Yes,” Dorothy slips the hoop over Penny’s head and wraps the ribbon around her waist two times before tying it into a bow, “but we can use them for this too.”
Penny shrugs, satisfied with the answer, and climbs into one of the folding chairs Dorothy set up at the puzzle table. Dorothy pulls her own apron on, silently sighing for the days the table was covered with partly constructed puzzles.
“So what are we gonna do art on?” Penny turns all the bottles of paint so the labels face forward.
Dorothy pulls two blue sweatshirts from the closet door just behind Penny’s head and hands the smaller one to her granddaughter. “I got us these sweaters I thought would be fun to jazz up.”
Penny lifts the fabric to assess her canvas. “Can I do yours for you instead, Gran?”
Dorothy stutters in her motion of sitting and cocks an eyebrow. “I think that’s a terrific idea, caterpillar.” They trade sweatshirts, and Dorothy helps her get the shirt smoothed out on the table to give the Puffy Paint a good surface to take hold on. She explains the “funny glue” and how it works to the attentive young student before her and eventually cracks the plastic wrapping off the first color.
Penny dives right in with the yellow paint, and Dorothy can’t help but laugh to herself at the child’s unfailing confidence. While Penny works away, Dorothy preps her own canvas and sits back to consider it with her coffee in hand. She thinks of all the different items Penny loves, her favorite colors and hobbies, the movies she watches and the books she reads over and over. She thinks of all the things she wants to teach Penny and various empowering words. She thinks of Penny’s dog and their annual matching Halloween costumes. She even thinks of Penny’s obsession with chicken nuggets, but nothing seems right.
To distract her brain from its lack of creativity, Dorothy turns to Penny. “Are you happy to have the day off from school?”
Penny shrugs. “Only because I get to see you.”
“Well, tell me about school.” Dorothy prods, “Do you still like it?”
“Yeah,” Penny never looks up from her work, “but my teacher started making me go to the first-grade room during reading. She says my friend’s feelings get hurt when I tell them all the words without letting them think. I heard the first-grade teacher tell my teacher she thinks I’ll be bored in reading class until I’m in high school, but I told her that didn’t make sense because I love reading. I think the teacher was upset that I heard her, but she wasn’t talking quiet at all. Teachers do that a lot, though. They never think we listen.”
Dorothy lets a stream of coffee warm her before asking, “What’s your favorite book these days?”
“The Wizard of Oz. I told my teacher about reading it with you and how you’re like the Dorothy in the story because Kansas was your Oz when you moved here.”
Dorothy smiles at her observation. “Do you like working with the older kids?”
Penny bobs her head. “Uh-huh. Mommy said I just had to switch because you and me practice together so much and the other kids don’t get to practice with their grans.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Dorothy says watching a strand of hair fall over Penny’s shoulder. “Are you still getting good marks?”
“Yep.” Penny never looks up. “The first-grade teacher gave me a test yesterday, too. I heard her tell my teacher that she wanted to see if I was reading the words or just had them memorized, but I didn’t say anything because I don’t think I was supposed to hear her.”
“What kind of test?” Dorothy raises her brow.
Penny tosses the loose strands of hair over her shoulder. “She made me look at a bunch of words by themselves and tell her what they meant. There were only two I didn’t know.”
“What were they?”
Penny sets the paint down and focuses on a memory beyond the wall. “Anguish and recuperation.” She looks back to her grandmother. “I think those words were unfair because they were the longest and craziest. I told my teacher it wasn’t fair, too. I said you showed me to use all the sentence to learn a new word, and those weren’t in a sentence. The other kids would know that trick if their grans taught them, then I wouldn’t have to tell them the words all the time.”
Dorothy fights back a smile. “Well, we are quite lucky to spend so much time together, aren’t we?”
Penny grins up at her like they are sharing a secret, covering her lips when a soft giggle escapes. “You’re my best friend, Gran.”
Dorothy pulls her against her side and kisses her head. “And you’re mine, caterpillar.” She runs her fingers through Penny’s silky locks before adding, “But, be sure you’re kind to your schoolmates. You’re a bright girl, and reading comes naturally to you. It may be difficult for some of the others.”
Nodding, Penny answers, “Okay, I’ll be more patient.”
She turns back to her sweatshirt covered in little yellow bubbles, and Dorothy wills a beautiful image to have magically appeared on her own sweater. It hasn’t, of course, and she huffs in response.
“We should turn the TV on,” Penny states, battling the plastic seal on the pink paint.
Dorothy takes the bottle and removes the wrapper before handing it back to Penny. “Is there anything good on today?”
“Disney is channel thirty-four, and Nickelodeon is twenty-six. I always watch Disney, though. Mommy says Nickelodeon is too big-kid for me,” Penny says twisting the cap off the paint.
“Well, let’s check Disney.” Dorothy turns the TV on, and the soft hum of electricity appears.
Penny looks up to await the image and nods when the channel comes on. “This is a good one, Gran. You’ll like the music.”
“The music huh?” Dorothy sets the remote aside and watches Penny apply pink dots to match the yellow ones around the sweater.
“Yeah, it has that bumpety feeling you and Pop used to dance to.”
Dorothy casts her eyes to the screen and watches the characters say their lines for a while before Penny speaks up again. “Can you open this one?”
Dorothy moves her fingers around the cap, peeling away the plastic and ignoring the prick in her eyes. Static makes the wrapping cling to her finger, and she shakes it a few times before it falls to the floor. She hands the green bottle back to her granddaughter and watches her add lines from each bundle of bubbles to a green EKG line carving across the middle of the sweatshirt.
Finally understanding the art, Dorothy says, “Are you making flowers?”
“A garden.”
“Ah, a garden.” Dorothy glances back up to the TV. “What kind of flowers are in the garden?”
“I dunno.” Penny pauses her work and appraises it. “Pop would call them funny things like Bubblegum Begonias or Sunny-Side Ups.”
Dorothy looks back down to the forming flowers and smiles. “What about Princess Petunias or Scrambled Daisies?”
The suggestions send Penny into a fit of giggles. “Do more, do more.”
Dorothy ponders while Penny hands her the white paint to open. “Sneezy Fluffs?” Penny explodes into fairy laughter. She clutches her belly and pulls her feet into the seat with her tiny frame, fighting to breathe through her joy.
“What’s a Sneezy Fluff?” Penny finally manages.
Dorothy, also recovering from laughter, responds, “Why, a dandelion, of course.”
They each take turns making up silly names for flowers and eventually progress to renaming things around the office. They giggle through most of the movie on the TV, and Penny continues working away on her sweatshirt. She moves to kneel on the seat to give herself a better angle for reaching over all the wet paint.
When the game has exhausted itself, Dorothy says, “You know, I saw a joke in the funnies section this morning that I think you’ll like.”
“What is it?” Penny looks to her grandmother brimming with anticipation and laughter already on her tongue.
“What kind of bird always forgets the words of the song?”
Penny giggles and wiggles in her seat. “What?” She can hardly contain herself.
“A hum-mingbird,” Dorothy declares, and Penny dissolves into excitement. She throws her head down to gasp for breath before tossing her hair over her shoulder with giggles.
When Dorothy finally recovers herself and wipes the tears from her eyes, they both notice what has happened. Paint covers Penny’s hair, and a large green smudge has been transferred from the long blonde strands to the closet door behind her.
Sudden laughter from the doorway makes them both look up. “What in the world are you two doing in here?” They resume their uncontrollable laughter when Penny’s mother enters the office. “What happened to your hair?”
Struggling to breathe, Dorothy places a hand on her daughter. “Oh, just a bit of creative energy.”
“It’ll wash, Mommy.” Penny crawls out of the chair and gestures to the sweatshirt. “Look what I made for Gran.”
Her mother smiles, shaking her head. “It’s beautiful, Penny. You did great work.”
“Yeah.” Penny crosses her arms and looks back at the sweater. “It has some smudges from my hair, but that’s okay. Now you can always remember your funny joke, Gran.”
Dorothy places her hands on either side of Penny’s face and kisses her forehead. “That’s right, love. I’m sorry I didn’t get yours done for you to take home today.”
Penny shrugs. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready yet. You can try again another day.”
Dorothy drinks in the little waves of color in Penny’s eyes and sees a resemblance that makes her chest clench. They brim with knowledge beyond her years and are infused with empathy.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and go grab some lunch.” Her mother appraises the paint clinging to the blonde strands. “What do you say?”
“Okay, I’ll go start the water to wash my hair in the sink.” Penny skips off toward the bathroom.
Dorothy takes her daughter’s hand. “How did it go?”
“Fine, her teachers didn’t have much to say.”
“Well,” she pats the back of her daughter’s hand, “she takes after you, butterfly.”
“Thanks, Mom. Want to join us for lunch?”
Dorothy stands from the chair and shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got some work to get done in here.” She looks around the room and focuses her gaze on the blank, Penny-sized sweatshirt.
She listens to her daughter and granddaughter fumble around in the bathroom trying to wash the paint from Penny’s hair, looking over to the green mark on the closet. She thinks of washing it off but quickly dismisses the notion.
Lately, she has been valuing the little signs of life lived more than gold. . .
. . . those lasting stains of love. . .
. . . the terrible ecstasy of a lifetime with your best friend.
“Okay, Gran,” Penny chimes from the office doorway, “We’re gonna go. Mommy said we can get chicken nuggets.”
Dorothy follows the pair to the front door, hugs them tight, and blows them kisses as they drive away. Once the car is out of sight, she returns to the office.
The movie on the screen is playing a polka, surely one of the “bumpety” songs Penny was talking about. Dorothy sits back down to her seat in front of the blank sweatshirt. Her fingers peel the plastic wrapping off the red paint, and she begins constructing the image of a cardinal. Each time it becomes hard to continue, she looks up and sees the green stain on the closet door and hears Penny’s laughter.
All the Maybes
There was always something that forced me to keep getting upset every time people didn’t act the way I thought they ought to. My whole childhood, I grew up playing Barbie dolls. I made their lives exactly what I wanted them to be. I made them wear exactly what I wanted them to wear. I made them say exactly what I wanted them to say. I gave them back-stories and personalities and motives.
The other day, it finally hit me.
In the Barbie World, I was in control.
Here—outside of that Barbie World—the control is far from mine. Sometimes I don’t even have control of my own thoughts, let alone the actions of others. I watch movies about people who make stupid mistakes, and I get frustrated. Why? Why did they have to do that stupid thing? Why could they not just do the smart thing that I would have done? God, that sounds terrible. I sound like a self-centered, conceited, brat.
I don’t like not being in control. If anything goes wrong in my life or things don’t work out, I want to know that I had control of the situation; that I did everything I could.
It doesn’t always work that way.
I’m not the boss of life. I don’t have the final say over all things in the world.
The whole world is a danger zone.
There are too many things that hurt.
~~~
How do I look at myself, knowing I had no control over such a destructive decision? Or, did I have control? Was there something that I could have done to change the outcome? I read books and have conversations about this kind of thing all the time. Was there an instance where I could have done something but didn’t? Why wasn’t I a better friend?
She asked me to be a friend, but I didn’t try hard enough. I should have kept inviting her places and encouraging her to come hang out or do things or even just check in on her every once in a while.
I didn’t.
I gave minimal effort to fulfill her request of being a friend in this town, and now that reality is staring me straight in the face. I don’t pretend to be the only thing wrong in her life. I know I’m not that special. But maybe, just maybe, if I had been there for her, she would have made a different decision. Maybe she would have made the decision that I would have made for her. But then again, maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe there were too many other things weighing down on her that I never would have known about.
Clearly, the people who were active in her life didn’t know or couldn’t read the signs. You know, maybe that is another reason why I feel so guilty. If I had put in more effort to be her friend, I might have seen the signs. I have spent so many classes talking about the warning signs and the things that lead a person to that point. Maybe I could have seen it coming—stopped it.
I didn’t.
I wasn’t.
My chance is gone. I missed the train. I failed. We all failed. We all failed her. She is gone, and it’s all our faults collectively. I don’t care how many times you remind me that it wasn’t my fault and that there was too much pain inside of her that I couldn’t have helped. Maybe if all of us had done one little thing that we had the power to do, she wouldn’t have done it.
~~~
I’ve never understood why liking pink is so deeply associated with little girls. I like the color pink. I always have. Now that I’m older, I’ve started to realize that I like pink because it is a mix of red and white. Sometimes there is more red, and sometimes there is more white. That is how you get so many different shades. Red is such a powerful and angry color; white is pure and clean but also very loud and commands attention. I like the way the white tames the red and softens its anger.
~~~
I live a life.
I am privileged, and I refuse to pretend like I am not. To do so would be an insult to everything my parents and grandparents and great grandparents did to get me here. I do not come from a long line of wealthy people, and we are not wealthy people now. We live a comfortable middle-class life as the descendants of people who did not. The Dust Bowl and The Great Depression struck them, but they survived and grew a family to comfort. They did this because they had love and knew how to love.
Sometimes it feels like a crime to admit that my life is good and that I can live in comfort. It always feels like I’m supposed to be ashamed of my happiness when I know so many other people who aren’t happy and who are discriminated against and whose circumstances are painful. Any time I feel those pressures, I remind myself of my family and how hurt they would be if I felt those things while knowing all the pain and trouble they suffered so that I wouldn’t have to.
A lot of people that I meet like to talk about the bad things in their lives and how life is unfair. They dwell on their misfortunes. Do not misunderstand me: those experiences are very real and will always be a part of their lives. I just wish they could learn to let themselves be happy beyond those circumstances.
I am privileged and loved, but my life hasn’t been perfect. Those times that made my life less than perfect do not define me. I will not be held into a state of sadness and self-destruction because of them.
When that darkness started to creep over me, I took it in my hands and made the decision for myself that I would conquer it. I looked into its emptiness and said: “You do not own me. I am strong. I am loved. I deserve happiness.”
I guess, maybe, that is why I don’t understand what she did. Even when I felt alone and broken, I still loved myself enough to know that I deserved better. Once I found strength in my self-appreciation, my eyes were opened to the countless people who loved and cared for me and all that they did and sacrificed for me.
~~~
Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe it had nothing to do with any of us at all. Maybe it was about the way she loved herself.
It is hard to understand the kind of darkness that would pull you that far under—the darkness that wraps its hands around your throat and eyes and drags you beneath the surface of reality. There were so many people that loved her. She had to know that. How could she not? Maybe we didn’t love her enough?
No.
Even as I say that, I know it is wrong. Something in my chest tells me she knew we loved her and how greatly she was loved. There was something else. Something else was haunting her. Those thoughts were circling her mind like a vulture circles prey: it taunts the suffering animal until the very last second of life. Maybe the vulture got too close to her and the feeling in her chest each time it made a round, getting closer and closer and closer, got too scary and she just wanted it to end.
When I let my mind start to think about why she did it, it breaks my heart at the number of devastating events she had to endure and live with. Simultaneously, I can only think of her laugh and the cloud of vanilla that went with her everywhere. She always used to smell like vanilla—always.
It’s weird to use the past tense. She was so young, and you should only use past tense with old people and great-great-grand-family-members: not friends or peers. It’s so strange to think of the finality of it. She made a decision and will never have the chance to change it or make any other decisions again.
~~~
Free-will.
The main question a Christian will get from a non-believer or skeptic is: “If God is so powerful and loves us all so much, why does He let bad things happen?” The only answer is this: “God loves us so much that He wants us to choose to love Him and follow Him and do right by Him, so He gives us free-will.”
You cannot force someone to love you. If you do, then it’s not love: it’s fear. His undying love for us means that He is willing to let us choose our own way even though He has a perfect plan for us. He allows us to face these decisions each day because He wants us to know that we have free-will.
In the same way, you can’t force your love on someone who doesn’t want it. Maybe she was in such a dark place that she didn’t even want us to love her. Maybe there was nothing more that we could have done.
But God!
Why?!
Why didn’t you let us save her?
Why did she have to choose that?
What were we supposed to do?
Was there a decision that each of us made years ago that sent her to that point?
Was it our decisions that did this and not hers?
Why?
I don’t know how to think of her without smelling vanilla.
Why?
I don’t know how to think of her without seeing her sharp, unique, beautiful eyes.
Why?
I don’t know how to think of her without blaming myself.
Why?
~~~
I look around at everything I have been blessed with and wonder: “If she had just a few of the blessing I did. . . I had plenty to spare. . . How do I go on living in a place of such comfort and security knowing that she didn’t feel this?”
What about when I start to heal from this? We will all heal from this at different times and in different ways, but what if I heal sooner than others? Does that make me a bad person? If I can move on with my life and be happy and smile and laugh and live. . .
~~~
At the funeral, the pastor said: “I know that Jesus was there with her in those last moments, inviting her home.”
The lyrics of Tremble by Mosaic MSC come to my mind’s ear. I can’t help but think: these are the words that she was hearing as she made her last decision.
Peace.
The decision that no one could make for her.
Still.
The decision that no one could have changed.
Breathe.
The decision that resided in her.
Light.
She knew He was light, and so she went to Him.
~~~
Maybe there was more each of us could have done, but in the end, the decision was hers.
We will grow. We will heal. We will move on.
Just like she would want us to.
We aren’t there yet—far from it. Our healing is still a work in progress, just like we are.
But while we are here in this place of grief and sadness, we want you to know we are sorry Mandie. I am sorry Mandie: deeply sorry for everything. Nothing can change the past. But please know, Mandie, if God gave us the chance to change it, we would. We would change it faster than you pulled the trigger.
The Flowerpot
Riz delights in the burn of the heat on her thumb as she lights the cigarette between her lips. The smoke burns her chest stealing oxygen’s property, and she pulls the cancer stick from her mouth and releases the toxins. The sound of her boots on the pavement as she walks to her house mingles with voices gearing up for a night out. Every yard has people playing drinking games and blaring music.
Two guys dangling precariously from their porch railing whistle in her direction as she passes making her aware of the work pants battling her curves. Her speed increases, and the middle finger on the non-cigarette hand sends a warning to the boys. In an attempt to slow her heartrate, she takes another drag and holds the smoke as long as she can.
The setting sun, weaving between the branches, teases her skin. The approaching months taunt her in the cooling air, and she rubs the skin of her arm to rid it of goosebumps. The little two-bedroom house comes into view; and as she reaches the front door, she notices the big black motorcycle parked behind the bush and knows Terrell is here. Riz drops the rest of her cigarette in the flowerpot-turned-ashtray, twists the knob swinging the front door open, and enters the living room.
The tattered love seat welcomes her with its sunken cushions. The wobbly table in the corner greets her with scattered books and notes of homework from her and Terrell.
“Terrell?” she calls, and her voice reverberates off the empty gray walls.
“In here,” a smooth, deep voice calls.
She follows the sound into Terrell’s room. “Happy birthday, T.”
He smiles, looking up from the book in his hands. “Happy birthday to you too. Two decades down with the worst behind us”
“God, it better be.” Riz laughs.
Terrell chuckles. “How was work?”
“Work.” She shrugs and moves to flop next to him on his mattress.
Terrell goes back to his book, and after a beat, Riz asks, “What’re you reading?” Terrell responds by holding up the cover. “Pride and Prejudice? Isn’t that some cheesy romance?”
“Yes.” Terrell nudges her side with his elbow. “It’s actually really good though. I mean, once I got past the way they talk and all the long descriptions, I’m kind of invested.”
“Seems like a waste of time to me. Why aren’t you jamming to music or something like you usually do?”
Terrell doesn’t answer her for a while, and finally she pulls the book from his hands. “What’s with you? You’ve been different for a few weeks now.”
Terrell runs a hand through the dark curls on his head before saying, “Nothing’s with me. This new college life is just helping me grow up a little.” He smirks. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“Whatever.” She playfully shoves him, giggling, “you’re still a jerk though. That hasn’t changed.”
“Yep.” He winks before pushing her small figure off the mattress to the hardwood floor it sits on.
Riz laughs as she stands. “I’m going to go change. What are we doing for supper?”
“I’ll go cook. How about scrambled eggs?”
Riz nods. “Sounds good to me.”
She stands to leave, but Terrell’s voice stops her. “Hey, I invited friends over for a birthday party for us tonight, and I’m sure they’ll all bring more people too. Figured we could end up at the bar like usual?”
“Yeah.” She tries to maintain her smile. “That sounds like fun.”
Terrell turns back to his book, and Riz pauses at his bedroom door to take him in once more before turning and going to the other end of the hall to her room. Once she shuts the door behind her, she flops onto her mattress placed flat on the floor just like Terrell’s and starts playing alternative music from the open laptop by her bed.
The song changes to a more upbeat party tune which offers enough motivation to pull Riz out of bed and toward her closet. She peels off her uniform and tosses them into the laundry basket before staring down her limited clothing options. Eventually, Riz settles on the pleather skirt she snagged at the secondhand store and the red crop top she made from one of Terrell’s old t-shirts. Her standard black combat boots go back on her feet, and she fixes the black ribbon that fell off an old dress around her neck in a choker style. Like usual, her mind rolls through images of all the girls Terrell has dated and decides this is as close as she can get to looking like them.
She runs a brush through her stalk-straight black hair just as she hears Terrell call, “How many eggs do you want?”
With one last deep breath at her appearance, she opens her door and moves into the small kitchen. “Two is fine.”
Terrell nods, cracking an egg into the frying pan. Once the second egg meets the hot metal, he begins mixing them around and says, “Lookin’ good, Riz. Got someone you’re hoping to see tonight?”
“Sort of.” Riz moves around and lifts herself to sit on the counter.
“Sort of?” Terrell exclaims with a smile. “Who the hell is this guy?”
Riz shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Well.” Terrell locks his gaze on the eggs in the pan, clears his throat, and says, “I sort of have someone in mind, too.”
Riz feels her heart pound harder, and her palms grip the counter tighter. “Oh?”
Terrell flicks his eyes to Riz and back to the eggs. “Yeah, her name’s Audrey. She’s in my Diversity in the U.S. class, and we had to partner up for this biography project a few weeks ago.”
Riz dissolves into herself, only half listening to the rest of his explanation.
“I don’t know, Riz. It’s just like . . . she gets me. Like, I told her all about my past and stuff, and she wasn’t thrown off at all by any of it.”
Riz begins drawing an image of the new girl in her head, each with important features lacking in herself.
“She totally understood—and not in that fake way that people do with kids like you and me. She actually listened and didn’t try to out-trauma me.”
She tries to think through faces she’s seen around campus, imagining them standing by Terrell.
“Like . . . I don’t know how to explain it . . . I gave her all the gory details of all the times I found my mom overdosed and passed out, of all her abusive boyfriends, and all the foster care stuff.”
Terrell guides the eggs onto a plate and slides it toward Riz. “Being with her makes me feel weird in such a good way, you know?”
Riz picks at the eggs, moving them around the plate.
“That’s actually why I’m reading that book. It’s her favorite, and she talks about it all the time. Reading it makes me feel closer to her. Like, I understand so much more about her.”
After a pause, he puts his hand on Riz’s shoulder. “Riz? You okay?”
“What?” Riz snaps her head up. “Yeah, I’m good. I just don’t really feel like eating, I guess. You can have them.”
Riz hops off the counter and starts back toward her room as Terrell says, “Okay, well you should eat something before you drink.” He shovels a pile of eggs in his mouth, talking around the food. “Don’t want to get drunk on an empty stomach.”
“Yeah.” Riz tries to offer a soft smile over her shoulder to him.
“Everyone should be here in like thirty minutes.”
Finally reaching the comfort of her room, Riz lets the disappointment swallow her. She moves like a machine through the tasks of reapplying her makeup for a night out rather than serving tables of happy families and hooks her nose ring back into place.
As Riz considers fixing the chipped polish on her nails, she hears voices float from the living room. She pushes herself up from the mattress and goes to greet the party guests. Most of the faces are familiar, and she finds herself falling into the usual rhythm of chatting, playing games, and drinking. She even sneaks away to eat a couple slices of bread and a handful of cornflakes. When Riz returns from the secluded kitchen, she can’t find Terrell.
She watches their friends play a game on the table and bounces her knee, awaiting Terrell’s return. The minutes tick by, and Riz’s knee bounces faster and faster. One of the guys from Terrell’s work tells her to take a Xanax and just as she is about to retort something sarcastic, the front door swings open and Terrell’s frame takes its place.
Riz stands from her perch on the arm of the couch but halts when a smaller, blonde figure emerges from behind him. The new girl is adorned with a pastel pink tank-top that hangs tastefully around her stature and is tucked into a pair of high-waisted denim shorts.
“Riz,” Terrell calls to her, “I want you to meet Audrey. This is the girl I was telling you about.” Terrell appraises the blonde with a glimmer in his eyes Riz has never seen before.
“I’m gonna bolt to the bathroom real quick,” Terrell says, sliding between the two girls.
“You shouldn’t break the seal yet,” Riz calls after him, “You’ll be peeing all night.”
“Happy birthday,” Audrey beams when Riz turns back to look at her. “It’s so great to meet you. Terrell talks about you all the time.”
Riz forces a smile. “I’d love to say the same.”
Audrey blinks away her surprise before offering, “I love your shirt.”
Riz looks down at the shirt and shrugs. “It’s Terrell’s.”
Audrey slowly nods her head before Terrell returns. “Please tell me you two are best friends already? That would be icing on the cake.” Terrell slings his arm around Audrey and gently kisses her forehead, making her cheeks turn red and her eyes cast away from Riz. “Get it?” he prompts when the girls don’t laugh. “It’s a birthday joke.”
Audrey offers him a reassuring smile, but Riz can only focus on the way he is acting with Audrey. She tries to remember him ever behaving like this before and can’t recall even the slightest memory of him being lovey-dovey with any other girls.
“Hey, Terrell,” a guy from the couch calls, pulling Terrell away.
Audrey twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Riz is such a cool name. How’d your parents come up with it?”
With a roll of her eyes, Riz sighs. “Terrell got in trouble for taking seconds without asking my first day at the foster home, and I told the mom there were worse things he could do. After that, she started calling me Riz. I’ve been Riz since I was eleven.” She shrugs. “It’s not my real name.” Before Audrey can respond, she turns and walks away.
Riz finds herself next to a friend of Terrell’s and lets him pour her shots for Never Have I Ever. After three rounds, the whole house fills the living room playing the game.
“Never have I ever lied to my parents about where I was going,” one partygoer says. Disappointed sounds echo from those who have as they take their respective shot or drink.
“We get to skip all those.” Terrell suddenly appears next to Riz with a grin and Audrey tucked to his side.
Riz lets the alcohol numb her and says, “Foster perk.”
“Foster perk.” Terrell winks at their made-up term.
“Never have I ever gotten a tattoo,” one friend calls and points to people he knows will be guilty.
Riz and Terrell both take a drink of their beers, and Riz says, “Yet another foster perk is those discounts the shop cuts us on our tattoos.”
“True.” Terrell grins and turns to Audrey, “We went to this shop downtown on our eighteenth birthday to get our noses pierced in celebration of aging out of the system. The guy felt bad and pierced us for free.”
“And now they give you discount tattoos?” Audrey guesses.
He nods, and Riz replies, “Yeah, nothing like some good ole childhood trauma to save money on injecting metals in your skin.”
“Never have I ever done the nasty with someone older than me.”
Riz refills her shot glass and throws the contents back, enjoying the burn. Terrell pats her leg in comfort.
“Never have I ever punched someone.”
Riz and Terrell both take a drink.
“Well, never have I ever taken a punch,” someone calls back in response.
Riz raises an eyebrow at Audrey when she drinks, saying, “Audrey.”
“What?” Audrey turns her head toward Riz.
“The statement was never have I ever taken a punch,” Riz repeats. “But you drank.”
Audrey starts to respond but is cut off by Riz, “It’s okay, Audrey. We all know blondes aren’t very bright.” Riz rolls her eyes and throws back her next shot.
Terrell elbows her in the ribs getting her attention. He glares at her with raised eyebrows, and Riz watches the pleading of his eyes for a moment before nodding.
When the room erupts in laughter at a joke Riz missed, Terrell leans over and says under his breath, “I know you’ve never liked any of my old girlfriends, but Audrey is different. I know she is. Try to be nice?” Terrell turns his gaze to a zoned-out Audrey with a dopey smile.
Riz watches him talk to Audrey until the spell is broken by the room shaking with movement as everyone begins the short trek to the bar. Riz watches Terrell take Audrey’s hand and part the sea of bodies to guide her through unscathed, leaving Riz to navigate the waters on her own.
Riz follows the last person out and locks the door behind her muttering to herself, “Oh, don’t worry about Riz. Now that you’ve got Audrey, she can walk herself to the bar on the dark streets—”
When she turns from the door toward the sidewalk where the stream of people ebbs to the bar, she sees Terrell and Audrey standing together next to the bush. She notes their inclined heads and hopes they didn’t hear her mumblings.
“Ready, Riz?” Terrell looks up at her. Riz nods and moves to Terrell’s empty side so they can begin toward the bar.
“So, Riz,” Audrey says eventually, “how’s your semester going?”
Riz clenches her fists and attempts to keep the irritation from her tone. “School’s school. What about you?”
“It’s better now. College is just about what I expected it to be.”
“That must be because you knew you were going to meet a handsome and charming guy in that boring gen-ed class,” Terrell teases.
Audrey laughs. “That is precisely what I expected to happen. How did you know?”
“I’m just glad we skipped out on that whole dorm thing.” Terrell nudges Riz, getting her attention.
She nods as Audrey asks, “You guys didn’t live in the dorms?”
“Nope.” Terrell shakes his head. “We started renting that place as soon as we got kicked out of the foster house when we turned eighteen.”
Riz kicks a rock from the sidewalk into the yard they are passing, and her head snaps up when she hears, “Damn. You look even better without those khakis, girl.”
She recognizes the same guys that whistled at her before and just rolls her eyes. She waits for Terrell’s protective response to the guys but raises her brow when Audrey speaks up first.
“Go gouge your eyes out, pervs.”
Terrell follows with, “Say something else and see if I don’t do it for you.”
Riz looks at the pair. “Thanks.”
“Always.” Terrell slings his arm around the shoulders of both girls as they near the back of the bar line. Riz grins at the weight of his arm around her and fights the alcohol telling her to weave her fingers with his.
The last few of their friends hand the bouncer their IDs and get their respective Sharpie-covered hands before it’s Audrey’s turn. Audrey hands the bouncer her ID and student card, placing her palms flat on the table to await her marks.
“Have I seen you before, miss?” The bouncer looks over her body from head to toe. “I don’t forget a pretty face.” The look in his eyes makes Riz’s stomach twist.
“I don’t think so,” Terrell scowls. Terrell stands at least a head taller than the bouncer, and Riz is sure Terrell could take him in a fight. She also knows Terrell would fight the bouncer if he tried anything and notices Audrey whispering a phrase over and over under her breath.
“My mistake.” The bouncer clears his throat.
The bouncer draws the night’s sign on Audrey’s hands as Terrell says, “Try not to make the same mistake twice.”
No more words are exchanged while Terrell and Riz get their marks. But as soon as they are out of earshot of the bouncer, Audrey leans toward Terrell and whispers, “He’s on the team.”
Terrell nods and rubs his hand over her shoulder like he’s trying to warm her up. It isn’t until Audrey and Riz trail Terrell down the stairs into the bar that Riz asks, “What were you saying back there when the bouncer was talking to you?”
Audrey tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured nail, “Just something I was taught to repeat when I get anxious.”
Riz scoffs. “What do you have to be anxious about? It’s not like he tried anything.”
Audrey looks away fiddling with her Kendra Scott necklace. When they reach the bottom of the stairs she says, “Have you ever been here before?”
“Yeah.” Riz edges behind Terrell grabbing a handful of his shirt in one hand and taking Audrey’s free one in her other as Terrell guides them through the dancing bodies. “Terrell and I come here pretty often with our friends. Why? Have you never been?” Riz yells to be heard over the music and voices.
Audrey shakes her head, and Riz rolls her eyes saying, “Princess is too good to party?”
“No,” Audrey yells leaning toward Riz to be heard. “I’ve just never had people I felt comfortable going with.”
“And you chose Terrell and me? We’re not exactly the All-American football star and pageant queen, in case you missed it.”
Riz almost doesn’t hear Audrey’s response but is able to catch, “—not always what it seems.”
Before Riz has the chance to ask Audrey to repeat herself, Terrell is turning around and drawing Audrey to his chest. Riz watches them dance together, smirking to herself as Audrey struggles with the type of co-ed dancing performed in the bar. She shakes her head at Terrell’s relentless coaching until Audrey finally lets herself relax into the dance and wraps her arms around Terrell.
That movement is too much for Riz, so she turns to the guy dancing closest to her and transmits her willingness with her eyes. He reads the signal immediately, turning from the group of guys he had been standing with and pulling her hips to his waist. She mostly ignores the guy, slightly adjusting his hands when they venture too far south, or too far north. He complies each time without comment, but that doesn’t stop him from trying again.
When the next song starts up, the small bar erupts in excitement and all the women rush into groups screaming the lyrics. Riz even finds herself turning to Audrey feeling all the shots from the game igniting her veins and loosening her emotions.
After a few lines of lyrics, Audrey matches Riz’s energy and Terrell leans his lips closer to the girls yelling, “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“He shouldn’t have broken the seal,” Riz shouts.
The girls let themselves go in the music and the energy pulsing through the air around them. They sing the lyrics and feel the power of their youth with the others in the bar. The song winds to a close, and the volume reduces.
“I’m sorry for whatever I did to offend you,” Audrey starts. “But I really hope we can be friends.”
Riz looks into Audrey’s eyes. “Listen, Audrey, it’s nothing personal. I just don’t see how someone like you could even begin to relate to a guy like Terrell.”
“Riz, I—” Audrey starts, but Riz cuts her off flopping a hand on her shoulder.
“I know you’re going to say that you’re different, or that you can love someone despite those differences, but I just don’t buy it.”
Riz sees something shift in Audrey’s eyes and smacks her palm to her forehead. “Listen, Audrey, I’m bad at talking when I’m drunk. I wouldn’t even be saying this if I wasn’t.”
Audrey watches something over Riz’s shoulder. “I need to leave.” Audrey pushes Riz’s hand from her shoulder. “Tell Terrell I went—”
“Hey, Aud.” Riz turns to see a guy Terrell’s size moving to stand next to Audrey. “Funny seeing you here.”
Riz focuses on the guy’s face and recognizes him from the posters around campus. She remembers the large letters “QB” printed below an outstretched football. The football player puts his arm around Audrey’s shoulders, and Audrey’s eyes plead to Riz.
“Umm, do you know her?” Riz shouts to the guy.
“Know her?” The football player grabs Audrey’s chin and kisses her cheek with enough force to make Audrey wince. “We were together for, what? Two years? Then, she got all high and mighty once she got to college and said it was over.”
Riz sees the tears on Audrey’s cheeks and watches her panicked eyes search the crowd. “Well, if it’s over, you’d better let her go.”
“Nah.” He takes a drink from the plastic cup in his hands. “I came over for a dance. Speaking of, where’s that little punk you were dancing with earlier? I think I’d like to meet him.”
Audrey tries to step out from under his arm and next to Riz, but the football player grabs her arm before she’s free.
“You’d better get your hands off her.” Riz yells.
He leans in until his face is close enough to let her smell the whiskey. “Or what?” Audrey struggles against his grasp when he turns back to her. “We’re leaving.”
“Like hell you are.” Riz wraps an arm around Audrey’s waist and sees a large figure in all black approaching from the bathrooms.
Terrell doesn’t hesitate to rip the football player’s hand from Audrey’s arm and insert himself between the football player and the girls. Riz can’t hear what’s said over the music. Instead, she looks over to Audrey.
“You okay?”
Audrey nods, but her eyes never leave Terrell and her ex. “I’m working on it.”
“What is up with that guy?” Riz glances back over her shoulder and sees the football player backing away.
“My ex,” Audrey answers. “I finally built the nerve to leave him once I didn’t have a whole town convincing me he was a great guy with a minor anger issue.”
“Does Terrell know?”
“Yeah.” They both watch the football player climb the stairs of the bar to the exit. “He’s actually the one who made me realize I had to stop being a punching bag. He reminded me of my potential.”
Riz parts her lips to respond but is cut off by Terrell. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
Audrey shakes her head. “I’ll be okay.”
Terrell’s hands are gentle as though handling the petals of a rose. “I think that’s going to bruise.” Riz peers around his shoulder and sees four angry red lines on Audrey’s arm.
“Maybe, but I’m safe now.” Riz watches Terrell wipe the streaks from Audrey’s face before Audrey turns to her. “Thanks to Riz.”
Terrell smiles and pulls Riz into a hug. “Riz is really good at taking care of other people. She’s the toughest girl I know.” Riz steps out of Terrell’s embrace. “I’m just not sure she always believes in herself.”
Riz grasps Audrey’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “Let’s go home.”
The sound of her boots on the pavement as they walk home mingles with the sounds of college students living like they are invincible. When they reach the two-bedroom house, Riz pauses on the steps letting Terrell and Audrey go in. She lifts the little flowerpot abandoned by the previous owners and dumps the cigarette butts into the dumpster. Her hands carry the terracotta pot into the house, and she sets it on the empty mantle.
“What’re you doing, Riz?” Terrell asks coming into the room.
“I think I’m going to plant a flower tomorrow.” She points to the flowerpot. “Do you know anything about plants?”
Terrell chuckles, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”
Riz looks into Terrell’s eyes, the same warm irises she’s known as her protector and other half since she was eleven. Not fully understanding why due to the slowly fading buzz, she notices they hold less gravity over her than usual. Love for Terrell still fills her heart, but it feels different than the love that has been torturing her for the past two years. She lets herself take one last, longing sigh and decides it’s time for a fresh start.
Riz smiles and shrugs. “I’ll figure it out.”
But I Want To Be
The steaming hot water runs down my back. My hair soaks it through to my scalp and I feel its intense anger as it burns my skin. My arms and torso are turning red with irritation - begging me to get out. I don’t listen. Why would I? Every time I do this I know that what I am doing isn’t good. Everything that I have ever read or seen or heard tells me that I need to be talking to someone about this, but I don’t. Why would I? My problems aren’t big enough. My issues pale in comparison to other people that I know, so why do I do this and they don’t? I don’t have an answer, but no amount of reasoning in my head is strong enough to stop me.
The emotional numbness falls away like a sheet dropped in a magic trick by an amateur magician in a circus. I wrap my arms around my stomach and sink to my knees letting the water run onto my face as I tip my head back to wash away the tears that are flooding down my cheeks. When the scorching water falling onto the soft skin of my face doesn’t take the pain away, my fingernails dig into the flesh on my sides. I drop my head and cry as hard as I physically can, praying for the end of this episode. I don’t understand them. I never have. They’ve been tormenting me for six years, since I was a freshman in high school. Nothing terrible happened to me that made me start these ridiculous over-exaggerated pity parties, but for some reason I just can’t stop myself. I aways feel better for a few days after I lose control like this. I just cry and cry until I can’t cry anymore, leaving my fingernails buried in my skin until long after the tears have dried.
When I become aware enough to drop my hands to my sides, I open my eyes. That’s when I see the red tint of the water pooled around me and the small streams flowing from the half-moon indentions on my ribs. I am always careful to never make a mark where someone might see. I don’t need people probing around asking questions about my life and my feelings because I wouldn’t have any answers for them. They will want to hear exact reasons and situations so that they can tell me how to “fix” myself. How do you fix something when you don’t know what’s broken?
I don’t know why I slip into these moods that drag me down into a state of total unawareness. Sometimes I hurt myself just to get back to the surface of reality—to pull up out of the depths of the darkness where I don’t remember my name or my favorite color. But sometimes I need to let the stress and tension and worries out of me, and the only way I have been able to do that is to create a place for it to get out of.
I don’t want anyone to misunderstand my situation. I have a wonderful life. No one hits me. I get three balanced meals a day. I have good grades. I have a lot of friends. Sometimes the world is just too much for me. Sounds are too loud, colors are too bright, and feelings are too strong. That is when I slip below the surface and forget who I am.
The water is still burning my skin, but with my hair streaming over either shoulder I’m taken back to the last time I was under a current strong enough to drag my hair down in desperation. I’m sitting on my front step—the last place I held him in my grasp. Though it may have been a grasp of desperation, begging him not to go, not to leave me, to talk to me or fight with me or anything in between that meant he was staying, it was still a grasp. The residue of that touch has been hanging onto my fingertips since then. It wasn’t raining the night he walked away, but it is raining now. I watch the water rushing along in the curb and a twig that is lodged in a crack. As the water presses against it, a current is created that resembles a smile. I feel my thoughts drift away, beyond the twig into a different world, where my dreams reside.
A lot comes to mind when I think about what makes me smile, but it isn’t those things that rule my dreams anymore. It’s him. He holds all the power in my subconscious. Visions of him haunt my dreams each night, and his physical presence haunts my realities. It isn’t enough that I feel used and worthless and degraded by him; I still want him in my life. I became addicted to his tendencies and manipulation, and I can’t fight free from the control I so willingly gave him over my life. As soon as he decided he was done with me, he picked up a new girl; he picked up a new girl before he even bothered to tell me that my turn was over.
I asked him for a rainbow and he brought a storm, but sunshine was never a card he kept in his hand. So here I am, sitting on the cement where he left me that night, crying in time with the storm pounding down around me. One day I will have to be my own sunshine; I will have to bring my own rainbow into life. But that day is not today. Today I am broken down and still haunted by the dream that shook my world. I was running and running and running toward girls in my dream that I knew he was dating and sleeping with, warning them of his malicious intentions. Each girl I talked to said they understood and that they would guard their hearts, but each time I was talking to a girl, he would see me and shrug, ready to move on to the next victim. So off I would go to warn the next girl and she would agree to guard her heart, but no matter how many tears I cried, he still just kept moving. It’s because he doesn’t care about the catch and the kill; he is only interested in the hunt.
Sometimes, in the daylight, I can convince myself that I don’t love him anymore, but I know that’s a lie. In my dreams, when he isn’t breaking my heart over and over again, he is walking down a dark street. My presence is hovering over him in an omniscient interaction. I can’t approach him, I can’t speak, all I can do is observe. Eventually he falls to the ground and begins writhing in pain. I try to rush to his side, but I can’t. He screams and screams and I try to call for help but my voice doesn’t make a sound. I’m helpless and I can’t save him. Eventually the pain either stops or becomes too much for him, but he lies still in the road and I can see the tears escaping his eyes; I’m still helpless. I can’t comfort him or reassure him that it will be alright, I just have to watch as he lies there crying until I wake up.
The curious part of me wants to know what this dream means. Why do I see him hurting, and why can’t I help him? Another part of me just wants it to be over, though. I want to move past that stage in my life; I want to grow forward and find someone new and be happy again. But how can I be happy when he still owns every part of me? When all the places I see are tainted with his image, his laugh, his voice, and his touch, how do I keep breathing? I lift my eyes and through the rain I see the tree where he pushed me up against the bark and kissed me for the first time. It’s like I am back in that moment. His hand is on my hip and his thumb is grazing the skin where the waist of my jeans ends and his other is cradling my neck. The moment took place so many months ago, but the pounding in my chest is happening now. His impact on my life is permanent. The sound of his voice from across the quad will always make me hold my breath and the sight of another girl in his arms will always make me nauseated. Over time it will lessen, but it will always be there.
The sound of the front door opening and closing, signaling the entrance of one of my housemates, brings me back to the steaming shower and the small stinging sensations in my sides. I quickly shut off the water and push the neon shower curtain aside to grab my towel. With the steam making all of my clothes stick to my skin and my wet hair clinging to the back of my tank top, I walk out of the bathroom and find my housemate lounging on the couch eating ice cream straight from the tub.
She glances at me and nods hello, spoon in mouth, then does a double take, “Have you been crying?”
I raise my eyebrows and put on my most questioning look, “No.” I add a chuckle and grin at the end to sound more convincing.
“Your eyes just look bloodshot,” her shoulders shrug and she turns back to whatever she had been watching. Just before
I turn toward my bedroom door, she does a double take again, “What’s on your shirt?”
“Huh?” Looking down I see four tiny half-moons of blood slowly expanding on both rib cages. Before I can come up with an excuse, the ice cream is tossed onto the coffee table and she is pulling my shirt up to appraise the skin beneath.
Her eyes flood with concern, questioning, understanding, and doubt before they slowly crawl up my body and lock with mine. “How did this happen?” Instead of responding, I tug down my shirt and move aggressively to my door. Her hand jolts out and wraps around my wrist before I can get far though, “Did you do this to yourself?” I can’t respond. “Talk to me,” she pleads.
All I find the capability to do is cry, softly at first then I break down completely. She pulls me into herself and we melt into a heap on the floor of the tiny hallway. I cry and cry until her voice starts to come through the haze of sadness and embarrassment and pain.
“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” she whispers as her hand runs soothingly over my head in steady motions. “Do you want to talk about it?” Words won’t come out of my throat no matter how hard I try to form them. “If I go with you to the Kelly Center tomorrow, would you talk to someone there?”
I hold her gaze for a long time, rolling the suggestion around and around. Finally, I decide that maybe it’s time I stop pretending I’m okay.
​
I’m not okay.
But I want to be.
With You
Kiss me
Fill me with contentedness
With your lips on mine
and hands on my waist
whisper your love in my ear
My heart flutters
Joy overflowing
Bubbles—
I am a glass of champagne
tall, clear, fizzy with delight
My heart is free
Love never-ending
Helium—
I am a balloon
weightless, floating, tethered to life
My heart is at peace
Content all-consuming
Sunlight—
I am a flower
growing, blooming, facing the sun
Stay with me
Keep me by your side
Forever fill my life
with love and laughter
​
Hold my hand
until we are
dust
Brunch For Two
“Did you have a nice night?” the man in the suit asks, reading an email on his phone.
The woman in the yellow pajamas nods, “It was refreshing to have a girls’ night again.” His eyes drink in the screen. She says, “I was twenty-one again.” His face remains unchanged.
The waitress approaches with her most chipper voice, “Can I start you with any drinks?”
“I’d love a mimosa,” the woman strains with the effort of her smile.
“Coffee.”
The clinking of crystal reverberates in their ears until the waitress returns with the drinks and takes the woman’s order of pancakes and strawberry syrup. The woman watches the steam roll from the man’s coffee, remembering the lively six hours it took her and her friends to hike the volcano in Hawaii the day before it erupted when she was twenty-two. Just as she sees the peak in her mind’s eye, the steam of the coffee is cut off by the man pulling the black liquid into his mouth. He enjoys the protests of his mouth as the heat courses down his throat.
“I’ve got a noon meeting,” he glances at his Rolex, “what couldn’t wait till tonight?”
With a deep breath, the woman retrieves a manila envelope from her Kate Spade and offers it to the man, “Wouldn’t want you to be late to your meeting. Have a good day.”
He takes the folder in his hands, noticing for the first time the bare lines of her hands. While the woman watches his figure retreat, the waitress returns with the pancakes.
“I’m ready for the check, please.”
Leap of Faith
“Come on, Vera,” his grip on my wrist tightens, “Don’t you trust me?”
I look to the water below and back to the sign that reads NO CLIFF JUMPING DANGEROUS ROCKS BELOW. The water, hearing my racing thoughts, crashes against the cliff nearly twenty feet down. His friends clink the dark glass of their beer bottles together, smirking at me.
“Pay up, dude,” one laughs.
“She’s not gonna do it, man,” the other harasses.
I do the math in my head and figure that jumping from this height would mean hitting the water at approximately twenty-five miles per hour. Cars can be totaled at that speed. Assuming I land pencil straight and feet first, I could at least sustain a spinal injury. Landing on my back or stomach, though, that’s like hitting concrete. I’m not worried about drowning—I know this lake like the back of my hand. That’s part of the reason I know this is a dumb idea. I’ve heard stories about kids who jump off these cliffs.
“Just jump. You know how to swim,” he pulls me closer to the edge, “I need this money.” I search his eyes for any hint of sobriety, “Don’t you want me to get off work and go to that back-to-school dance thing with you? That shit costs money, Vera.”
“I can pay for us to get into the dance, and you don’t have to wear anything fancy for it.” I consider the distance I would have to jump away from the cliff to avoid the rocks beneath the dark water below. “You don’t need their money.”
He spits his next words at me, “So, what? You’ll just use daddy’s money to get by forever?”
“Ray, I have plenty of my own money—more than enough to get into the dance.”
His eyes change.
I have an instant to react. My legs coil, ready to spring away from the rocks. His grip leaves my wrist, and he shoves me over the edge.
The fall feels like it lasts an eternity. My body straightens. My arms curl protectively around my head to keep from flailing and defend against potential rocks.
The flip-flops rip off my feet on impact. As I plunge through the water, I feel lightning strike my right arm. The pain makes me gasp, but all I do is set my lungs on fire. With all the strength in my legs, I kick until my lips break the surface.
My body can’t decide if it wants to cough, puke, or scream in pain; instead, it tries to do all three at once. I eventually clear my main airway of water, even though each breath of oxygen feels like trying to swallow isopropanol, and commence crying with the electricity coursing through my arm. I’m briefly thankful for the baggy long-sleeved shirt protecting my eyes from seeing my arm and cast my eyes up the cliff side to the three guys looking down at me.
“That doesn’t count,” I hear one argue, “She didn’t jump.”
“Yeah,” the other’s voice cuts out, but I hear, “you just pushed her.”
He shoves the second making the beer bottle drop over the edge. I watch it fall toward me until it bursts against an exposed rock near the base of the cliff. The rest of the conversation is too quiet for me to hear from the water, so I use my legs and one good arm to swim for the closest rock and cling to it.
When I look back to the top of the cliff, it’s empty. I call out to them, but no one peers over the edge. I scream their names, but only the feeble echo off the rocks acknowledges me. I make one last attempt to call out to him—to make him hear my desperation. My voice betrays me, cracking and turning to panicked sobs.
I chance a glance at my arm and sigh in relief that it there isn’t blood signaling a compound break getting infected in the lake water. On the other hand, it hurts like hell and is absolutely broken.
My tears flow heavier, mingling with the lake.
I don’t get long to cry before I hear an approaching boat motor and hear a voice call, “Hey, miss, are you okay?” The motor cuts to a halt and a clearer version of the voice says, “Can you swim to the ladder and I’ll help you up?” Turning my head, my eyes meet a familiar gaze. His face fills with shock at first before he rushes to the edge of the boat and reaches his ink covered arm for me saying, “Oh my God, Vera, what are you doing?”
Careful not to move my right arm at all, I swim toward the ladder he dropped into the water and let him take my left arm to help pull me into the boat. Once aboard, I realize he isn’t alone. A small girl, not more than six, watches me with wide eyes and cheeks pushed round by the shoulders of her lifejacket. Her hands grip a pink Barbie fishing pole fashioned with a neon yellow bobber.
“Are you okay?” I gasp in pain when he grabs my right elbow to get my attention.
Regaining myself, “I think my ulna’s broken.”
“How did you break it?” his eyelids are rose petals resting on his face when he blinks, “Did you jump off the cliff?”
I fight the urge to look towards the top. “Yeah,” I shrug, “I jumped.”
“Dressed in jean shorts and a long-sleeved shirt? And what happened to your feet?”
I glance down, “My flip-flops ripped off when I hit the water.”
“Are you here alone?” the change of his tone makes me meet his piercing eyes. “Vera,” the burning in my lungs halts, and his voice is barely above a whisper, “were you . . . were you trying to kill yourself?”
“What?” I gasp, “No, no absolutely not.” He relaxes and runs a hand through his hair, “I just jumped.”
I see his lips move the way they do when he is doing math, “But, from that height, you would have hit the water at twenty-seven miles per hour. That is assuming I guessed your weight right, so give-or-take a little.”
“I figured about twenty-five,” I shrug.
I watch his eyes crawl up the cliffside and his brow furrow in confusion. He looks back to my face, and a million questions battle beneath the rose petals. What leaves his lips, however, is simply, “We were just heading back to shore. Can I give you a ride to the hospital?”
“That would be great of you,” I nod, “thanks.”
As he moves to start the motor again, the little girl says to me, “You’re not suppos’ta jump off there.”
​
My mouth falls open like an idiot as I struggle for something to say to the girl, but he cuts in, “That’s not very kind, P. She’s hurt, and you’re not her boss.”
“But, Liam, you a’ways tell me never ever do that no matters what.”
“He’s right,” I find my voice, “I shouldn’t have done it. It was a very stupid thing to do, and look, it got me hurt.”
The girl shrugs, “Dat’s why you do what Bub says, a’ways.”
“Okay, P,” he turns the boat in the direction of the main ramps, “that’s enough.”
The air rushes around my wet body as the boat accelerates. With a little distance, I gather the courage to look toward the top of the cliff again. The pain in my arm seems incomparable to the pain in my chest when I see three figures sitting at the top—the sun reflecting off the gold bars of his letterman jacket.
“Who’re they?” the little girl, he had called her P, asks me, “Did they watch you jump?”
I feel Liam’s ears stretch in my direction and say, “This is a fabulous fishing pole.”
“I know,” she chirps, “Barbie can be anything she wants, and dis Barbie wants to be a fisher-woman. I have other Barbies dat do different jobs too.”
“Which Barbie is your favorite?”
P thinks for a moment, twisting the line around her tiny finger, “Probably science Barbie. I like her white coat and the experiment kit she came with. Bub says I can be a scientist if I want. Him shows me how to do science magic.”
“I knew our chemistry project did exceptionally well,” I grin up at Liam who is chuckling at his sister, “he had your help.”
“Probably,” she doesn’t even question her abilities or what I’m talking about, “What was dat big word you said?”
Her eyes study my lips as I repeat, “Exceptionally.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means,” I look to Liam, “when something is better than normal. Like, if something is super super good, we would call it exceptional.”
P nods and watches the water intensely, repeating, “Es-eptiona-wee, es-eptiona-wee, es-eptiona-wee.”
“There’s an x and l in there, P, don’t forget those sounds” Liam supplies, “EXceptionaLLy.”
“Ex-ceptiona-lllly. Like that?”
He winks at her, “Spectacular.”
~~~
The halls buzz with some sort of excitement. Eyes follow me as I move toward the office, and curiosity begins to itch at my spine. I try to shake the drama and prepare to meet the new student I’m supposed to guide around the school. She wasn’t scheduled to be here until tomorrow, but I figure she must have decided to visit early and get a feel for the building. I can’t think of another reason I would be getting called to the office.
“Miss Capriole,” the stern tone of the principal greets me as soon as I open the door, “I need to speak with you in my office, please.”
The small office hasn’t changed in the last four years, but today the secretary behind the counter watches me with cautious eyes. Her poised shoulders are straighter than usual, and her finger twists itself in the ribbon holding her glasses around her neck. Almost imperceptibly, her eyes flick to the corner near the printer. I mimic her movement and double take when I see two muscled figures holding respective ice packs to parts of their faces.
“Miss Capriole,” the demand comes from the desk of the principal. I tear my gaze from the bloodied knuckles and push the glass door closed behind me. The principal gestures for me to sit in the box with legs across from his throne. “I’m sure you saw the mess I have on my hands.” My gaze gravitates toward the bloodied letterman jacket and the inked arms side-by-side. “Now, neither one of them will tell me what this was all about, but apparently someone heard your name just before they came to blows. Could you help me out at all here? Do you know what they might be fighting about?”
I haven’t looked away from the face on the other side of the glass. Ray’s eyes bore into me, and I know exactly what they are telling me to do. With a deep breath, I flick my eyes to meet Liam’s. My brows furrow at the sympathy and apology waiting there.
“Miss Capriole,” I blink in the direction of the principal trying to shake Liam’s gentleness from my brain, “Why would they be fighting? And why would your name be involved? I mean, I have an idea but . . .”
“You do?” sweat fills my palms and makes my cast itch.
“Well,” he jerks his chin toward the door, “I figure that no-good Liam said something derogatory about you and Mr. Rice snapped. I mean, why else would Mr. Rice risk his eligibility by getting suspended?”
“Suspended?”
The principal leans back, making his chair groan, “Well, yeah. This school has a zero tolerance for violence. The first offense is a three-day OSS. Both of them will receive that, but I need to know who started it and how to keep it from happening again.”
“Liam’s a good person. I’m sure that isn’t what happened, but I’m sorry—I don’t know what the fight was about,” I offer, looking back through the door. Ray has his head tilted back and is holding the ice pack to his fist, but Liam is still watching me with those eyes. The cut on the bridge of his nose has started bleeding, and I watch it begin to crawl toward the shining sliver ring in his nostril.
“It’s very kind of you to defend him, but . . .”
When he doesn’t continue, I look back at him, “But?”
“I can see you don’t know what they were fighting about. That’s the only reason I called you here, so you can go back to class now.” He stands, ending the conversation, and moves to open the door. The principal holds the door as I pass through it and says, “I never heard what happened to put that plaster on your arm. Carry too many books at once?” He laughs at his own joke.
I feel two sets of anxious eyes stinging into me, waiting to hear my response.
I look up at the principal and offer the smile reserved for adults, “Side effect of trying to win a bet.”
“Must’ve been some bet,” the whole room turns toward Liam’s voice. The sympathy in his eyes burns me to the core, and my throat begins to close. “Hope it was worth it.”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I see the blood reach his piercing. I tug at the grip he has on me—taffy through the puller—until I finally slip past the cinderblocks of the office.
“Vera,” a perky blonde floats into me, and I fumble to remember her name even though I don’t need it. Her excitement bubbles over before I can greet her, “How in the world did you get Ray and Liam to fight over you?” The intonation tells me she thinks this is a good thing. “They are both absolutely delectable.”
I cringe at her word choice, “I don’t know what they were fighting about.”
“What?” her jaw goes slack for a millisecond, “I saw the whole thing. I was standing at my locker and saw Liam walking toward Ray ready to kill. He said something that made Ray mad because then he said, ‘Vera’s none of your damn business so watch where you poke your punk-ass nose.’ Liam was too quiet for me to hear, but whatever Liam said the second time made Ray say he would break his face if he ever tried to talk to you. Then Liam said, ‘Vera deserves way better than you.’” The blonde grips my elbow just above the cast, “The rest was a blur of fists and dodges until Liam had Ray in a choke hold and the teachers pulled them apart.”
All I can muster is a nod.
Disappointed in my reaction, the blonde shrugs and bobbles off.
My feet start back toward class, but my mind lingers in the office until a hand on my shoulder makes me turn.
“Liam?” I look around in a panic.
He moves his hand to my cheek, “It’s okay, Ray already left. I have to get my backpack and be gone in five minutes, but I had to make sure you’re okay.”
“Me? What about you?” I gesture to the blood on his face.
“Is he going to give you trouble about this?” My breath catches. “Don’t bullshit me,” Liam’s voice rasps. The rose petals are especially pink today. “Vera,” his fingers curl around my jaw in an urgent caress, “Did I just make it worse?”
I focus on the rose petals rather than his intense irises, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Liam.” His hand falls; my skin groans at the cold air in its place. I worry I may have slapped him without meaning too and rush to avoid his eyes, “You’re gonna be pushing your five minutes. I’ll email you my notes from our classes.” Taking futile steps backward, I offer, “I hope your nose heals.”
~~~
“Ray,” I glance at the couples dancing around us to see who heard him, “This isn’t the place for that.”
I can feel every fiber of his fingers as they bore into my waist, “I think I’ll decide when we’ll talk about this, and I pick now.”
“Ray,” I squeak, “please.”
“That weird fuck hasn’t taken his eyes off us all night. What the hell did you tell him?”
I see the couple jump in the corner of my eye at the tone of his voice, “Ray, people can hear you. You literally just came back to school today, and you’re lucky the coach let you play without practicing all—”
The bite of his belt buckle in my hip bone when he yanks me against him makes me gasp, “You’re worried about people hearing? After you obviously told him something?” I press on his chest with my palm in an attempt to get space. I take a deep breath when he releases me, but his hand wraps around my wrist the next instant and pulls me toward the back exit, “Fine, we’ll go somewhere no one can hear us then.”
My eyes jolt around trying to find a face or reason to stay inside, “I don’t think we’re supposed to leave the dance without checking with the chaperones.”
“We’ll be fine,” he dismisses my feeble excuse. Before I can object again, the final ring of the metal door closing behind us sounds. “So, now that you can stop worrying about people hearing,” he lets go of my wrist a few paces from the door, “What did you tell that freak?”
I shake my head, “Nothing, I swear.”
He takes a step closer to me. I hold my ground.
“Then why did he obviously know I was involved at the lake? Hmm?”
He takes a step closer to me. I hold my ground.
“He’s the one that pulled me out of the water after you left me there.”
He takes another step closer to me. I step back and feel my shoulder blades kiss the brick of the building.
“I never left you there. You left me,” his voice is changing.
“Why didn’t you call out to me when I was screaming for you?” even to my own ears, I sound laughable.
“Are you implying that I was going to leave you there?”
“Why didn’t you ask me how I got to the hospital when you saw me on Sunday then?”
The back of his hand connects with my cheek.
“Ray,” my voice is just air.
“Don’t you try that crap. You want to keep casting blame on me? That’s the consequence. You know that.”
It takes every ounce of strength not to cradle my cheek in my palm.
The stun must be clear on my face because after a few breaths, he lifts my chin to connect our eyes, “I’m sorry, baby. I won’t do it again, okay?” I nod softly, and he continues, “Okay. So what did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” my head shakes profusely, “I told him I jumped off the cliff and that was all. He took me to the hospital and left when the nurses took me to the exam room. I didn’t tell him anything.”
“So I’m supposed to believe that through the whole time getting from the boat to the hospital you didn’t say anything to him?”
“We talked about our chem homework, and his little sister told me all about her Barbies. There, is that what you wanted to know?”
The air is suddenly cut from my throat and a small jolt on the back of my head makes me blink my eyes, “Don’t you dare try to pull a fucking attitude with me.” My fingers claw at his hand trying to get oxygen. He uses his free hand to slap me across the face again. His skin connects with the same spot as before, and I’m pretty sure I feel warmth running down my cheek now. “It’s your job to protect me,” he yells, “You should have made something up in that office on Monday to keep me from getting suspended. You should have told a better story about what happened on that cliff.” His voice is beginning to sound far away, and my eyes are surrendering. “This is your fault.”
My nails give up the fight with his hand just as it is suddenly removed from my neck. I feel my knees connect with the gravel beneath me, and my lungs gasp for air despite the knives in my throat. My palms are pressing into the sharp stones of the alley—my senses are returning.
I lift my head just in time to see Liam’s face fill my vision, “How badly are you hurt?”
“I—” I try to clear my throat to make the sound come out, “My cheek . . . and my throat.”
He nods and pulls the worn bandana from his wrist before pressing it to my cheek. I wince at the pain and see the pain reflect in his eyes, like they are a mirror for my emotions. His free arm scoops under mine and pulls me to my feet.
“Let’s get you to some help,” he turns his face to mine, “you have to report him.”
“No, I—”
“I’ll help you, Vera,” his thumb rubs methodically on my back, “Will you trust me?”
Memory
Drink in the moment
take it all in
Store every detail
within the records of your mind
One day
You will be glad you did
You will rejoice in the memory
Your heart will smile
Absorb the words
Film the moment
That feeling in your chest
lock it in your bones
One day your memory will be worth
more than gold
