By the end of the day, Natalie and I had discovered that we have a total of four classes together, including art class. Truthfully, she is not a talented artist, but she claimed that she had space for another class and all of the others she could have chosen from did not pique her interest. Since I am starting at this school in the middle of October, the students are already working on various art projects that focus on gesture drawings, but my teacher thought it would be unfair to expect me to complete my artwork in half of the time. However, as Natalie sat on a stool and blended the black hues to grey to create smeared blobs of shading that did not have a single light source, I was lost in the jungle of my mind, shrinking into the corner of the room and blocking out the chatter of students from my mental fog as my pencil ran strokes over my own paper.
Natalie had seemed oblivious to my odd demeanor, but maybe I had been successful at disguising it all day. My nails are picked raw past my fingertips from prying off the ends nervously in my classes today, and I already had to fix my makeup twice in the bathroom from the tears that welled up in my eyes and caused smudges in my eyeliner. The memories are like broken records that need to be discarded but hold too much sentimental value to do away with them, like a box of collectibles that people stash in their attics and never touch.
When the final bell rang, Natalie said her goodbyes at my locker and skipped towards the exit doors that lead to the bus line, but I dreaded my actions as I trudged along to the front doors of the school and found Mark’s BMW awaiting in the row of close parking spots near the end of the walkway. Toting my backpack straps on my shoulders, I quickly hobbled to his car and piled my belongings inside, eager to beat the buses so we would not be stuck behind them.
Mark asked the usual questions you would expect to hear a parent throw at you on your first day of school, but I provided him with short responses and tuned out the sound of the radio as I hooked my headphones into the crook of my ears. The majority of the car ride was silent outside of the rock music that blasted into my eardrums, and I watched students that I now recognize from my classes creating single file lines out of school buses into the nearby neighborhoods.
When we finally arrive home, Sherry is already in the kitchen starting tonight's dinner. My stomach growls and I regret refraining from eating the rest of my lunch that I had pushed aside. Mark enters the kitchen and joins Sherry by the stovetop, hovering over her pan filled with taco meat as he kisses her on the cheek. I wave to Sherry as I peek my head into the entryway and tell her that I am going to my room to start on my homework.
I collapse onto my soft bed the moment I reach it and sigh, reluctant to put myself through another day of school tomorrow. Natalie had given me her number, which I saved into my phone, but I am not in the mood to speak to anyone and I want nothing more than to sink into the cushioning of my bed and forget that this is now my life. The feeling of my newly introduced routine is familiar, yet uncomfortable and overwhelming at the same time. My phone buzzes in my sweatpants pocket and I pull it out, the screen blinding me in the darkness of my room.
Sherry: Are you okay?
I hold my phone closer to type.
Me: Yeah. I’m just tired and have a lot of homework.
White lies. The world is full of them. Nothing is ever completely true anymore. We live in a society of propaganda and lies. Nobody obtains a higher position in this world without a lie once in awhile, especially when they lie to themselves.
My teachers, actually, did not give me any homework besides a math packet that isn’t due for another week, so I decide to scroll through multiple apps on my phone and flick past the pictures of students from my previous school posting their cheerleading photos and posing with their friends by the football field during our last game. Correction, their last game.
The banner at the top of my screen sweeps down and I am surprised to see a text from Miranda.
Miranda: Meet any hot guys at the new school today?
I roll my eyes at the slightly insensitive question, but a grin creeps onto my face because I know Miranda only has the intention to lighten the mood.
Me: No.
Meeting attractive guys after only one day of school is the last thing on my mind. Besides, it’s a cliche for high school boys to prey on new girls at school. Modern media portrays it as some kind of love story, but real life says it’s merely a bet in the male locker room, a test of ego and testosterone for who can gain access to the most girls under the sheets on a Friday night and then treat her like a speck of lint they flicked off of their shirts when Monday rolls around. The only difference is that lint doesn’t cry.
The banner sweeps down again and reminds me to turn my phone off of silent mode.
Miranda: Nobody catching your eye?
I want to respond to her and tell her everything on my mind, but it would be a waste of breath - or a waste of time typing, rather.
I leave her text on read and toss it on the pillow beside me, not even caring that it almost slides off onto the floor before catching itself on the side of the mattress. I huff out a sigh and grab a blanket to curl myself up in a ball in the comforter, my leg throbbing in pain. I stare at the bottle of pills on my nightstand and debate on taking another, but I scold myself since I had already mentally vowed to only take one per day.
My bed cradles me for a few moments before I realize just how much I longed for entertainment, so I find the remote for the T.V, that had been situated on my nightstand and I click the button to turn it on. I flip through the channels that are filled with mushy reality shows and romantic comedies that are not as funny as some people describe them to be, and then I find a thriller that I have not seen in many years.
I remember my old routine when I would come home from school and start on my homework in the living room while a scary movie played in the background. I remember the sound of the muffled noise the garage door made when my dad would pull in the driveway and the sound of the car horn my dad’s SUV would emit to alert me that he was home from work. I remember the way I would always tell him that he would eventually piss off the neighbors by doing that, but he laughed and said, “Let them get pissed.” Despite having more work to do on his computer when he arrived home, he would make popcorn in the kitchen microwave with extra butter and plop the bowl on the coffee table before slumping down onto the couch to join me in whatever I was watching, no matter if he liked the movie or not. The only thing I wished was that my dad would cook more instead of us living on popcorn, microwave meals, and take-out from nearby restaurants. A tear burns the corner of my eye and I wipe it away, and even though I continued my tradition of watching movies when I came home from school, the feeling is no longer satisfactory.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed whose sheets are in disarray and gather my crutches from where they rest against the mattress. The pain returns to my leg and I ignore the doctor’s words in my head telling me that I need to elevate it as much as possible. Carefully, I hop towards the door that leads to the hallway and creak the door open. I can hear Mark downstairs speaking in whispers to Sherry, occasionally interrupted by the clinking of pots as she makes dinner that my dad never would have made.
Curiosity gets the best of me and I pick up my crutches with one of my hands and use my other arm to prop myself against the wall, sliding along it as I pass the delicate paintings that I would have otherwise stopped to admire. Mark’s voice grows a bit louder as I reach the stairs, surprising myself that I am able to remain this quiet. My head pokes around the corner and I lean closer, my hand gripping the wall as if I am about to fall into a volcano.
“They’re talking about holding the funeral on Wednesday,” Sherry’s voice informs my uncle. “His body was so mangled in the wreck that it took them awhile to prepare it. You know,” my aunt scoffs and I hear her drop a metallic object down onto the counter. “You would think Rebecca would have reached out and at least offered to help pay for the funeral. That woman has no regard for her own daughter.” Rebecca. I haven’t heard that name in years.
Mark shushes her and adds in, “She hasn’t had anything to do with her since she was in kindergarten. What makes you think she would start now?”
“Hope, Mark.” Her voice is growing louder and angrier, much different from the Sherry I am used to. “Maybe I was hanging onto a little bit of hope that she would care enough about her damn daughter and have some sympathy that she lost her father.”
“Maybe it’s best that she doesn’t come around. Hell, Sherry, the woman is on drugs. Do you want Kristen to be around that and turn into her?”
“Of course not,” Sherry retorts. “Kristen will never be Rebecca. She’s smarter than that.”
A long pause follows her remark and I inch closer down the stairs in an attempt to hear better. Slowly, I set my crutches down on the bottom steps, still concealed by the light blue wall that separates me from the opening to the kitchen.
I hear the squeak of the bar stool sliding across the hard wood flooring and stop, and I gather that one of them had sat down. The sound of the taco meat browning on the stovetop filled the silence until Mark finally spoke. “Have you received a copy of the toxicology report yet?”
I could feel the tension in the air when Sherry drops her spatula onto the counter and her voice booms throughout the hallway, resonating off of the wall near my ear. “Are you insinuating that my brother was also on drugs?”
Mark hushes her once again and I can feel his eyes checking the hallway for any indication that I am listening, so I carefully step backwards to go up one stair. His attention turns back to her. “It’s possible. He was depressed. He fought so hard to prove to you that Rebecca was different and she left. Not him. Maybe he dabbled in her habits as well.”
“Kristen would have told me.”
“Kristen barely knows us and she loved her father. Like she was going to tell us or the police that he was intoxicated.”
“Stop it,” my aunt interrupts quickly.
Another silence. My pulse has grown nonexistent at the thought that my own uncle could possibly think that my father was doing drugs. He was straight edge for as long as I could remember.
Sherry sighs and her sharp tone diminishes. “They were hit by a drunk driver.”
“There were no witnesses besides Kristen, and she doesn’t even remember what happened when they were hit. The doctor said she hit her head. Maybe Jonathan hit the other man. We won’t know anything until the toxicology report comes back.”
At this moment, I peek my head around the corner, knowing Sherry’s voice has lowered enough to where they wouldn’t suspect me to hear them. I watch as she picks her black spatula up from where it was tossed onto the counter and stirs the meat that was beginning to brown a little too dark during their quarrel. “I thought Jonathan would want a better life for Kristen after Rebecca left,” she whispers solemnly. “If he gave into that lifestyle, then the brother I had my whole life, the brother I looked up to when we were children,” she turns back to Mark and presses her hand against her forehead. Tears well up in her eyes and she pulls her lips inward over her teeth and presses them together to stifle a cry. She throws her hands upward as if to seem defeated. “Then I don’t even know my brother and all he did was disappoint everyone.”
Rage consumed me and I found myself wiping a warm tear off of my cheek with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. How could she ever think that my dad was a disappointment? He was a good man and to spit on his grave like that is an insult to me. I thought highly of my aunt up until she began to agree with my uncle. They were not a part of his life for twelve years. If Sherry was so adamant about caring for my well-being, then why did she not reach out more or call Child Protection Services if she possibly thought drugs were around me? At least they would have done an investigation and proved that the allegations were ridiculous and false.
Mark murmurs a few pathetic verbal gestures to console my aunt, but I don’t even care to listen anymore. I grab my crutches from where they are positioned against the wall and stamp them down on the stairs a few times to make it seem like I am just now reaching the stairs. I hurriedly place them under my arms and step onto the hard wood beneath me until I can see into the kitchen clearly. I relax my eyebrows and notice my aunt turn away, presumably concealing her upset nature plastered upon her face. Mark looks over his shoulder and throws me a fake smile, an appearance as if he is pretending like their conversation consisted of the daily forecast this week.
My aunt turns towards me and she demonstrates her mastered skill of switching between attitudes. “Ah, Kristen,” she reacts excitedly. “I’m making tacos. They’ll be done in just a few minutes. What do you like on them? I have lettuce, tomatoes, salsa, sour cream, cheese-”
“I’m actually going to go out for a little bit,” I interject. I need to think. Sherry clutches the bottom of her apron and bunches it up nervously, so I decide to play into her act. “There’s a park down the street that I saw on my way to school this morning. I just need to clear my head for a bit. It was a long day at school. But if you have leftovers, I’ll eat some later.”
I position my crutches to turn around when Mark’s voice calls out. “Didn’t you say you have a lot of homework?”
My head is swiveled around enough so they don’t see me shut my eyes tightly and curse to myself. I had forgotten I had told both of them that excuse.
“It’s a math packet. I thought it was due tomorrow, but I have several days to work on it.” I place my fingertips on my head and pull them away as if to say “silly, me”.
“Oh,” my aunt answers, seemingly disappointed that I wouldn’t be eating dinner with them. “Well, don’t be out too late,” she demanded.
“I won’t.” Truthfully, I don’t know how long I would be out or if I would ever come back, but I know they have legal guardianship until I’m eighteen years old and a cop has every right to force me to come back. What would I do anyways? Run from the police on crutches?
I make my way to the front door and pull it open, embracing the chill of the evening air that would, in other circumstances, prevent me from going outside and persuade me to turn around and bury myself back into my bed. I half expected for them to call me back inside and convince me to stay in this unfamiliar house and keep my leg elevated, but to my surprise, they let me step onto the porch and close the door. Mr. Baker is in his front yard raking leaves and he raises his head to tip his hat towards me in a greeting, and I shyly wave back to him. My leg curses at me when I leave the porch, its hatred burning into my bone. When my crutch finds the sidewalk that will lead me to the park, no one calls after me.
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