To say I'm stunned when I see Demi's house would be an understatement. The house is huge! It's not quite a mansion, but I'm sure some could beg to differ. Jordan helps me with my few bags as Demi talks with the bus driver.
"Do you like shopping?" Jordan randomly asks.
I shrug.
"I mean, I don't hate it, but it's definitely not one of my most favorite activities. Why?"
"It's just you don't have a whole lot, and I'm sure mom wouldn't mind taking you..." She trails off when she catches me looking at her.
"Demi hates me."
Jordan rolls her eyes.
"She doesn't hate you."
"So, she's always like that?" I sarcastically question with a snort.
"Yep," Jordan replies popping the "p".
"You mean she's always a bitch?" I wonder, both intrigued and surprised.
"If that's the term you want to use, then yes."
"Why is she like that?"
"You know about her depression, right?"
I nod.
"Well, sometimes it gets really bad, and she'll take her anti-depressants. The problem is that she pops them like they're Tic Tacs or something. The pills worsen her mood swings when she takes them in great quantities during a short period of time," Jordan explains in a nonchalant tone.
I can feel my eyes widening in surprise.
"What do you and your dad do about it?"
"Ignore the problem, pretend it's not there. It's like the elephant in the room that everybody tries to avoid," She solemnly replies.
The silence that follows in tense and slightly awkward. I want to say something, but I have no idea what to say. Carrying my bags on our shoulders, we exit the bus and shut the door as Demi waves at the bus driver. We silently follow Demi to the front door. She opens it, holding it agape as we enter. I stare in awe of the place, desperately trying to absorb the sight of everything before it all vanishes.
"Welcome to your new home, Bailey," Jordan chirps.
"Thanks," I mumble, still practically drooling over the house.
This all just feels so surreal. Jordan giggles at my expression.
"Welcome back," A masculine voice greets.
"Dad!" Jordan squeals, running into her father's outstretched arms.
He picks her up and twirls her around. I push aside the jealous feeling that threatens to consume me. With his attention on Jordan, I take the time to study him. I know his name is Wilmer Valderrama, and he's Venezuelan, I think. His eyes are a dark brown, just like Jordan's. My eyes are also brown, but mine have been described as being more clear than most brown eyes. I'm not sure what people mean by that, but I think it's a compliment. In Jordan, it is immediately clear that she is Hispanic. With me, I only know I'm Hispanic because of Demi. I honestly don't think Jordan and I have the same father. I thought that I'd be more disappointed or upset, but I'm strangely numb, as if I don't care. I'm also confused. I mean, if Wilmer's not my father, who is?
"Who's this?" He wonders, placing Jordan back on her feet.
Jordan returns to my side, intertwining my hand with hers and giving mine a reassuring squeeze.
"Dad, this is Bailey," Jordan introduces. "Mom adopted her."
He arches an eyebrow with a toothless smile that I just know is forced.
"Really? Well, in that case, welcome to the family, Bailey," He greets in a tone that sounds somewhat strained, as if he doesn't mean what he's saying.
"Thanks," I mumble, my gaze lowering to the floor as I resist the urge to shift my feet.
"I'm going to show Bailey her room," Jordan says, tightening her grip on my hand.
Her father nods. Jordan practically drags me upstairs.
"There are many bedrooms in this house, so if you don't like it, you can just choose a different one," Jordan explains as we reach a door.
She turns the knob and pushes the door open. My jaw drops as I take in the sight of the huge room.
"Do you like it?" Jordan questions, shifting nervously on her feet like I wanted to do downstairs.
Although the walls are a neutral white color, the hardwood floors gleam as if they were just polished or waxed. There's a bed, a dresser, a desk, and a small flat screen. I bet their guests love staying with them.
"I love it!" I exclaim.
She emits a relieved chuckle. I notice a door near my closet.
"Oh, that's our bathroom," Jordan helpfully supplies.
"Our bathroom?" I echo.
"Um, yeah. To get to my room, all you have to do is go through the bathroom," She explains. "If that's a problem for you, we can always get you settled in another room. I mean, it gets pretty lonely here, but it's your decision, and don't let me influence it or sway or whatever," She hurriedly rambles with a blush.
I can't help but laugh.
"It's perfect," I reassure, even though I'm already plotting ways to prevent her from finding out about my issues.
Her expression is half relieved, half sheepish. Noticing that we have yet to place down my bags, we toss them onto the floor in unison and giggle as we realize that we both did it at the same time.
"When we go shopping for your clothes, we can pick out some furniture and stuff," Jordan says.
"I'd like that," I nod with a smile.
She beams at me.
"You're not the boss of me!" I hear Demi yell from downstairs.
Jordan frowns.
"Here we go again," She mutters under her breath.
"So, how did you get here under my skin? I swore that I'd never let you back in, should've known better than trying to let you go 'cause here we go go go again. Hard as I try, I know I can't quit. Something about you is so addictive. We're falling together, you'd think that by now I'd know 'cause here we go go go again," I softly sing to myself.
"Do you always randomly burst out in song?" Jordan jokes.
I flash her a small smile.
"I consider it my coping mechanism. Whenever something seems to be going bad, I just sing whatever comes to mind," I explain.
She raises her eyebrows.
"That's smart," She compliments.
I shrug.
"It doesn't really do anything to block out the situation, but it helps me not think about the situation," I explain, realizing with a blush how idiotic I sound
To my surprise, she doesn't laugh at me or tease me; instead, she thoughtfully nods.
"How long do their disputes usually last?" I question.
"It depends on a lot of things," She vaguely responds.
"Do you wanna go back down there?"
She runs her tongue over her front teeth. I can tell that she isn't too fond with the idea of going back down there right now.
"We can," She slowly, almost reluctantly, replies.
"Help me unpack my stuff first?" I feign a hopeful question, just stalling for time until she feels comfortable going back downstairs.
"Sure," She chirps a little to enthusiastically with a slightly relieved tone.
My heart screams out for her. Nobody should be nervous about approaching their own parents. Then again, I'm kind of being a hypocrite with that sentence. We take our time removing all of my clothes and placing them in the closet and drawers of the dresser.
"You have a lot of clothes," She chuckles, placing a tee-shirt on a hanger.
I laugh.
"You probably have a hell of a lot more clothes than me," I jokingly accuse.
She doesn't say anything about my comment, but I see a smile lighting up her face.
"You should smile more," I tell her. "It suits you."
She blushes, shifting her gaze to the ground.
"Thanks," She mumbles almost inaudibly. "You should, too."
I smile at her. I retrieve my tote bag that has all of my personal items in it, removing my technology, my makeup bag, and my toiletries bag. I spill all of my technology onto my bed.
"I'm going to set my toiletries and makeup in our bathroom," I inform Jordan.
She nods, not removing her gaze from my closet as she diligently hangs my clothes. I enter the large bathroom and lock the door behind me. I remove my blade from my makeup bag and tuck the bag in a cabinet along with my toiletries bag. With my blade in hand, I scan the room top to bottom in search of a hiding place.
"Shit," I hiss upon realization that I'm probably going to have to hide my blade in my room.
I shove my blade into my back pocket before exiting the bathroom, flipping the light switch off behind me.
"You work fast," I observe, joining Jordan at my closet, noticing how much of my clothing is already hanging.
"That's what she said."
"Gross, Jordan!" I exclaim. "You're so perverted," I laugh, jokingly shoving her.
"And proud of it," She sticks her tongue out at me.
I playfully roll my eyes, my chuckle dying. I find myself slowly drifting away from Jordan. I can feel my anxiety level rising steadily, my blade feeling as if it weighs one hundred pounds. I anxiously lick my lips, trying to calm myself before I have a panic attack; that's the last thing I want to happen.
"I'm going to place this under my bed," I inform, tugging at one of my now empty suitcases.
"Are you sure you don't want to put it in your closet?"
I nod. She shrugs, turning back to my closet. I grab the suitcase and walk over to my bed. Stealing a glance behind me to make sure that Jordan isn't watching, I hastily snatch my blade from my pocket. I drop down on my stomach and army crawl until half of my body is underneath my bed. I cram my blade into the ripped lining of my suitcase, making a mental note to hide it better later. I scoot from underneath the bed and rise to my feet.
"Are you ready to go back downstairs?" I hesitantly question after tucking my last suitcase underneath my bed.
Jordan tightly bobs her head.
"Guess it's time to face the music," She sighs, trying-and failing- to lighten the mood.
I flash her a quick, sympathetic smile before taking her hand and leading her downstairs.
"Mom?" She calls out.
"Living room."
Jordan takes the lead upon both of us realizing that I have yet to explore the rest of the house. The living room is nice to say the least. There's a couch, love seat, and sofa chair, all cream color and seemingly very plush. There's a large flat screen, but it's not on. Demi was just sitting in the utter silence all alone? I finally take a look at Demi herself. A startled gasp almost slips past my lips. Her eyes are red and irritated where they should be white while tear tracks line her cheeks.
"A-Are you okay?" I nervously stutter, resisting the urge to fiddle with my fingers.
She nods with a fake smile that I yearn to make real. I don't know what's worse, her yelling at me, her ignoring me, or her faking a smile towards me. Jordan opens her mouth, but her eyes zone in on a manilla folder laying on the glass coffee table.
"What's that?" She wonders, her jaw jutting towards the folder.
"Nothing," Demi quickly-almost nervously-replies, sliding the folder off of the coffee table and hugging it against her chest.
Jordan gazes at our mother with a peculiar expression before shaking her head, obviously letting the subject drop.
"Where's dad?"
"He's out," Demi slowly and vaguely responds.
Jordan releases a low, cynical chuckle from deep within her throat.
"You mean he's getting wasted and screwing some whore, right?"
"Jordan Taylor-,"
"No," Jordan almost screams, interrupting Demi's scolding with a fierce, rapid shake of her head. "You can't keep pretending that our lives are so freaking perfect, mom! Why can't you just admit that dad cheats on you and that you have another daughter that you kept in secret and that your past is coming back to haunt you?" She questions, her voice elevating. "Why can't you just admit that we're not the strong, unbroken family that we fool everyone into believing that we are?" She whispers, her eyelids brimming with tears. "Sometimes,"-she pauses, her tone suddenly dark-"Sometimes I'd rather die than tell people who my parents are."
I inhale a sharp breath at Jordan's choice of words. Death is such a tender subject. For all I know, Jordan could be talking about suicide. For all I know, she may want to die. As my thoughts are turning morbid, I don't register what is happening until a loud crack echoes throughout the otherwise silent room. My eyes widen in shock and horror as Demi's eyes do the same. My gaze shifts back and forth between a seemingly calm Jordan and a stunned Demi. Jordan wears a small smirk on her face whereas Demi has one hand covering her agape mouth.
"Baby, I-," Demi begins to, I'm assuming, apologize, but Jordan cuts her off with an incredulous snort.
"You just love pushing people away, don't you?" She, even though it's a question, states before turning around and speed walking towards the stairs.
I swallow the bile that threatens to rise.
"I can't believe you slapped her," I manage to choke out in a strangled tone.
"You think I meant to?" Demi sobs.
"Well, you sure as hell didn't hesitate!" I snap loudly.
Demi's eyes are nothing but pools of guilt. I feel no sympathy. Nobody should put their hands on a child, especially their own. I've both seen it and been a victim of it. It scars you for life.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, mother," I spat, letting my disgust and sarcasm drip from my tongue.
She flinches from my harsh tone, but I can't even feel satisfied about that at the moment.
"I'm going to go see if your daughter is alright," I mutter.
I hurry up the stairs, not looking back at Demi's fragile state in fear of becoming putty in her hands. I keep reminding myself that her-my own mother-slapped Jordan, her daughter, my sister. It could've been me. It should've been me. I enter my bedroom to find no Jordan. I see the bathroom door is closed, but the light is on. Dread and fear washes over me. What if she's harming herself? I quickly banish the thought. Just because I escape to the bathroom to cut doesn't mean that everybody does. Not everybody is a self-harming freak like myself, especially not Jordan. I rap my knuckles lightly against the door.
"Jordan?" I softly call out. "Can you let me in?" I hopefully question.
She opens the door moments later. I wrap my arms around her, lightly pushing her further into the room and kicking the door shut with my foot.
"Are you okay?" I wonder.
She flashes me a fake smile, one that much resembles Demi's. I wonder if mine does, too.
"I'll be fine," she reassures, her voice sounding as if she's been crying.
I offer her a small yet genuine smile in which she weakly returns. I place my fingertips gently underneath her chin, tilting her head so I can clearly see her injured cheek.
"I don't think it'll bruise, but, if you want to, just ice your cheek on and off for 24 to 48 hours, but only apply the ice for 15 minutes at a time, and make sure that there is a towel or washcloth between your skin and the ice. Also, obviously, you should rest your cheek and elevate it, if possible," I inform, mentally cringing as I realize that I sound like an article from WebMD or something.
"How do you know all of that?"
I shrug.
"I've gotten a few bruises myself," I vaguely reply, playing it off with a slight laugh.
One side of her mouth quirks up, her dimple winking at me.
"Do you wanna go get that ice now?" I warily inquire.
She shakes her head.
"You know that Demi didn't mean it, right?"
She sighs.
"I know," She assures after a long pause. "But that doesn't erase the fact that she did slap me," She reminds.
I roll my bottom lip in my mouth, knowing that I'm kind of walking on eggshells right now. I don't want Jordan to be angry with me.
"She looked really guilty."
"As she should. She's never hit me before."
"That doesn't surprise me. Overall, Demi doesn't seem like a bad mom," I surprise myself by saying.
Jordan raises her eyebrows.
"What?" I laugh. "I mean, despite the fact that she gave me up-which she probably had a good reason to or thought it was for the best at the time-she's a great mother. Everybody makes mistakes, Jordan," I tell her, playfully bumping my hip with hers.
She giggles.
"The fact that you're right is highly annoying."
"Girl, I'm always right," I cheekily joke, dramatically flipping my hair.
She rolls her eyes with a light chuckle.
"Come on, drama queen," She takes my hand and opens the bathroom door.
"Where are we going?"
"As much as I'd love to give mom the silent treatment, I think it'd be best if I lift some of the guilt off of her shoulders by letting her know that I forgive her," She informs, dragging me through my bedroom.
"And why must I be present when you forgive her?"
"Because mom's an emotional and an impulsive shopper. She'll spoil us like crazy with the hopes and intentions of us forgiving her."
"You're so evil, Jordan," I smirk.
"Oh, I know," She winks.
I laugh as she continues to drag me behind her.
"Mom?" Jordan calls out with a frown as we discover that Demi is no longer in the living room.
Jordan leads us to a slightly ajar door and gently pushes it open to find Demi sitting on, I'm assuming, her bed. Demi's head is bowed, her face in her hands as her shoulders violently convulse with silent bawling. Jordan releases my hand, leaving me to stand awkwardly by the door as she climbs onto her mother's bed. Jordan wraps her arms around Demi and whispers something in her ear that I'm not able to catch. Demi then returns her daughter's hug, mumbling 'I'm sorry' over and over again. To my surprise, I find myself rapidly blinking back tears.
"Bailey, how about we all go shopping, and you can get whatever you want for your room and wardrobe?" Demi suggests, wiping tears from her face as their mother/daughter embrace ends.
I open and close my mouth several times, taken aback by her use of the name that I gave myself.
"Yeah," I breath out in an astonished tone. "I'd love that. Thank you so much."
"You don't have to thank me," She chuckles. "You're my daughter. You and Jordan both deserve all of the happiness that life has to offer."
I grin at her.
"Now, let's all try to get ready within the next hour," She laughs, crawling off of her huge bed and walking towards her closet.
Jordan scrambles off of Demi's bed, grabs my hand, and runs upstairs.
"I told you mom doesn't hate you," She teases once my bedroom door is closed and locked.
"Whatever," I mumble, unable to wipe the smile from my face.
Jordan smiles before entering her bedroom through our bathroom. I search through my closet for something to wear, grab my clothes, and enter the bathroom.
"Jordan!" I call, knocking on her door. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Alright," is her muffled reply.
I take a quick shower, ignoring my demons. I change into a red and black striped tank top, grey skinny jeans, and black and white checkered slip on shoes. I apply light foundation, light mascara, and a light coat of black lipstick. I straighten my hair and give my lips a final smack before exiting my bathroom and returning to my bedroom. I stack both of my wrists with various bracelets. I can hear the water running in the bathroom. I guess Jordan decided to take a shower, too. I shove my blade and wallet bursting with money into a simple, black, cross body purse.
"You take really quick showers," I observe while sitting on my bed as Jordan exits my bathroom already dressed.
I envy how she's able to wear not a single drop of makeup (minus the slight foundation on her injured cheek) and still look flawless. She didn't even have to straighten her hair! She giggles at my observation.
"Are you two finally ready?" Demi teases as we enter the living room.
"You're the one to talk," Jordan retorts causing Demi to laugh her loud, infectious laugh.
I grin, relishing in the happy moment, knowing better than to get my hopes up by believing that it'll last. It's only a matter of time before Demi goes back to hating me.
"Let's go shop till we drop, girls," Demi chirps, hooking her arm through the straps of her purse that sits on the coffee table.
"I can not believe you just said that," Jordan groans as we all head out the front door.
But, until that time gets here, I'm going to allow myself the happiness-with a family to call my own-that I've wanted my entire life.
ns 15.158.2.196da2
