by Calia Read
I’m the older sister. I should be guiding her, telling her what to do.
I watch as she grabs one of the many sharp blades placed on the bed. Alarm rises in me.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask doubtfully.
“Yes, Emi,” she says with concentration. Her glasses fall down on her small nose and she impatiently pushes them up. Her hands start to twitch uncontrollably, and I take another step forward. “I know what I’m doing,” she says firmly.
Neither one of us do, but I nod my head and squat down on my knees, leaning my arms on the edge of the bed.
For twenty minutes, I watch her progress, impressed that she is so focused. Once she’s finished, we stare down at her creation.
She drops the glue and looks at her handiwork. “We have our hollow book!” E latches onto my arm and jumps up and down. I jump with her because her excitement is contagious to me.
When we stop squealing and moving around, we look down at our book.
“Do you have your dreams?” she asks.
Nodding my head, I go to my vanity and pull out the tiny pieces of papers that I wrote out yesterday. When I look up in the mirror, all I see is my pale face and big brown eyes. In a few years, I’ll wear makeup. I’ll wear everything that my mom puts on her face. I’ll be just as beautiful as her.
“Are you ready?” she asks impatiently.
“Yes, E.”
She practically beams at me, as I sit down across from her. In between us, sits our hollow book, where all our dreams will go. She holds out her first card and stares down at her writing, a frown on her face.
“My teacher helped me write these out,” she murmurs.
I rise up on my knees and look at the paper. “Do you want me to help?”
Her cheeks are flushed a bright pink and finally, she nods her head and gives me the paper.
Silently, I take the paper and read her dream out loud.
“I want to be an artist,” I say slowly.
She beams at me. “I’m going to be an artist.”
“You will,” I agree. “And your paintings will be amazing.”
“Your turn,” she says anxiously.
When I open up my first dream, I stare down at my writing.
“Go, Emi!” she urges. “What’s your dream?”
“I want to be a social worker,” I announce proudly.
“Yes! Yes!” She claps her hands together.
We go through her dreams one by one and when we’re down to the last two, we look at each other. We’ve saved the best for last.
E holds her last card in her hand, like it’s her treasure. She looks unsure, and I pat her small knee.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Read it.”
“I-I wan- want,” she smiles at me so widely, “I want to-o read a fulll bo-”
“Slow down,” I say softly.
Her eyebrows slant down in a frown. She listened, but I know she’s impatient with herself. “I want to read a-a full book.”
“Yes!” I shout out happily. I’m her personal cheerleader. I always will be. Even though she is a mischief-maker with Aniston, she has a gentle soul. E would never harm anyone, even if she were provoked.
Some people view the world with a glass half-empty attitude. E’s glass is so full, it runs over daily. All she knows is love, and it will stay that way. Aniston and I are her two-man army. She can never be harmed.
“What is your last dream?”
I look down at my paper and smile. “I want to go abroad in high school to study.”
“Oh! Emi, that sounds amazing! Where would you go?”
I shrug. “Anywhere in Europe.”
“How long would you be there?”
“A year? I’m not sure.”
E’s bouncing up and down. “And I could visit?”
I give her a weak smile. “Sure you could, but not all the time.”
Her face falls and I quickly speak up. “Aniston would be here. You’ll have someone.”
“Promise?”
I clasp her small hand in mine and look her in the eyes. “I promise.”
She closes our dream book and holds it with both hands. “This will never leave us. Not until our dreams are achieved.”
“Keep it in your room. This was your idea.”
E grins and clutches our dream book to her chest. “I’ll never let this go.”
I gasp loudly and sit up in bed immediately. My eyes take in the dark surroundings, and I finally realize that it was a dream—a dream that holds my memories.
It’s hard to wake up from those dreams. They hold so much happiness for me, reminding me what my past used to be like. But the minute I’m awake, reality slams into my chest so painfully that I can’t breathe.
Tears are already streaming down my face as I lay back down on my bed. I grab my phone before I roll over toward the wall and try to keep my sobs silent.
I turn my head and look in Severine’s direction. She is asleep, unaware that I’m having a mini-breakdown. Grabbing a thin robe, I tiptoe out of the room, down the hall, and sit on the stairs. I call Eden with shaking fingers.
She answers with a scratchy voice. “Hello?”
“Eden, do you still have the Dream Book?”
“What?”
“The dream book,” I ask impatiently. I shove a hand through my hair and grip the strands tightly. “Do you still have it?”
“Yeah ... I think I do,” Eden pauses. “Are you okay?”
“No.” My voice is shaking. “I dreamed about that book.”
“Oh ... do you want me to grab it?”
“Yes, I can’t get it out of my mind—” I choke up on the last word and more tears start to fall.
“Are you sure? I think it’s best that none of us look at it...”
I look down at my bare feet on the dirty floor, and I don’t care. I could be lying on a bed of nails and my focus would be on this book. “Please, Eden.”
“Hold on,” she rushes out. “It’s underneath my bed.”
I wait, and it feels like days are passing by, instead of seconds. When she comes back on the line, she’s slightly out of breath. “Okay. I have it.”
“Go through the dreams,” I say in between my hiccups.
She sighs. “There are only three left.”
I listen closely and hear the sound of paper. My eyes close and I picture that moment perfectly. How we sat Indian-style on my floor, proclaiming how we wanted our lives to go. “I want to be a social worker,” Eden announces.
My fingers are picking at ties of my white robe. “That’s mine,” I mutter.
“I know,” she says sadly and moves on. “The next one is “I want to be an art-” She stops speaking because of the realization that her dreams would never happen.
“What’s the third one?” I whisper.
Eden reads the last dream, and I drop my forehead to my knees and mash my lips together.
For an hour, Eden and I are silent. She stays on the line with me, crying her own tears.
I have failed my little sister, my E. That’s all that matters—all that I need to remember.
I grip the racket in my hand and wait for Tosha to serve.
It was mid-afternoon Saturday, and I couldn’t get the dream out of my head. Maybe there’s a reason for that, maybe it’s meant to stay in my mind. I need to remember why I’m here. It took months of planning and gathering courage to get here. And I’m letting time slip through my fingers like quick sand.
Tosha’s advice is fading away slowly. It’s still in the back of my head. When I go to bed at night, that’s when the guilt comes, reminding me that I’m disappointing my sister. But I can’t really give myself any kind of pity party. Hell, I’m disappointing myself.
I think I expected that Sloan brother to prove me right. All I could picture for the past three years is Macsen and his cocky grin as he walked down the street. My world had ended and he was acting as if his had just begun. But that cocky grin is no longer. He is so
mber and quiet. It’s thrown me off guard. I feel like I’m suspended in mid-air with nothing to catch me when I fall.
So when Tosha calls me to meet her at the rec center to play tennis, I agree. I need a boost from my best friend.
“Will you serve?” I call out.
Tosha adjusts her tennis dress. She pulls the neckline down a little further and pretends she can’t hear me. “Why? I’m not ready yet.” She looks over at the clear glass and gives some guy a sweet grin. There’s a group of them congregating around the glass, probably because every time Tosha serves she does this dramatic groan. She says it makes her feel like a pro tennis player.
I get into position and hear a whistle behind me from one of the guys watching us. My eyes remain focused on the ball as it flies toward my side of the court. I run and hit it forcefully with my racket.
Tosha keeps me on my toes. She’s small, but fierce. Surrounded with brothers, she grew up around sports. And it shows by how easily she moves across the court, meeting each one of my hits.
I make contact with the ball in a forehand stroke that’s too far for Tosha to reach.
Hands in the air, I do a dance. I don’t have to talk to Tosha about my problems. Just being around her is enough.
“We’re almost tied!” I call out to her.
“Not bad, Wentworth,” she teases.
I pick up the ball from the sidelines and dribble it as I walk to the boundary lines.
Tosha’s elbows are level with her knees as she bends down. I get ready to serve and her words make me mess up. “Macsen has been watching you for the last fifteen minutes.”
My lips go into a flat line. I dribble the ball over and over. I can feel Tosha’s eyes on me. “You don’t want to look?” she asks.
“No.” I go to throw the ball in the air, stand up straight, and extend my right arm.
Tosha quickly says, “I think he’s getting all ‘excited’ watching you in your little tennis skirt.”
My serve is weak. It hits the net and Tosha laughs loudly.
I point my racket in her direction. “Not funny.”
Walking to my water bottle, I look over at the glass and see Macsen standing with Chris. He’s dressed in swim trunks and has a white t-shirt on. It’s sprinkled with water and I know he’s just gotten out of the pool.
His brows raise in a silent hello as I walk closer to where he stands. My eyes narrow, and I grab my bag and water bottle.
“Are we done?” Tosha asks.
I turn around to face Tosha and keep walking backwards toward the door. “Well, I’m not going to keep playing with them gawking.”
Tosha grabs her bag and jogs to me. “The rest of the guys are gawking. Macsen is doing this sexy, ‘I’m undressing you with my eyes’ kind of thing.”
Opening the door with my shoulder, I let Tosha pass through first. “That’s creepy.”
“It’s hot.”
I say nothing.
“Are you still moving along with your revenge on Ashley?”
My face pulls back as I look at her with confusion. I have no idea what she’s talking about until I remember our conversation. “Oh...” I nod slowly. “My plan is coming along great.”
“Pretty soon, you’re going to have to tell me everything.”
I reach back and wipe the sweat away from my neck. “I will. Soon.”
“Until then, I’ll keep harassing you for the details.”
She steers us to the long hallway where Chris and Macsen stand. Macsen turns around instantly. He’s looking me up and down, taking in my peach tennis skirt and white Nike tank top. It makes my skin tingle.
“Did you have fun gawking like a pervert, Chris?” Tosha says cheekily.
Macsen watches Tosha and Chris volley barbs back and forth to each other with a smile on his face. And while no one is noticing, I pull away from Tosha and Chris and walk toward the front of the building.
Across from where students scan their ID cards, is a large area where televisions are set up. Couches and chairs are angled around them, and a vending machine and magazines are placed against the wall.
I drift over to the magazine stand and read the front article on the local newspaper: FEMALE STUDENT ATTACKER: FOUND AND CHARGED.
I’m lured in. I grab the paper, find an open chair, and start to read.
Erin Maschoff was a sophomore in college when she was attacked while walking back to her dorm from the Student Center. She was alone when it happened. The attacker wasn’t caught for two years.
It makes me feel nothing but disgust.
The front page shows a happy picture of her at nineteen. It’s placed between the paragraphs. But the blown-up picture shows a family holding hands with a somber Erin as they listen to the final verdict.
I rest my chin on my hand and stare closely at their faces. My heart hurts for them all. Something was stolen from them. They were all changed by what happened. I knew all too well what that was like.
“So you read the newspaper, too?”
I pull my gaze away from the paper and find Macsen standing in front of me. I crane my neck and stare up at his face. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks at me solemnly.
My eyes drift back to the words in front of me, but I can’t focus. He sits down in the chair next to me. He relaxes his elbows on the armrest, and now he’s only inches away.
“Sometimes,” I say quietly.
He leans back in his chair and watches me. “What’s wrong?”
I keep my head down and stare vacantly at the newspaper. “Why do you think something is wrong?”
“It’s easy to tell. I think it’s pretty obvious you’re pissed.”
“You’ve only tutored me a few times,” I point out.
“And those sessions last ... what? About two hours?” I say nothing and Macsen continues. “Yeah, I think I’m getting to know you.”
My hands are holding the paper, but they’re shaking from Macsen’s words. I clutch the edges until the tips of my fingers turn white. “Nothing is wrong.”
Macsen’s black eyebrows lift. “You’re all ... moody.”
He is wrong. I’m just tortured. Most of the time, I struggle between getting to know him, ignoring the interest I feel, and stifling the anger that rises when I do become interested. It makes my emotions a cyclone that won’t stop moving.
But, right now, I’m feeling amped up from my time spent with Tosha. I nudge my head toward the front page of the newspaper. “What do you think about this?”
Macsen leans close and I feel his breath on my neck. When he looks up, his eyes are clouded and his eyebrows are drawn down. “You want to know what I think of a girl being attacked?”
I keep my shoulders from shaking. “People are attacked, bullied, harmed all the time ... it’s a hot topic.”
“It’s been a hot topic for a while,” he mutters.
“Shouldn’t everyone talk about it? And shouldn’t this guy be held accountable for what he did?”
He pulls his head back. “Yes...”
“This guy put her through hell,” I continue, “he needs to be punished.”
Macsen rubs the skin above his lower lip as he looks at the newspaper in concentration. I can’t stop staring at his thumb moving back and forth. I look away, feeling sick that I’m thinking of him as anything other than my enemy.
“You feel strongly about this.”
My back goes rigid and I mask my face, trying to look bored. “It’s just wrong. I hate reading this, but I’m glad he’s getting punished.”
Macsen peers at the article one more time and points to a name. “Well, Brandon Reyes will have five years in prison. He deserves it.”
“So you agree it’s wrong, and that he needs to be punished?” I stop myself from lurching across the chair and shoving my face close to his.
He looks insulted by my questions. “Of course. It’s fucked up what happened, she didn’t deserve that.”
My chest is moving up and down, and my heart won’t s
top thundering. I can’t catch my breath.
Macsen looks over at me with concern. “Were you attacked or bullied?” He points to the article. “Help me out here.”
He’s looking at me with genuine worry, like he wants to know what’s wrong. I want to tell him that he’s the reason for my pounding heart and pain.
“No,” I say slowly and take a deep breath. “I wasn’t.”
“So you’re just really passionate about this stuff?” Macsen smiles with one side of his mouth, and I know he doesn’t believe me.
I’m numb. How can he sit across from me and act confused with my anger? To keep my hands busy, I toy with the edge of the newspaper. “I just think it’s a tragedy.”
He agrees. “I think everyone’s been picked on by someone at one point in their life.”
I narrow my eyes slightly, trying to get a clear picture of Macsen. “You have?”
“Sure, I was.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks guarded. “I moved around everywhere. New kids are always the easy target. I had these huge glasses, this tall lanky frame—I kind of made it too easy for them.”
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
“Just a bunch of stupid shit.”
Macsen is trying to be evasive and I don’t push. Not yet, at least.
“And what about high school?”
“High school got easier,” he concedes slowly. “Look, I’m agreeing with you, Emilia. I’m not defending this guy.” Macsen holds my gaze. “Clearly, you’re upset at what happened to this girl, but her abuser is caught. He’s going to jail. There was justice.”
My smile is grateful but just for appearances. Sometimes there really isn’t justice. You have to find it for yourself.
I expect him to leave after my rant, but he stays put. He sighs and looks at me thoughtfully. “I’m learning so much about you.”
“And what do you think you’re learning?” I ask cautiously.
“I don’t think, I know.” Those green eyes look at me pointedly and it sends chills down my spine. “You like a William Faulkner novel, and yet, you probably read those lady porn books with the huge buff dude on the front.”
A wide smile is on his face. I open my mouth to object, but he quickly speaks up. “But you are really passionate about things you believe in.” He points at the front page of the paper and watches me with an intense look. It makes my skin burn. “I like passionate people.”
