Her All Along

by Cara Dee

  Not a bad day. Not a bad day at all.

  I bumped his fist, pressed send, and increased my pace the last few minutes.

  After another two days of silence, Pipsqueak felt the need to give me a piece of her mind.

  At five thirty in the morning, I woke up to her knocking incessantly on my patio door.

  I let her in and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes on my way to the kitchen.

  I needed coffee for this.

  “You know that text was a declaration of war, right? Whoa, you still don’t have furniture?”

  Not down here. I’d moved my bed upstairs and now even had a bed frame, along with a flat-screen and two nightstands. I’d also prepared the second room as my study, but the downstairs remained empty. I wasn’t in any rush. But at least I’d finished the renovations, except for the half bath down here. It needed a new counter and sink, and the tiles would be removed entirely. There was no shower in there; tiles were redundant.

  I yawned and started the coffeemaker.

  Pipsqueak stayed in the doorway and stewed. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

  I squinted and tightened the drawstrings of my sweats. “I’m not fond of jam either. Nutella is nothing but sugary paste that gets stuck on the roof of your mouth. Don’t get me started on marshmallows.”

  She glared. “Honestly, Avery. I…” She huffed and went straight to my fridge, and she peered inside with evident horror. There wasn’t much to look at. Other than some basic condiments in the door, I had butter, a six-pack of Coke, a rack of ribs I thought I’d eat this weekend, and a jar of pickles.

  I’d have laughed at her expression if I weren’t so tired. I’d stayed up till two to work on my plans for the AP class I was teaching this fall.

  Pipsqueak moved on to the freezer, which was fairly empty too. There was a bag of French fries, a packet of hot dogs, and some leftover chicken.

  She found a bit more in the first cupboard next to the fridge. Peanut butter, bread, and approximately seven bags of chips, most of them opened.

  I scratched my bicep absently. Which reminded me that I only had a wifebeater on, and some of the scars showed. On the other hand, Pipsqueak had seen them before. I could unclench.

  I didn’t care about strangers when, for instance, I was in the sauna or I showered at the gym. Over the years, the Quinn family had somehow been included in the “safe” category. We’d gone together to the lakes that were all over the place up in the mountains, and we’d hit Silver Beach a few times too. No problem, possibly because Darius, Jake, and Ryan had their fair share of scars. But if I hooked up with someone or there was a field trip with students and any type of undressing was involved, I either kept a tee on or didn’t participate.

  My scars were fucking ugly. Most of them had stretched wider as I’d grown up, leaving my back a canvas of blotchy marks, faded cuts, and a few angrier, uneven lines, like the one Darius had once mentioned. A parting gift from my aunt, who’d worked with cattle before she died. The time I’d called her for help, she’d brought a bullwhip. I’d received four lashes, and Finn had received two.

  “How’s the inventory going?” I asked as a way to derail my thoughts.

  “I’m trying to figure you out,” Pipsqueak muttered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s not weird that you rarely smile. There’s no sweetness in your life.”

  Fuck. Go figure, she’d noticed I wasn’t a very happy person.

  “But you know better?” I wondered.

  “Yup.” She closed the cupboard and sighed. “Okay, I guess I found the one thing that makes me fret more than knowing I start school on Friday. This is fucked up.”

  “Hey.” When the hell did she start cursing?

  She ignored me completely. “Like, how do you celebrate a birthday without cake? How do you make yourself feel better after a crappy day without a cookie? These are human rules, Mister.”

  The frustration and worry rolling off her tugged at a chord in me. She was genuinely at a loss.

  As I poured a cup of coffee, I told her I’d explain outside.

  No matter how tired I was, it seemed I woke up if Pipsqueak needed help understanding something about people.

  Was this what it was like to have a sibling? It was difficult to remember what I’d had with my brother. Insignificant, everyday struggles hadn’t really existed, and we’d been separated once CPS got involved. Finn had been placed with a family in Tacoma, and I’d spent most of the following years in group homes. The only thing that’d made a couple families consider taking me in was the fact that I’d been a straight A student. I’d been religious about school, knowing from an early age that my one shot at making it was to qualify for scholarships and grants.

  “Do you want anything to eat or drink, Pipsque—”

  “Like what?” she snapped. “No thank you, I’m not in the mood for buffalo sauce and pickles.” With that said, she spun on her heel and stalked outside.

  My eyebrows went up. “I have ranch too!” I hollered after her.

  Here I was, thinking I’d gone overboard when I’d bought a total of four spices, not counting salt and pepper. An all-around barbecue rub and garlic powder were necessary for marinades, but I’d splurged and added oregano and chili powder.

  On my way outside, I decided she should come over during the day at some point. I’d make her my pizza toast. Simple and delicious. All you did was take a few slices of bread, spread butter, marinara from a jar, add shredded cheese on top, then sprinkle some oregano and set the microwave to thirty seconds.

  A perfectly good meal in under two minutes.

  I took a seat on the patio, and Pipsqueak asked me why I even had peanut butter at home if I didn’t use it with jelly.

  “I prefer it without.” I shrugged and tasted my coffee.

  “Ugh.” Pipsqueak folded her arms over her chest and glanced out over the dark playground past my backyard.

  I studied her and wondered if she was actively looking for something to be upset about. She’d mentioned this being the one thing that bothered her more than starting school on Friday. Someone was nervous.

  “How can I help you prepare for school?” I asked.

  She flicked me a brief look. “You were going to explain—”

  “This takes precedence.” I cut her off patiently but firmly. “I know you don’t like hearing empty promises, such as, things are going to be okay. So lay it on me. Tell me what would help settle your nerves.”

  She bit her lip, thinking, and fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “Every summer, I come back to school and find that my classmates have evolved during the break.”

  Valid worry. These days, I only taught seniors, but back when I had different grades, the changes had been clear as day. Summer was a time many grew up. I could wish a class of juniors a happy summer, only to greet them as seniors a few months later and wonder if they were the same people.

  “You’ve spent time with your friends during the break, haven’t you?” I wondered.

  She nodded. “Some of them. Sammie helped me do this. It’s popular right now.” She extended her hand, and…I didn’t know what I was looking at. She had dark blue nail polish, which wasn’t new. Nor was it very pretty, but all girls her age did it.

  “Uh…”

  “The rhinestone!” She pointed at her index finger.

  Ah. Okay. There was a rhinestone affixed to her nail. All right.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She smiled.

  I cleared my throat and took a swig of my coffee.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” I became slightly defensive; I couldn’t help it. “I don’t care about fashion trends, but if jumping on the bandwagon helps keep your worries at bay, by all means. I know it’s important to fit in, Pipsqueak, but—”

  “No buts, please.” Her eyes flashed with uncertainty and a plea for me to understand. “It does help. I’m already so different from everyone.”

  I sighed and look
ed at her. Really looked at her. And maybe I wasn’t the right person for her to talk to about this, because I was torn. At work, I faced these teenagers every single day. I knew how ruthless they could be, and Elise was already going to struggle a lot as she got older. She was starting high school next year, where every problem suddenly became magnified. In the meantime, adults would constantly minimize their problems and go on a rant about, “Just wait till you get older, dear.”

  Teenage drama was bullshit and nothing in comparison to what she’d face as an adult, but it didn’t make the teenage drama any less real. Plus, throw in buckets of hormones, and it was a virtual Nagasaki for these kids.

  In Pipsqueak’s case, factor in autism too.

  “I don’t have anything worthwhile to contribute about trends, but I understand why you’re trying to be part of them,” I settled for saying.

  “Thank you.” She sent me a quick smile. “But this one is beautiful.”

  “Okay,” I chuckled into my mug.

  Seven

  I tried.

  I honestly fucking tried, but in the end, it took my two classes of seniors less than a month to make me hate them.

  They were so goddamn spoiled and indifferent that I wanted to wring their necks.

  The eight students in my AP class in economics were the exception. Those kids showed up every Friday and were there to learn, to get ahead, and most of them already knew what college they wanted to go to.

  But today was a regular Monday after Thanksgiving, and I had my regular students, my regular schedule.

  “Welcome back, guys.” I went behind my desk as the last students trickled in, and I started writing on the whiteboard. “How many of you kept up with the news over the holiday? I’m willing to bet some of you have fathers in banking who’re losing a lot of sleep at the moment.”

  “Oh my God, how did you know?” one of the girls gushed.

  In other words, she wasn’t reading the news at all.

  I suppressed a sigh and faced the class. “Buckle up—today we’re going to talk about macroeconomic trends.”

  Everyone groaned.

  People who loved the fall were the fucking worst.

  “Oh, but the trees are so gorgeous.”

  Then head up the mountains, fuck a tree, and don’t come back.

  Those who loved winter were equally bad, either because they looked past the weeks of rain and sleet and gushed like whores about snow and skiing, or because they acted like Santa’s little helper on crack.

  By mid-December, seasonal depression had a firm grasp on me, and I found myself with a housemate who was worse off than me. As fucked up as the situation was, it kept me going. Darius had been crashing on my couch on and off since he’d returned from his assignment, and if I didn’t suspect he’d drink himself into a coma if I didn’t make sure he ate and showered, it might’ve been me who threw in the towel.

  Juggling a bag from the store and stack of books and folders, I unlocked the door to my house and stepped inside.

  Darius was here.

  He came and went as he pleased, and I’d given him a key so he could get in if I wasn’t home. The sight of him dropped a rock into my gut. I’d ask him what the hell he’d been through this summer, but he told me enough through his nightmares. When they grew worse, he didn’t want to be alone.

  “Hey, buddy.” I tossed my keys on the side table and kicked off my shoes.

  He grunted something and reached for the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.

  Had it not been for his asking if he could stay with me for a while, the living room still would’ve been empty.

  The coffee table had been replaced twice, though. Once after Darius drove his fist through it, then, despite the second table being a lot sturdier, when he woke up in the middle of the night, balls deep in a flashback, and kicked it. He’d sent it flying into the fireplace I’d never used—and he’d fractured his foot in the process.

  “Let’s get some food in you,” I said.

  “Cheers, but I’m not hungry.” He took a swig from his bottle.

  Otherwise, he was surprisingly tidy, although I guessed it mattered that there wasn’t much to make a mess out of. Even so… He had an army-green duffel bag by the end of the couch, and on the table he had two bottles of whiskey, a notebook, his service weapon, a folding knife, and his watch. Everything was positioned neatly, including the two pillows and covers he used when he spent the night. They were folded and stacked over the armrest.

  “I wasn’t asking, Darius,” I told him patiently. “Come on. I got wings and some other shit from the deli.”

  He didn’t seem as angry today.

  The anger actually didn’t scare me, because my brother had been the same once we’d been taken away from our mother. When he no longer feared for his life, explosive bursts of rage had been his way to release pressure.

  I didn’t know if he still did that. His counselor had emphasized how important it was that Finn found healthier ways to deal with his anger, and he’d been placed with that family in Tacoma shortly after.

  Darius didn’t join me in the kitchen right away, but I wasn’t in a hurry.

  I had a weekend of grading tests ahead of me, and I could use some downtime and a couple beers before I dug in.

  The microwave dinners went into the freezer. The two cases of beer went into the fridge.

  While I was reheating the food from the deli, Darius appeared in the doorway.

  Considering he was wearing jeans and a tee, I wondered if he’d been out today.

  “You didn’t by any chance see your therapist?” I asked.

  He nodded with a dip of his chin.

  I despised how lost he looked.

  “I ain’t goin’ back.” He walked over to the kitchen table and slumped down in one of the only two chairs. “He keeps tellin’ me I gotta open up to my family. And tell them what? The classified shit, the confidential shit, or the secret shit?” He shook his head and scrubbed at his face. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not exposing them to any of it.”

  That gave me an idea. “What if you’d accidentally told someone already? Might as well go for broke and talk to them, right?”

  Ouch. I withdrew my hand quickly from the plate in the microwave and took it out with a dish towel instead. Hot wings, deep-dish pizza, and mac and cheese.

  “What’re you talking about?” Darius asked.

  I met his frown as I brought the two plates to the table, and it was time to fess up. “You talk in your sleep.”

  He flinched and clenched his jaw. “Do I even wanna know…?”

  I wasn’t sure. I had hardly any details to paint me a picture of the circumstances, but when someone groaned about a suicide belt in his sleep, you didn’t need much more information to know that your friend had been to hell and back.

  I cleared my throat and grabbed us a couple Cokes and the wing sauce before I took my seat across from him.

  “You were trying to get someone called Liman to listen to you,” I said. “You’ve said his name the most. Or yelled it. Pleaded it.”

  Darius stared at his plate. His fingers twitched—other than that, no visible reaction.

  “On your most restless nights, you’ve tossed and turned and muttered about a suicide belt,” I finished quietly.

  He cursed under his breath. “I should’ve stayed at home. I shouldn’t have come to you, man.”

  “No, I’m very glad you did.” I couldn’t tell him that enough. “I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

  Darius blew out a breath and opened his Coke. “Ironically, none of that played a significant part of my assignment. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, waiting for an informant when… There was another informant, a widowed café owner with two sons. I’d written him off as too suspect, and I guess I was right.”

  I didn’t understand what he was talking about, but I wasn’t about to push. As long as words came out of his mouth, I considered it a win. Because he needed to talk. />
  “Hypothetically speaking,” he went on, “say you have the option of stopping someone wearing a suicide belt. This person stands in the middle of a busy street, surrounded by civilians. You can kill him or watch him blow up dozens of people.”

  I leaned back in my seat. Would that be the café owner? A man named Liman?

  Darius chuckled humorlessly. “Sounds like something you’d discuss in an ethics class in college, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded with a dip of my chin.

  He swallowed hard, still not making eye contact. “Now, say the person wearing the suicide belt is approximately seven years old…”

  “Jesus Christ,” I breathed out.

  My pulse went through the roof with the shock that tore through me, and I had nothing. Nothing I could say, nothing I could do.

  Actually, there was something I had to say, and not for my sake.

  “Darius, I—”

  “I don’t have anything else to say about it,” he said and coughed into his fist. The distress was written all over him. As was the guilt.

  “That wasn’t what I—” I blew out a harsh breath. “You did what you had to do. I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re going through, but I urge you to think about the lives you undoubtedly saved.”

  He didn’t want to hear it. “It ain’t that simple.”

  “I know it’s not. I won’t say anything else, but—there you go. Stay here and let me help out until you’re back on your feet.”

  He didn’t respond verbally, but he mustered a small nod and returned to staring at the food he probably wouldn’t eat.

  I’d certainly lost my appetite.

  There was a sense of loss in me that I didn’t dare poke at. It wasn’t anything Darius had said. It was always there, but it became heavier when an occasion arose where I felt an urge to either take care of someone or shoulder responsibility. I didn’t feel equipped or worthy; meanwhile, I’d once made it my purpose in life to be someone’s rock. Someone’s protector.

  Sometimes, I wondered if all my memories were actually real. From such an early age, between four and five, I could recall events with perfect clarity, and they always involved shielding Finn from our mother’s sadistic wrath. She’d gone fairly easy on Finn at first, but I’d seen it coming. I’d known somehow that the spankings and squeezes would morph into rougher torture, and I hadn’t even hesitated. It’d been instinct to place myself between them as much as possible.