The Inside Battle

by Melanie Sumrow

  He promised me things would get better, and I really want to believe him. It already is better.

  My heavy boots swing side to side a couple of feet above the bubbling creek. From the treetops on either side of the stream, the birds call to one another. I breathe deep as the breeze shifts, and I get a whiff of lemons and honey. “Hey, Calliope.”

  She appears, wide-eyed, from between the trees on the left bank. “How’d you know it was me?” With her fishing pole in one hand, she’s wearing a flowery shirt and jean shorts. There’s a canvas bag covered with patches slung across her body.

  “Lucky guess,” I say, glad she’s actually talking to me, instead of running the opposite direction.

  Calliope reaches the edge of the water. “Did you know honeybees sense when a storm is coming?”

  “Hmmm,” I say, smiling at her new piece of trivia. “So since I knew it was you, I guess that makes me the bee.” Then I point to her with a smile. “And you’re the storm?”

  “I think it’s the other way around.” She shakes her head. “No, the bees hide in the hive so they don’t get wet.” A sly grin brightens her face; she points to her backside. “As I recall, you don’t mind getting wet.” She laughs, clearly making fun of me for falling in the damp grass during our soccer match.

  I put my hands up. “Okay, okay, I knew I didn’t have a chance of winning. But it was the only way I could keep you from leaving.”

  “You didn’t keep me. I chose to stay and kick your butt.”

  “Hey,” I say.

  She pulls a small baggie from the front pocket of her bag. “Sheep are the same way, you know?”

  “What? They stink at soccer?”

  “No, they gather before a storm so they can shield each other from the rain. There’s a saying: ‘When sheep gather in a huddle, tomorrow we’ll have a puddle.’”

  I grin. “Do you really get all this stuff from watching Jeopardy!?”

  She shrugs and opens the baggie, removing something flat and slimy and pink.

  I turn up my nose. “What’s that?”

  “Raw bacon,” she says, tearing off a small piece before placing it on her hook. “The fish love it.”

  “Gross.”

  Calliope returns the sealed baggie to her bag. “You don’t like bacon?”

  “Who doesn’t like bacon?”

  She nods with approval. “I guess you’re not as weird as you look.”

  I laugh and then shift. Does she really think I’m weird-looking? “I don’t think people are allowed to say those kinds of things.”

  “What?”

  “That someone looks weird.” I tug on the collar of my black T-shirt. “It’s a little rude.”

  “Why? I’m weird-looking.”

  I stop tugging on my shirt and shake my head. “You’re definitely not. You’re—” I glance at her eyelashes, her large brown eyes, her long legs, and the curls framing her confident jaw.

  She clears her throat. “Yes?”

  I wipe my hands on my pants.

  Calliope tilts her head and stares straight at me. Maybe straight through me. I only hope she’s not doing the Jedi mind thing again and reading my mind.

  “I guess you aren’t that weird-looking,” she says.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Any time,” she says and then plunks her bacon hook into the stream. She stares into the clear water, watching her bait swish back and forth. “Though I’m not really a fan of the new clothes.”

  “What?” I ask, joking. I pull the sides of my camo pants. “You don’t like me looking like an avatar from Call of Duty?”

  Calliope focuses on the red bobber in the water, her voice softer. “You still look like one of them.”

  My smile falls. “I’m not one of them.”

  “You never answered my question the other day.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  She looks up at me. “Why are you even here then if you’re not one of them?”

  Her question stings. I put the sole of my shoe on the log. “I can leave if you want.”

  “Yes, you’re quite good at that.” She shakes her head. “No, I’m just trying to understand: You say you don’t believe what they do, but you’re staying at their camp, and you dress like them, and I want to know why.”

  “I already told you,” I say, defensive. “I’m here because of my dad.”

  “Who’s one of them, right?”

  My shoulders tense.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t get it: If you don’t like it here, why don’t you stay home with your mom?”

  It’s like she’s knocked me on my butt again.

  She points to the top of the waterfall. “Unless she’s up there being a racist with the rest of them?”

  My jaw tightens. “I guess Josiah didn’t tell you: She’s dead.”

  Calliope’s expression immediately shifts.

  My fingernails dig into the bark. “And she wasn’t a racist,” I say, loud. “She was the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

  “He didn’t tell me,” she says. “I didn’t know.” She bores the toe of her shoe into the ground. “I thought you said your mom gave you that Minecraft shirt.”

  “She did,” I say, curt. “Which is why I still wear it, even though I know I’m way too old for it.”

  She cringes. “I didn’t think to ask.” She pushes the end of the fishing pole into the mud. “I’m sorry.”

  I nod, my breath slowing. “I guess I have the opposite problem. I think too much and never speak when I should.” I watch the bacon hook skate under the surface as she hops onto the log.

  The bark makes a scratching sound as she scoots near the center and sits a few inches from me. Her red tennis shoes dangle next to my shiny boots. “Can I ask what happened to her?” Her voice is gentle against the roll of the creek.

  “Heart attack.” I glance at the patches of blue sky, peeking between the branches. “She wasn’t even forty yet, but I think all those years of stress got to her.” I shift my weight on the log. “My dad was always in danger; plus, he was a different person every time he came home from one of his tours of duty.” I nod to myself. “She still loved him, though. She was always trying to take care of him.”

  “Like you,” Calliope notes.

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “I’m sorry about your mom. Really.”

  I let out a sad laugh. “I guess it’s sort of ironic.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “My dad was the one who was always in danger, but he’s the one who survived.”

  Calliope nods, and we sit for several seconds, maybe several minutes, letting the creek wash away my words when I finally face her.

  She’s looking at the water, her hair a thick curtain across her cheek.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She nods.

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  My insides twist with disappointment. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”

  “No, I really don’t know what happened to them. I was literally dropped on the doorstep of Josiah’s church when I was a baby.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she says with a firm nod. “Josiah was practicing his sermon in the pulpit when he heard me crying.” She smiles a little. “He says I sounded like a tiny lamb and was no bigger than a peanut.”

  I grin. “Is that why he calls you ‘Peanut’?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “And why you call him by his name, instead of ‘Grandpa’?”

  “Right again.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I never knew Josiah’s wife, though. She had already died when I came into the picture. But Josiah says I was his little miracle. He says God saw how lonely he was and sent me to help.”

  “I can see that.”

  She lifts her long legs straight over the water and stares at her knees. “I still look for them, though�
��my parents.” She lowers her legs. “When I was little, I used to stop people all the time and ask.”

  “You did?”

  “As you can probably guess, it was a little awkward for Josiah. People would give us both a strange look.” She shifts. “But sometimes when he prays during Sunday service, I’ll still look around the congregation to see if I look like one of them. Or I’ll check the faces at the farmers market.” She tugs a thread on the bottom of her shorts. “It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help it. It’s been over thirteen years; I doubt they’re coming back for me now.”

  “You never know,” I say, gently nudging her shoe with mine.

  “Maybe you haven’t heard: Grown-ups don’t really like teenagers.”

  “I like you,” I say.

  “But you’re not a grown-up,” she notes.

  “True, but I like you,” I say again. “And that has to count for something.”

  She gives me a strange look, raised eyebrow and all.

  And suddenly, I realize how it sounds. I like her. My neck goes hot. I drop my legs against the log. “I mean—as a friend—I like—”

  “I know what you mean,” she says, saving me.

  This is why I don’t say what I’m thinking.

  “So.” She scratches her knee. “I brought you something.”

  “You’re kidding.” I carefully move my leg, straddling the log like a horse, so I can face her.

  “I guess Josiah’s giving me a conscience or something.” She smiles. “I felt bad after I kicked your butt at soccer.”

  I laugh. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”

  She leans over to pull something from her canvas bag. “Here,” she says and hands me a comic book.

  “No way.” It’s the same Han Solo comic I was admiring at the farmers market. “How did you find this?”

  “I asked Old Mick if he still had it,” she says. “He said it’s from 1997, so totally vintage.”

  “Wow.” My fingers run across the dark space scene on the cover. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thank you usually works pretty well.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Wow, thank you so much.”

  She nods with a smile. “You’re welcome.”

  I flip through the pages, admiring the old advertisements for Dragon Con and collectible sculptures from The X-Files.

  Calliope nudges the book. “Can I ask you something?”

  I nod, closing the comic. “Of course.”

  “Did you talk to your dad?”

  Her question hovers in the air between us. I don’t want to ruin this. I’d rather talk about the comic book. Or bees. Or sheep. Anything. But she expects an answer and, of all people, she deserves one. “I tried,” I finally answer and brace for the disappointment I already see forming on her face. “Calliope—”

  “It’s fine,” she says, cutting me off. “I knew you wouldn’t. And you didn’t.”

  I stiffen, offended she already knew I couldn’t do it. “Then why did you bring me this?” I ask, holding the comic.

  Calliope puts the sole of her shoe on the log, pushing to stand. “I gotta go.”

  Heat flickers. “I thought I was the one who was always running away.”

  She’s already moving across the log.

  I bumble to stand, but my foot gets caught as I’m swinging it over the log. I’m falling sideways; my arm flails and connects with Calliope’s ankle.

  She gasps.

  We both lose our balance. My hand shoots up in the air, trying to keep my comic book dry before the splash.

  Cold water bubbles inside my ears. I hurriedly sit up and suck in a breath. My comic book is still dry.

  Calliope stands over me, also dry, except for the bottom of her legs. Of course she landed on her feet.

  The water flows around my waist. “Well, this is humiliating,” I say and shake my wet head.

  She snorts a laugh and then tries to hold it in.

  “Are you laughing at me?” I say, which only makes her laugh harder. And even though I’m cold and soaking, her laughter makes me feel warm inside.

  “Here,” she says, taking the comic from me and offering her other hand. “Let me help you.”

  I take it and stand, water rushing away from my body. She releases me, and I try to wring out the bottom of my T-shirt, but it’s no use. The water nudges my calves; I wedge my boot against a rock, trying to keep my balance.

  “Steady,” she says, keeping her hands out, as if she’s ready to grab me in case I fall again.

  Why is she always helping me? Why is she still smiling at me when I’m so clumsy and stupid? I know I don’t deserve it, and she should know why. “You asked me why I’m here.”

  The smile leaves her face; she wipes a water droplet from her cheek and nods.

  “I did something,” I say, curling my hands into fists. “It’s bad, and you’re probably going to hate me and never want to talk to me again.”

  She rolls the comic in her hands, unblinking, expecting my confession. I wish she’d tell me it doesn’t matter. But clearly it does.

  “I got expelled,” I blurt before I can change my mind, and it sounds so final when I say it. “My best friend, Ajeet—I spray-painted a message on his locker.” My hands are balled so tight, I can feel my fingernails cutting into my hands. “I was upset, but I shouldn’t have done it.” I shudder, thinking of the red letters.

  “What did you write?”

  “It’s awful.”

  “Tell me.”

  I sigh. “Go back to your own country.”

  Calliope bites her bottom lip.

  “But I didn’t mean it,” I argue, opening my hands. “I was so upset. Dad didn’t get the job he wanted, and he wouldn’t listen to me about what I wanted.”

  “So you decided to write hate speech on your best friend’s locker?” she says, her voice full of judgment.

  I lower my head in shame, watching the clear water flow between my ankles. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t want to be like him, okay?” I look into her dark eyes. “I don’t want to be filled with hate like he is or spread hate or any of that stuff. I don’t want to be so angry all the time.”

  “Then, don’t be,” Calliope says matter-of-factly.

  I scoff. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Nothing important ever is.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “And you probably aren’t going to like hearing this.”

  I dig my feet into the silt, trying to ready myself for the blow. “What?”

  “You already are spreading hate.”

  I stagger a little.

  “You have a habit of not speaking up when you should,” she says. “It’s like Josiah said: Complacency is just as bad.” She lifts a finger. “If you remain silent, you’re telling the hater you’re okay with what he’s saying and doing.”

  “But I’m not okay with it,” I say, defensive. “Any of it.”

  Her arms fall to her sides. “Then why don’t you say something?”

  I think of Dad and his temper. I shiver. “It’s not that easy,” I say again.

  She lets out a dry laugh. “Easy? You’re not seriously going to talk to me about what’s easy, are you? Have you ever been given the stink-eye or followed around when you walk into a store because of the color of your skin? Have you ever feared for your life when you see a police officer because you can’t know what judgments he’s already made because of the way you look?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” I shake my head. “All I’m trying to say is it’s hard when the hater is someone you love. Someone you’re supposed to respect.”

  “But are you really loving him if you’re lying to him?”

  I flinch. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.

  “You’re not helping anyone by staying quiet, especially not yourself.” She moves from the water onto the bank and jostles the fishing line. The bacon hook sways toward a passing fish, but he doesn’t bite. “Josiah says God calls each of us to respond t
o what we’re meant to be, and if we don’t, we can never truly be happy.” She wipes a hand across her mouth and then sighs. “Rebel, maybe it’s time for you to respond.”

  “And what if I don’t go to church? What then? Do you really think God cares about me?”

  She nods. “God still wants you to be who you were meant to be. Don’t you?”

  “Sure, but I also want my dad to like me for me, and not what he thinks I should be.” I push air between my lips, frustrated all over again. “That sounds so stupid, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” Calliope answers. “But sometimes you can still love someone even though you don’t like them very much.”

  “What if I want him to love me and like me?”

  Her face softens as she moves into the current. My heart runs as she wades knee-deep into the creek. She hands me the comic. “If you’re true to yourself, you’ll be okay.” To my surprise, she takes my other hand and squeezes.

  Sunlight filters across her face. My chest fills with warmth. Her dark eyes sparkle and then change in an instant, like she’s seen a ghost.

  She yanks her hand away and turns, water sloshing as she hurries onto the bank.

  It’s worse than a Band-Aid being ripped from my skin. “I’m sorry,” I say, clumsily splashing toward her, wondering what I did wrong this time.

  “You led them here,” she says.

  “Who?” I call after her, my shins pushing against the moving water until I reach the bank. “Please don’t go,” I beg. But she’s already disappearing between the trees when, out of nowhere, I hear something drop in the leaves. Goose bumps race along my skin. Slowly, I turn in my soggy boots.

  Karl stands at the top of the rock wall. There’s a pair of fishing poles at his feet.

  Dad lands with a thud at the bottom of the waterfall, his anger zeroing in on me. I freeze on the muddy bank as he glowers, every muscle tight. Ready to attack.

  TWENTY

  I’m clutching the Star Wars comic book tightly in my hand. Dad is already halfway across the creek, slogging toward the bank where I stand frozen. Water soaks the bottoms of his pant legs, yet he keeps perfect balance.

  Karl descends the rocks next to the waterfall and lands on the other bank. My instincts tell me to turn and run. But if I do, I’ll lead them straight to Calliope, and I can’t do that. I won’t do that.