by McLean, Jay
“Look at those dumbasses,” Karen says, pointing to the cages. Oscar’s in the cage, his helmet on backward, balls flying at his head. “You know what they say is the best thing to do when balls are coming at your face?”
“What?” I ask.
She faces me and says, smirking, “Don’t open your mouth.”
A chuckle erupts from deep in my throat. “Hey, how come you don’t seem as hung-over as them?”
She shrugs. “I don’t drink.”
“Serious?” I ask, unable to hide my shock.
She laughs at my response. “We have the same trick, you and me. Walk around with a full cup and no one bothers you…” she says knowingly.
“I drink sometimes,” I explain. “I just have to be in the right mood. What’s your reason?”
“I don’t really know. I tried it once, but it wasn’t really enjoyable, and I’m not one to give in to peer pressure and do something just because everyone else does.”
“That’s… smart. I would’ve never thought that about you.”
She shrugs. “People tend to judge me based on my looks or the way I carry myself. I’m confident, sure, and I like to look nice, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have brains. I have the third highest GPA in our class.” There’s a hint of disdain in her tone, and I wonder if she’s talking about people in general, or me specifically. Because I sure as shit judged her based on everything she just said, and in this setting, outside of school, she seems like a decent person to be around. She starts packing up both our empty plates. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” We stand together, and I follow her to the trash, then to the cages. I say, making sure she can hear me, “Hey, I’m sorry I missed your party. Happy birthday, by the way.”
Her smile is as genuine as her response. “Thanks, Connor. I appreciate it.”
* * *
“Jesus. She’s got a reasonable swing on her,” I remark, watching Karen swing a bat as if it came with years of practice.
Rhys fingers the cage, then starts to climb it. “She ain’t bad.”
“Does she hang around you guys often?” I ask, pulling him down when I see one of the attendants start making his way over to us.
“Karen? Yeah. She’s one of the boys. Has been for years.”
“Huh.”
“Don’t let those legs and that pretty smile fool you,” he tells me, leaping off the cage and landing in a squat. To be honest, I hadn’t noticed either of those things. “She’s competitive as hell. That’s why she and Ava got along so well. Put those two in a room together, and they could take down the Chinese wall.”
“The Great Wall of China?”
“Same thing.” He shrugs. Then adds, “So Peter’s home?”
“I guess. How do you know him?”
He scoffs. “Everyone knows Peter Parker.”
“That can’t be his real name,” I mumble, bewildered.
Chuckling, he says, “Oh, but it is.”
In the cage, Oscar asks for the bat, and Karen tosses it toward him, but he’s too slow, and it hits him right in the nuts. Oscar howls in pain, folds over himself. I turn to Rhys, ask him something that’s been consuming my mind all afternoon. “Hey, do you and Ava talk a lot?”
He faces me, expressionless. “Define a lot.”
I shrug, look through the cage again. “Just seems like you know a lot about what’s going on in her life.” More than I do, I want to add, but don’t.
“I told you it wasn’t like that,” he says, clearly irked by my question.
“No, I know,” I assure. “I’m just… I’m trying to work out what we are exactly—Ava and me—and I can’t seem to get it out of her, so… I don’t know. I’m just looking for validation, I guess.”
Rhys sighs. “My sister graduated two years ago. She took most of the same classes that Ava’s taking now, and she kept most of her notes because she’s a giant fucking nerd, I guess. She lets me give them to Ava for the classes she misses because that girl misses a lot of classes. We talk about that stuff mainly, but yeah, sometimes I’ll ask how she’s doing, and she’ll tell me.”
“She must be telling you more than she tells me. I can barely get her on the phone.”
“She has a lot going on,” he tries to convince. “And it’s got to be hard for her.”
“Hard how?”
“I don’t know, dude.” He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated. “I guess, trying to juggle and prioritize school while having to be a parent to your own parent, add to that the normal teenage anxiety and emotions and trying not to get too attached to people.” He backhands my chest. “People like you.”
“She can attach herself to me,” I say. “I won’t mind it.”
Shaking his head, he laughs under his breath. “You say that now, but it’s harder than you think. Trust me, man. You think I don’t know your situation, but I do. I was you.”
* * *
I get home just in time to shower, change and get ready for the showcase—a “fun” afternoon for the fans where the team plays three-on-three, and we do nothing but show off our skills. I’m one foot out the door when I stop in my tracks. It’s a different balloon, but the same writing, same number, same insult.
My stupid grin matches my foolish glee.
I bet Rhys never got balloons.
Chapter 29
Ava
I startle when my alarm goes off, even though I’m wide awake. The biology paper I’m working on has kept me up the entire night—the only time the house has been peaceful enough to work. I set the phone down. I need the A. Not for me, but for Trevor. He works too damn hard to pay for this education, no matter how hard I’d fought him on it. “When it’s over,” he’d told me—whatever over means—“your high school education is going to be important.” And then came the argument about college that ended with me promising I’d apply to some even if I had absolutely zero intentions of going. “You can defer,” he’d said. “And we’ll work out the rest when the time comes.”
I’m typing and typing and typing, rushing through the final two paragraphs when I hear Mom’s bedroom door open. Shit. I look at the time. 5:05. Shit. Shit. Shit. I shut the screen, get to my feet. “Sorry, Mama. I lost track of time. I’ll get your breakfast going.”
Mom’s eyes are dead as she stares at me, and I can’t stand to see it. I look away, start on her food. Flames heat my face when I turn on the stove. I quickly set the pan on top, drop in some oil. Then I go to the fridge, pull out the bacon and eggs. I rush around the kitchen, dropping bread in the toaster, and she stands at the doorway watching me. “Five a.m., Ava,” she says, her voice as chilling as her presence. “I have breakfast at 5 a.m. every goddamn morning.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I turn my back to her so I can work over the stove, my heart beating out of my chest. My hands shake as I try to pick up an egg, and then she’s beside me, looming over and around me.
“Move!” she orders. “I can make my own damn breakfast.”
“No, Mama,” I say, trying to keep as calm as possible, but I can feel the darkness wavering above us, the doom and gloom like a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. I inhale deeply, exhale the same way. “I got it. Please sit down. I’ll only—”
“Move!” she shouts, grabbing at the pan handle.
I fight to get it back, even though I know I shouldn’t. She’s too strong, too wired, and I’m weak… God, I’m so fucking weak. Tears spring in my eyes, and I say, refusing to let go, “I’ll make it! I’m sorry.”
“Goddammit, Ava! I said MOVE!” she screams, pulling at the pan until I finally release it, but she wasn’t expecting it, and neither was I, because the pan flips up and burning hot oil catches on my neck, my chest. I shriek, the pain unbearable, and run to the tap. Tears fall from my eyes, mixing with the oil, burning through my flesh.
“What the hell happened?” Peter exclaims, appearing in the kitchen.
I try to splash water on myself, but it’s useless.
“Jesus
Christ, Ava,” Peter says, grabbing me by my shoulders and turning me to him. His eyes widen when he takes me in, and he’s quick to grab a dish towel and soak it with cold water. He wraps it around my neck, then runs to the fridge and pulls out the ice tray. He plugs up the sink, fills it with water and ice.
“What the hell did you do, Jo?” he asks my mom.
Mom doesn’t respond.
I’m on the floor now, my cries so strong they’re silent. My body convulses, the burning flesh heating my insides. Tears. So many tears. Peter finds all the dish towels in the kitchen and dumps them in the filling sink. He grabs a handful and places them wherever he can see the damage. My neck. My shoulders. My chest. “Keep them there,” he tells me. Then he leaves, only to return with his phone to his ear.
“Who are you calling?” I manage to get out.
“The crisis team. We can’t do this alone, Ava. We need help.”
“No, we can’t afford—”
“Quit it. You need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” I cry out.
“I swear to God—” he starts, but the call must connect. He gives the person on the other end all our details, Mom’s case number, and as much information as he knows about what just happened. When he hangs up, he says, “They’re sending over two people. They’ll be here soon.”
He squats down in front of me, wincing when he pulls back a dish towel. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
I want to say no, but the pain is too much, and so I nod, let him gently wipe my tears. He exhales harshly, his breath hitting my face. Then he shakes his head, his eyes on mine. I know what he’s saying without saying a word. The offer still stands. And I look away, unable to give him what he needs. Then I glance up, find my mother in front of the stove, a spatula in her hand. The smell of bacon fills the room, then the sound of her singing, humming. She stares out the window. “It looks like the sun’s going to grace us today.”
* * *
Mom sits at the kitchen table, a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her. Peter stands in the doorway between the kitchen and living room while the paramedics make their way inside. I sit on the couch, covered in wet dish towels to alleviate the pain and any blistering.
The house is silent bar Mom’s continuous, joyous singing.
I feel dead inside.
Dead, dead, dead.
One of the paramedics crouches down in front of me, offers me a smile that does nothing for me. “Hi,” he says, his voice soft. He glances behind him at Peter and his partner while Peter explains what he thinks happened. I still haven’t found my voice or my courage to tell him.
The man in front of me says, “My name’s Corey. And you’re Ava, right?”
I nod, even though I don’t recall Peter mentioning my name, but most people around here know who I am, or at least know of us and where we live. It’s a stigma we carry that I wish would just fuck the hell off.
The man—Corey—smiles again. “I uh… I actually live next door,” he tells me. “I’m Connor’s dad.”
“Oh.”
Oh, God, no.
“I’m just going to peel these off and see what we’re working with, okay?”
I nod, lift my chin for him to gain better access, and wince when he starts to remove the towel. “I know it hurts, and I’m sorry. I’m going to try to make this as painless as possible for you, okay, Ava?” He has the same gentle tone as Connor, the same blue-blue eyes, too.
“You have his eyes,” I murmur.
“What’s that?”
“Connor. You have his eyes.”
His lips form a line. “I think Connor got them from me if we’re being technical…”
I stare at my mom, who’s still blissfully unaware.
“Do you want to tell me what happened here, Ava?” Corey asks.
A single tear rolls down my cheek. My heart beats, but there’s no life inside me. “I like them,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“His eyes. Connor’s. And his heart.”
Corey’s hands freeze mid-movement. “His heart?”
My eyes drift shut, melancholy melting inside me. “His heart is full of magic.”
* * *
“If you need to sedate her, do it,” I hear Peter tell the crisis workers. They’re from the same agency as Krystal, but they're better trained for moments like these. They arrived a few minutes before the paramedics left, but I was already in my room with liquid sorrow staining my pillows.
A knock on my door and Peter appears, not waiting for a response. He sits on the edge of my bed, his shoulders hunched. He lets his face fall into his hands, a quiet moan escaping him. It’s not the first time he’s experienced Mom on a negative day but never this extreme and never directed at me. He looks over at me, his eyes filled with pity. “How are you feeling?”
I blink. I don’t know how to respond, what answer to give him that’ll alleviate his concern.
Peter sighs. “You look tired, Ava.”
I swallow, my eyelids heavy, the painkillers forcing their way through my bloodline. “I haven’t slept.”
“All night?” he asks, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“Mmm.”
He settles his hand on my hip. “Sleep, baby girl. I’ll stay up and take care of things, okay?”
I nod, my entire body too heavy to move. Eyes closed, I feel the bed dip, then his warm lips settle on my temple. “I’ll take care of you, Ava. Always.”
* * *
I’m in and out of sleep all day, but always in a daze. Even when I feel alert enough to get up, I stay in bed. Peter checks in on me often, and I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to hear what he has to say.
When the world is at its darkest, that’s when the magic appears.
It’s not magic that enters my room when the stillness of the night creates a silence around us. It’s Peter. My eyes squint at the stream of light filtering in from the hallway, and Peter notices because he walks in and switches on my lamp. He settles on the edge of my bed again, his hand on my leg. “Your mom’s asleep, the crisis workers are going to take shifts overnight, and they’ll be here all of tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I whisper, not looking at him.
“Have you reapplied your cream?”
I force my body to half sit up. “No, I forgot.”
“Well, we better do that. We don’t want that flawless skin of yours scarring.” He grabs the cream the paramedics left for me and gets more comfortable on the bed. Then he reaches up, pulls the covers down until they’re resting at my waist. He removes the dressing, slowly, carefully, and starts applying the cream where needed. Starting at my neck, he moves to my shoulders, taking his time, and then lower, lower, to my chest revealed by the tank top I’ve been wearing all day. He spends the most time there, just above my breasts. His touch is soft, heated, nurturing.
I can take care of you, Ava. But it’s our little secret.
“Your mom’s getting worse, Ava,” he murmurs.
“Stop it.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but she needs help.”
“I just need to get through this year. For Trevor. And then… then…”
He sighs. “Then what?”
I don’t know. My shoulders fall with the first sob that consumes me. I keep my cries quiet, but he’s there to hold me. To wipe the tears from my eyes. To assure me that everything will be okay, even when he doesn’t believe it himself.
He finishes tending to my physical wounds, then gets under the covers with me. “Come here,” he whispers, helping me to lie back down. I rest my head on his chest while his fingers stroke my arm. His chest rises and falls with his steady breaths, his heartbeat forming a steady rhythm blasting in my eardrums.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
I close my eyes and listen; try to find what I’m looking for.
But it’s not there.
Because he’s not The One.
The Holder of Hope.
The Creator of Magic.
He’s not Connor.
Chapter 30
Connor
Monday morning, Ava sent me a message telling me she wasn’t going to be at school, that something came up with her mom. I offered to help however I could, but she didn’t reply to my messages.
Tuesday morning, same damn thing.
Finally, on Wednesday, she tells me she’s going, but she doesn’t need a ride. Peter will take her. Whatever. At least she’s going, and I’ll get to see her. Five days of no-Ava is too damn long. But when psych class begins and she’s not sitting next to me, I start to worry, and that worry starts burning a hole in my gut. Something’s… off. And I don’t know what to do about it. Finally, about twenty minutes into class, the door opens and she appears. That first breath I inhale when I see her, God, it’s like I’d been holding on to it for all five days. She hands Mr. McCallister a note and then makes her way over to me, a slight smile on her lips that has me goddamn giddy with excitement. I’ve missed her. In all the possible ways you can miss someone, I’ve craved her.
Just her presence alone seems to settle my anxiety, and I haven’t even spoken to her yet. She sits down next to me, her leg tapping mine beneath the table.
I pull out a notepad as inconspicuously as possible and scribble down: You’re a sight for sore eyes, Ava.
With a smile, she reads what I wrote and writes back: It’s good to see you, too, I suppose. Then crosses it out completely and writes: I’ve missed you.
