by Celeste, B.
I guess I’m getting comfortable.
Everett’s fork clinks against his plate. “Uh, the community college in town. At least for the first two years.”
Robert perks up. “That’s it?”
Bridgette puts her hand on his. “Rob.”
Everett waves her off. “It’s fine. I want to be close to home. Granddad seems to be doing better but I think there’s something he’s not telling me.”
According to Steph, Everett has lived with his grandfather since he was little. When I ask what happened to his parents, she’d only tell me there was an accident a long time ago. I never pushed for more details because that’s more than enough for me to understand him.
I can see why he wants to stay close to home. His relationship with his grandfather is all he has left. It’s easy to comprehend someone who resembles yourself. I can empathize with him, even if our situations are completely different.
Robert doesn’t stop. “I’m just saying, son, you could apply to better colleges and get an athletic scholarship.”
Oliver cuts in. “He doesn’t want to play ball in college, Dad.”
Robert turns to Everett. “Why not?”
Bridgette clears her throat. “How about I get dessert?”
Oliver nods and offers to help.
Robert leans back in his seat. “You’re a good player, Rhett. I’ve seen you grow since you joined the team with Oliver. I could make some calls and get you into the school Oliver is going to. Penn State, remember? It’s a great school. A scholarship will ensure you’re not in debt. What’s the harm in that?”
“Family is more important than sports,” I blurt from where I sit at the opposite end of the table.
I’m met by utter silence again.
Even Steph blinks at my outburst.
Bridgette reaches out and squeezes my hand, her hazel eyes are warm and glassy and look greener than normal. “You’re so right, River.” She turns to Robert. “That’s enough of that talk, Robert. If Everett wants to go to community college, leave him be.”
I notice Isabel looking at me with a funny expression on her face. Her eyes are slightly narrowed and her lips twitch downward, but when Everett glances at her, the tightness loosens.
The conversation is much lighter throughout the rest of dinner. Darlene made me a triple chocolate cake that has little pieces of chocolate chips in the mixture. The frosting is rich, and every bite explodes on my tongue. She knows about my sweet tooth and promised not to disappoint. I’m never disappointed in what she cooks, but especially not about this cake.
After dessert, I help Bridgette clear off the table even though she told me not to worry about it. I don’t listen, just keep piling the dishes on top of one another. Following her toward the kitchen, I stop short when I hear my name being whispered by Isabel in the hall.
“I’m just saying, she’s a little odd.”
“Why would you say that?” Everett.
A loud sigh escapes her. “Come on, Rhett. She’s a little girl playing dress up. Did you see her makeup? She looks ridiculous, obviously trying to impress someone. And don’t pretend like you didn’t see her stomach.”
I nearly drop the plates I’m holding. Clenching them until my fingertips hurt, I wait until Everett replies.
“That’s none of our business, Issy.”
Issy. I hate when he calls her that.
“She’s a cutter, Rhett. Shouldn’t it be?”
A cutt—?
“River,” Bridgette calls from the kitchen, “do you need help carrying the rest of the plates in?”
Quickly hurrying away from where I’m eavesdropping, I hand her the rest of the dishes without so much as looking her in the eye.
“May I be excused?”
Her hand brushes mine. “Are you all right?”
“Not feeling well.”
“Oh, dear. Why don’t you go lay down? It’s probably all that sugar from the cake. I’ll grab some medicine and make you some ginger tea.”
I don’t tell her that it’s not the cake or that I don’t like tea. Somebody sneaks candy into my locker almost every day, so I’m used to the sugar. Sometimes it’s M&M’s and Skittles and sometimes it’s Snickers and Reese’s. Steph told me she wants a secret admirer to bring her candy, but then makes a comment about how she doesn’t want to get fat.
The only reason I eat it is because I know Everett is the one who leaves them. I’m not sure how he gets into my locker, but I don’t mind. When the first candy bar appeared, I asked him if he put it there and he told me no. But then he’d start asking me if I got my breakfast, and I realized the breakfast is the candy. So, when I started thanking him, he’d just smile and pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
There’s no way to avoid bumping into Everett and Isabel in the hall on the way to my room. When I come into their view, they both stop talking altogether. My arm goes to the mesh of my dress, and Everett instantly knows I heard. But before he can say anything, I run upstairs and get far away from them.
Bridgette comes up a few minutes later and passes me some pills and tea. She tells me I can open my presents tomorrow when I’m feeling better and leaves me alone for the night.
Before I finish pulling on my regular t-shirt for bed, my eyes scan across the scars. Shakily, my fingers graze the rough skin. I remember how I got each and every one of them.
My finger stops on the circular scar just above my belly button. That one is from Mr. Davis’s cigarette. He caught me sneaking into the kitchen for water after bedtime and told me I had to be punished.
I move my fingers upward to the curved pink line that stretches an inch long. It’s from when I got in front of Mr. Marley when he was beating one of the younger foster kids for asking if he could go outside and play.
On the opposite side is a larger pink circle that’s nearly white in color. It’s one of my oldest scars. This one is curtesy of Mrs. Oakley. Another cigarette burn.
But the two deepest scars are just under my bust. They were given to me by the same man at my last home. Mr. Connors told us to follow the rules and he’d never have to reinforce them. But after a long day of school, all I wanted was to be left alone and I was stupid enough to tell him that. It was the last time I ever talked back. The two scars left behind are from a rusty butter knife.
I try not to think about it much.
Just like I try not thinking about the ones on my back, which double in number and size. There’s little skin left untouched from the belt strikes.
Yanking on the shirt, I replay the words that spewed from Isabel’s lips. I wish I would have been the one to permanently mark my skin. Then it would have been my choice.
Crawling into bed, I shove all the memories into the farthest part of my mind. They’ll resurface whether I want them to or not.
They always do.
9
Everett / 17
Sometimes I don’t know why I’m with Issy. She can be extremely cruel, something I never would have expected. Everyone at school loves her. She’s got a large group of friends and a decent number of teachers who never have a bad thing to say about her. But when it comes to other people, like River, Issy doesn’t know when to stop.
It’s ridiculous that she has a problem with River in the first place. At first, I thought she just didn’t like me hanging out with Oliver so much. After we officially started dating, I tried balancing who I spent time with. Oliver teased me for a while but understood. Issy, on the other hand, didn’t seem to appreciate the effort.
Now I know Issy’s real problem is that she thinks River likes me. Even if she does, so what? She’s a teen with a crush. When I was fourteen, I had a thing for Macey Abrams. All the boys did because she was the first chick in our grade to get boobs. Point is, it’s innocent.
The shit Issy said about River pissed me off, and I know River overheard. I’m not sure what, but she definitely got an earful. When she ran upstairs last night, she never came back down. Bridgette told everyone
she wasn’t feeling well, so the night ended early.
Isabel seemed fine after that. Satisfied, even. I told her when we left that she had to cut her shit, or we were through. Honestly, I’ve threatened it before. I’m not sure what that says about us, about me, but I never actually break up with her despite the way she talks to other people. But Granddad and Marge like Issy, and I like the distraction having her around brings me.
Today during fourth period, I skip study hall for the first time in months. River hasn’t needed anyone to come sit with her in lunch room because she’s gotten her own little circle of friends. But she never opened her presents last night and Oliver mentioned this morning she never even looked at the stack on the dining room table.
She has a thing about accepting stuff from people, I get it. But I want to apologize on behalf of Issy and hope that the gift I got her will make up for my poor choice of a dinner guest.
Her friend sees me first. Stephanie perks up and straightens her hair, giving me a wide smile. If anyone has a crush on me, it’s her. But again, I don’t care.
As I approach them, River stiffens like she knows I’m nearing. Her eyes go from the half-eaten food in front of her to me, widening.
“Hey.”
Stephanie greets me first. “Hi, Everett!”
I just tip my head at her, my focus solely on River.
She doesn’t acknowledge me at first. I sit down across from them, which makes her shift and draw her hands onto her lap.
“Can I talk to you?”
Nothing.
My eyes go to her friend. “Alone?”
Stephanie frowns but nods, pushing up from the plastic chair. “I’ll, uh, see you later?” River’s eyes plead for her to stay, which makes my guilt become tenfold.
When it’s just us at the table, she reluctantly glances over at me. Her brown eyes are dull and full of hurt that I’m responsible for. I know she didn’t want anyone to do anything for her birthday, but she relented because it meant something to Bridgette and Robert. I’m the one who ruined it for her.
“River, I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Her jaw ticks. “I’m not … a cutter.”
My body draws back over the abrupt statement. “I know you’re not.”
To my surprise, her head snaps up and angry eyes meet mine. Whoa. I’ve never seen angry River before. Not sure I want to again.
“How?” Her voice breaks. “How could you possibly know that, Everett? Y-You don’t know anything about me.”
My shoulders slump a little at her shaky tone. It means a lot that she’s willing to show this much emotion, even if it’s the negative kind. “I know I don’t know you well, but I’ve been around people who’ve cut before. Those marks Issy pointed out aren’t from self-inflicted wounds.”
Her body locks up as she draws back.
A few summers ago, I went to a junior sports camp for kids entering high school sports teams. I helped with the basketball kids, and one of them was troubled youth. He struggled with depression and anxiety and his arms and legs were covered in small cuts. I saw the ones Isabel pointed out last night, and they’re not the same kind.
It pisses me off knowing the difference. Because somebody else put those on her body, someone else was responsible for doing that to her. But I’ve known from the beginning that she had a lot of bad shit happen in her life before her adoption.
I never knew it was physical.
Shutting off my brain from wondering what else she went through, I refocus. “I’m not going to judge you because of the scars, River. Okay? You can trust me. Always.”
She doesn’t say anything.
Shifting on the bench seat, I yank out the black jewelry box from my pocket. Her eyes follow my hand as I reach out and set it in front of her.
“You didn’t open your present.”
Her bottom lip draws into her mouth.
“It’s not going bite,” I tease. She doesn’t seem amused, so I huff out a sigh. “Listen, I know what Isabel said isn’t something you can just forget about. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get you. That’s on her, though. I told her if she ever said anything about you like that again, I wouldn’t put up with it.”
The box in front of her is the only thing she focuses on as she asks, “Why do you put up with it now?”
Good question.
I find myself shrugging. “I don’t know. I guess I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt. She’s never been around people like you before.”
That gets me another offended look.
“Shit.” I wince. “I mean shoot.”
“You can swear. I don’t care.”
“You should.”
Her small shoulders rise. “I’ve heard people say worse.”
I nod once. “I’m sure,” I agree, with a slight nod, “which is all I meant before. Issy hangs out with a certain type of crowd. People around here come from money and families that have one way of living. Your past isn’t something she’s experienced, so she doesn’t know how to deal with it.”
I’m met with silence.
“Do you trust me?” I ask quietly.
I need her to say yes. It might physically hurt if she answers any other way. This girl has been through hell and back and I want to know every moment someday. She needs to trust me to reveal that sort of thing, to find someone to confide in.
“I don’t know.” I deserve her hesitation, but it still stings.
“Well, you can,” I prompt, nudging the gift closer to her. “If not now, then in the future. I’m here for you just like Oliver. Okay?”
Hesitantly, she takes the box. “I’m not even sure what that means,” she admits softly, peeling off the red ribbon that’s around it.
“It means I have your back.”
Her eyes are distant when they peer up through her lashes at me. They’re not angry or sad anymore, but glassy with an emotion I’ve never seen before when I’ve caught her looking at me.
Hope.
“O-Okay.”
I just nod toward the present.
She takes a deep breath before opening it, her lips parting when she sees what’s resting in the velvet holder. I picked it out from a jeweler in town. When I saw the little charm, I knew I had to get it for her.
“It’s …” Her fingertips brush against the silver paint brush and palette that hangs from a matching silver chain. She doesn’t seem like a gold girl, so hopefully this is okay.
“Do you like it?”
Silently, she nods.
A relieved smile forms on my lips. “Good. I know how much you like art, so I thought it would be a good birthday gift. The place I got it from has other charms, if you want to add more to the necklace. The guy tried getting me to buy the bracelet, but I thought this would be different.”
“It’s perfect.” Her voice cracks a little as she pulls it from the box. I’m about to offer some help getting it on when she unclasps it and puts it around her neck with no difficulty. Pulling her long hair out from under the chain, she positions it so it rests over her shirt.
It suits her.
“Thank you, Everett.”
“You know, most people call me Rhett.”
Her fingers wrap around the charm. “I’m not really like most people.”
My chest eases from the guilt. “No, you’re certainly not. That’s why I like you, River. You don’t feel entitled just because you know the right people. But that doesn’t mean you can’t let them in. Whatever happened to you in the past doesn’t have to dictate your future. You’re safe now.”
She blinks back what I think are tears.
Just as I’m about to ask if she’s all right, my phone goes off in my pocket. Brows pinched, I pull it out and glance at Margaret’s name across the screen. My stomach bottoms out. She never calls me while I’m at school.
“Marge …”
“I’m sorry, Rhett boy,” she sobs.
My fist clenches the cell until I hear it crack and I think it may break.
“I’m so damn sorry,” she whispers.
10
Everett / 20
Almost three years later.
The party is in full swing by the time I navigate my way through the throng of vehicles on the front lawn of the cabin. I should have been the first one here, it’s my property after all. But I knew the high school kids would get word of the small get together and swarm the place. I didn’t feel like surrounding myself with idiots too early.
Plus, Isabel and I got into it right before I left. Not even in person, because she’s too busy shopping with her friends two hours away. She loves telling me what I should or shouldn’t do, like agreeing to throw parties.
“We’re twenty. Adults now.”
“So?”
“You shouldn’t be entertaining children.”
When I remind her that we were teenagers not that long ago, it only fuels her to snap back. It’s tiring, this shit we go through. Our relationship is a roller coaster I don’t want to be on. So instead of waiting for her at my apartment like she wanted me to, I left.
As I weave through the haphazardly parked cars, people greet me and slap my back. I make conversation with some of them, but most just get a tip of the chin or nothing at all.
Alcohol. That’s what I need.
After fights with Issy, I prefer being alone. Which, let’s face it, is ninety percent of the time. I’m used to my introversion, and nobody questions it because they are too. It’s not hard to be alone, even in a party with drunk assholes surrounding me. They’re all too busy making fools of themselves to care about what the host does.
Can’t say I blame them. I was them.
It’s why I don’t care if they have parties here. Sure, Granddad’s old cabin is a sacred place. When my childhood house sold, I wanted to keep this. Between the money he left me and the money from my parents’ death, I have no financial problem keeping this and a place for myself in town. Either way, it’s a great location for a party. Far enough away that towners won’t care about the noise, and isolated so people aren’t stupid enough to get into mindless trouble like drinking and driving.
