by Celeste, B.
Too bad.
Steph finds the right seat in the row behind me, which makes the few people in her way stumble and glare. But Steph doesn’t care because that’s just who she is.
When everyone is on stage, the principal announces the class of 2013 and tells us all to sit. My eyes drift to the crowd to see Robert snapping more pictures until Bridgette pulls him down. It makes me laugh that it isn’t the other way around.
Robert and I bonded after I accidently broke the picture frame holding the image of me and my biological mother. It was an accident, and the picture itself is fine. But seeing us under shattered shards of glass made an ache settle in my chest and tears streaming from my eyes before I could stop them.
Jill reminded me during the last visit we had that I shouldn’t think about the past. It was shortly after I snapped at Steph when she saw my naked back. But how can I forget my past? I’m painted in memories. Carved by pain.
Robert saw me crying and asked what was wrong. He told me he’d get me another picture frame, that I didn’t need to worry. I told him I wanted to find my birth mother. Just like that. Something that random should have been more surprising, but he just nodded, cleaned up the mess, and told me he’d hire a private investigator to look into it.
A year later and we’re no closer to answers. Robert says we won’t give up and I believe him. We’ve been close ever since.
My eyes trail over to Everett, who’s saying something to Isabel. Her body is angled toward him, leaning close as she whispers in his ear. He isn’t smiling, in fact he looks angry. I want to know why but force myself to listen to the speech that the salutatorian makes.
Blah blah future ahead of us. Blah blah making great memories. Blah blah we’ll rule the world. We won’t. Well, most of us won’t. There are a few people who will probably do really well in life. I’m not one of them and neither is Scotty Berge, the current speaker.
Refusing to watch Isabel whisper sweet nothings into Everett’s ear, I glance at Steph. She grins and gestures toward something in her lap. Her phone.
I’m in the second row, hidden by broad bodies, so I pull my cell out.
Steph: We did it, bitch.
I normally hate being called that, but I know Steph doesn’t say it in a demeaning way. It’s just what she does.
I answer, we haven’t done it yet.
She rolls her eyes at me. Close enough.
Tucking my phone away when the first row is announced to stand, I try calming my speeding heart. It’s just a quick walk to the podium, a few handshakes, and then an even quicker walk back to my seat. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but my anxiety is making it.
Steph must sense that because she puts her hand on my shoulder in comfort.
She mouths, you can do this when my row is told to stand. I’m the third person in. I didn’t wear heels because I’d fall. I could fall in flats, I’m talented like that.
The first person walks.
I move.
Oh my God.
The next person is called.
My heart is all I can hear.
I slide to the end.
“River Jean James.”
Somehow, I make my feet move forward. The thundering sound of my heart drowns out the clapping from Steph, but I see her do it. It isn’t until I’m shaking my clammy hands with the superintendent and school board that I break out of the spell when I hear my name being shouted.
It isn’t Robert or Bridgette or Oliver who yells the loudest. It’s Everett. He’s standing, hollering, and clapping those big hands of his until the sound overpowers my heartbeat.
I stop half way to my seat and stare at them. My family. Robert takes more pictures and my eyes well with tears. I’m sure Bridgette is crying too. But me, I don’t like to cry.
I let the tears fall anyway.
Emotion clogs the back of my throat. I’m overcome with pride and happiness and fulfillment. I raise my hand and wave to the people who have given me this chance, this piece of paper displayed in the navy blue holder in my hand.
When I get back to my seat, Steph hugs me from behind. For once, I squeeze her back. My cheeks are still damp when she walks, my voice the loudest in her little group of friends. I clap like she did for me and laugh when someone in her family section whistles and screams.
She doesn’t make it back to her seat right away. Instead, she poses in the middle of the stage. Her family takes pictures, she does a little dance which makes the crowd laugh, and she finds her seat.
I turn to her. “Now we did it.”
She giggles. “Love you, River.”
I sniff back more tears. “Love you, too.”
17
Everett / 22
River is stopped by a few kids on her way out of the dressing room in the back where she smiles and waves and entertains them with answers to pointless questions. I know her better though. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes and her stiff posture screams discomfort.
When she finally breaks free, she beelines right for us. Oliver steps out and picks her up, spinning her around until she squeals. He laughs and sets her down. Her face is red, and her eyes are a bright shade of brown, glazed over from tears. Happy ones, I think.
“I’m so damn proud of you, Riv,” Ollie exclaims, squeezing her hand.
Robert clears his throat. “Language.”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “She just graduated, Dad. I think she can take a few swear words, especially if they’re in praise.”
River giggles, and the sound warms the pit of my chest that’s long been iced over.
Bridgette sidesteps Oliver and wraps River in a tight hug. They embrace for at least a minute, Bridgette whispering in River’s ear and both looking on the verge of tears. Again.
I wait my turn until Robert is done before I unlatch my palm from Issy’s and wrap River in my arms. My cheek rests against the top of her head and the sweet scent of green apple from her shampoo takes over my senses. She settles into my hold, melting into my chest, her arms mimicking mine around my waist.
“Proud of you, River,” I tell her under my breath.
A little shutter wracks down her spine when my breath caresses her scalp. “Thank you, Everett.”
She never calls me Rhett. It’s always Everett, and I like it. With her, she could call me anything. Just like she’s River to me. Always has been and always will be.
A throat clears, drawing me away. It’s Isabel, who’s shooting me a dark look. Her glare shifts to a broad smile as she turns from me to River.
“You must be so glad to be done with this boring place,” she notes, squeezing River’s hand. River winces and I wonder if Issy squeezed too hard.
“I-It wasn’t so bad.”
Isabel laughs. It’s dry. “You don’t have to lie. High school sucked. Think about all the things you have to look forward to now. I mean, you’re free to do whatever you want. Not that you’re not used to that by now.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
River frowns.
Issy shrugs. “You know, being a foster and whatnot. I hear they do what they please anyway. But now you can do that, and it won’t be frowned upon. Know what I mean?” She gives River a conspiratorial smile—as if Issy knows anything about what being a foster kid is like. She lives in a delusional world that I want nothing more than to drag her out of.
It’s Robert who steps forward. “She hasn’t been a foster in five years, Isabel. She’s our daughter. And while I’m sure some foster children do what they please, it’s not good to stereotype.” His eyes on Isabel are completely full of disapproval, and even though his gaze isn’t directed at me, I feel I’m the one being reprimanded.
River’s wide eyes are grateful at his defense, but she doesn’t say anything.
Issy blushes, flattening out a nonexistent wrinkle in her black dress. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it, Mr. James. Honest.”
I call bullshit.
Isabel’s default setting is catty. She isn’t as bad as she use
d to be, but she has her moments, especially if those moments involve River. Over a year ago, we experienced some rough shit that put us both on edge. Most people would have called it quits, but somehow it made us stronger. We understood each other’s pain.
But I still have moments when I look at her and wonder why she can’t cut the crap. I compare her to everyone else, put her on a pedestal. I know it’s not fair, she’s Isabel; incomparable. It doesn’t stop my brain from picturing other people’s reactions to the arguments we get into. Like when she leaves a wet towel on the bathroom floor of my apartment we live in together. Or when she bitches at me to take the garbage out or clean the dishes or cook dinner with more greens and I don’t want to because work drained the piss out of me.
We get on each other’s nerves all the time. Robert says that’s what happens when you live with a significant other. The honeymoon period wears off when you realize you have to share your time and responsibilities. I’m not sure we ever had a honeymoon period to begin with.
River dismisses Issy’s nonsense and turns to Bridgette. They talk about the get-together they’re having at their house. It’s a barbecue, according to Oliver. I asked Robert at work yesterday if they needed us to bring anything.
“Just your beautiful bride-to-be.”
He’s still trying to get me to propose; has been for two years now. Isabel mentions our future at least once a week. I appeased her when I agreed to her moving in, but I can’t agree to anything else.
The crowd starts dispersing, so we all head toward the parking lot. There are crossing guards directing traffic on the busy street, making sure there are no accidents. Despite Isabel trying to keep me next to her, I fall back and meet River’s strides step for step.
“Are you excited to be done?”
She likes school, even though it took her a solid year before she started getting involved with things outside of art club. I’m pretty sure she only joined that because it made Robert and Bridgette happy, even though she loves the subject matter. During her sophomore year, Oliver mentioned her volunteering after school at a local art studio, cleaning up after one of the local youth groups comes in and paints before their parents pick them up. She tried joining the book club that the library hosts but didn’t like it. The kind of books they discussed weren’t her thing.
“A little,” she admits. She glances from the ground to me. “I’m sad. Is that weird?”
Shaking my head, I brush her arm with mine. Her cheeks color. “I don’t think that’s weird at all. You grew a lot at Freemont. Issy’s right, though. You can grow a lot in college, too.”
Most people find themselves during their higher education experiences. Me? I think I just realized who I’m not. I guess that works too. Someone like River, who has so much to offer the world, would flourish in college if she lets herself.
At the beginning of her senior year, the guidance counselor told her to apply to at least two colleges. She told him she wasn’t going, which prompted him to call the James’. Someone like River, with a 4.0 grade point average, who’s well-behaved, and involved in clubs, is exactly the type of person colleges want to accept. Not to mention she’d get a full ride.
Truthfully, we were shocked she wasn’t valedictorian, but two of her class grades dropped right before they processed who would give speeches at commencement, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence; especially because one of the classes was English.
She fumbles with the diploma holder in her grasp. “Did Oliver tell you I decided to go to Bridgeport Community College?”
He did. “Why didn’t you go to one of the bigger universities that accepted you? Ollie mentioned that you had at least three options.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I like it here. Bridgeport … it’s become my home.”
Something warms in my chest. An easy smile forms on my face as I take her hand and squeeze it. It’s an innocent gesture, but her whole face heats up as she glances at our joined hands. And when Isabel glares back at us, River’s face gets redder as she unlatches herself from me.
My palm feels cold. Too cold. Not even Isabel’s fiery gaze could warm me.
Clearing my throat to clear the frog lodged inside it, I nod once. “I’m real glad to hear that, River. You deserve a home; a family.”
You deserve everything.
Her eyes are focused on something in front of us, narrowed in on Issy. I follow her gaze to Isabel’s left hand. What is she looking for?
When she realizes I’m staring, she blushes. “Robert said you were, uh, taking things to the next level with Isabel.”
Shit.
Dropping my voice so Issy can’t eavesdrop, I murmur, “Did he now?”
She just nods.
“I’m not.”
Her head snaps over to me, her hand brushing fallen strands of auburn hair behind her ear. “Oh. That’s …”
I wait.
She doesn’t finish the sentence.
Isabel’s eyes keep darting back to us. I give her a tight smile and nod of my head. She’s too busy looking at River. More like glaring, actually.
We make it to our cars, which are parked next to each other. Isabel doesn’t climb in right away. She watches me and River as Bridgette and Robert advance to their vehicle.
Issy says, “Why don’t you ride with us, River? It’ll give you and Rhett more time to catch up.”
Her offer surprises me. “You can, if you want to,” I agree, shifting to face River.
Her eyes bounce from Bridgette and Robert to me. “Um …”
Bridgette nods and smiles. “Go ahead, sweetie. We’ll be right behind you guys.”
Oliver waves and climbs into the back of their vehicle, not fazed by the offer made by his best friend’s girlfriend. He doesn’t find our dynamic weird. He thinks it’s cool that River and I get along so well.
Like siblings, he always says.
The term makes me feel sick as fuck.
Isabel’s smile seems genuine, which makes me wonder if she’s really trying to make things right with River for my sake. It chips away some of my resentment that I tell myself isn’t there, but always is, lingering, taunting, haunting me.
“O-Okay,” River finally answers.
I hold the back door open for her and she climbs in. The green dress she wears flows in the slight burst of wind, lifting the edge enough for me to see a glimpse of white lace panties underneath. My cock stirs.
Jesus.
This is going to be a long night.
The barbecue lasts until the sun goes down, and most of the friends River invited over left to go to parties being held around town. She’s invited to tag along but declines.
I watch her while I nurse a beer at the picnic table in the backyard. The patio where she’s standing talking to Oliver is lit up by small solar lights. It gives her milky skin a yellow glow. Ethereal.
Something Oliver says makes her laugh, and her laugh is low but feminine and makes my eyes narrow in on the curves of her full lips. She replies to the joke, making Oliver double over before shaking his head and clinking their glasses together. He’s got beer, she’s got water.
Bridgette told her she can have some wine since she was staying in, but she declined. I’ve only seen her drink once, at my party two years ago, and not a day since. It makes me wonder if she blames the alcohol for her lack of filter. Though I think we both know she wasn’t drunk; the alcohol was liquid courage to ask me what she did.
Isabel is mingling with some old friend from childhood. Taylor or Tyler or Travis. I’m not sure. Honestly, I don’t care. As soon as she started talking about how much money he made, I tuned her out. Money doesn’t mean anything to me, she knows that.
“Of course, it doesn’t,” she always says in response. “You’re loaded because of your parents. It’s not like you need to worry. That’s why we’re alike.”
But we’re not alike in that way. She’s materialistic, a firm believer that money can buy happiness. The money I have is blood money, on
ly in my account because my parents are dead and buried six feet under. Money doesn’t make me happy, it pisses me off.
When Oliver goes off to who knows where, I find myself wandering toward River. She’s still standing in the same spot, sipping her drink until it’s empty.
“Want more?” I ask.
She gives me a small smile. “No, thanks. If I keep drinking, I’ll be running to the bathroom all night.” She winces and blushes. “I guess you didn’t really need to know that.”
I just chuckle.
She clears her throat. “Isabel looks like she’s having a nice chat with Peyton.”
Peyton? Fuck, I was way off.
“Uh, yeah. They go way back.”
She nods.
“Want to go inside for a bit?” It’s getting cooler and her skin is pebbled with goosebumps. Most people are chatting about business or politics with Robert and Bridgette, so nobody would really miss us if we go inside to warm up.
I guide her in, my palm pressed into the small of her back. We go to the kitchen where she deposits her glass into the sink. I head toward the cupboard and pull out some peanut butter and then beeline toward the apples.
She knows what I’m doing instantly. “I blame you for my addiction to those.” There’s teasing in her tone, which makes me smile as I slice up the fruit into wedges.
A few weeks after I tried getting her to try apples and peanut butter, I left a plate of them outside her bedroom door. Peter York scared her off the first time, so she never got to have any. I didn’t leave a note or an explanation. Just knocked on her closed door and left. I see her nibbling on the snack every time I visit.
When I’m done, I put enough peanut butter on the plate for the both of us and head over to where she’s sitting at the island.
She takes a slice and dips it in the peanut butter before taking a large bite. Her moan makes the front of my pants tighten, but I try forcing the yearning away and grab an apple too.
“These are so good,” she says with her mouth full. She used to care about having proper manners. I think she was afraid of being scolded if she was caught being unladylike. But she knows she can be herself around me.
