by A. M. Rose
I let out a sigh. When did my life become so complicated?
Spanish class passes in a blur. Just like yesterday I find myself conjugating verbs and translating everything with ease, holding it all inside my head, except when I’m called on and have no other choice. The bell rings, and I duck down low and rush past Señora Romero before she can stop me, like she seems to want to do, and run off to history. I think Maddox calls my name behind me, but I don’t look back.
I can’t look back.
All I know is that this day can’t possibly get any worse.
Chapter Eleven
“Alexandrea.” Mom calls to me as soon as I come through the kitchen door from an already long-ass day at school. “Can you come in here please? I’d like to talk to you.”
She’s on the sofa wearing a stark white pantsuit that looks even brighter against the dark brown leather couch. Her pin-straight bob doesn’t have a single hair out of place, but her lipstick color is all wrong. It’s too orange and with the thick layer of makeup on her face she looks more plasticy than ever. To make things worse, there isn’t a slew of files spread around her like there usually is when she sits in here.
The coffee table’s bare. The potted plant with the hideous purple bow someone had left from the funeral is gone. But Dad’s recliner is still there next to the built-in bookshelves, tucked in a corner, so it isn’t the first thing anyone sees when they walk in the door. But I can see him there now, sitting with his feet up, some science magazine in his hands, jaw working on a fresh piece of Dubble Bubble.
Mom’s hands are folded across her lap like she’s been waiting for me. This can’t be good. I’ve never had a sit-down conversation with Mom; it was always Dad who talked to me about things. He even had the birds and bees talk with me. Notably the most embarrassing situation I’ve ever had to sit through in my entire life. I’ll never look at a cucumber the same way again.
Slowly, I set my backpack down and join her on the couch. My eyes search for any clue, but, as usual, she’s impossible to read. Her face is completely void of emotion. Still, something sends my nerves skyrocketing.
“What’s the matter?” I wipe my hands on my jeans, hoping she doesn’t take my nervousness for guilt. Is this about the cupcakes? The kitchen was spotless when I left. Cleaner than it’s ever been. Shit. Did she find out I skipped school? If that’s it, I’m grounded for the rest of my life. The anticipation’s killing me. I’m ready to scream out “What!” to get this whole thing over with, but know better, so I bite the inside of my cheek instead.
“I want you to have this.” She lays a dull gold locket with an intricate pattern engraved on it and a simple chain on my lap.
A chill races up my spine. “What’s this?” I ask without touching it.
She sits up straight and hesitates before taking my hand in hers. It feels wrong, but I don’t dare pull away. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” Her voice is calm. A million thoughts race through my mind. Whose locket is this? Mom’s? She’s never worn it, yet it looks somewhat familiar. “It’s something your father always wanted to tell you long ago, but I disagreed. I didn’t think you were ready. We had finally agreed on a date to sit you down. When…well, now, since he’s gone, it seems like the right thing to do is to honor his memory.” She clears her throat and continues. “When your father and I first got married, we were so excited to start a family. We tried for years, but nothing happened. So we decided to go the adoption route. It wasn’t easy, but we were committed to having a family. After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, we finally got the call. A little girl was in need of a home. Your dad and I knew right away it was our chance. We knew it was a gift we couldn’t refuse.”
She stops and studies me for a moment. Her words race through my mind, but I can’t process them. Her stare, my hand in hers. It’s weird. She’s looking at me like she wants me to say something, think something, but my mind is blank. Because she’s leading me down a trail I don’t want to follow.
“Alexandrea, what I’m trying to say is, you were that girl. You were our gift. Even though we didn’t give birth to you, we knew you were our daughter from the first moment we set eyes on you.”
My head spins. I don’t know what she’s getting at, but part of me already understands. And that part is getting angrier by the second. I need time to let this sink in, but she’s looking at me again like she expects me to say something. Like I’ll hug her and thank her for telling me, thank her for taking me in.
I can’t. I won’t.
What. The. Hell? I ball my hands into fists. My nails dig into my palms so tight I might draw blood. First Dad dies, then my mind gets all fucked up, then Dylan is acting like a whole different person, and now she drops this on me. Shitty timing. Shitty everything.
“Alexandrea, say something.” Mom’s voice has an edge of impatience.
Say something? Seriously. Jesus, Mom, you just told me my whole life has been a lie, and now I’m supposed to open up and share that everything is hunky dory? My heart pounds against my chest. I suppress the rage that races though me. Answers. I need answers. “Is that what you and Dad were fighting about the day before the accident?”
The pupils in her eyes expand. It’s the first physical response she’s given. Maybe she thought I didn’t hear. Maybe she didn’t want me to know. “Yes, it must have been.”
The air is too thin to breathe. This can’t be true. And how can she be so calm? I’m literally freaking out, and she’s like she always is: a rock. A statue. Incapable of human emotion. She’s been ice-cold about Dad’s death. And anytime I try to talk about it, she changes the subject. Which is total bullshit. Now this. I wrap my arms around my stomach.
“Where…where did I come from?” I ask. Daddy’s champ. That’s what he always called me. Daddy’s sport. And I wasn’t. Bile rises in the back of my throat. I want to scream until I can stop all of this from happening. I want Dad alive. I need him here, now.
“We don’t know exactly. When you came to us you were five and had been in some sort of accident. You didn’t even know your name.” She points to the necklace still resting on my leg. “That necklace is all you had with you.”
Why the hell is she telling me this now? It couldn’t have waited? Dad wanted me to know and she stopped him. So now she gets to feel better by honoring his wishes, but what do I get? More questions than answers. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. That’s my mother.
“I thought you’d want to have it,” she says so matter-of-factly.
Why would I need a damn locket? I need Dad and not this ice block of an excuse for a mother. I want to chuck the stupid thing in her face, tell her it’s never been a part of my life, just like her, so why doesn’t she keep it? But instead I pull my arms in tighter around myself. No. I don’t want it. Just like I don’t want the information she’s forcing on me right now. Why would I want something from a life I don’t know anything about? She needs to take it and put it back wherever she had it hidden all these years.
“Here.” She picks it up and forces it inside my hand. “I know this is a lot to take in. When you are ready to talk about it, know you can always come to me,” she says, “I—I love you, Alexandrea. I want you to know that.” She hugs me. Well, sort of. Her hands don’t make it all the way around, and she pats me on the shoulder before she stands up and leaves me in the living room alone with my thoughts.
The room spins. It’s all too much. I sit dazed, trying to make sense of the insensible. The necklace curled in my fingers feels so wrong. I drop it on the coffee table. It thunks against the glass, and the rattle of the chain follows.
“I have to get to work,” Mom yells from the other room. Then there’s the sound of keys and the kitchen door opens and closes.
I’m frozen. Afraid if I move I might shatter into a million pieces. I can’t process it all. It doesn’t make sense. An accident. My “real parents.” This locket. I just need Dad.
I can’t speak.
I can’t th
ink.
I can’t even breathe.
My fingers navigate the way. A moment later Dylan says, “Hey.” There’s a sharpness in his tone, like he’s still upset. But he picked up. Of course he picked up. It’s Dylan.
I open my mouth to talk, but no words find their way out, just short, quick breaths.
“What’s the matter? Talk to me. Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, almost calm, but he can’t completely hide the frantic edge.
No. I’m not okay. I’m not sure if I ever will be again. And I want to talk to him, I do. I just can’t. I want to tell him I need him, but I’m concentrating too hard on not falling apart.
“Where are you?” he asks.
I swallow, but the lump in my throat stays put.
“Drea, where are you?” He enunciates each word.
“H-home.”
“I’m on my way.”
I focus on those words. He’s on his way. He’ll be here soon. And then, in what seems like an instant, though it could’ve been an hour, he slides next to me on the sofa. I didn’t even hear him come in.
I wrap my arms around him and lay my head in the crook of his neck. Why is this all happening to me? Tears I expect to fall stay hidden in my eyes, but my body trembles. At this moment, the only thing I’m sure of is my relationship with Dylan, so I tighten my hold, scared of letting go.
His strong arms grip me like shields from the outside world. “Hey. What’s going on?”
If I say something, that’ll make everything true. It’s a stupid thought, but one I can’t get past.
Dylan presses a kiss against my forehead. “Please tell me, Drea. What’s wrong?”
“I’m adopted.” I pull back to gauge his reaction.
His eyebrows reach for his hairline, his posture rigid. “Wow. I mean— How— When— Wow.”
“And that’s not all.” Suddenly, everything I haven’t told him pushes to get out. I tell him what’s going on with me. About what had happened in all my classes. About surfing and the bookstore. While I talk, his expression stays the same. Never once does he flinch or jerk away. But his mind is working in there. It always is. I’m nauseous as I tell him about the cupcakes and about being on the internet all night. And how everything I see seems to engrave itself in my mind and how things I haven’t even seen before seem all too familiar. I even go as far as to tell him about the dreams I’ve been having. Well, at least all the parts that I remember. As I finish I replay it in my head, anxiety swirling in my stomach. It sounds crazy—freakish. Is that what he thinks? That I’m some kind of freak?
He gets up and starts to pace, a line etched across his forehead. “I don’t understand. So you’re saying you know stuff.”
I gaze at the ring on my finger. “Yeah, like stuff I never did before.”
He nods a few times to himself as he continues to walk back and forth. “It happens. We pick up things subliminally all the time.”
“No!” My voice is too sharp.
Dylan stops, his head jerks back, and he stares at me.
“It’s way too much,” I say a little quieter.
“So you know the largest city in…Wyoming?”
My heart speeds up, but the answer is waiting for me. “Cheyenne.”
He pulls out his phone and studies the screen. His eyes grow wide. “How long is the Amazon River?”
My hands tremble, so I slip them under my legs. “From which river source, the newly discovered Mantaro River or the traditionally accepted Apurímac River?” But Dylan doesn’t say anything. Or blink. I swallow hard. “Because from the Mantaro its 4,345 miles.”
He checks his phone, than takes a step back. Like maybe he’s afraid. He’s not the only one. “And how tall is Mount Everest?”
My knee bounces. My legs shake. Enough already. “29,029 feet,” I yell.
He runs his fingers through his blond hair, goes back to pacing, and refuses to look at me. This is bad. I shouldn’t have told him. This was a mistake. I want to scream at him to leave, but I can’t; the words won’t come. So I put my head between my knees to catch my breath.
He sits next to me. “Hey, it’s okay.”
I twist my fingers in my hair, pulling it as tight as I can. I need something to feel real, anything. “What do you think is wrong with me?”
“I don’t know. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?” He puts his hand on my back. His palm is firm, not soft, and he rubs small circles. It helps open my lungs and fill them with air. “Just one more thing.”
I pick my head up.
“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” He flashes me his crooked smile.
I hit him with the pillow. “Very funny.”
“I knew I could get you to smile.” He wraps his fingers through mine. They’re warm, and for a moment I’m calm. He’s the only person in the world I’m comfortable to tell all my secrets to.
Neither of us speaks. Maybe it’s because we don’t know what there is to say. He pulls his hand away and even though I wish he’d hold me longer, the truth is that with Dylan here, I’m better. Like a huge weight has been lifted off me.
He reaches across the table and picks up the necklace Mom gave me, the chain dragging across the glass top. “What’s this?”
“My mom said it was the only thing I had with me when I came to them.”
In his large hands it looks so small and delicate. “Does it open?” He hands it to me.
As soon as it touches my skin, it’s warm and comfortable. Not foreign like it should be. I try to pry it open, but even digging my fingernails in the side, it won’t budge. “I guess not.”
“Here, let me.” He takes it back from me, unlocks the clasp, and hangs it around my neck. It settles against my skin, like it’s something I’ve always worn. He tips my chin up. His look, it’s intense. Searching. He studies my face. “Drea, I’m sorry this is happening to you.” His voice is low, almost a whisper, as he leans forward and presses his cheek to mine. His stubble tickles, but I don’t pull away. I close my eyes and lean into him. It’s sincere and reassuring, and we both linger here. Probably longer than friends should.
“I know what you need.” He flashes his crooked smile. “Chocolate cupcakes.”
I laugh. That was unexpected. And exactly what I want to crack the tension in the air. Being here with Dylan and getting this all off my chest has made me feel better. And chocolate cupcakes do sound delicious, but the pain swelling inside me won’t be tempered by sugar and cocoa. Still, I go along with him. It’s something to do while I try to sort out what my life is turning into.
He leads me into the kitchen and sits me at the island while he grabs two cupcakes, two glasses from the cabinet, and pours some milk in each. He moves around the room like it’s his second home. A warm feeling grows inside my stomach and I smile. A true deep-down-happy smile.
He sits next to me and takes a bite of his cupcake. “These really are the best I have ever had,” he says through a mouthful.
I take my cupcake out of the wrapper and break the bottom half off, squishing it down on top of the frosting, making a little sandwich, and take a bite. The explosion of flavor takes me to chocolate ecstasy with the perfect cake to frosting ratio. These are so good they’re bad. I could eat myself into a diabetic coma and not even think twice about it.
“You know, maybe we should test these new superabilites you have.” He inspects his cupcake. “Those questions were pretty easy.”
“I’m not making you any more right now if that’s what you’re asking.” My mind pulls up a crème brûlée cupcake recipe, and I have to block it out.
“Although that is an incredibly amazing idea, we know you can bake a killer cupcake now.” He shoves the last piece of cake into his mouth and then mumbles, “I’ve got it. Come on.”
He grins at me with raised brows, gets up from his seat, slapping the crumbs from his hands as he heads into the living room.
He’s up to something, and it isn’t good. I
get up and follow him. He’s already on the couch, the remote in his hand, flipping through the menu.
“Jeopardy!?” I ask.
“Let’s see how smart you really are.” He laughs to himself as if he can’t believe how smart he is for thinking of it.
Soon, Alex Trebek is greeting the contestants on the show. And they start answering questions.
“You haven’t seen this one before, have you?” Dylan continues to fast forward.
I shake my head and tuck my hands under my legs. If I know all these answers will he be convinced? Impressed? “Seriously! You know I don’t watch this.” And what about me? I’m not sure if I’m ready to see if I know all these things, either.
“Just checking.” He presses play.
“I’ll take World Religion for two hundred, Alex.” A stout girl named Karen in a bright pink shirt adjusts her retro black-framed glasses, her voice high and nasally.
“Krishna and Rama are both considered avatars of this Hindu God,” Alex says.
Dylan presses pause, and watches me like he’s waiting for a response.
“Do we really have to do this?” My knee bounces with nervous energy.
“Well, if you don’t know…we could always just go make more cupcakes.”
No way. And it isn’t like I don’t know the answer. “Vishnu.”
“You’re supposed to say it in the form of a question.”
I shoot him my don’t-mess-with-me look.
“Okay, okay.” He hits play.
“Karen,” Alex says.
“Who is Vishnu?”
“Correct. Karen, it’s your turn again.”
“I’ll take speaking in tongues for two hundred.”
“This language was invented in Warsaw in 1887 by Dr. L. L. Zamenhof,” Alex says.
Dylan pauses the TV. “There’s no way you know this one.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t know it, and it scares me a little that I do. “Esperanto.”
He presses the play button once again.
“Bill,” Alex says.
“What is Esperanto?” answers a tall, thin man with Harry Potter glasses.
