by Nessa Morgan
“How is that?”
“Well, I’m graduating a year early…” I begin. “I’m going off to college—if I can get into one. I’d be a mess if it were you leaving.” I stop for a moment to ponder, a life without Zephyr would be unbearable. I’m not sure that I’m ready for that. “Hell, I’m still a mess about it. As cliché as it sounds, you’re my rock, Zephyr.”
If he starts singing Simon and Garfunkel, I might just…
“I’m not that happy about it, Jo.” The seriousness in his voice shocks me. I turn, looking up to him, confusion covering my face. “Let me rephrase that: I am happy about it and I’m so proud of you, but the situation sucks,” he tells me, squeezing me tightly against his side. “I’m not going to make you feel horrible about leaving this place when that is all any of us wants to do. It’s not like I’m going to break up with you because of this—this is awesome and we still need to celebrate. But I’m not worried about our future. I’ll just apply to whatever college you get into, because you’ll definitely get into college.” I shoot him a look, narrowing my eyes, because I was planning to apply to Ivy League schools. “Or a college close to wherever you go; community college, random job in the area, clown college, whatever, really. Just know that this is only the beginning for us.”
I beam up at him, my smile wider than it’s ever been. “It is.” I smile as we enter the crowded cafeteria, heading for the back table.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
We walk up to the table, prying ourselves apart before we take our usual seats. At some point, the number at this table grew. In addition to the usual Harley, Kennie, and me, we’ve attained Avery, permanently attached to Harley’s side, and Jackson and his girlfriend, Ksenia. I don’t mind the people, not like I would have before. These people are nice and don’t treat me weird.
Not like some other people that have been staring at me worse than before. I love how they think I can’t see that their eyes train on me the moment I step into the building, but they make it obvious.
“I still can’t believe you’re graduating early,” says Kennie when I set the senior project packet down on the smooth, unstained surface of the table. She’s pouting, jutting out her bottom lip to accentuate her sadness. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m leaving at the end of the year or because she’s jealous. Maybe a little bit of both—she’d give anything to be with Duke at college but she knows that she needs to work to get there. Quickly, I stuff the thick packet into my backpack, ready to calm Kennie down if needed.
Harley smacks her on the shoulder, as if she’s been doing it all day, before she rolls me an apple from her lunch. “Why can’t you believe it? She’s a genius, Ken.” Harley smile to me apologetically. “I’m surprised she isn’t graduating at the start of next semester.”
“I still need to take senior experience, whatever that is,” I chime in. “And do the senior project, but other than that, I’m all set to go.” I smile happily, proud of myself. I bet I’m beaming again, maybe glowing a little.
“Know what you’re going to do?” Kennie asks about my project. She brushes something from her hands before resting her arms on the table in front of her lunch.
I shake my head.
I really need to think long and hard until I can come up with a project that I’ll love.
Someone standing near the back door catches my attention as they’re eyes widen with stare. Ugh, not again. They’re wearing one of those hyper yellow sweatshirts, so I can’t miss them even if I tried. I’m tempted to tell them that if they want to stare at me, it’s best to wear neutral colors so you can blend into the walls rather than stick out like a sore thumb, blinding me with bright, neon colors. All I’m saying is this kid would suck as a spy. Harley follows my gaze as I stare back at the person—how do you like it, huh?
Zephyr catches sight of the gawker, ready to defend me; he stands up from the table, yelling, “Hey.” I grab his arm, hoping the pull him back down. He’s punched enough people for me to last a lifetime. Yellow Boy snaps to attention, as expected. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
That’s so old and outdated but I want to hug him.
The kid, I think a frosh judging by the pizza-face, jumps from the sound, attempting to push open the door. Everyone knows that door is always locked. He finally understands that and moves to the other door, pushing against the glass to shove it open. When it doesn’t move—because it can’t—he finally remembers it’s a PULL ONLY door, yanking it open, and running full speed into the courtyard behind the school. It’s the easiest place to hide.
“Sorry about that,” Zephyr says as he sits back down. He drags a hand through his hair before he drops it over my shoulder, pressing his lips to my cheek. I’m not sure why, but I blush.
“I wish I could do something to make these people stop looking at you like you’re the town freak,” Harley grumbles, glaring at someone slowly passing the table. I can feel their eyes on me, like a silent challenge. I shrink a bit, shielding myself behind Zephyr, strongly wishing I’d have listened to him at the beginning of the term when he said not to spend any time with Ryder. If I knew then what I know now, things would be different. “It pisses me off as your best friend when people look at you like you’re crazy when you’re not.”
Define crazy.
“That’d be awesome and… strangely appropriate,” I tell her. There has to be some way to let people know I’m a person just like them. They all have these beliefs about me, inflated ideas, and I can’t change them, not all at once and not easily. So what? I had a different childhood than all of them. My father killed my mother, my brother, and my sister; he tried to kill me, too. Everyone knows and everyone expects me to snap and go on some murderous rampage through school. What my father did does not define me. I’m my own person; I make my own decisions, my own choices. Nothing about my past is who I am. Why no one understands this, I’ll never know. “Wait a minute, why can’t I?” I ask no one in particular.
“Not following, Jo,” Zephyr says, transitioning from his conversation with Avery, Ksenia, and Jackson about what makes football better than basket. I stopped listening once I heard the word football.
“My project.” Blank faces stare back at me. “I can do a project on anything, right? Well, I can volunteer somewhere,” I start, still trying to make sense of it in my own mind. There’re a few places I remember, some in Lynnwood. “What if I were to volunteer at a women’s center and tell my own personal story with my presentation?” People might not approve, they may hate it, but no one can say I wasn’t original.
“That sounds like a great idea,” Harley praises while Kennie oohs next to her.
“But you don’t know your story,” Zephyr reminds me.
I don’t know a lot about my past—the main flaw in my plan—but a few of the puzzle pieces are fitting together, starting to make a full picture I can identify, I should be able to figure it out as I go.
How hard can it be, really?
“I can learn, though.” I tap my index finger on the end of my nose, trying to think of a way to figure some things out. I’d have to ask my aunt. Yeah, like that would ever work. I have to think of a way to convince my aunt to explain what happened to me that night. It’s a hell of a lot easier to say than to do.
“I don’t like that face,” Harley says, eyes wide as she stares at me with concern, her fingers playing with the end of her hair. “That’s not a good face for her to have,” she points out to Zephyr.
He looks at me, then Harley, then back to me, ready to agree. “What’re you thinking, Jo?”
Did I ever mention how much I love it when he calls me Jo? Swoon!
“Nothing scary,” I admit, feigning innocence.
I’m not thinking anything yet… well, nothing big. I just know who to ask for answers to the big questions. The only problem is, while I know who to ask, there’s just no way of knowing if she’ll tell me anything. Hilary is protective after all.
At home, after I sit t
hrough copious amounts homework—mostly calculus and chemistry—and watch some random cooking show on the Food Network where the secret ingredient is cotton candy, I decide that there’s no better time like the present to discover a few new things about myself and piss off my aunt in the same breath. I’m such a great niece, huh? So, I walk up the stairs, take a deep breath to give myself courage, and knock on the first door after the bathroom—Hilary’s door. She tells me it’s open and I walk in, instantly taking in the floral scent wafting through the air.
Hmmm… I wonder what that means?
“Hey, Aunt Hil,” I start, slowly walking toward the queen sized bed in the center of the room. On the top of her bed is a pale blue comforter with hand-sewn flowers dotted throughout, something she made with her mother, my grandmother, when she was around my age. On top of the comforter is a dress—she owns a dress?—it’s short and black with thin straps—oh my goodness, she has a little black dress!—something you might wear on a special occasion. What’s the occasion? “This is nice.” I touch the smooth fabric; it feels like water against my hand, sliding as I move my hand down.
“Thanks.” I turn, watching her fancy herself up at her vanity. “I have a date tonight,” Hilary tells me as she lines her eyes in dark liner.
Hold up.
Since when does my aunt date?
“A date?” I ask, a little shocked, a little excited. It’s about time my aunt got back on the horse. “Like a real date with an actual person that takes you out to dinner?” I’m sure she wants to smack me, I can tell from the look she gives me. This is when I insert my foot into my mouth with enough force to kick a soccer ball five hundred feet.
“Yes,” Hilary answers, turning to shoot me another pointed look, she’s only lined one eye so it makes me giggle. “Is that so surprising, Joey?”
I should say, Oh, hell no, Aunt Hil, you’ve still got game, go out and get ‘em, maybe with a sassy head roll and a Z-snap. Instead, because I’m so awesome, I say, “Kind of.” No one can say I’m not honest. “It’s just that you don’t date,” I explain to her, as if she hasn’t been around to witness this herself. Never in my eight years living with her have I seen her so much as look at a man, or woman, in any amount of interest. I’ve never even heard her talk about dating. To be honest, I don’t even know if she’s straight or lesbian.
“I’m trying to change that,” she tells me with a nervous laugh. I guess she’s scared. “Or I think I am.” She sets her eyeliner on the table in front of her and stands up, heading toward the bed. “Is this too much?” she asks as her hand flicks at the fabric of the dress.
“You’re asking me?” I blurt.
“You’re the only one of us in a relationship.”
“I had to call Jamie!”
Hilary grabs the dress from the bed and quickly changes into it while I avert my gaze, a polite habit I’ve gained. I do the same thing in the locker room before gym class, because it would be creepy for a girl to stare at anyone while they undressed, just saying. I zip it up for her in the back when she asks. Hilary steps in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric as she looks at the reflection. The dress hugs her in all the right places. Her date has no idea how lucky they are because my aunt is one hot momma. I can’t believe that phrase just ran through my mind, but it did and I regret nothing.
“Do I at least look nice to you?” she asks me as she stares into the mirror, trying to fix random issues she finds—excuse me, random invisible issues she finds.
“Of course you look hot, Aunt Hil,” I tell her. “All the kids want to play with you on the playground, right?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Stop being a smart ass, Joey,” she tells me, trying her best to hide her giggle. At least I can still make her laugh. That’s going to be important.
“You look beautiful to me.” I watch the blush creep up her exposed neck, blooming across her cheeks, and she tries—but fails—to hide it. She’s such a cute person sometimes. I take a seat on her bed, pulling her blue robe onto the bed from the trunk at pushed against the end, unconsciously smoothing it out. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Just another doctor at the hospital,” she tosses over her shoulder—I don’t get a name to use in case you go missing?—as she digs through her closet for a pair of shoes. She tosses a red pair of heels behind her before she stands up, smoothing out her dress for the fifth time. It definitely won’t be the last time.
“Is he your McDreamy or McSteamy?” I ask with a wide, wicked grin on my face.
Hilary snorts. “That’s enough Grey’s Anatomy for you, kid,” she tells me with a laugh and a finger point.
“Uhn uh,” I protest. “Don’t deny me my Christina fix,” I jokingly bark threateningly. “When it’s back on, my ass will be planted on that couch screaming at anyone that dare disturbs my precious time.”
Hilary slips on the red heels she dug from the back of her closet, which sticks a Kellie Pickler song in my head, as she says, “I’ll keep that in mind, hon.”
A moment of silence fills the air between us, enveloping us in the momentary quiet, as I contemplate how to word my question. From what I know—and by that, I mean from what I’ve learned from eavesdropping like a creep on her conversations with Dr. Jett after a few sessions a couple years back—she’s happy I can’t remember anything. She prefers I forget everything about that night and anything to do with my father and just start over.
Well, that little tidbit alone makes me curious to know everything. And I do mean every little last detail. I don’t care how I go about to procure this knowledge, I just know I will.
“So…” I start, trailing off as I play with the frayed hem of my shirt, making the frayed edge worse.
“What do you want?” Hilary asks without looking at me. She’s fixing her hair, curling the orange locks around a curling iron to get a nice wave.
“What makes you think that I want something?” I ask as innocently as I can muster, even smiling sweetly.
“It’s the way you said so,” she answers, attempting to change her voice by making it two octaves higher when mocking me. I can’t help but think to myself, I don’t even sound like that, woman. “Now, what do you want?” she asks again.
“It’s nothing big, really,” I begin. “I just want you to, uh, talk to me about my past and what happened to me. Ya know—the usual.”
I know. I know that I don’t really want to know all the gory details—who in the world really would?—but I need to know some things like what happened that night and the things that led up to it. I don’t think that’s so much to ask.
From her expression, which, let me tell you, terrifies me, I can tell that she doesn’t want to tell me a damn thing. Her green eyes widen, her mouth drops open, and her eyebrows skyrocket. She looks like a crazed, redheaded banshee.
No comments about gingers not having souls, please.
“Not going to happen, Joey.” That sounds like, End of discussion. But I’m a pester-er.
“Aunt Hil, please,” I beg.
She looks at me, like really looks at me, turning fully around in her seat just to stare at me before she says, “Joey, no. For one, I don’t really want you to remember what happened that night.” Annoying but understandable. “I may be a bitch for that but I’m a firm believer in what you don’t know won’t hurt you and once you open that can of worms, you’ll only be hurt. I’m doing this for your best interests, honey, I’m sorry.” See, my aunt has a soul.
Shot down instantly, just as I thought.
Time to try Plan B.
“Will you at least tell me if my father called me Josie?” I ask, avoiding her gaze.
The air in the room goes still and I can hear the wheels in Hilary’s head turning. I thought that’d get her attention.
“I thought you couldn’t remember anything?” Hilary asks in surprise.
“There’s a worm sneaking way from the can, Aunt Hil, I can’t help that,” I tell her, standing up to leave. I stop at the door, turning to
say, “Good luck on your date tonight.” Smiling before I head into my room for the night.
I spend the next afternoon waiting at Pathways for Women to speak to someone, anyone, who knows about what I’m asking. While waiting, I notice small children playing in front of the building and their mothers standing nearby watching them to make sure they remain safe. I wonder about the women and their families, about what brought them to this place. It can’t be good stories so I stop myself before I imagine something worse than what it could be.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice catches my attention, snapping my gaze from the window. “My name is Felicia Carlson, what can I do for you?” A short stocky woman with short brown hair asks me. I stand up from the chair; I’m taller than her by at least a foot. That’s scary because I’m only five-foot-five.
“Hi, I’m Joey Archembault and I am a high school student doing research for a school project,” I tell her, holding out my hand for her to shake.
“What kind of research?” Felicia asks, taking me back to her office.
“Research about violence against women and families, that sort of thing, can you help me?”
Felicia nods.
That afternoon, I got my senior project mentor and that night, I wrote up my proposal.
***
There were many things I learned about Felicia Carlson that afternoon. The first being that she’s the proud mother of three brilliant children; two girls and one boy, ages from thirteen, twelve, and nine. She even showed me pictures, as a proud mother would, and I could instantly see the family resemblance. It was all in the eyes, a gray-blue hue that reminded me of a frozen lake, and the smile, wide and happy despite everything they’d been through. The next thing I learned about this wonderful woman was her fight to send her now ex-husband to prison for the mental, emotional, and physical abuse he put her and her children through when they were still married. I learned how, after she divorced him, he stalked her and her family for three years before attempting to break into their house. She’d moved, filed for restraining orders, told schools that no one could pick up her kids unless it was her and her alone. Her story hit home for me.
