by Eric Smith
That finger point and click. The hell was that?
What a douche.
What . . . hm.
What a cute douche.
“OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT DELICIOUS BOY?”
Leila jumped in her seat, spilling the cold coffee all over the table, as Sarika stood over her gushing.
“He was totally checking you out!” Sarika exclaimed. “What did he say to you before he left? Did you get his number? Facebook?”
“No!” Leila said, standing up and walking around Sarika to the sugar and cream station to wrangle up a bundle of napkins from the dispenser. “I mean, yes, I saw the delicious boy,” she said mockingly as she wiped up the coffee from the table. “But no, I didn’t get his . . . Sarika, it looks like you have an angry mob of people waiting on you over there.”
“Excuse me,” a customer shouted from the line, his voice full of concern.
“They’re fine,” Sarika said dismissively with a wave of her hand, and Leila caught several seriously irritated stares. There were only four people in the line, but in a relatively small space like Adam’s, particularly around the coffee bar, that made it look endless. “What did he say? What happened?”
“Oh, nothing,” Leila said, balling up the coffee-soaked napkins and tossing them in a nearby bin. “Something about taking a flier and that he’d see me around.”
“Okay, you go investigate the flier situation,” Sarika said curtly. “I’ll—”
“Oh my God, Sarika, what is happening over here?” Mr. Hathaway shouted, walking out of the kitchen to the ever-growing line of #SarikaTheBarista fans. Leila smiled. When you could actually see Adam Hathaway in plain sight, he was a good-looking guy. Slim and incredibly tall, with the sort of hipster, curly mustache you generally spotted all around the Northern Liberties neighborhood of Philadelphia, and brightly colored tattoos up and down his arms. A purple tentacle from the Watchmen comic curled around his upper bicep, easy to see when he wore a small t-shirt like today. His eyes were wide and panicked as he surveyed the customers that were shifting about anxiously.
“I’ll get back to work,” Sarika finished with a grin. “You go see what the deal is.”
Sarika bounded back over to the espresso machine, leapt over the countertop, and started doing her thing.
Leila looked over the table for any leftover cold brew droplets before making her way to the bulletin board, where the cute tool had stapled a bunch of his fliers. It was odd, though. If someone wanted attention, they didn’t use fliers that looked like they were made out of recycled bathroom paper towels, which is precisely what these seemed to be. Fliers were supposed to be bright colors, printed on resilient paper, drawn up with bold lettering. The ones that surrounded it were like that, advertising bands, odd jobs, a notice about saving a local endangered mouse, all printed in ways that demanded attention.
Leila plucked one of the incredibly bland fliers off the board, the paper stiff and dull as a brown paper bag.
JOIN THE BELMONT
ENVIRONMENTAL ACTIVISM CLUB
Tired of watching Mother Earth suffer the wrath of man’s careless nature?
Sign up for the Belmont High School’s Environmental Activism Club, or the B.E.A.C., and make a difference in the Philadelphia community. Open to ANY high school student, regardless of institution.
First meeting kicks off this Wednesday at 3PM, at Belmont in Room 407. We’ll be meeting every subsequent Wednesday through the summer and into the school year.
Be there!
Leila eyed the flier for a moment before tearing one of them off the wall and folding it into her pocket. Maybe he wasn’t all that bad? That snap and click might have just been his carefree, earth-loving attitude. That was a thing, right? Maybe? In which case, he might be just her type.
Might be.
“WHAT DOES THE FLIER SAY?” Sarika shouted, appearing next to Leila.
Leila spilled what remained of her coffee, the cup hitting the ground with a pang, the cold brew staining the bottom of her jeans.
“YOU HAVE GOT TO STOP DOING THAT!”
THREAD: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
SUBFORUM: PHILADELPHIA-CENTRIC
Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by WithouttheY
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:07PM
Is anyone here a member? Me and Paprika are thinking of joining. First meeting this Wednesday. At least, first of the summer.
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by A Dash of Paprika
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:09PM
Yeah we are!
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by WithouttheY
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:10PM
You are literally sitting right next to me, and replying. Why are you even?
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by BroBoxOne
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:15PM
How do I get in on that? ;-P
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by WithouttheY
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:17PM
WOW. AND BANNED.
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by A Dash of Paprika
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:19PM
PERMABANNED. BANHAMMER 40,000. BANHAMMER OF THOR. STRIKE UP THE BANNED.
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by WithouttheY
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:21PM
OMG STAHHHHP
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by Sage Wisdom
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:30PM
I think it’s good you’re joining a club, sweetheart. It’d be really great for you to get there, meet some new people, other kids your age. Do you like my avatar? What about my username? Do you get it?
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by WithouttheY
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:09PM
OH MY GOD! SAGE I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. GET OUT OF HERE!
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by Sage Wisdom
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:15PM
Hi! But do you get it? Sage, like the plant! And this is environment stuff!
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by A Dash of Paprika
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:17PM
I get it. “Sage” LOL.
RE: Belmont’s Environmental Activism Club?
Posted by WithouttheY
AUGUST 10th, 2017 | 9:21PM
DO. NOT. ENCOURAGE. THIS.
ECO-ACTIVISTS MESSAGE BOARD: PERSONAL MESSAGES [USER: WITHOUTTHEY]
FROM
SUBJECT
DATE
TOOTHLESS
HIGH SCHOOL ACTIVISM CLUBS
So you’re joining an environmental club at your high school? That’s actually really awesome. I wish we had that sort of thing back when I was in high school.
8/10
WITHOUTTHEY
RE: HIGH SCHOOL ACTIVISM CLUBS
Well you know, we’ll see. It might be a total wash.
Also, back when you were still in high school? How old are you?
8/10
TOOTHLESS
RE: HIGH SCHOOL ACTIVISM CLUBS
Wow that probably came off way creepy. I’m sorry. I’m 19. Not an old creeper on a message board, I swear.
8/10
WITHOUTTHEY
RE: HIGH SCHOOL ACTIVISM CLUBS
Suuuuuuuuure. :-P
8/10
TOOTHLESS
RE: HIGH SCHOOL ACTIVISM CLUBS
I’m not! Here, I’ll send you a pic as proof or something. Is that okay?
8/10
TOOTHLESS
RE: HIGH SCHOOL ACTIVISM CLUBS
Hello?
8/10
TOOTHLESS
RE: HIGH SCHOOL ACTIVISM CLUBS
Yeah okay I see where all of that went wrong.
8/10
IV
Leila lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling in her bedroom. Despite the fact that she was living in a new home with a new family, the house was far from new. It was an old, built-around-the-founding-of-America, Philadelphia-style rowhome out in Manayunk, nearly three centuries old. The plaster ceiling was cracked, with thin breaks spreading out like spider webs. The lines moved from the ceiling to the wall, and bits of paint nicked out and threatened to fall with the slightest bump. She followed the lines with her eyes, like tracing a maze, trying to ignore what she couldn’t stop hearing as the sun started to creep into her window.
The whispers.
Lay . . . whar . . . y . . . I . . . oh . . .
For whatever reason, the voices decided to be particularly loud this morning; and over the past two days, since hanging out with Sarika in Adam’s Café and going through the motions at Summer Enrichment at Belmont, they’d suddenly become clearer. Every time she stepped outside, she could hear the unintelligible whispering on the wind, rattling in her mind, slowly morphing from multiple voices to what sounded like a single, resolute one. She closed her eyes, trying to push it back out, willing it to leave. It was bad enough that when the weather dipped, as autumn approached, so did her mood.
She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut.
Quiet. Soft. Dancing around her ears like a breath.
Lay . . . yuh . . . ter . . . us . . . oods . . .
“Bedroom. Ceiling. Walls. Plaster. Bed,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Lay . . . yuh . . . ter . . . us . . . oods . . .
Multiple voices whispered like the deep exhale of several people after a long run.
“Go away!” Leila shouted, and tossed the sheets off her bed to sit up. The whispering vanished, the dissipation and resulting silence almost as loud as the voices themselves. She heard the sounds of footsteps briskly thundering up the stairs, and she grasped the bedsheets, tossing them back over herself as the door to her bedroom swung open.
“Leila?” Jon shouted, storming into the room with Lisabeth.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Lisabeth asked, sitting on the bed.
Leila feigned sleepiness, rubbing at her eyes and blinking.
“Hm?” she mumbled. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a nightmare. Don’t worry, Liz, just go back downstairs, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Jon said, patting Lisabeth on the back. Leila tried not to scowl. She wasn’t ready for that word yet, and it wasn’t fair that Jon kept using it whenever he wanted.
“O—okay,” Lisabeth stammered, and Leila could practically hear her eyes starting to glisten. Damn it. The M word always brought her to tears, albeit adorable tears. Leila’s mouth felt like it was torn between frowning and smiling at all of it. On the one hand, she still wasn’t ready for any of that. On the other hand, she had to admit, it was sweet.
But she couldn’t do it yet.
Not yet.
Jon stood aside, letting Liz walk through the door first, and then followed suit.
He peeked down the hallway and then turned back to her, whispering, “She made pancakes and bacon, if you’re up and hungry.” Leila knew it was more him asking her to please join them, and less him just letting her know the deal.
“I’ll be down in a second,” Leila said, and Jon walked out of the room, his footsteps matching Lisabeth’s as they descended the staircase.
_____
The rowhome’s kitchen was just big enough to fit a little dining table and three seats, the fourth edge of the table pressed up against a wall. From the kitchen window Leila could look outside and see Major Willow, and she hoped the little tree was taking root okay. She visited her twice a day to make sure she was safe and secure in the new plot of dirt. Leila was still torn as to whether or not it had been a good idea, planting the little tree there. The potential for the roots to wrap around something was so very real. But it would have to do for now.
Leila shrugged and adjusted her light box, shifting it over a little to make room for her plate of breakfast. The light shone right at her, beaming from the vertical, steel box. They’d fallen into a comfortable routine, sitting down at the kitchen table together in the morning, Jon reading his papers, Liz and Leila fussing with their phones, while the box beamed on Leila for a solid fifteen minutes. When they hit the halfway mark, right around seven minutes or so, conversation usually broke out, and for the most part phones went away and it was time for breakfast.
Leila didn’t show it, but she was relieved that Liz cooked today. Jon’s last experiment with waffles resulted in waffle batter burnt so solid, it could have been used as ice cube trays.
“So, how’s enrichment been?” Lisabeth asked, pushing a plate of eggs and bacon across their small kitchen table. “Still into it?”
“Not bad,” Leila said, taking a bite of bacon, and trying not to audibly sigh at the burst of salty and sweet flavor exploding in her mouth. “It’s mostly been me and Sarika hitting the school gym, which is ridiculously huge, or holing up in the library. And then there’s Adam’s at the end of the day.”
“So you’re basically spending summer the way you would have anyway. Books, coffee, Sarika,” Jon said, his newspaper rustling as he talked. “Why don’t you meet some people? Make some friends at the enrichment program. Aren’t there kids from all the regional schools in there?”
“Meh,” Leila said, taking another bite of bacon. “People are kind of the worst. I’ll stick to my routine, thanks. Routine is comfortable.” She tapped the metal side of her light box.
“That’s one of the building blocks of a good marriage,” Jon said, a smile in his voice.
Lisabeth laughed and threw a bag of tea at Jon’s head.
“What about that club, though?” Lisabeth asked, reaching for some more pancakes. “You know, the one with the Captain Planet kids that you’re all geared up about.”
“Oh, no, that’s nothing,” Leila said as Jon put down his newspaper, looking at her with increased interest. He folded his arms and lifted his eyebrows. She was sure a bad nature pun was coming. “Also, come on, Captain Planet? No one knows what that is anymore.”
“Sure they do,” Lisabeth said, leaning back in her chair. She took a bite of a pancake, and one of her braids slipped out of the headscarf they were wrapped up in. “Ah, shoot.” She fussed with it as she continued talking. “I bet it’s only a matter of time before Netflix reboots it or something.”
“We haven’t even met yet. So, we’ll see how Captain Planet-ish the group is,” Leila said. “But I’m going to ride my bike over to enrichment this morning, along the Schuylkill Trail, if you want to, I don’t know, take the ride with me?”
Leila shook her head, annoyed with herself at making it more of a question than a request, her voice turning up with her insecurity. She’d had a hard time trying to bond with any of the foster families, and now that she was actually adopted . . . she tried to push the dark, swirling feelings inside down deep someplace, and open herself up to all this. They wanted her. But the feeling of needing them pushed itself up. It press
ed.
Accept me.
Don’t push me away.
I want to be here. I don’t want to be alone again.
“Sure, that sounds lovely,” Lisabeth said with a smile.
“Awesome.” Leila looked at her watch and flicked off the light box. “Thanks for the breakfast, Liz.” She stood up, pushed her chair in to the tiny table, and pulled at the power cord, popping the plug out of the wall beneath the table.
Lisabeth paused, standing there with an expectant look on her face.
“What is it?” Leila asked, as she started to pull the cord up from under the table, coiling it around her arm.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice gone quiet. “I’ll go get dressed and grab my helmet.” With that, she got up and made her way out of the kitchen, the sound of her feet soft against the steps leading upstairs.
Leila put her light box under the table and looked at Jon, who glanced up from his paper with that look. The one he’d been giving her the past few months. Leila grabbed her dishes and stormed over to the sink, tossing them in with a loud clatter.
“I can’t say it,” Leila said, standing at the sink. She looked up through the window at Major Willow outside. She looked at her palm, the scar shiny and pale against her skin. “I want to, but I can’t. Not yet.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon said. Leila turned around and caught him as he reached for his coffee before taking a long sip.
“You do though. I know that look. I know what you’re thinking,” Leila said, leaning against the sink. “Sarika, her family had the same problem, you know? Last year, her parents kept trying to get her to say it. And it’s just hard, Jon, you know?”
“I don’t know, though,” Jon said between sips of his coffee. He placed his paper down on the table and looked at her, his mouth turned into a soft smile. “Leila, I’ve had a privileged life. I’m aware of it. Your moth—” He stopped himself, closing his eyes. “Lisabeth has taught me to look at what I have differently. My family? I was lucky. Her family, not so much.”
“Oh?” Leila asked, her heart hammering. She walked back to the kitchen table and sat down, nudging her chair closer, the wood of the chair scraping against the hardwood floor with an audible squeak.
