by Dyan Brown
“You gonna make it, Mom?” I eye the eight-inch-high stack of pancakes in front of me and then glance sideways at her as she continues another batch. “It’ll only be a few months. I should be back for Labor Day, then Thanksgiving and Christmas will be here before you know it.” I suddenly find that I’m trying to comfort her.
She smiles awkwardly at me. “I’ll be fine. I’m so proud of you. You know that, right?” She turns off the burner and brings another four inches of fluffy cakes over in one hand and half a pound of cooked bacon in the other.
I’m guessing we’ll be having BLTs on the road. Nodding at her, I try not to tear up. I know the amount of food speaks volumes about what she’s really feeling… how we’re both feeling.
I glance toward the hallway over my shoulder. “Dad isn’t back yet?”
“He should be soon.” She sits at her spot to my right and shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Clearing her throat, she sips her coffee.
Taking a pancake and a couple slices of bacon, I try not to notice how she’s eyeing me.
Her gaze darts from me, to the food, to her coffee, and back again, all while she periodically clears her throat. I can tell she wants to ask or tell me something, but she’s hoping Dad will walk in and nix her chance. The awkward silence goes on for half my meal before I can no longer take it.
I set my fork down. “What is it, Mom?”
“Hmm? Oh, well, I was thinking the other night that you’re such a beautiful young woman…” Her eyes run over her trio once again.
Me, food, coffee. Shit. I’m pretty sure I know where this is going, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes by biting my lip on the lower left side, a nervous habit I developed over the years.
When I don’t respond, she continues. “Look, I know that because Sahra died, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you about the whole boys and sex thing when you turned sixteen, and I’m sorry. Then this past year, you were so closed off to everything. I didn’t feel like it was a necessary conversation. You’re about to go into a whole different atmosphere than what you’re used to with men. I know you’re not naive to what happens in college to a lot of girls, and I can’t expect you not to drink, or even for you not to become intimate with someone…” She eyes me like that’s more of a question than a statement.
Oh… My… God. Someone kill me, please!
No more resisting, I roll my eyes. “Mom! God! No! I can barely even get a date, let alone go out partying and have sex, but… thanks anyway,” I stammer as she visibly relaxes in her chair, relief flooding her.
Oh, gee. So glad my antisocial life pleases someone! I struggle to keep my irritation from bubbling through my mortification.
“Okay, well… things may be different at OU, and I wanted to make sure you don’t have any questions for me.”
I ponder for a second. Deciding there’s nothing I want to ask that wouldn’t embarrass the crap out of both of us, I shake my head.
“All right, that’s fine; but I want you to know I’m here for you. I know you’ll have Carl, and hopefully April will be a good friend, but just in case…” She pauses and takes a breath, before launching into a spiel so fast paced she must have rehearsed a dozen times. “Please, be careful. Don’t ever drink around people you don’t trust, and certainly don’t drink around too small or too big of a group. In either case, you can be pulled away by a guy. Always have a girlfriend you buddy with, and you protect her as much as she should protect you.
“I know you won’t do drugs; I trust you. I just don’t ever want you to put yourself into a vulnerable position, allowing the wrong person to take advantage of you. And for God’s sake do not ever skip your birth control! Just because you think you won’t have sex one day doesn’t mean some guy won’t have other ideas, all right?” She spoke so fast I’m surprised she was able to say it all so clearly. It almost makes me want to laugh.
“All right, Mom. Please try not to worry about me,” I say. As I try to give her a comforting smile, my irritation starts to seep away. This must be so hard for her.
She covers my hand with hers and smiles back. “Impossible.”
Just then, Dad comes through the side door to the kitchen from the driveway. He already has a little sweat on his brow, and we haven’t even loaded anything yet.
Good thing I’m moving in late June and not August—the man may have had a heat stroke. Thankfully, there will be at least two other guys helping to unload. Even though one of them is fourteen, it’s still far better than moving everything all alone.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he says with a large smile. “Are you ready to go give those Okies some hell?”
I can’t help but smirk and arch an eyebrow at the challenge. “Yep, I’m ready to go! I’ll start loading as soon as I’m done eating.” I look up at my dad and then back to my mom, who are both still smiling at me.
Leaving is so going to suck.
A little while later, my stomach is full and I’m sweating. I bring box after box out to the side of the trailer that’s hitched behind our SUV for my dad to ‘stack in properly so nothing will shift,’ which is a joke because by the time my bed, mattresses, desk, chair, nightstand, TV and stand, bike, and about a dozen boxes of mostly clothes are filled in, there is still a good four feet of empty space. Guess he packed it a little too well. Maybe I can ride in there and avoid another sex talk with my mom—only this time, in front of Dad.
She wouldn’t do that, would she?
Thankfully, the three-hour ride is quiet besides some noninvasive chitchat. I concentrate on my new crime novel. It helps me not to think about the fact that we’re flying down the highway at seventy miles per hour. When we arrive, we drive through the campus, past the stadium, then turn right before some new student dormitories, and go into a neighborhood.
The houses are nice and small. Just as it looks like the street is ending, it curves to the right, and we see the apartment office and pool. There are a few people at the pool playing volleyball as we drive past. The stone-and-siding clad, three-story buildings look quaint. The place feels and looks slightly desolate, but I imagine not many students stay over the summer.
The ones who are here are doing summer term—like my new roomie—or they have nowhere else to go. I, on the other hand, could not afford to pass up the rent special. It’s an additional two hundred dollars off per month to move in during their off-season. Plus, living room furniture is provided, so that helps my budget enormously, and there are bike racks everywhere. Guess I’m not the only one who’ll be two-wheeling it manual style on campus. That makes me feel a little better.
As per our instructions, we pull around to the third building on the left and park. I look over and see Uncle Carl and Jason waiting by their four-door compact car.
Goody, I can’t wait for this one, I think sarcastically as I open the car door and step into the heat.
The humidity is almost unbearable. It’s a stark contrast from the ice chest of our SUV. My sunglasses instantly fog up, so I take them off and clean them with the hem of my shirt. I’m squinting due to the change in light. As I start to put my glasses back on, I hear a shriek to my right.
April comes bouncing toward me, her sun-kissed hair framing her perfect face and landing on her shoulders. Wide, brown eyes hide behind Prada sunglasses. She has the body of a swimmer. I think I remember her saying something about a swim team in high school… I can’t remember if OU has one. I’ll have to ask her later.
She’s certainly dressed as if she’s about to go work as a lifeguard. There is a red bikini top showing at the base of her neck beneath a white tank top, and she has on a pair of red shorts that shows off her long legs. Well, all lifeguard except for the high wedges she’s sporting, making her already tall and lean body look even more so.
I guess she’s not headed off to a summer class.
“Samantha! So good to finally meet you. Here is your keycard.” She gives me a side hug and holds up a silver keycard for me to take. “You can go down to the office
whenever you’re done unpacking and sign in. They’re nice down there, so no worries. I’m going out to the pool for a little bit with some friends you’ll meet later. Your room is to the right of the kitchen. Number twenty-one fifty. See you in a few hours!”
She bounces around to the other side of the SUV to meet my parents, then saunters off down the walkway. I barely have time to open my mouth before she’s gone, so I sort of mutter something that sounds like “Okay.” I wonder if I’ll have a chance to talk anytime this year.
I look after her as she walks away, although it’s more to avoid eye contact with Uncle Carl than to see where she’s going. Looking over at my cousin, I snort as he gapes after April. “Hey kiddo,” I say, ruffling his hair. His cheeks flush when he realizes he was caught watching her.
“I’m not a kid,” he says with forced depth, but it sounds so whiny I automatically raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, you do need my help to move all your stuff.” He holds up his arms and flexes, treating me to a view of his scrawny arm muscles. We both grin and start giggling.
Jason gives me a side-hug hello around my waist. He’s a tad short for fourteen, but I’m sure he will come into his height soon. Like the rest of the Clarks, he has rusty, wavy-brown hair, and bright green eyes.
“Nope, no way we could do this without you. It would take hours,” I say, hugging him back. We both start snickering and cutting up like we always do. If I had a kid brother, I would have wished for one like Jason. I’m glad he’s my only cousin—my only close one, anyway. My mom’s brother and sisters are on the East Coast, and we never see each other.
We all get to the task of unloading the trailer. First, we roll out my new area rug that Mom and I bought on one of our shopping trips. It’s a beige and light green bamboo print, complementing the more adult, Asian-inspired theme I’m drawn to. Lots of embroidered cherry blossoms on throw pillows for my lavender and soft green bedding. It’s a very calming look when it’s all put together.
Dad and Uncle Carl go ahead and set up my bed while the rest of us bring in the boxes. Then Mom and I start hanging clothes in my closet. Once the furniture is in and the boxes are in a corner for me to unpack later, they all come with me to the office to sign the lease, and then we go to lunch. Luckily, the only interaction I have with Uncle Carl throughout the day is a promise to catch up later.
Mom and Dad told me on Wednesday they’d found me a new job… that doesn’t pay. Knowing I’ll be Uncle Carl’s unofficial intern/office assistant for the summer blows, but, apparently, I can’t be up here doing nothing. You know, like a normal person would be doing on their summer before college. I assume Uncle Carl set this up after we spoke, but why? As punishment? Or just another way to keep tabs on me?
Thankfully, no one made a big deal about the goodbyes. Although, I can’t imagine how Mom is handling the drive home… poor Dad. About an hour after they left, I had the rest of my clothes put away and took a nice, hot shower to wash off the grime of the move. One of the best things about the apartment versus a dorm is that I get to have my own bathroom.
Feeling refreshed, I braid my hair and put on some boxer shorts and a snug T-shirt with the plan to get some more unpacking done. By the time the sun is setting, I’ve gotten through half of my boxes; it’s far easier to unpack than to pack.
April should be home soon, so I decide to stop for the night and head into the living room. It doesn’t seem like she’s home yet. Her door is slightly ajar, but the lights are off. Grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge, I contemplate going down to the pool to try to catch up with April. Just the thought makes me tired—I’m already in my pajamas. Getting dressed again sounds akin to self-mutilation. Going over to the patio door, I look out. There are a few small, plastic chairs set up, and my bike is leaning against the railing, making the already-small patio extremely cramped.
Unhooking the latch to the door, I step out. Compared to the muggy heat of the fading day, the concrete almost feels cool against my bare feet. After I set my Diet Coke on a chair, I look out over the complex. We have a rather good view of the basketball court and creek, considering we’re on the first floor.
At least we’re not looking at a brick wall or something, I think as I sigh.
I stay out there for a while, contemplating for the hundredth time what Uncle Carl said about the people who would hurt or kill us if they knew what we were or what we can do. My thoughts run wild with the why, who, where, and when of it.
Why would anybody have a problem with what we do? Who could it be? A society? Something like a Drifter? An anti-Drifter? Where did they come from? Will they get me? When will they get me? Have they already been following me?
Okay, I sound more paranoid than a pothead.
Hopefully, Uncle Carl will be more forthcoming in our meeting on Monday. I’m starting to give myself the heebie-jeebies. I need to do something to distract myself, so I don’t think about the fact that people could be stalking me. I look over at my bike. I should hang it up, so it’ll be harder to steal. At least in a back corner no one would be able to reach over the rail and pick it up.
I know the apartments have racks everywhere, but I don’t feel comfortable putting it out there with just a flimsy lock on it. It may not be worth much to anyone, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s as important as if it were my car. Because let’s face it, that bike is as close to driving a car as I’m getting for the foreseeable future.
Back in my room, I look for the toolbox Dad made for me and start digging through it until I find exactly what I need—a large, silver hook with a screw on the end of it. Perfect. I found out at the office that there’s a shuttle that takes students back and forth to campus, but since we’re only half a mile away, I think I’ll save that convenience for bad-weather days. It’s just over a mile to my uncle’s office in Dale Hall Tower, so it won’t be that bad of a ride.
I look around the apartment for a ladder or a step stool, but there isn’t any. I guess long-legs-April can reach the top shelf on her own, I think, adding one to my shopping list. Shorties require elevation assistance. Back on the patio, I look at where I want to hang the bike up, assessing. The ceiling isn’t that tall. I move one of the plastic chairs over to the corner and stand on the seat. I test it out by wiggling a bit, and it seems pretty sturdy. Reaching the hook up to the ceiling, I can barely touch it. Ugh. I hate being short sometimes.
Stretching as far as I can, I start screwing the hook into the ceiling as best I can and get the hook maybe a quarter of the way in—just enough so it stays in the ceiling—but I’m too short to go any further. Defeated, I step down off the chair. It’s not even worth trying to see if my bike will hang on it. There’s no way it’ll hold any weight the way it is.
If I could just get a little higher, I’d be at a better angle and could get it in all the way. Re-gathering my determination, I climb back onto the chair and balance myself against the wall with my forearm. Carefully, I step up with one foot on each arm of the chair. Well, this is too close. It puts me at an awkward angle, my head having to lop to the side not to hit the ceiling. I start twisting the hook again. The screw goes in about halfway and stops.
It must’ve hit a stud in the ceiling, which is good because it means it’s less likely that the bike will fall, but it’ll be a pain in the ass to get the rest of the hook screwed in all the way. It’s going to take more elbow grease. I start to put more pressure on the screw, still bracing my forearm against the wall for support. After a couple of twists, my arm is already tired, and I need to switch.
“Time to start lifting some weights, Sam,” I mutter.
While I’m changing arms, I shift my weight on the balls of my feet. The chair wobbles beneath me, and I freeze. Then, just like that, the cheap plastic arms bend and give way beneath my weight. As I fall sideways, my last thought is that my skull is headed straight for the iron railing.
7
I wait for my head to slam into the rail. Wait for the pain.
It feels as if I’m falli
ng forever. Weightless, my breath trapped in my lungs, I can’t inhale or exhale. I’m just frozen. What should’ve taken only fractions of a second now seems to be an eternity. All I can do is think about how much this is going to hurt, or if it will even hurt at all.
When people die, you hear doctors say they died instantly and felt no pain. They’d said that about Sahra. Maybe this is what they were talking about. Maybe she waited and waited for the pain to hit, because she knew it was coming, but it never did. Maybe she was frozen, too—her breath trapped in her lungs.
There is warmth that surrounds me, holds me. I’m too afraid to open my eyes, sure I’ll see my own blood—not coming from my nose this time, but from a fracture in my skull. I start to assess the condition of my body, beginning with my head, which actually feels fine.
I realize I have my hands covering my ears, my eyes scrunched shut. My body, trembling in fear, is tucked into a ball and is being held up by something soft and warm. Slowly, I release my hands and relax my face. My eyes still refuse to open, wondering vaguely if I’m still stuck in slow motion or just in shock. As I drop my hands, I hear a man’s voice nearby, smooth and deep.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
The voice is unfamiliar, and I neither move nor respond.
“Open your eyes, Samantha.”
I follow the instructions and open my eyes. There is a blue T-shirt beside my face. My eyes wander upward to meet the most striking pair of deep blue eyes I’ve ever seen—more intense in person than in the photos online. I instantly still from my shaking. His mouth is just as pink and moist as it was in his photo. He must lick his lips a lot. I really want his tongue to come out and sweep over—Stop thinking about that! Sheesh!
I must look like a moron staring at him for this long. Get down! I internally scream at my body. I blink, physically shake the inappropriate thoughts from my head, and pull away from him. He takes the action to mean it’s all right to set me down on my feet. Thankfully, he does this slowly enough that I can enjoy his warmth a few seconds longer. Once firmly on the ground, I exhale and take a half step away from him. Just a few inches away, I already feel cold without him touching me.
