Dream Smashers

by Angela Carlie

  I wave, sheepishly. Not seeing me, she flips her hair away from her face. It shimmies in the wind, and she continues down the road to the land of dreams. Ms. Lightheart is perfect.

  My heart feels like a fuzzy fairy-wish blowing in the breeze. Even though the clouds cover the sun, gray now seems a bit sunny. She renewed my hope and reminded me that I need to start working on living like her. I’m sure she went to school every day. People usually have to go to school to get good jobs to have money. Money is important to living a life void of worry.

  The quiet school parking lot is like a car graveyard. A rock fills my stomach at the thought of walking into class late. Mrs. Smith won’t care, but I hate having everyone’s attention on me.

  An article in Teen Gossip Magazine said that when starting a new way of life, or quitting a bad habit, Monday is the best day to begin. Yes, Monday will be a new beginning, a ground breaking day for my real life. A life filled with perfect attendance days and straight A’s and a carefree attitude. I will stop procrastinating and start living the dream—on Monday, that is. Since I’m already late, I might as well start over fresh on Monday.

  But for now, I need to plan my fresh start. Carefree needs a plan, a map to escape this doomed life, and my bedroom is always the perfect place to concentrate on such tasks. Grams is probably at the senior center this time of day. Even if she’s not, I can play up a sick stomach or something as an excuse for being home early.

  ***

  My home, a red brick, ranch style house with rusted chain link fence encircling the front yard of grass that hasn’t returned to life from the dry summer, is jammed between similar houses. The once lush rose bushes that Gramps pruned every year protrude from the bare earth like skeletal arms.

  The front gate squeaks, reminding me Grams asked me to grease that earlier this week.

  I dig through my bag to find the key.

  The door is already ajar.

  Grams’ green Buick isn’t parked in the usual spot in front of the house. Strange.

  A familiar discomfort gurgles in my bowels.

  I tap the door open further with my foot. “Hello?”

  Silence.

  I push the door open wide. The once meticulously clean interior is trashed and in shambles. The couch cushions are scattered on the living room floor and covered with broken glass from the tipped curio cabinet, its contents of antique china missing. Also on the floor, flung about, are spoons—hundreds of spoons along with the boxes that kept them hidden in Grams’ closet.

  I’ve seen this before, many times. It could be the same type of situation as in the past, or it could be something new, like an actual dangerous robber. My gut tells me, though, that it’s the same old shit. To confirm my suspicions—or commit suicide—I step inside. “Hello. If anybody’s here, please leave.” Oh that’s really going to scare the stranger-danger off. I clear my voice and muster up the meanest voice I’ve ever portrayed. “You better get out of my house!” There, that sounded scary. I take several more steps forward.

  A woman’s gargled voice comes from the kitchen. “Who do you think you are? Coming in here and telling me what to do?”

  I freeze. Okay, fourth scariest time in my life commencing right now.

  A shadow of a person looms through the kitchen doorway. It turns into a thin person’s body with stringy hair and dark eyes sunk deep into her face. Her cheek bones protrude from her skull, or maybe it’s the skin stretching over her cheek bones. Bruised arms, legs, and hands extend from dirty clothes. Open sores cover her and sweat trickles from her pores. If this were a cartoon, green air would be rising from her body. A perfume of body odor, stale cigarettes mixed with old beer and rotting garbage invades my nostrils.

  My eyes burn.

  The expression on her face would scare away zombies—if any stood by my side.

  I take several steps back, hitting the open door.

  “You…you really shouldn’t be here.” I manage to force out the words. I don’t want her to yell at me. Please, Mother, don’t yell at me. “What do you want?”

  Jacinda puts her hand on her side where a normal woman’s hip would have been. “What do you think I want?” She turns back into the kitchen.

  I follow.

  Dark wood splinters litter the small breakfast table in the center of the room. A broken rack hangs from the far wall. Grams displays some of her best spoons in this rack. Or did. Her grandmother gifted it to her when she was a kid.

  A charge of heat fills my chest and moves up into my ears and to my face. How dare she break Grams’ most important things! What I want to say will make me look as irrational as Jacinda is, and I’m not like her, so I don’t say anything.

  The several steps toward the heap of rubble on the table feel like drudging through mud. Jacinda stands only a few feet from it, rummaging through kitchen cabinets, oblivious to the delicate nature of casserole dishes and platters and drinking glasses.

  She startles and turns to face me. Her face no longer filled with anger, but with desperation and fear. Our eyes meet for a moment.

  “Help me, honey. Come and help me find what I’m looking for.” She holds out her hand.

  Don’t wimp out now. If I’m going to tell her how mad I am, I have to focus. Forget that she looks so lost. Forget her puppy dog eyes, pleading for help. I break eye contact to glance at the broken spoon rack.

  “What is it you’re looking for?” I ask.

  Tears swell in her eyes. “Oh, honey, I need…I need…money.” Her gaze shifts from me to the invisible force behind me. “Or …or something valuable. Do you know where Grandma keeps that stuff, sweetheart? It’s very important that we find it. Come on, come on, come help Mommy.” Her speech reminds me of an older model race car: quick but jerky. She turns back to the cabinet and resumes her frantic search.

  “Mom.”

  She continues her destruction.

  “Mom.”

  Nothing.

  “Jacinda!”

  She twitches half-way around.

  “Grams doesn’t have anything like that. So, you should probably leave before she gets home.” Broken plates on the floor, glass everywhere. “You don’t want her to see the mess you’ve made here, do you?”

  She leans across the table, inches from my face. An open flame to newspaper, she bursts into a tirade. “You don’t tell me what to do, little prissy missy. You fucking whore, you’re the one that needs to leave. Just leave, you stupid little bitch!”

  Rotting mouth and cigarette breath along with fear almost cause me to step back—almost. She’s in my space, invading my air, stirring emotions I never knew I had.

  “No. I’m not leaving because this is my house. And you’re not welcome here.” I control my voice, barely.

  “This is my fucking house you stupid fucker! Two-faced brat. You better watch yourself, you might fall off that high horse you’re on.” She turns back to the cabinet, pushes some plates onto the ground, and then faces me again.

  “You think you’re better than me? Fuck off.” Spit flies from her mouth. “Go! Go now! I grew up here too, ya stupid fuck. You’re selfish, you know that? Who do you think you are?” She takes a breath. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Get the fuck out!”

  I don’t budge.

  Her eyes don’t belong to her, or to any human being for that matter—twitching, black, filled with the darkest hate imaginable.

  No, I’m not like her. Not like her at all. I will never be like her.

  I step around the table, with air under my feet, to stand toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye with the devil-woman before me. “Grams doesn’t have anything because of you. Grams, who worked her entire life, and Gramps, who worked two jobs seven fucking days a week until he died, have absolutely nothing. Because of you. You sucked them dry. So, it’s time you leave now. There’s nothing left for you here.”

  She doesn’t move.

  The front door latches shut. Footsteps make their way through the living room.

  I break the star
e down. Grams appears in the doorway of the kitchen. Shoulders rounded. Face full of sorrow. As if she’s carrying a heavy barbell on her shoulders and can no longer hold on to it. But if she doesn’t, it will fall. And its fall is the worst thing imaginable.

  Silence.

  She crunches through the broken glass to the pantry, opens it, and pulls out a broom.

  Jacinda’s face scribbles up; a small vein swells on her forehead. Tears flow. She chokes and hacks on phlegm from deep in her lungs. Only air escapes her mouth, no voice. “Fuck you.”

  She wipes the pain from her eyes onto the back of her arm and jitters out of the kitchen.

  Before leaving through the front door, she looks back. “It’s all your fault.” She points a crooked finger encrusted with dirt at me. “Fuck you!” The door slams shut behind her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Grams never cried in front of me when Gramps died. But late at night I often heard her weeping in the dark of their bedroom. I feel closer to her knowing she isn’t as tough as I always thought. Her crust is made of stone, but her filling is a soft woman with a broken heart.

  “You should be getting ready for your date, honey. Don’t you worry ‘bout me now,” she says.

  I laugh. “You’re crazy to think that I’m leaving you alone tonight.” I put the broom back in the closet, then sit at the clean table.

  Grams sets a small plate of Oreos and two glasses of milk in front of me before sitting. “I won’t be alone. It’s bunko night.”

  Oh yeah, bunko. Woo hoo.

  “Where’s it at tonight?” I dunk an Oreo in the cold milk.

  “Next door at Agnes’ house.” Grams opens her Oreo to eat the cream from the middle first.

  “Grams…can I ask you something?”

  She raises her brow and then nods. “Shoot.” She finishes her cookie, grabs her Virginia Slims and lights a cigarette.

  “Okay, but first you have to promise not to get mad.”

  “For cripes sake, Autumn, I can’t promise that. I will promise to listen though, so spill it.”

  “Why don’t you ever call the police when Jacinda breaks in?”

  She takes a long drag on the death stick. Little lines accentuate her puckered lips. “I know this is hard for you to believe, but no matter what your mother does, I’ll still love her. She’s my daughter. The same goes for you.”

  “Okay, if you love her, why don’t you help her?” My gut seizes. “I mean…uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it sound like that.”

  “I know.” Grams looks at me. “You’re a very bright girl and I know what you’re thinking. You think that I’m an enabler.”

  “I didn’t say that.” I push the milk, peppered with black chunks, away. “I just think that if she’s arrested, that maybe it would be some kind of wake-up call. You know?”

  “Yes, I do know.” Grams reduces her life sentence with another lung full of smoke. “Your grandfather and I actually tried that route once. Not on our own, mind you. Your great-aunt Tilda nagged us for months to do it. But as soon as we discovered her living with you on the streets, we got the authorities involved.” She smashes her cigarette into the ash tray. “Your mom spent only about a week in a treatment facility before she got kicked out. She continued using and lost custody of you. Now that you’re safe, she can do whatever she wants. She’s a grown woman.”

  “Yeah, but you still buy her groceries and stuff.”

  “Of course I do. I’m not going to let her starve to death. I’ll buy her food, but never give her cash.” She shakes her head.

  The house phone rings. I jump up to answer it.

  “Hello.”

  “Dude, why didn’t you answer my texts?” Rainy asks. “Are we still on for tonight?”

  I pull my cell phone from my pocket. It’s on silent. “You’re alive? I thought maybe you’d be lying in a ditch by now or something.”

  “Har har har. Meet me at my place in twenty minutes. ‘Kay?”

  “Yeah, whatever. What are we doing?”

  “Rainbow Pizza, baby.”

  “’Kay. See ya.” I hang up the phone. “I’m going to get ready.”

  Grams clears her throat. “Before you do, let me ask you something. Are you going to church on Sunday?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Of course not. May I ask why you don’t want to?”

  I shrug.

  Grams nods and I walk down the hall to my room.

  What to wear, what to wear. It’s not a hard question to answer because there are only two possible choices in my closet at the moment—the brown straight skirt with cream blouse or the black dress. I go with the brown and cream. Then I can wear my brown flats.

  I pull my dark hair into a ponytail, fluff a little blush on my cheeks and a little liner to highlight my brown eyes and out the door I go.

  “Don’t be out too late,” Grams hollers.

  “I won’t. Have fun at bunko.”

  ***

  “Dude, hold up. I need to say something before we walk in here.” Rainy pauses before we reach the door to Rainbow Pizza. She’s standing in a puddle from the recent rain. She looks left, then right, all serious like. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

  “Oh my gawd, are you serious? You stopped to ask me that? It happens to be a very classy skirt and blouse. Unlike the childish crap you’re wearing.” She’s still wearing the pink and green schoolgirl skirt she had on this morning, except now she’s wearing matching leg warmers too.

  “Paleeeez. My stuff ain’t childish, it’s original.” She looks at her Converse. “Well, my shoes aren’t. But the rest is. How many plaid hot pink skirts do you see these days?”

  “Exactly. So, what’s your deal? I’m not like you.”

  “I see. You’re like Mrs. Fancy Pants in the convertible, right?”

  “It’s not Mrs. Fancy Pants. It’s Ms. Lightheart and whatever. Can we just go eat? I’m starving.” I open the front door. The heat of the restaurant blasts us as we step in.

  He looks like his picture, but different. His hair, a darker shade of blond, his face a paler shade of cream, but his clear blue eyes are the same. They sparkle, a welcoming light that must come from within because the dim room shines no light.

  His gaze finds us in the entry. He stands and waves. He and Rainy’s date saves a booth in the back, next to the arcade.

  “Looks like you have the cute guy this time.” Rainy searches the ground, pretending she’s not talking. “So not fair.”

  “Yeah, he is cute in real life too, huh?” I smile when I speak so that my lips don’t move. “What’s your guy’s name again?”

  “Caleb. He looked a ton cuter in his picture.” We approach the boys. “Hi. I’m Rainy and this is Autumn.”

  Caleb stands to shake Rainy’s hand. “Hi. It’s so good to finally meet you.” The skin on his chubby face turns pink. I can only imagine how clammy his hand feels. He looks similar to Evan, but redder, blonder and chubbier.

  “Hey. I’m Evan.” He gives me a hug. Whoa there cowboy. He doesn’t notice my hesitation. “Would you like a soda or something? We’ve already ordered a pizza.”

  “Thanks, dude. I’ll have a Coke,” Rainy says.

  “Okay. How about you, Autumn? Would you like something?”

  “Uh, yeah. But I can totally pay for myself.”

  Rainy rolls her eyes.

  “Oh, it’s no problem. Please, allow me,” Evan says.

  “Yes, allow him.” Rainy mimics Evan’s tone, but with sarcasm.

  I sigh. “I’ll have a root beer. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I follow Evan to the counter. “What kind of pizza did you get?”

  “Pepperoni?” It sounds like a question. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s my favorite. I’m glad you didn’t get veggie.” Vegetables initiate the gag reflex. Grams hates when I barf vegetables every time she cooks them.

  The server steps to the counter. “What can I get you?”r />
  “We’d like three Cokes and a root beer, please,” Evan says.

  He turns to me. “So, have you ever been here before?”

  “Yeah. My grandparents used to bring me here all the time when I was younger. I haven’t been here in a while though.” I pause. “How ‘bout you?”

  “This is my official first time.”

  “Okay? Was there an unofficial first time?”

  “Sorta. Last week, remember?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Uh, nope. What do you mean?”

  “Last Friday, when we were supposed to meet here.” His eyes shift to the table and then back to me. “You were in a fender-bender on the way here and didn’t have a cell phone?” He pauses. “Why do you look confused?”

  I’m going to kill her. “Oh, yeah…yeah. That’s right. Psssh. How could I have forgotten that? It’s been a long week, I guess.”

  We carry the sodas to the table. Rainy and Caleb stare at everything but each other.

  “Don’t you two look cozy.” I kick Rainy in the shin as I sit down.

  “Ow! What’s that for?” She bends to rub her leg.

  “Sorry. Accident. I need to use the bathroom, wanna come with me?”

  “Do I have to?” she asks.

  I glare. “You bet.”

  She rolls her eyes and climbs out of the booth, as slow as a slug in the sun.

  “What did you do?” I open the restroom door. We enter into a wall of Lysol and urine air.

  Rainy waves her hand in front of her face. “Do you have to pee or what? Hurry up.”

  “Don’t you think I should know if I was in a fender-bender?”

  “Okay.” Rainy nods as if understanding just smacked her. “Get this, we were so gonna go out with these guys last week, but I forgot. No biggie. I didn’t want them to feel bad or nothing, so I made up the fender-bender deal.” She shrugs. “Sorry for not telling you. Do you forgive me?” She looks at me in the mirror with please-don’t-kill-me eyes.

  “Ugh. You’re like an annoying little sister. Not that I would know, but if I had one, I bet she’d be just like you.”