Pants On Fire Press
Winter Garden
Pants On Fire Press, Winter Garden 34787
Text copyright © 2015 by Tatiana G. Roces
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher, Pants On Fire Press. For information contact Pants On Fire Press.
All names, places, incidents, and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Edited by Casandra Kellogg
Book design by David M. F. Powers
Cover Design by Pamela Sinclair - It Girl Designs
Art copyright © 2015 by Pants On Fire Press
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content).
First edition 2015
eISBN 9781625179418
1
I blink a few times, trying to focus, and lift my head to get my bearings. As my vision sharpens, I realize that I have no idea where I am. My heart is beating rapidly as I whip my head from side to side, studying my surroundings. I am in a kitchen. Its walls are a cheery yellow, reminiscent of warm and homey grandmother’s kitchen. It’s at that moment I realize I’m curled up on the linoleum floor without any clothes on. Not one stitch, except for my long black hair draped across my chest.
As I stare at my naked body, I see dirt smeared all over my arms and legs, my nails are filthy, and there are cuts and scratches everywhere. Thoughts start running through my mind like frenetic flashing images, none of them making any sense. Have I been drugged and kidnapped? I push myself up, crouching like a wounded animal, my eyes darting, searching for an escape. I notice the doors and windows seem to be unlocked. Then, footsteps echo upstairs and I decide to make a run for it, the adrenaline shooting through me like an out of control freight train. I spot a large doggie door, and deftly crawl over, maneuvering my small frame through the opening till I land on the other side. I pull myself up and wince in pain, feeling wooden splinters pierce my abdomen and thighs. It appears to be dawn, and the sun is just peeking through the forest, bright slivers of light shining between the trees. I take off sprinting, ignoring the searing pain, and hope that I’ll recognize the terrain and find my way home.
The forest is hushed and once I run far enough into the canopy of trees, a shadow cloaks over me. As I run, my bare feet take a beating – scraped by the jagged rocks and twigs on the floor. I try to forget the pain and continue running until I reach an abrupt edge. I peek through the tangle of bushes and realize that it’s Crescent Drive, a road that curves sharply uphill, only ten minutes walking distance to my house. By making a run for it, I can easily cut the time in half. I stay off road and use the shrubbery as camouflage, trying to keep out of sight. The sun is blinking through the horizon, making it brighter with every second that passes, so I pick-up the pace. After about five minutes of sprinting, my house peeps through the trees, the bright white shutters like beacons guiding me home. Instead of darting across the road, I pause, making sure that the coast is clear before making a run for it. Once I’m on the other side, a sense of relief washes over me, but it’s short lived, the sound of Mom singing through the kitchen window sending me into another panic. I swear under my breath and quietly make my way to the living room window, which is usually open this time of year. I peek in and with Mom nowhere in sight, I pull myself into the room. I crawl across the floor and then tiptoe up the temperamental wooden stairs, trying to bypass the cranky spots, holding my breath with each step. When I reach the top, I scurry into my bedroom, the faint click of the closing door lock sealing me into its secure confines.
I examine myself in front of the antique bathroom mirror, and gasp at the sight of my reflection. My face and body are grimy, tiny little nicks and scratches sprinkled all over my skin. My raven black hair is knotted with leaves, twigs, and burrs, forming a complex nest around my head. Suddenly, I feel a throbbing pain at my hip, the swelling seems to pulsate, and I wince while massaging the area with my hands. I turn the shower on full blast and almost scream out when the steaming water touches my wounds. I ignore the excruciating pain and scrub myself raw, trying to remove all the filth. When I’m done, the bathtub looks almost black, as if a muddy dog had just been bathed. I dry myself and grab some tweezers out of the cabinet. I painstakingly remove the splinters one by one and apply antiseptic ointment on the wounds. I cover what I can with flesh colored bandages, using up the entire box in the process. When I look at my face in the mirror, I’m relieved when I see it’s not as awful as I thought. I dab some concealer on the more obvious scrapes, then pick out some loose-fitting jeans, a t-shirt, and a long sleeved hoodie from my closet to cover the rest. The alarm clock on my dresser starts to buzz, and I flinch, startled by the mechanical screech. I brush the hair off my face and turn it off before heading downstairs for breakfast. At the door I pause, and silently hope that Mom won’t notice anything.
When I get to the kitchen, she’s standing in front of our old stove, stirring the scrambled eggs with a wooden spoon. She’s wearing her favorite black yoga outfit and her long auburn hair is braided down her back. Her smile immediately changes to a frown when she sees me. “Hazel! What happened?”
I freeze and stammer for something to say. “What do you mean what happened?”
Mom shakes her head, the crease between her brows furrowing. “You look like you haven’t gotten any sleep. I hope you didn’t stay up all night again.”
I sigh under my breath and sit by the kitchen table. “No biggie, Mom. I didn’t sleep very well, that’s all.”
She scrapes the eggs onto a serving plate, placing them next to a basket of toast before feeling my forehead with her hand. “I hope you’re not coming down with something,” she says with a worried look on her face.
I grab a piece of toast and pile some eggs onto my plate. “No, I feel okay. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
She nods, but I don’t think she’s totally convinced. It’s enough for me, though, and I start eating my food to end the interrogation.
After breakfast, armed with a backpack full of books, and a battered skateboard full of stickers, I leave as Mom calls out from the kitchen, “Bye, sweetie! Have a nice day at school!”
“I’ll try, love you,” I respond as I close the door behind me.
Outside, I zip up my hoodie, the slightly cool morning breeze caressing my limbs as I set my skateboard down and glide away without looking back. While riding through town towards Safe Harbor High, a million thoughts race through my mind. What could have possibly happened to me last night? I try to jog my memory but all I can remember is studying in my room, blacking out, and waking up in the strange kitchen naked. For a moment, I consider going back home and confessing everything. But I decide against it, knowing that she’ll probably drag me to the police station to file a report. In a small New England town like Safe Harbor, news travels like the speed of light and the last thing I need is for the entire town to be whispering behind my back, making me feel more freakish than I already do.
Truth is, I’ve always been offbeat, never quite catching on to the rhythm of the crowd. I know that sounds cliché, but fitting in was never something that clicked with me. My inky blue-black hair, pale practically translucent skin, odd colored eyes, and disproportionately petite frame make people take notice. But somehow, it never feels like the kind of attention that’s flattering. Ever since I was a child, other kids always poked fun at my one blue and one amber colored eye. Now, I guess some think that it’s kind of cool, but most still look at me strangely when they notice.
My best friend, Andy, is waiting for me at our usual meeting spot by the old oak tree. An
dy and I have been friends as far back as I can remember. His parents immigrated to the US from Cuba when he was six years old. They were among the first Hispanic residents of Safe Harbor. His dad got work with the local fishermen even though he didn’t speak a word of English, while his mom made extra cash doing odd jobs and cleaning houses. She would come to our place a few days a week to help Mom with her chaotic art studio: cleaning brushes, organizing canvases, sweeping up, and during her spare time, she tended the overgrown, wild garden that surrounded our house. Andy would always tag along, and while she cleaned, we would keep each other company, playing make-believe games about pirates and superheroes, games that we could play despite the language barrier.
As I approach, I notice his skull-covered skateboard is leaning next to him and his gray hoodie is over his head while he leans back with his eyes closed. When he hears the wheels of my board hit the concrete, he opens his warm brown eyes and smiles. “Buenos dias, señorita! How are we feeling this fine morning?”
“A bit out of it actually,” I reply vaguely.
He stretches his back and pushes against the tree trunk till he towers next to me. He’s tall, with long lean muscles, a caramel complexion, angular features, and an overgrown mop of dark brown hair just reaching his shoulders. With looks like his, he should be a popular kid, but his soft-spoken, shy demeanor towards anyone besides his family and me, has always kept him from fitting in with that crowd. Andy furrows his brow, scrutinizing me from head to toe. “You having issues of the feminine kind? You do look kind of different today. Can’t quite put my finger on it…”
“It’s nothing really, just feeling kind of blah,” I say, as I push off towards school. I watch Andy shrug out of the corner of my eye and as he follows behind me quietly, swinging his skateboard around his hips, I know he’s put my ragged appearance out of his mind.
Safe Harbor High is like most small town high schools in America. Inside, the blue tiles are shiny and squeaky clean, the walls are a pale puke yellow, and the classrooms have plenty of doodled on desks and bright white boards. The relatively new cookie cutter building is a stark contrast to the old New England architecture in town. We walk down the hallways till we reach our slightly mangled lockers and shove our skateboards inside. Hordes of students are busy rushing to their first classes of the morning, most of them already late. Cheerleaders, jocks, nerds, goths, you name it and our school has them. I guess almost everyone fits comfortably into a clique, but kids like Andy and me usually just survive on our own without the protection of a big group of friends. Neither of us sucks at sports, with some effort we could probably join some team or another. But my obsession with drawing and Andy’s passion for photography surpass any of our desires to belong.
The warning bell rings, piercing my eardrums till it hurts. “Got to go, otherwise Mr. Schmidt is going to give me hell again,” I say.
Andy chuckles. “Don’t worry. He has it out for everyone… Anyways, see you at noon for some square pizza?”
I nod, thinking about the cardboard, tomato-sauced masterpiece I’ll indulge in later.
We hurriedly part ways and I fast walk to math class. I enter the classroom as inconspicuously as possible and sneak to my seat at the back. As expected, Mr. Schmidt calls me out in his stern “I’m an underpaid, unappreciated teacher” voice, “Late again, Ms. Smith? One more tardy and I will have to report you.”
I sink into my seat and try to hide behind my hair, leaning my head forward and pretending to reach for papers in my backpack. “Sorry, Mr. Schmidt.”
As class starts and Mr. Schmidt begins writing on the whiteboard and calling on students to answer questions, I can’t help my mind from wandering. Images of myself from this morning flash in my mind, making my head throb. Even though the classroom is cool, beads of sweat start to gather on my forehead. Then the bell rings, and I realize the entire period has gone by the span of what felt like five minutes.
I gather my books and drift out of the classroom in a haze, floating past the chaos in the hallways as if I’m some ghostly apparition that nobody sees. The rest of the morning goes by just like that until it’s finally lunchtime. I head to the cafeteria and find Andy waiting at our table with our pizzas, juice boxes, and waxy red apples.
“I saved us the best pieces – extra charred, just how you like it,” he kids.
I slide into the seat and force a smile. “Thanks, you are so truly thoughtful.”
We chew on our pizzas, as the cafeteria commotion buzzes around us.
“So, what really is the matter?” Andy blurts out.
It’s quite annoying how he can sense whenever something is wrong. “Nothing serious, I swear.”
“Come on, it’s me you’re talking to.” Andy looks legitimately concerned, and I feel bad keeping things from him. I shield my eyes from his gaze, trying to deflect further interrogation. “Okay, I’ll just come out with it then… Are you a lesbian? Because if that’s what this is, you know I would totally be okay with it, right?” Andy says half-jokingly.
“Really? Is that all you can think about?” I ask, relieved that he’s broken the tension.
Andy looks like he’s giving it some actual thought now. “Well, it’s not like you’ve ever dated anyone or even admitted to liking any guys. I know I’m not a girlfriend or anything, but you should feel free to confide in me. I won’t judge.”
He smirks while taking a sip from his juice box and I think it comes across much creepier than he anticipated so he starts laughing and nearly snorts on the juice. I just shake my head at him while he recovers clumsily.
I take a bite of my now soggy pizza. “Andy, believe me, you would be the first to know, okay? It’s really nothing, I swear.”
Andy seems relieved. “Okay, I understand. Anyway, if you feel like taking your mind off things this weekend, we can always check out the new sci-fi flick. I know a giant tub of popcorn always makes you feel better.”
“Okay, it’s a date, as long as I can drown the popcorn with extra butter,” I reply with a smile.
Andy makes a face. “That’s nasty. I’ll get my own popcorn, thank you very much.”
The bell rings, and everyone goes back to their respective classes, passing and ducking every which way like some riotous flash mob. I snatch my apple off the tray before joining them. “Meet you by the tree after school,” I say, looking back at Andy’s goofy smile as I walk away.
After school, we head over to Andy’s house for our cookies and milk tradition, something we’ve been doing since we were kids. When we arrive, his mom is in the kitchen arranging the cookies onto rainbow colored plates. Her long curly dark hair is loose and unruly, and her sun-kissed skin is sprinkled with freckles. The addition of red pouty lips and a floral apron make her look like a modern day gypsy.
I can smell the delicious aroma of cinnamon and vanilla as I plop down on a chair and bite into a still warm cookie. “Hmmm… This really hits the spot. You really do make the best cookies, Claudia. You should go into business. Seriously.” Andy’s mom has always preferred that I call her by her first name; it makes her feel youthful, despite having a son in high school that towers over her.
As Claudia washes the dishes her red lacquered nails chink on the ceramic plates. “But then I wouldn’t have time to make cookies for you two,” she says while watching us devour the whole plate. When Andy reaches for the cookies cooling on the counter, she swats him with a kitchen towel. “Andres, leave some for the rest of us!”
Claudia is the only one who still calls Andy, “Andres,” even his dad stopped several years ago.
“Okay, Mom,” he says, rolling his eyes without really meaning it.
I chug down my cold glass of milk, feeling too anxious to hang out. “Sorry, but I have to go. Mom asked me to help her with some things around the house… Thanks for the cookies, Claudia, delicious as always.”
Claudia takes a plastic container out of the cupboard and carefully places several cookies inside. “I know your mom forgets to eat somet
imes. She gets so caught up in her paintings,” she says, as she gives me a hug.
“Later, Andy,” I say, waving before exiting through the back door. Andy waves back with a mouth full of cookies, crumbs escaping from the corner of his lip.
Once outside, I stick the cookies into my backpack. The late afternoon sun is mellow, so I decide to go to my favorite place for some sketching before heading home. I pass through town, then climb uphill till I reach the cliff, where a cozy forest overlooks the bay. I pick-up my board and walk down my usual trail, the pine needles and gravely stones crunching under my sneakers. After only ten minutes at a brisk pace, I arrive. For a few years now, it’s where I go to have some solace while reading a book, sketching, or just listening to music while watching the birds catch fish. The clearing is small, but offers an idyllic view of the bay and surrounding town from high up on the cliff. The old weathered tree, with a smooth trunk and a mossy base, welcomes me as I lower myself and sit. I take out my sketchbook and my favorite pencil, and begin drawing. The sun is just starting to set, the orange glow reflecting amber on the water as the fishermen are cleaning their boats at the dock. Birds glide and swoop around them, hoping for some leftover fish.
As I sketch, my mind drifts. Though I try not to think about this morning and what may have happened to me the night before. I can’t help but wonder if I should try to backtrack and find the house with the yellow kitchen. Maybe seeing the place and the people who live there again might make me recall part of what happened. A face suddenly appears in my mind, almost as if someone imprints a picture in front of me. I quickly turn the page of my sketchbook and start drawing. I visualize him with a broad smile, dark wavy hair peppered with gray, and friendly green eyes. The face is not in focus, but somehow my mind remembers it. When I finish, I stare at it wondering – where have I seen this man before? Does he have anything to do with what happened to me? It crosses my mind that he might be my kidnapper, but something about him seems so kind and familiar.
The Familiar Page 1
