As we get up to leave, I lean in so that my lips are at her neck. “Breathe, Princess” is all I say, but the goose bumps on her arms confirm that she feels what I say, that she can feel my intent. I won’t stop until we are together, and I will make sure she knows it—mind, body, and soul. As I look over her shoulder, I see the blond guy stepping out of the classroom. I can’t help but notice the anger pouring off him in waves as he passes us. Good, I suppress the urge to beat my chest like a caveman. Boys will be boys …
Although the knowledge that Dannie received a gift from someone on her front porch the morning after she was out with me bothers me. Seriously? I’m pissed by the thought of someone giving her a gift when I so ignorantly failed to give her one myself.
If I find out it was her douche bag ex-boyfriend, I’ll be livid. He can’t treat her like crap in front of a crowd of people and then play nice when no one’s around. What kind of man does that?
A jerk.
I feel the weight of disappointment in myself for being thoughtless, hoping I didn’t hurt her feelings too badly by not giving her a Christmas gift. I’ll have to try to make up for that error somehow.
I walk to my class, feeling excited over the rush I get by being around Dannie and equally disappointed that I seriously dropped the ball on this one. We had such a great time together with my family; it’s a shame that it is now shadowed by this question of gift exchange.
Reed, it’s official; you suck at dating!
I shake my head while stepping into my next class, trying to think of a way to make this up to Dannie. How was I supposed to know to get a Christmas gift? Although now that I think about the situation, it seems obvious that I should have done something.
Sitting in Shakespeare was torture. Watching Dannie, my blue-eyed girl, wearing my bracelet while flirting with another guy made me feel betrayed in the worst way. After years of my undivided attention, my constant protection, she throws it in my face with the new kid.
What’s worse, the kid happens to notice the attention I obviously give Dannie. His not-so-subtle glare makes it clear how he feels about me. I am unwelcome competition in his eyes. Little does the kid know, I held claim to Dannie long before he was in the picture, and I’m not about to walk away just because she is confused about her options.
First Jett, now this kid … Unbelievable.
Violent scenes and scenarios run through my head at the idea of punishing Dannie. Or better yet, the kid. I try to control my anger by reminding myself that Dannie and I are linked by something more powerful than flirtation. Something real.
Our masks … our secrets … they bind us …
I continue to think over the situation as I watched her sleep from outside her window late that night. I look at the moonlight touching her face as if in a dream. Enchanted. I decide in that moment that I wont bother with the kid. Revenge is futile. Other men will notice Dannie, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it will affect our relationship. It doesn’t make me insecure; it just makes me more possessive. Any man would feel the same.
I don’t know how much time passes as I watch my blue-eyed girl sleep, but I feel the crescendo of my desire as I remind myself of how it feels to watch her with that kid. Like a guardian angel, I will sit waiting … wanting what is just beyond my reach. It makes me want her that much more because there is resistance. As she sleeps, I consider all possible outcomes of the current situation. Do I scare the kid away from her? Or do I simply pursue her more aggressively?
She will be a great victory—my hardest challenge—and I refuse to fail.
The next few days fly by with my head in a bit of a fog. Melody mentions at lunch that Reed had not so subtly asked her about my electives during calculus. She figured he would sign up for Shakespeare, but she wasn’t certain. I felt happy with the realization that he did join Shakespeare for me. With that and the memory of our stare-down on Monday, it's turned into a really nice week.
Of course there was still my mystery bracelet and the letter filled with Shakespearian sonnets left in my locker.
When I pull up to my dad’s house after school, I notice smoke rising from the backyard. Curiously I make my way toward the back and hear my sister and Dad talking.
“Howdy!” my dad smiles, looking up from the barbecue, wearing a “Kiss the cook” apron. He’s dancing in front of the grill. He has always been a goofball so I just laugh in response as Mary walks out of the house with a pitcher of lemonade.
“Ready for a barbecue?” she asks with a smile.
We sit and begin eating dinner together. So this is what a family is like? I bask in the glow of a perfect day, thankful for the sudden turn my life has taken but afraid it’s too good to be true.
I hear the chime of my phone as I get a text. Looking down, I see Reed’s name.
I miss you
My face breaks out in a smile. My life is officially perfect. I close my eyes as doubt suddenly grips my heart. I don’t want to go back to the way things were. I don’t think I can. But I also don’t want to let fear keep me from the things I want. Like Reed. I won’t let them take anything more away from me than they already have. Lord knows they have taken enough.
I miss you too
I hold my breath, hoping that it means to him everything that it means to me.
:) When can I see you next?
Tomorrow at school … lol
haha very funny. I mean outside of school. When can I see you next? This weekend?
I think for a minute before I reply. If next weekend is anything like this weekend was, a reprieve would be nice.
Sure but i’ll be at my mom’s so u’ll have to pick me up there. Or we could meet??
Maybe we should meet somewhere. I don’t want him to meet those people. I don’t want him to think less of me.
i can pick u up. time?
Anytime. But I have to warn you my mom and stepdad aren’t all that welcoming. I’m not sure you will want to meet them.
It’s a long time before he replies. Now I’m beginning to worry.
That’s ok.
I’m relieved that he replied, although it’s a short reply. I hope he isn’t mad, but I really don’t want to burden him with my family issues right now. A small part of me wonders what he would say if he knew everything? Would he think less of me? Probably. I try hard to ignore that small part of me because if I do tell him everything, I can’t take it back and I’m afraid he will want nothing to do with me after.
The week ends in a pile of homework assignments and project start-ups. Shakespeare is by far my favorite class—surprise, surprise—especially now that Reed and I write back and forth on our class notes. Our assignments are starting to look like a running dialogue. I smile as I pack my book bag with schoolwork. I am excited to see Reed tomorrow but apprehensive at the prospect of what is waiting for me at my mother’s.
Before I know it, I am walking into the house feeling every bit of dread that has been growing in my stomach. Silence meets me again. As I enter the kitchen, I see my mom on her laptop at the kitchen table. She and Avery have talked a few times this week, but the conversations have all ended in tears and yelling. She still hasn’t spoken to me, so I am surprised when she looks up at me now.
Brightly smiling, she says, “I am working on a letter to you girls. I have been to my therapist, and she says that I need to express to you both how I have been feeling. Since I can’t seem to talk to you both without getting overly emotional, I am writing it down.”
Oh joy. I just stand there awkwardly, not really knowing what to say to that.
She cheerfully continues, “You can start on dinner. The letter is almost done.” And with that, she turns her head back to the laptop, and I am excused. My mother has been seeing a therapist for as long as I can remember—not that it has helped any. She hasn’t seemed to improve on any of her numerous issues. Since she started seeing a therapist, she suddenly think she’s Dr. Laura and has authority to give out advice, as if she knows what the hell
she is talking about. She should consider her own words of wisdom, if you ask me, because therapy can only work if the person taking it admits that he or she even has a problem. My mother only seems to be able to blame others for her lot in life.
My anger burns as I begin to make dinner for this farce of a family. I can’t help but compare the fact that if I were at Dad’s, Mary would be cooking. She even had me do my homework at the table so that we could talk and I could ask her questions if I needed to. It was really thoughtful of her, and as I look over at my bitter mother as she types away on her laptop, I can’t help but feel like this letter will bring me untold pain. It’s like a foreboding rain cloud—maybe more like an earthquake. Either way, it will bring nothing good for sure.
I went to bed with dread spreading, knowing that whatever is in that letter will be the worst of my mother’s punishments. No amount of physical or psychological torment, no threat, could compare to what I know is coming. Cold adrenaline causes me to shiver uncontrollably and makes me lie awake for hours.
Call it a premonition, call it years of living with a manipulative mother, but I know that I am afraid of the unleashing of my mother’s mind. I know she has always resented me; I hear it in her snide remarks and feel it in the belt she hits me with, but to read it will be another torture altogether.
I sigh. It feels like a Beatles moment.
Turning on my music, I listen distractedly when I hear the chime of my cell phone under my pillow. I take it out and read the nightly message from Reed. I try to smile. I fail miserably, but I try to keep in mind that no matter what my mother says in that letter, I am not alone. Not anymore. I try to hold on to the comfort of my friends, my Dad, and even Mary, as I fall into a restless sleep.
Shhh, stay quiet.“We are going to play a little game. It’s called sex. Wanna play?”
I stare, not knowing what to say because I have never heard of it. I want to go back inside. I don’t like that look. I start to shake because I know I can’t say no. No one listens to my no's. Because I’m little, they say. Because I don’t know what I am saying, they say. But when I hear that tone of voice, I’m afraid.
I wake up crying at this one, feeling lucky I at least wasn’t raped. Just pretend, just pretend, they said. But I’m shaking, knowing that my memories leave me feeling dirty.
“God, make me clean. God, make me clean. God, make me clean,” I chant until I fall back asleep.
I wake up to the click of my door being shut quietly. Was Mark in here again? It’s been a while since he has watched me sleep, or at least I hope it has been. I look around the room for any clue, only to find an envelope with my name on it sitting beside a letter with Avery’s name written on it. This can’t be good. My heart starts pounding in my chest, sending ice through my veins. Might as well get this over with. As I open the letter I notice pages of front-to-back single-spaced typing. She must have a lot on her mind. I try to make light of what is in front of me, but I don’t really feel the humor in it.
As I read further into the letter, I feel tears falling. I don’t bother to wipe them away. What’s the point? The letter goes on to say that she doesn’t ever want me to come back home, that she thinks we are gold-digging bitches who are looking to have a good time with Daddy’s money. It talks about how ungrateful we are and what horrible children we have been to her and Mark. It blames us for their marital problems and even has a taunt to my dad saying, “Now it’s your turn, Good luck!” as if we are rebellious teenagers.
Me a troubled teen? I have never been late for curfew, never skipped a class, never even been to a high school party. I am the least rebellious teen I know, probably because I am terrified of the retribution I would receive from Mark if I were caught. None of that matters though. She has made it very clear that she wants nothing to do with either of her oldest daughters, the daughters, who in her mind, have betrayed her. She feels justified in all that she writes because her therapist has told her that this is okay. Does her therapist know the venom of her words? What mother speaks to her children like this? Even when adults are mad, shouldn’t they exercise some self-control?
My heart feels like it has been turned inside out. I feel numb. I feel broken. This is the one step beyond pain, where you feel like your soul has left your body, leaving you an empty shell of a human. I may know in my mind that I am not alone, that there are people who love me, but in my heart, I feel utterly abandoned. Reason has no place in heartbreak. Heartbreak is a death you experience within yourself, but cruelly you still feel your heart beating in your chest because you are in fact alive. A taunt of fate.
I suddenly get up and start moving. I have to keep moving. I start to pack a bag, knowing that I will never be coming back. I try to pack the things that are important to me and will fit in a single back pack. Everything else will have to stay.
I send a text quickly to Reed asking him if he wouldn’t mind picking me up now. I give him the address and run to the bathroom to wash my face at least and brush my teeth. I know when I look in the mirror it’s no use. My eyes are puffy and red, and my hair looks like I went through the wars, but I can’t bring myself to even care. I hear the chime of my cell, and I rush to my room to see Reed’s response.
On my way!
Can you pick me up now? ASAP? It’s an emergency.
That is the text I wake up to. I jump out of bed, fear slicing through my body. Is she hurt? What happened? Is it Jett? I’m out the door in less than five minutes, shooting her a text while I start my truck. I peel out of my driveway.
On my way!
Whatever happened, there is nothing that will stop me from getting to her. I just hope I’m not too late.
She runs out of the house before I even park the car. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, but her eyes are red from crying, so I know that isn’t the case.
She doesn’t look injured; there doesn’t seem to be anyone parked at the house besides me. If Jett’s not here, who hurt her? I’m confused. “What’s wrong?”
“Go!” she shouts as she opens the door and hops in.
I look over her shoulder, and a woman who could only be described as a hot mess is walking down the steps of the house glaring as she heads straight toward us.
I look back at Dannie. “Are you s—”
“Go!”
As Dannie looks back toward the woman, tears start streaming down her face and my heart breaks a little for her. What happened? I drive quickly away, but not before I notice a man, her stepfather, walking out of the house toward his wife. This man looks calculatingly at the situation; there is something about him that doesn’t sit right with me.
“Thank you. I-I c-couldn’t stay,” Dannie quietly mutters as her shoulders shake with her attempts to control herself.
“What was that about, Dannie?”
“I have a lot to explain to you, Reed, a lot you don’t know about me, and you’re not going to like it. If you don’t want to know, then we will never speak of it again, but if we are going to continue being friends, it’s only fair that you know some of it. So then you can decide for yourself if you want to walk away.”
What. The. Hell.
What does she mean by that? I am suddenly afraid of the answer. All that I do know is that she is in pain, heartbroken, fearful, and it’s killing me to watch. We ride in silence as I drive to our field. I’m not giving up on her no matter what she says. This is not going to change that, but I am terrified of what she might tell me.
Regardless, she needs to know that this changes nothing between us.
I park the truck before turning to her hesitantly “Look at me, Dannie … Look at me, Dannie, please. What happened? Did someone hurt you?” I’m holding my breath because I already know what the answer is by the look on her face. The only question is, to what extent?
She doesn’t even respond before she moans in agony, while the tears she has been struggling to hold in break loose. My heart breaks completely as I wrap my arms around her. I don’t know what else to do
but let her fall apart and hold the pieces together. A greater part of me wants blood for this. Whoever is responsible, whoever is to blame, I want to destroy that person. I want to protect her, keep her close, but I also want revenge. I am shaken with the knowledge of that, but now is not the time, so I keep holding her, rubbing her back, kissing her hair, and wait.
I pull back when she finally settles down. I want to ask, but I can’t speak past the lump in my throat and the anger in my veins. I don’t trust myself to speak. Luckily, I don’t wait long before she answers all of my questions in full.
“My mother is without a doubt the most selfish, irresponsible adult you have ever met. But I love her; she’s my mom. That doesn’t mean that I don’t see her faults. She’s a bitter woman. After my father left, she quickly married another man, Mark. He is … an asshole. Sorry, but there is no other way to describe him.” She looks sorry and embarrassed, but she continues, “We were really poor. My mom has always had a difficult time holding down a job. She isn’t what you would call a very motivated person, but she found a solution when she met Mark. So she married him. It wasn’t long after they got married that he started changing. Short version—he isn’t a good man; I’ll just keep it at that for now.” She looks around the meadow, gathering her thoughts before she continues.
I know I shouldn’t push her to talk about it if she isn’t ready, and she clearly doesn’t want to bad-mouth either of them, even if that is what they deserve, but I recognize all that she doesn’t say. She has been hurt deeply. I keep my anger in check and listen because that is what she needs. I’m afraid if I speak, the spell will be broken and she will clam up again.
“Anyway, around Christmas, my sister and I decided to spend more time with our dad. My sister didn’t want to go back at all, but I felt bad and chose to go to my mom’s on weekends only and stay with my dad during the week. It was more fair, but my mom was really hurt that my sister didn’t want to come back at all. I thought it would be too much too soon, ya know? I hated hurting her that way. I guess it doesn’t really matter now. … My mom and stepfather have pretty much ignored me every weekend since I moved. Then I woke up this morning with this at the end of my bed … Well, I guess it’s pretty self-explanatory.”
The Face You See Page 12
