by Debra Doxer
I look down, raking my hands through my hair. When my gut starts to churn, I shift away from her and start heading back down the hallway.
“Hey!” she yells. “Wait a minute.” She catches up with me. “Where are you going?”
I stop long enough to answer her. “I acted like an ass just now. I’m sorry.” Then I keep moving fast enough for her to know not to follow me, and I don’t stop again until I’m home.
MY FATHER told me I wasn’t dead when we met. But I’m not alive either. I’m something in between. My heart beats and my blood flows, but my essence is gone and my thoughts are singular, focused on one goal—redemption.
Listlessly, I move through my days. Apollo has organized my new life, and I let him steer me through it, doing things by rote, like going to class and doing schoolwork. Those things are familiar and they settle my errant thoughts. But really, I’m waiting. My father is the key to my redemption, and I’m waiting to see him again. In the meantime, when the memories of what I’ve lost start to eat at me, I run. Well, actually, I drive—fast.
I’m going close to a hundred miles per hour when I exit the 405 onto Sunset. The tires squeal their reluctance as the back of the Porsche 911 Carrera slews to the left while I careen through a curve, rushing to nowhere along the winding road that hugs the back of the UCLA campus. The dead of night is the only time I allow myself to push this outrageously expensive vehicle, the cost of which could have paid our rent back in San Diego for the rest of our lives.
But tonight, I’m not taking it back to the condo on Wilshire I’m supposed to be sharing with my brother, Shane. The fact that I have yet another older brother would be comical if he wasn’t such a pain in the ass. He couldn’t be more opposite of Kyle. He has no manners, no tact, no feelings, and no morals. He’s a train wreck, and I’m supposed to be sharing a two-bedroom condo with him and the harem that trails after him like a slutty exclamation point.
I lean into the turn that will take me to my home away from home, an apartment just off campus belonging to my one of my only friends here, someone unexpected from my past. Nikki and I were never close when we knew each other in San Diego. She was in and out of the system just like I was. We’d crossed paths, and we knew of each other, but one morning at the bus stop when she asked if I “had anything on me,” I started keeping clear of her.
Little did I know that Nikki was smart and ambitious, and she’d always planned on going to college here, too. We stood stock-still that first day in the study lounge at Ackerman Union, shocked to see each other. Now Nikki and her boyfriend, Jason, are my only friends in Los Angeles, and I’m probably taking advantage of that fact.
Staying at Nikki’s apartment is another way for me to run. It’s the place where all her friends congregate. It’s noisy and cluttered and there’s always someone home; unlike the condo, which is often quiet and empty. It’s nearly impossible for me to think at Nikki’s place with the constant activity to distract me. It’s a perfect place to hide.
When Nikki wordlessly handed me a key to her apartment last week, I realized how much I impose on her and Jason. I tried to refuse it, but she shoved it into my pocket and said the subject was closed. When I offered to pay them rent, her response was a silent scowl. She doesn’t pry. She knows I have secrets; she has plenty of her own. She never talks about it, but I remember the bruises that marred her pale skin far too often. As for me, she knows my mother is dead, and that I only just met my father. She knows my father is wealthy, that he gives me cars and clothes and a fancy apartment, even though I want none of them. But she never asks questions, and that’s one of the main reasons we’ve become friends. We don’t push each other. We just are.
Using my key, I quietly let myself inside. Nikki and Jason’s place is a typical cramped one-bedroom student apartment with a galley kitchen and a living room containing a worn-out couch and a widescreen TV. The building itself smells of stale beer and mold. Music and voices drift through the thin walls. In the darkness, I make my way to the couch. Not bothering to change out of my clothes, I lie down and pull an afghan over myself.
It’s nearly three in the morning when I finally close my eyes and let the painful thoughts I block out during the day rush over me. I dream about Lucas every night. I’d rather not think of him at all. It would be easier that way. But I can’t control my dreams. He stars in them. Sometimes they’re wonderful. We’re together at the bridge. He’s bare-chested, draped over me like a warm blanket, making me tremble with need. Sometimes they’re nothing but raw pain as he accuses me of willfully leaving him, of never really loving him, and the anguish in his eyes rips me in two.
Since I can’t stop him from haunting my dreams, I indulge my thoughts of him during this quiet time before sleep overcomes me, and I let the sweet pain wash over me.
“HEY, MAN, are some of those for me?”
“Get your own fucking doughnuts.”
“Come on. It’s not like she’s gonna eat them.”
Their voices startle me awake. I pull in a harsh breath and reluctantly drag my eyes open, squinting against the dim light filtering in through the shaded windows. It takes a moment to remember where I am, to put faces to the voices, and a location to the moldy odor. It’s the smell that finally connects it for me. I’m on the couch in Nikki and Jason’s apartment. My heart sinks as I push my face into the cushions, not ready to start another day.
A hand lands on my shoulder, gently shaking me. Reluctantly I turn to see Apollo’s looming form. He’s holding a grease-stained box. “Morning, kid. Rise and shine. You need to eat and get yourself to biology class.”
I shake my head at what he’s become. Apollo was once a tough, coldhearted street thug, and now he’s been reduced to playing mother hen to me. When he crouches down in front of me and holds out the box, I ask the same question I always do. “How is he?”
“He’s fine,” Apollo says patiently. That’s what he always says. Apollo knows more about Lucas, but I never ask for more. It’s his job to keep track of everyone who knows about me and what I can do. It’s his job to keep track of me, too. Turns out, it always has been. But as long as I know Lucas is fine, I can make it through another day. He’s at Columbia by now. I hope he’s moving on. I hope never hearing from me again made him angry enough to want to move on. Even though the thought of that crushes me, I want him to be happy. He has to be. I couldn’t stand it otherwise.
“I got your favorite, chocolate,” Apollo says, gesturing to the box.
I grimace at the greasy cardboard. Since he saved my life that day, he’s decided he needs to keep doing it every day. “Thanks. Just leave them on the counter.”
He scowls. Then he opens the box, pulls out a doughnut, and holds it out in front of my face. “Take one fucking bite for me.”
The sweet odor makes my stomach roll, but I know he won’t give up. I narrow my eyes at him before biting into the doughnut. I chew it slowly, forcing it past the tightness in my throat that never seems to ease.
“See?” Jason smiles, stepping into the room. “There’s more than enough to share.”
Jason is on the football team, and his beefy chest and arms are testing the limits of his Bruins T-shirt. On weekends, he often consumes the entire contents of the refrigerator.
Apollo stands and points at him. “I don’t like you.”
Jason laughs, unbothered. “But I love you, doughnut man.”
“Stop baiting him,” Nikki snaps, coming around the corner already dressed for school. Jason dwarfs her narrow petite frame. Nikki says she remembers Apollo from “back in the day,” and she hasn’t shaken the fear he used to inspire.
But for me, he’ll never be threatening that way again. Something happened between us out on the highway when he spent hours breathing life into me, never tiring, never speaking, just staying silently strong for me. I feel tied to him now. I don’t mean in a romantic way, and not in a brotherly or friend sort of way either. In the way two people who have gone through a traumatic experience
together feel, inexplicably linked.
“I’m not baiting him,” Jason says.
Apollo takes the doughnut box into the kitchen and drops it onto the counter. “Your friend here is wasting away to nothing. But don’t let that fact keep you from eating her breakfast. You’re a real considerate guy. You caught a good one, Nikki.”
Jason’s eyes widen. “I was kidding. Come on. No one here can take a joke.”
Nikki pats Jason’s arm reassuringly and positions herself in front of me as I reluctantly stand up.
“I haven’t wanted to say anything, but he’s right,” Nikki says, catching my eye to reinforce her point. “How long is this going to go on, Raielle? I hate to tell you, but you’re looking kind of rough.”
I bend down to neatly fold the afghan. “Nothing is going on. I’m fine.”
Nikki sighs and shrugs at Apollo, silently saying, Oh well, I tried. “I’ve gotta run. I’m about to be late again. Play nice,” she tells Jason as he practically bends himself in half to reach her lips and kiss her good-bye.
“I’m going, too.” I reach down to grab my bag off the floor.
“I’ll take you by the apartment to clean up, and then I’ll drive you to school,” Apollo offers, heading for the door after Nikki disappears through it.
I shake my head. “I’ll take my car.”
He turns and points a long bony finger at me. “No, you won’t. You left it in a no-parking zone with the keys still in it. I had it moved back to the condo.”
My hand goes to my hip. “Since I don’t actually have a license, the fact that I keep bringing it back in one piece should impress you.”
Apollo glances at Jason before stalking over to me, taking my arm, and escorting me out into the empty hallway. “You do have a driver’s license.”
I stubbornly stop moving. “A fake one I didn’t earn. I also have a high school diploma, even though I never graduated.”
Apollo faces me now and leans in close, invading my personal space. “You need to get this chip off your shoulder. It’s getting fucking old.”
I try to turn away from him, but his hand tightens on my arm. “Goddamn it, Raielle. You didn’t die. Stop acting like you did.”
My eyes widen at his bluntness. He’s never been so direct with me, and I give him directness right back. “But someone else did die. Another person’s life ended because of me.”
His eyes darken and he shakes his head. “You have to find a way to make peace with that. You were barely conscious, for Christ’s sake. No one asked your permission. I don’t understand why you keep beating yourself up about it.”
“Make peace with it? Are you kidding me?” I yell. “There is no peace. There will never be any peace!” My body flushes with heat, and I feel my face burn.
He drops my arm and takes a step back. “Shit, Raielle…”
I stand there stiffly. “Let’s just go. Please.”
“Fine,” he says. His eyes are downcast, unable to meet mine. I wonder, not for the first time, if he knew what it was going to take to save my life, to heal my withered body so completely. He claims he never lied to me, but I think he did lie about that.
The car ride back to the condo is awkward and silent. When we arrive, Apollo decides to wait outside. The valet and doorman both nod as I walk by on my way into the lobby. I’m still not used to the opulence of this place, feeling uncomfortable every time I have to make my way in and out of the building. I’m just a college student, and Shane does nothing at all as far as I can tell.
Yet, inexplicably and unnecessarily, my father has us living in one of the high-rises along the Wilshire Corridor. There’s a twenty-four-hour concierge, a pool, and a gym here. This place costs millions, and Shane alternates between treating it like a brothel and a clubhouse for his juvenile friends. He’s the same age as Kyle, but in terms of maturity, they are worlds apart.
I use my key card to call the elevator. Then I ride up to the twenty-second floor. After stepping out into our private entryway, I unlock the door to our apartment. Once inside, my eyes immediately go to the wall of windows across the living room. The view from up here is impressive, even if there does seem to be a permanent haze floating above the city. Sometimes I feel like I need sunglasses when I walk in here. The muted light makes the polished hardwood floors gleam. The walls are painted white and are bare of any pictures or photographs. The furniture is off-white. The open kitchen is white, its starkness broken up by black counters. The overall feel is glaringly bright, not even close to cozy or welcoming in any way.
“The head case is back.” Shane startles me as he shuffles out of his bedroom wearing only a pair of threadbare sweatpants.
I flip him off in response as he runs a hand through his thick black hair, causing the top to stick straight up. Despite his dark mop of hair, his skin, the skin that isn’t covered in ink, is shockingly pale, making me wonder if he dyes his hair that jet-black color. He’d be vain enough to do it. Not surprisingly, a barely dressed girl trails out of the bedroom behind him, wearing only a tiny tank top and a thong. Shane is pulling cereal boxes down from the kitchen cabinets, tasting their contents, and then discarding them one by one as the girl comes up beside him and runs her fingers over his abs.
Shane is tall but scrawny compared to most of the posers here in LA, and Shane is definitely a poser. I watch as his pale, narrow chest is caressed by this girl who saw me when she entered the room, but obviously doesn’t care that I’m witnessing her display.
I wrinkle my nose as I turn away from them and head toward my room.
“You’ve got an appointment tonight, little sister. Seven o’clock. Don’t forget,” Shane calls out to me, knowing how much I hate it when he calls me little sister.
Ignoring him, I walk past the table that houses his collection of cell phones and tablets. I have no idea why he needs so many. I’m pretty sure he switches out parts and then does something illegal with them. As quickly as I can, I disappear inside my bedroom.
My room is cavernous, also decorated in beiges and whites, with a separate sitting area and a black and white marble bathroom that could comfortably house a family of four. I’ve slept in this bedroom a few times when Shane wasn’t home. From what I can tell, Shane has lived here for almost a year now. I’m not sure why our father insists that I stay here with him. At first I thought it was so Shane could babysit me, but he’s on a downward spiral just as much as I am. The only difference is, he’s so good at being a screw-up, no one notices how truly fucked up he is. And because he’s such a bastard, no one really cares.
I strip off my clothes and drop them in a pile as I walk into the bathroom. Purposely avoiding the mirror, I run the shower, waiting for the mist to thicken before stepping inside and wincing as the scalding water pours down over me.
When I finally left my father’s house, inside this shower was where I put the remaining jagged pieces of myself back together. After standing under the spray until the water ran cold, I realized that I couldn’t wash it all away, and I understood that wishing things were different was a waste of time. But once upon a time, this was my dream. Now that I’m finally here in Los Angeles, attending UCLA, I understand that the goal I’ve worked toward all my life didn’t require any work at all. My father and his vast wealth and connections could have gotten me anything I wanted. I could be at Harvard, if I’d only shown an interest.
Tears roll down my cheeks, mixing with the water flowing over me. This is the only place I let myself cry anymore. Everyone got tired of me and all the tears I shed when I first woke up. I got tired of me, too, and I knew I had to do something to drag myself out of the hole I was trying to disappear into. I can’t change what happened or the reason why I’m here. But I can try to give it some meaning.
Making it right is what keeps me going now. It’s all I have left. I’ve lost Lucas. He wouldn’t want me like this anyway, because I’ve lost myself, too. The girl he knew is gone, and I hardly recognize the one who’s standing here now. My old ambitio
ns are meaningless. My own wants are unimportant. I’m unimportant. My spirit is broken. Everyone always told me how strong I was, but they were wrong. I’d never truly been tested. Now that I have, I know what a failure I am.
Sinking down onto the tile floor, I let the tears flow freely, wondering what he’s doing right now, trying to remember the sound and feel of him. My eyes squeeze shut at the memories, understanding that my happiest times were with him, and knowing I’ll never get them back again.
THERE’S A sharp bang on the door. “Come on!” Shane yells. “You know it’s time to go. Stop hiding in there like a pussy.”
I yank the door open and glare at him. “I’m not hiding, I’m studying. As in doing schoolwork. As in having a purpose beyond eating, fucking, and sleeping. I know that doesn’t compute with you.”
His mouth twitches. “Damn right it doesn’t. Fucking comes first.”
I roll my eyes. “Last and always. Yeah, I’ve heard your motto.” Turning my back on him, I search for my shoes. “Just go without me. I can drive myself.”
He steps into my bedroom, his boots clomping heavily on the hardwood floor. He’s in his usual “out to be seen” getup, a black T-shirt and threadbare blue jeans, with leather straps on his wrists, silver rings circling his fingers, and a stud in his eyebrow. His hair is a shiny mess, sticking up all around his head, but in a way I know he worked hard to achieve. His tattoos, spiraling dark designs that don’t seem to have any particular shape or identifiable figure, snake around his arms and peek out just above his collar. He spends far too much time decorating and admiring himself.
“I’m driving you. Those are my orders,” he states, glancing at my duffel bag on the bed. “You going to unpack one of these days?”
Pulling on my boots, I ignore his question. “I’m driving. You can ride with me if you want.”
He barks out a laugh. “No fucking way. You drive like a kamikaze pilot.”
