by Linda Kage
So I opened my eyes and stared directly across the room at Ryder’s face. In his sleep, he faced me, looking peaceful and perfect, his light brown hair settling into a fetching, scattered mess across his head with his dark eyebrows peeking through and his eyelashes resting against the tops of his cheeks. He slept with his mouth open but not gaping, just enough to show off a bit of his upper teeth and let air in. The blankets I’d piled on him only hours ago hid the rest of him under a bulk of blue covers.
I wanted to remain on his couch, inhale his scent from the pillow under my head, and continue staring at him for the rest of my life. But we’d both get into major trouble if I lingered much longer.
Slinking as quietly as possible, I crawled out from under the throw blanket, folded it, and set it as neatly as possible on top of the borrowed pillow. After I changed back into my clothes in his bathroom, I copped a sweatshirt out of his laundry hamper and pulled it over my head, seriously doubting he’d get mad at me for borrowing it.
After tiptoeing back into Ryder’s bedroom, I crept to his window and glanced at him one last time. He looked so serene and relaxed; I hoped he rested for a while longer. He needed the recuperation.
It was still cold out, and the walk home took about twice as long as it had taken the night before.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I returned to Barry’s. Maybe a police car out front and my mother tearfully describing the last thing I’d been wearing. But nothing looked out of the ordinary.
Everything inside me had changed, and yet nothing here looked different. I peeked into the garage window and spotted Mom’s car parked beside his. Glad she was home, I had nearly walked in the front door, ready to get a tongue-lashing when it struck me.
What if they didn’t even know I was gone? My mom hadn’t gotten off work until two a.m. and Barry thought I’d probably locked myself in my room all night.
Changing my course, I scurried around the side of my house to where my window still hung open a crack. I wedged my frozen fingers into the fissure and pushed up with all my might. It wasn’t as easy to crawl inside as it had been to crawl out last night. For a moment, I didn’t think I was going to be able to hike myself up onto the ledge. But the more I worked, the more I panicked, and the stronger my adrenal glands pumped. The boost to my system heaved me up and finally I was in, tumbling inside with an audible thump.
I remained frozen on the floor of my bedroom, hoping I hadn’t broken anything—namely myself—and praying no one had heard the commotion.
When a knock sounded on my door, I jumped so hard pain spiked up my spine.
“Grace?” my mom called from the hallway. Her voice made me want to cry, made me want to dash to the door, throw it open and leap into her arms so I could weep out all my troubles. Until she added, “You can play the silent treatment all you like, but I will not let you starve yourself. Stop ignoring my knock and come out for breakfast. Right now.”
Wondering how many times she’d knocked, I scrambled to my feet, kicking off my shoes as I went. I was reaching for the doorknob when I remembered I was still wearing Ryder’s sweatshirt.
“I’ll be right there,” I called, ripping the cold shirt over my head and tossing it toward my bed. Then I glanced down to find I was wearing exactly what I’d had on last night when my mom had left for work. Hurrying, I changed into sweatpants and my own warm sweatshirt. Then I closed my window and exited the room, only to let out a squawk of surprise to find Mom standing in the hallway, resting her back against the wall opposite my door with her arms folded over her chest.
Pressing my hand to my chest, I rushed out the words, “What’re you doing?”
She pushed away from the wall. “I’m making sure you don’t starve yourself,” she muttered. Reaching out, she grasped my arm and manually walked me to the kitchen. I stumbled after her, glad I’d changed—not only because I now looked like I’d just crawled out of bed but because she surely would’ve been able to feel the outdoor cold on my other clothes if I’d kept them on.
When we entered the brightly lit kitchen, the morning sun streaming through a wall full of breakfast-nook windows, I spotted Barry already seated at the head of the table, reading a newspaper. I stumbled to a jarring halt—jerking Mom off balance. He didn’t even acknowledge my entrance but paused his reading to lift a forkful of biscuits and gravy to his mouth.
I wondered what I should do. Point and scream, “Pervert”? How could I confess to my mother what this harmless-looking man had done last night? And make her believe it?
“Sit,” Mom instructed, letting go of me so she could follow her own order, slipping into the chair directly to the pervert’s right. I usually sat to his left, across from her. But I didn’t even want to get that close to him today.
Mom paused and glanced up at me when I didn’t move, and that’s all the prompting I needed. I eased into the chair opposite her.
“Morning,” Barry murmured in my direction. The mere sound of his voice made me lose my appetite, not that I was hungry to begin with.
Mom reached for her own biscuit off the serving tray and split it open, looking more awake than she should after working half the night. As she buttered her biscuit, Barry turned the page on his paper as if absolutely nothing was wrong.
I chickened out. With everything so normal like this, with my mother home and Barry ignoring me, it was easy to convince myself everything really was normal.
Mom asked Barry to pass her the grape jelly, and he did so only to pause his reading to lovingly pat her hand and smile at her. Mom blushed and grinned back as if they were sharing some kind of secret passion from the night before.
I thought I might throw up.
Clearing her throat when she glanced my way, Mom must’ve seen something on my face that made me look as if I felt left out, because she suddenly included me into the moment.
“So what did you two do last night?” she asked.
I just stared at her, feeling empty and scared, unable to confess, I spent the night, running and hiding from your sick husband.
“We rented another movie,” Barry spoke up, answering for me.
I glanced over at him, and we finally looked at each for the first time since I’d entered the kitchen. His expression was completely void of all the emotion that had been in his eyes twelve hours ago.
“That’s nice,” Mom said. “What movie did you watch?”
Barry held my stare for another moment and then he looked at his wife and named off the very movie he’d asked me to watch with him.
He started talking about our father-daughter night together, casually spilling out all these lies until I couldn’t handle it anymore.
I stumbled to my feet, needing to escape.
Startled, Barry stopped yapping and both adults gaped at me.
“Grace!” Mom gasped.
“I’m going to go to my room.”
“But you haven’t eaten anything.”
“I—I already ate.” Covering my mouth with one hand, I staggered away, ready to flee.
“Grace, stop!” Mom’s voice was so commanding I halted in my tracks. Slowly, I turned to face her, careful to keep my eyes on her alone and nowhere near the man sitting beside her.
“What in the world is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I said, but I’m almost positive my face was an ill shade of gray and my eyes looked sunken and hollow. “I’m fine.”
My mother’s sigh filled the room. “I know the two of us have been going through a hard time lately. But this is getting out of hand. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
My chin quivered. I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t know what to say, yet even if I did, I wouldn’t—couldn’t—have said it in front of him.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said again, though my adamant statement was so weak, I didn’t buy it myself.
“Grace Elizabeth Indigo,” Mom snapped. “Will you just talk to me already?”
Hoping and praying she’d stand up, take my h
and and add, let’s go to your room, just the two of us, I continued to stand there, waiting.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Barry reach out and touch her arm, restraining her. “She’ll talk when she’s ready, sweetheart.”
I gnashed my teeth. Lying hypocrite, I wanted to scream. Turning away, I was fully prepared to flee. But the phone on the wall next to me rang. I have no idea why that made me stop, but I quit moving and stared stupidly at the jangling machine as my mom got up from the table.
My breathing picked up as I feared it would be someone from her work, asking her to come in today…and once more leaving me alone with him.
But after she said, “Hello,” she frowned and asked, “Who’s calling please?” as she turned to narrow her eyes in my direction. “Just a moment.” Holding the phone out to me, she arched a brow. “Ryder Yates?”
Without answering her unspoken demand of who Ryder Yates was, I took the phone from her with shaking fingers and pressed the receiver to my ear.
I stood there a moment without speaking. Then I put my back to the table and quietly said, “Hello?”
On the other end of the line, someone gave a loud, relieved sigh. “Hi.” Ryder’s voice echoed into my ear, making my nerves wrench with excitement and anxiety. “I guess you made it home okay.”
I nodded. “Yeah.” I wanted to tell him I’d taken his sweatshirt and would give it back as soon as I saw him again, but saying that in front of my mother would probably elicit too many questions, and I had a feeling I’d already be answering enough as soon as I hung up.
“I looked up Dr. Struder’s number in the phone book. I hope it’s okay I called. You scared me to death when I woke up and you were gone. I had to know you were okay. So…are you okay?”
“It’s fine,” I said, hoping that would answer his question without stirring up more from my listeners. “Everything’s fine.”
He paused before asking, “Can you talk right now?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay, I get it. I’ll go. I know you’re still alive, you made it home okay, and your mom is there, so that’s good enough for now. But I, uh, I also wanted to thank you for—” he cleared his throat “—taking care of me last night. I’m sorry I, you know, cried all over you.”
My shoulders fell as my face filled with sympathy. “I’m glad too,” I said, praying he understood I meant I was glad I’d been the one to be there for him.
“Gotcha. All right then. If you need anything else, let me know. I will help you.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“’Bye,” he whispered back.
I hung up, staring at the phone, wishing I could’ve talked more, told him more, told him everything. When I turned, my mind still on him, I ended up facing the table instead of away from it and found myself staring at my mother and her husband. Both had avidly been listening to my side of the conversation.
“Who’s Ryder Yates?” Mom asked.
I cleared my throat, then shook my head. “He…he goes to Southeast.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Does Todd know Ryder is calling you?”
I lifted my chin. “No.”
“I thought you were going steady with Todd.”
With a snort, I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, Mom. No one uses the phrase going steady anymore.”
Wrinkling her forehead into a frown that caused her brows to pinch together, she snapped, “Don’t get snarky with me. Just answer the question. Which one is your boyfriend? Todd or Ryder?”
My lips moved, but no words came out. Instantly, I tried to answer with the truth. Neither. But as Barry’s stare burrowed into me, I breathed out the name, “Ryder,” hoping Ryder would forgive me for spilling that whopper.
“Are you still a virgin?” Mom rushed out the question, lumping the words together as if it had taken all her nerve to ask them.
My mouth fell open. “What?”
She shrugged. “You told me I should just ask the next time I wondered.”
It took me a couple tries to close my mouth again. And once I did, I barely re-opened it to hiss, “Yes, I’m still a virgin.”
Shoulders visibly relaxing, Mom nodded. “Okay. So then, what's going on with you? I know it’s something besides the trouble between us. I blame myself for letting us get so far out of touch with each other. I should’ve made you talk a week ago. But, Grace...” She sighed and rubbed at her suddenly tired looking face. “I’m your mother, and I still love you. If something is wrong, I want you to tell me about it. No matter what.”
My face crumpled. Why did she have to reach out toward me and try to open up while he was sitting right there? The injustice of it made me mad, and frustrated, and heartbroken. I wanted to scream, stamp my feet, cry.
Dropping her hand, she gazed at me from weary eyes. “You know what, if you don’t want to talk, fine. Just go. Get out of my sight.”
I stared a moment longer, hoping I hadn’t lost my one chance to tell her everything. Feeling Barry’s stare, I whirled away and hurried to my room like the coward I was.
I didn’t leave again until he knocked on my door.
“Grace,” he called softly. “Your mom says you need to come out for lunch.”
Glancing at the clock, I blinked, surprised so much time had already passed.
“I don’t think she’s going to let you get out of eating this time,” he coaxed.
Grinding my teeth, I pushed off the bed, straightened my clothing and stiffening my back. I waited a moment, hoping he’d moved on after delivering the message Mom had obviously sent him to give.
But when I opened up, there he stood.
It took everything inside me not the slam the door in his face.
“Grace,” he said softly.
The muscles in my fingers cramped from clutching the side of the door so hard.
“I just want to apologize for last night.” He moved in closer, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, leaving only a tiny space for me to slide past him to get into the hall.
I remained stiffly in the doorway, watching him from distrusting eyes.
Waving his hand, he sighed. “I’d had a little too much to drink and I was…” He sighed again. “I said a lot of stuff that I didn’t…I never meant to scare you.”
Eyes narrowing, I studied him as I tried to dissect the meaning of his words. Maybe he hadn’t meant to scare me, but had he still meant what he’d said?
I kind of thought so. Ergo, I didn’t relax, didn’t take my leery gaze off him, didn’t even breathe. Holding my balled hand protectively over my chest, I nodded once, letting him think whatever he wanted from that response.
His face melted in sympathy. “Where did you go last night?” he asked quietly, glancing back, probably to make sure Mom wasn’t around.
I just shook my head and said, “Nowhere.”
Barry scowled. “Grace, I have a key to your room. When I went inside, you were gone.”
Black spots blurred my vision and ice filled my veins.
A key? He had a key? To my room?
My chin began to tremble.
Barry lifted a hand to touch me but I jerked back before he could make contact. His eyes flared with anger. “Don’t be scared of me, damn it!” he hissed. But as soon as the comment left his mouth, he settled, seeming to realize he’d only frightened me more. Then his shoulders relaxed and his eyes turned sympathetic again. “Where did you go, honey? I was worried.”
Jerk. Pervert. Sicko. Creep.
As my insides raged and ranted, I lifting my chin. “I was here,” I said, my teeth clenching together hard, “in the living room, watching a movie with you. Don’t you remember?”
Barry looked like he was going to lose his temper again. But he didn’t press anymore. Pushing from the doorframe, he showed me his back and stormed down the hall away from me.
Chapter 22
“Ms. Holderread?”
Monday morning, I bypassed my locker and headed
straight for English class. I don’t know what possessed me, but the uncontrollable urge to talk to this specific instructor had me knocking on her door and poking my head into her room before the first bell rang.
She sat by herself at her desk, pen in hand as she graded papers. Lifting her face, she relaxed her features when she saw me.
“Grace.” She sounded genuinely happy to receive my company, so I stepped into her classroom. “What brings you by?”
I hesitated then started toward her desk, worrying a tattered notebook between my hands. “I’m sorry, but I can’t turn in my color assignment.”
She blinked. “Uh…” Stuttering a moment, she finally said, “But it’s not due for another few weeks. You still have plenty of time to finish it.”
I stared at the floor and rasped, “I can’t.”
Slowly, she stood and came around the desk to perch herself on the corner, directly in front of me. Her voice soft, she asked, “Why not?”
I blubbered. There’s no other word for it. “Because I…I don’t know what color I am.” I lifted the notebook I had been choking. “Every morning, I tried writing down each color I felt like, but it was always different. Never the same. I just…I don’t know who I am.”
Carefully, Ms. Holderread slipped the notebook from my cold, shaking hands. She skimmed through the first page without a word. The silence caused my tension to spike off the chart.
After a moment, the teacher glanced at me; her expression was impossible to read. Then without a word, she picked up a red pen off her desk and jotted down a single letter.
When she handed the notebook back, I gaped at the A, confused.
“But—”
“Grace.” She set her hand on my shoulder in a comforting embrace. “This right here shows me you’re one of the most self-aware young women I think I’ve ever met.”
After a blink—okay, two blinks—I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
Self-aware?
But I felt so confused. So lost.
“You’re a teenage girl, sweetheart. Growing and changing every day. As you’re trying to find out who you are and what you want to be, you have to experiment and try different things, alter clothes, friends, personalities.” She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone so young can truly be one color just yet. And you’re my only student who’s realized that.”
