Pandora Wild Child

by Sunniva Dee

  By Sunday, I muster the courage to call my parents. I texted them yesterday with a lie about how I’d forgotten to charge the phone. I’m taking on the challenge today, though. At least I’m not sick anymore.

  “Mom.”

  “Dora!”

  Fuck, I hate that nickname.

  “So what’s up?”

  “No, young lady. You tell me ‘what’s up,’” she says, stretching the me out. “I’m all ears.”

  My mom is not all ears. She’s all mouth. I start on a long, monotone story about every twist and turn on our way cross country in Mica’s and Shannon’s cars. When I’m at the first hot dog stop, my mom can’t keep her yapper shut any longer.

  “How’s your back, honey?”

  “Totally fine.”

  Lie. It’s killing me.

  “Are you taking your ADHD meds?”

  “I don’t have ADHD anymore, so nope, I’m not. My strand was Childhood ADHD, Mom. I am done.”

  “Dora, listen to me. People can still—”

  “Mom, stop!”

  There’s shocked silence on the other side while she Pricelines a one-way flight in her head. Then, strangely, she opts to overlook my slipup.

  “Have you found a good physiotherapist in town yet?”

  “We arrived thirty-six hours ago, Mom.” I rub my face tiredly. With my parents, I tend to take the path of least resistance. Experience shows that I prevail on lies, not confrontations—which is due to my father being who he is.

  “Well, young lady—”

  “Mother, enough of the ‘young lady,’ okay?”

  Mica’s eyebrows disappear under her bangs in surprise at the same time Mom lets out a frustrated puff into the phone. “Dora, remember that, college or not, you do have Scheuermann’s disease.”

  “Barely.”

  “Pandora Cancemi, chronic diseases need to be kept under control—you know that! Massage, exercise…”

  “Yes, yes, I exercise.”

  “Hot and cold wraps on your back? Did you unpack your heating pad?”

  Oh, please, kill me.

  “Yes, Mother. The heating pad is by the bed and the painkillers close by just in case.”

  “And no overdoing the pills—”

  “I don’t! Please—enough already.” I’m so sick of this conversation. “After all these years, I think I know what to do. When was I diagnosed again?” My question was rhetorical, but Mom doesn’t catch the nuance. Mica plops down on my bed, snickering. Crossing her legs, she leans in so the phone wedges in between our heads.

  “Hmm,” my mother begins, and I groan inwardly. “Well, we met with Doctor Green when you were eleven. I remember our first visit vividly.”

  So do I, Mom—so do I.

  “Blah-blah-blah… unnatural curvature of the spine.”

  Mica whispers, “Scheuermann can be a very serious illness if not kept from progressing.” And I snort out a laugh. She’s a natural at copying my mother.

  “Dora? Are you there? Who are you talking to?”

  “Um, Mica. She wants to go out and play.” My comment is snarky. For once Mom acknowledges the humor.

  “Um, well, call me later, okay?” She’s definitely smiling on the other end. “And go find a nice playground.”

  “Yeah! Smother’s a good one,” Mica says.

  Afterward, I’m so relieved. I can’t believe my mother didn’t rip into me for the drunk call two nights ago. I feel a ton lighter. Suddenly, my spirit’s back, and I want to make the best of the weekend.

  Mica notices. As soon as I hang up, she squeals “Sightseeing!” pulls me off the mattress, and hops onto my back. Terrible choice, considering the elephant in the room—the infamous Scheuermann.

  “She acts like my disease is lethal or something. Every time, it’s like I’m this close to the grave,” I say.

  “Bah, she just doesn’t want you to turn all humpback on her. Oh, oh! And be in paralyzing pain for the rest of your life.”

  I groan, annoyed that she’s right. “Doesn’t change how frustrating she is.”

  Mica is disturbingly lightweight, so despite Scheuermann, I lug the waif into the kitchen before dropping her to the ground. We find Destiny and Shannon ducked over a laptop screen full of curtains at the breakfast bar. Thankfully, they’d rather not deal with our opinions on the matter. These two are the future interior designers of America.

  “All right—enough textiles. Ready for fresh air? Deepsilver calls!” Mica squeals.

  “Love the name of this town,” Shannon replies without turning. “It’s so balanced.”

  Who knows what she means? “Uh-huh, I chose Deepsilver for the name,” I joke.

  Destiny’s eyes snap to me, going even darker with the intensity. “No, I picked the University of Deepsilver for its national rankings in academic excellence and their generous scholarship program.”

  Or that.

  “Sorry, yes—how could I forget? We would’ve been partying down in New York if you hadn’t vetoed my first choice. Thanks, friend.” I make exaggerated air quotes.

  Destiny chuckles, placated.

  Our apartment occupies the second floor of a three-story building on Noble Street, above what Shannon calls “The Gown Store.” This part of town holds elegant shopping mixed with the small-town version of Upper West Side. It’s everything my parents intended; since the gated community at home couldn’t go with the girl, at least they managed to replicate the snotty, rich neighbors down the entire street. No rickety-raggedy students in sight. Grand.

  Dad flew to Deepsilver three times in search of the very best Deepsilver has to offer. Not that I asked for details, but he was happy to rub in how he checked out sixty-four apartments. My dear father doesn’t do things last minute, which is why he became the proud owner of our little lair six months before we moved here.

  Outside, the air is crisp and sunny, and I inhale a cleansing breath. I realize I haven’t been past our front door since Dominic dropped me off yesterday morning.

  Shannon links her arm with mine as we walk ahead of the others. We window-shop, but mostly she’s niggling me for details from Friday night.

  “So… Dominic. What’s he like?”

  I groan. “He’s nice.”

  “And hot,” she adds unnecessarily.

  “True, yep, and I’m not seeing him again.” The wind twirls my hair over my face. I brush away a chunk so I can meet her gaze.

  “Yeah? Didn’t he measure up to Jacob in the sack?” She grins, knowing full well I’ll be shocked at her straightforwardness.

  My cheeks tingle like they’ve been burned, but I can play this game. I won’t let her intimidate me like she’s done countless times before.

  “Poor Jacob,” I say, biting my lip. I’m not trying to hide the blush. Sometimes, if you don’t call attention to it, people don’t notice.

  “No, really? Is Dominic a total god in bed?”

  I just nod, because my heart accelerates when I think of him. Jesus. I better get a grip. What if I end up on a drunken rampage on the lookout for my newest addiction?

  I’m in Deepsilver to study, and I’m not starting off by getting involved with someone. I’m done with boyfriends… and the like.

  “What did he do to you? Details, girl,” she demands, but I shake my head. That’s a game I can’t play, even if I’m acting all badass.

  “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Oh, bull. Guys say that. You’re a girl, and I’m your BFF.” Her logic is ridiculous, and I flash her a smile.

  “Anyways. I didn’t give him my number, so he won’t be calling. Which is good.”

  Her expression is one for the books. Clearly, she’s not in agreement. “Mmm—no. Girl, I’m at a loss, here. Mr. Hotter-Than-Thou sex god, who also happens to be, quote, unquote, nice, doesn’t have your number and you’re happy. That sum it up?”

  “Right, because I’m going to be responsible, study, do well, and keep my parents out of my life. The only way to accomplish this is to n
ever go all hot mess ever again.”

  Mica and Destiny have caught up with us, and Mica digs her knees into the back of mine, causing me to stumble forward. “Hey, Pan? I didn’t move here for you to take up knitting.”

  I roll my eyes. Destiny’s beaming at me, of course; she likes what I said. How are my friends so different?

  I’m about to reply when a loud roar resonates through the quaint Sunday. In seconds, a group of motorcycles closes in, the noise vibrating in my chest. Their tires grip the asphalt, thundering toward us while arrogantly occupying both lanes.

  From Jacob’s obsession in high school, I recognize the Italian brand Ducati. Bright and shiny, the yellow and red bikes are spearheaded by a big black motorcycle. The riders don different colored leathers. Some have jeans tucked into their boots, while their front man wears black, in a prolongation of his pitch-black bike. His posture, the way he’s bent slightly forward like a panther on the prowl, makes me decide that he’s sexy.

  “Yay!” Mica yells, mirroring my adrenaline boost. She starts bouncing on the balls of her feet, and even Shannon wheezes out a “Whoa.”

  Uh-huh, we’re fan-girling over a biker gang. Classy. My phone buzzes on cue. Dad, of course. I talked with Mom less than two hours ago. What is their deal?

  I shut it off and look up in time to catch Sexy Biker Dude swiveling his head in our direction on his way past us. The darkened visor obscures his eyes.

  I’ve got my thumbs hooked in my front pockets. As an experiment, I wiggle my fingers at him to check if I’m the one he’s studying. Two seconds pass. Then, he uses two of his gaunt-clad fingers to wave back at me from the handlebar, and I can’t help smiling. He finally swings forward, speeds up, and the whole group disappears so fast it’s like a dream.

  “Oooh my!” Shannon exclaims, a broad smile spreading over her face. “Sooo. Two days in Deepsilver, and Pandora’s caught the eye of one sex god and one biker dude. Not bad, not bad.”

  “We’re back in the game!” Mica yells and squeezes Destiny. “Go out tonight?”

  “Mica, it’s Sunday.”

  “So? We have a haunt to keep happy. What will Christian The Bartender think if we’re no-shows? We weren’t even there last night! Haunts aren’t haunts unless you go there. Duh.”

  I’m a sucker. I’ll do anything for Mica. To be fair, I don’t feel so bad about Friday anymore either. We’ll go out early and leave early, to be on the safe side. If Dominic appears, he’ll probably show late like Friday, right? Plus, what are the odds he’d come on a Sunday?

  “Afraid of running into Dominic?” Shannon verbalizes my only worry.

  “No—it’s simple. If he comes, I leave.”

  She does her slow headshake again, the one that means she’s given up on me.

  “Not everything is about guys,” I explain, sounding fake as hell because I am hormones on wheels at the moment, and I need something to take my mind off sex. The opposite sex.

  When does school start?

  Oh, right.

  Tomorrow.

  Smother is exactly as quiet as we hoped, and Mica and I invade the empty dance floor. I mix all sorts of moves. No reason not to crump while rocking some serious Flamenco-arms, I figure.

  Even Destiny has two drinks tonight instead of fostering a single beverage. I don’t believe in nurturing drinks. They’re supposed to be abused and downed.

  Shannon ducks heads with Christian, the cute bartender. There are lots of smiles and shoulder-nudging. He even scoots over a drink I can’t see her pay for. She’s tasting it and nodding. I’m proud of her.

  At some point, a dark figure appears at the entryway to the small room. Clad in black, his arrogant posture, the way he seems to look down his nose at us, makes me think of the biker earlier in the day. Dark, longish hair spikes around high cheekbones and a pale complexion. I can’t see his eyes because they’re veiled by the dim lighting. He remains still, checking out the clientele, I’m guessing.

  I hook my thumbs in my belt loops. I keep dancing, but I lift two fingers and wiggle them in his direction. He doesn’t react. Instead, he pushes off the doorframe and crosses the floor to the bar.

  He greets Shannon with a brief nod, then talks to Christian, who immediately stares at me. I flush. I definitely flush, because I automatically assume he’s asked Christian about me. Did Shannon catch what he said?

  Gah, I’m a narcissist!

  Still, I’m curious when Christian leans over to shout into his ear. The bartender knows my name. For some reason, I hope he doesn’t go into detail on my Friday night antics. Ha, as if I have a reputation to uphold with a guy no one has introduced me to.

  His all-black clothing and the similar posture was what fooled me. He isn’t the Ducati guy; a student dive like this can’t be of interest to bikers.

  Now, he moves in behind the bar, and Christian points. He zooms in, grabs a jacket, a helmet… and a pair of gloves. With a quick handshake, he steps back out and walks toward me. Just as he passes, I see his eyes. They are so light blue they’re almost milky when they lock on me. Slowly, he lifts a gloved hand and wiggles two fingers. Then, he leaves.

  “The Ducati boss,” Mica hisses into my ear. “That’s so crazy!”

  And all I can do is agree.

  I don’t have a plan for my life. I’ll come up with something soon, though. My dad—doctor emeritus zoology professor of the universe, Mister Ambitious with a merit list that makes his colleagues all but bow to him at the university back home—he’s the one who’s got plans: I am to become a physician.

  The thing about me is that I’m an only child, and I arrived late. Mom was forty-five when I was born. As soon as I came, she quit her job as a dental hygienist so she could dedicate herself to the offspring.

  I’m the miracle. The Miracle. Note the capital letters. Yep, I better figure out what to become and pronto.

  Freshman year should be easy, though. Except the chemistry classes. For now, I’ll do pre-med to keep my parents quiet, and hopefully something jumps at me soon.

  Due to my constant companion, Scheuermann, I know my spinal column well. At the moment, it’s the lower section of the thoracic spine that’s making me miserable. These chairs.

  I’ve managed through the entire first week of classes without taking any pain meds. I should have started working out already, but I—

  —don’t have an excuse.

  I’m hurting. I’m in class with Destiny, and we’re in the first row because that’s how she rolls. I forgot my pencil case at the apartment, but Destiny’s got a pen at the ready.

  The philosophy professor drones on and on, adding to my agony. A liquid fire laps at the tender discs between my vertebrae. I should leave, find a massage place. Get exercise. I need to keep the pain from exploding into a full-on torture fest. Ten minutes to go. I think of how my dad’s pretty awesome in class; I’ve sat in before.

  “Leon,” I say, flicking a glance at my friend. “It’s what Shannon said the biker dude’s name is, right? It suits him.”

  She doesn’t take her eyes off the whiteboard when she leans into me. “Yeah. And how wild is it that he owns Smother?”

  That part hadn’t registered with me. “Really? Who told you that? Shannon?”

  Destiny nods. “Yep. She pumped Christian for info. He loves his boss, she says.”

  I shift forward, exactly what Scheuermann needs to get in a wring of the sword I imagine for this disease. He’s destroying me right now, and I can’t choke back the moan in my throat any longer.

  “You okay?” Destiny whispers, and I shut my eyes, unable to speak. My phone buzzes on the desk with a message from Mom.

  Dora, I scheduled your first massage at 5 today. Not a PT practice, but this should do for now. Address below. Love, Mom.

  Cautiously, I breathe out. My eyes swim with the knowledge that soon I’ll feel better.

  I’m on my bed, face down and with my head hanging over the edge.

  “Pills, dear?” Mica rattles the bottles.
The most efficient of the drugs makes me woozy, and I hate it. Today, I have no choice, though. If a massage therapist is to touch me and not make me howl, I need to comply.

  Destiny’s on the floor in front of me with a glass of water. “Here,” she says, plopping a straw in so I don’t have to move.

  Afterward, we wait. Mica clicks on the TV and we’re stuck with The Best of The Cookie Monster. I don’t ask. Finally, sweet relief sets in, and I want to sleep and cry at once. I can’t allow myself to do either, because it’s almost five p.m.

  Shannon volunteers to drive me to the spa, which is close to Smother in a less-than-quaint part of town.

  The three-story building housing the Elysium Spa constitutes a run-down version of our own house. The Mediterranean blue façade makes it stand out from the surrounding brick-colored constructions. I take the three steps slowly while Shannon waits in the car.

  “Pick you up at six?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Thank you so much, Shannon,” I say. “Where’re you heading? Home?”

  She hesitates. “Um.”

  I turn for a full look.

  “I just—I’m gonna go play some arcade games at Smother.”

  I frown. “Really?”

  “Yes, why?” She’s defensive. Interesting. “They’ve got the classics. Pac-Man, Puzzle Bubble, and Doom.” Like she ever cared about that stuff.

  “Checking on Christian?” I ask.

  Shannon snorts before sputtering out something unintelligible. I should let it go, but this is funny. “That a yes?”

  “Whatever.” She rolls up the window and screeches off the curb. Oh yes, someone’s definitely tracking down a bartender.

  Over the last ten phone calls since Sunday, I haven’t shared the pain I’m in with my mother. She still got me this appointment—I swear she’s psychic. Generally, I go to a physiotherapist, so this setting is a surprise.

  I find myself in a small, pristine room with a fountain trickling soothingly in a corner. A lavender-type aroma emanates from the candles, which are also the main illumination in the tiny space.