Painted Boots

by Mechelle Morrison

  The ceiling creaks. Dad’s awake, moving around in his bedroom. Maybe he’s standing at his window, rubbing his hair the way he does in the morning before he showers. Footsteps echo in the street—the running kind fueled by self-preservation, the kind I did once when I snuck out with friends and almost got caught toilet-papering. A car engine starts then fades away. The ceiling creaks, again. The toilet flushes in Dad’s bathroom and a torrent of water rumbles down the pipes. The house grows still.

  By the time I sit up I’m cold as glacier stone. I pull myself to my feet and slowly right the chair. I peer through the blind, but it’s pointless. I already know no one is there and anyway, the bushes hide the view. My ankle burns with pain, especially when I put weight on it. I limp for the stairs, dragging my throbbing leg through the moonlight, biting my lip to keep from whimpering. One stair at a time I climb, always leading with my right foot.

  Back in bed, I pull the covers tight around me. I’m warm now but my ankle aches and I can’t sleep. Who were those people? How long had they thrown things at my window before I woke up? Did they see me when I went downstairs, tiptoeing out of reach of the moonlight, staying just beyond its touch?

  It’s three thirty-eight when I turn on my bedside lamp and reach for my computer. Fitting my earbuds to my ears, I bring up Kyle’s music and listen, eyes closed, first to “Return to Me” then another called “Wander” and then “Things You Can’t Replace.” I read through Kyle’s email, twice. I feel better. I feel safe. But now I miss him to where it hurts.

  If he were here we’d comfort each other, our whispered words as soft as darkness. I’d dare to say “I love you” because, well, what I’m feeling feels like love. We’d grow tired of talk and he’d wrap his arms around me. We’d drift into sleep.

  But he’s not here and my need to tell him about tonight doesn’t want to wait until he is. It’ll make him anxious, hearing how a stranger spent time throwing things against my window. Maybe he’ll head straight home, even if he’s not ready. By tonight we could be together, laughing over what happened and knowing it was just some school-kid prank.

  I want him here. I want him here! But . . . I have no right to mess up his therapy.

  I stare at the screen, biting my lower lip and wondering what to do. I almost exit out of Gmail, twice. My thoughts circle round and round, marbles bouncing on a roulette wheel. They always end in the same place: Kyle’s choice to be honest with me about his brother.

  I read all his email, again. Then, with his music in my ears and my pillows bunched behind my back, I begin to write.

  15

  MRS. MARTIN, MY English teacher, walks the aisles between our desks, a stack of papers and composition books tucked in the crook of her arm. Desk by desk, she doles out her load. When it’s my turn she gives me the materials then pauses, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.

  “What?” I ask, covering my yawn.

  “Beginning tomorrow we’ll be journaling,” she says, moving on. “You will journal, keeping to the same topic, for one month. I want you to choose something about yourself or your life experience that you’ll find challenging to explore. Maybe you were violently ill as a child. Maybe you were lonely. Maybe you’ve suffered loss, or economic hardship or you’ve been in a terrible car accident. Maybe you have a hidden, gripping fear. Whatever you choose, I want you to discuss it in your journal as though you were confessing a long lost secret. Let the feelings that have built up behind the event evaporate into your words. Surprise me.”

  The girl sitting at the head of my row raises her hand. “What if it’s something we’ve never told anyone?”

  “Then I’d say it’s perfect,” Mrs. Martin answers.

  “Are you gonna share what we write with the class?” asks Madison Borrow. She wears her hair so short and blonde it’s easy to confuse it for her scalp. “I don’t exactly want my junk aired in here.”

  Everyone laughs. Madison mumbles, “Seriously.”

  “The writing is entirely private,” Mrs. Martin says. “And will only be done during the first fifteen minutes of class. Your journals will be left with me before you are dismissed for next period. I will store them in a locked cabinet. I won’t read them until winter break, but be assured. No one will read what you write, except me.”

  “What if people write bad stuff?” This comes from a guy named Henry Moss. He’s tall, though it’s hard to tell for the way he slouches in his seat. His butt is so near the edge of his chair it’s like he can’t decide between being solid matter and melting into a puddle on the floor.

  Mrs. Martin removes her glasses and points them at Henry. “I’d save confessing illegal activities, such as drugs or violence or theft, for your attorney. Or your parole officer. But if you’re feeling lucky Henry, let it rip.”

  Madison Borrow snorts. “If Henry has secrets, it’s the stuff he does that’s good.”

  By the time I reach second period my ankle hurts to where I feel tears. I plop into my chair, dig an Advil from my bag and chug it with a big gulp of water. Part way down my throat the capsule turns and lodges tight. Suddenly, I’m choking. Water spurts out my nose. I cough and hack, wheezing for air.

  My Spanish teacher asks, “Miss Brand, are you all right?”

  I’m not, but whatever.

  Everyone looks at me and I shrug, wiping the water from my face with the back of my sleeve. I don’t know why I bothered. A little pill won’t dent the searing agony in my ankle. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s sprained.

  This morning when Dad asked what happened, I told him I’d heard something in the night, got up to check it out, and tripped over a book I’d left on the floor. He didn’t mention that he’d been up, too. He just told me I should stay home and ice the thing, which was probably right. I should be home.

  It’s that I don’t want to be there alone.

  So I wrapped the swelling with an Ace bandage, saying I had a test and I was going to school and really, since he drove me, I didn’t have all that much walking to do during the day. Then I couldn’t get into my boot. I considered wearing tennis shoes, or even slippers, but in the end I removed the bandage, pulled on a pair of thick wool socks and, gritting my teeth, crammed my foot in. It almost made me scream. I thought the boot would give my ankle good support, but oddly, it doesn’t. If anything, the boot has made the swelling worse.

  At least I look good. Over the weekend I painted my boot heels a mellow, chocolate brown—a perfect match to the brown suede mini-skirt and thick auburn turtle neck I’m wearing. My hair is shinier than usual. And despite the pain in my ankle, I’ve smiled twice today. The world seems beautiful, everybody’s happy, the sky is bright and blue.

  Weird, how just like that I’m one of those girls who are crazy in love.

  Last night I wrote Kyle the longest email ever. I told him I think of him every second of the day. I told him he’s my other half. I told him about the strangers throwing things at our house. After I hit ‘send’ I felt so nervous about everything I’d written I couldn’t sleep—I mean, I said things I’ve never said before—so I played my guitar. For a while I tried to make up a song, but I didn’t come close to anything original.

  Before I left for school I wandered out into the yard and did reconnaissance. The front lawn was peppered with marbles. I scooped up a few and dropped them into my bag.

  It might be random, that someone threw marbles at my bedroom window in the middle of the night. It might just be coincidence. But my thoughts went to Em and how she messed with Kyle’s house when he broke up with her. And though I told myself I was being stupid, I couldn’t help it. I looked down my street, feeling paranoid, wondering if I was being watched.

  In the lunchroom I sling my bag across my body, messenger-style. I didn’t want to take the extra steps required to stash it in my locker and now I’m stuck with it, its bulging weight hanging on my back like a lop-sided papoose. Today the menu is corndogs and hamburgers so I grab a salad, a bowl of fruit, and two milks. Then I walk slowly
toward the table by the painted cobra. I’ve sat there with Gwen since the first day of school. Sometimes other girls join us—friends of Gwen who are slowly becoming friends of mine, too. I usually sit with my back to the crowd, but today I go for the side that allows me full view. Em hasn’t called out my clothes yet, though our eyes have met in the hall, twice. Both times she looked snarly. Both times I felt furious.

  Soon I see Gwen, her tray held waitress-style above her head. She’s smiling the smirky little grin she saves for secrets. As she sets her tray on the table and settles into her seat she asks, “Are you telepathic or what?”

  “Um. What?”

  “For your information,” Gwen continues, “and perhaps this is old news: Em Harrelson is my next door neighbor. We were friends in grade school but I got tired of her horse s-h-i-t and now we hardly talk. Today, however, she deemed it necessary to corner me in the hall with a bunch of questions about you.”

  “Interesting,” I say.

  “Oh it’s so much more than that. Em does not stoop to unsecured information channels. Ever. Have you noticed she’s been spying on you? She’s watching you right now, from a few tables over. She’s a pretty good lip reader and”—Gwen bangs her spoon against her tray—“Good hell, Aspen! Don’t look!”

  I stare at Gwen. “What’s she—?”

  “Shhh! Let me do the talking. Em’s stupid not be where she can figure out my side of this conversation, but whatever. Just keep the lip-reading thing in mind. And please. Maintain eye contact at all times.”

  I rest my chin on my fist and glue my gaze to Gwen’s eyes.

  “Could you be more obvious?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  Gwen snorts. “Let us begin with the million dollar question: Do you know where Kyle is?”

  “No idea,” I say. For emphasis, I shrug.

  “Ah. Well Em won’t buy that, because Lindsey told her he was talking to you in the parking lot. About two months ago or something.”

  “Why would that mean I know where he is today? Lindsey had me smashed against her car while she tried to rip her aunt Carol’s former pin off my sweater. Kyle talked to her. He told her to get to class.”

  “Not quite how I heard it,” Gwen says. “But your version sounds more like the Lindsey I know and so-much-less-than love. Curious, though, how you haven’t mentioned this before.” She studies me for a moment. “Then what?”

  I shrug, again. “Then nothing. Lindsey’s make-up was a mess.” With my fingers, I draw lines from my eyes into my hair. “Classic tear smear. She went into the building to clean up. Why are you asking all this stuff, anyway?”

  Gwen’s eyes narrow. “I’m fulfilling the letter of my contract. Not the law.”

  “You’re truly noble,” I say.

  “You’re the chosen inheritor of Gram’s beloved sweater. You’re my friend. I’m not about to hand you over to Em on a silver spoon.”

  “Platter.”

  “Whatever! Em figured I’d do what she asked and that I wouldn’t cross her because she threw a bunch of threats my way. She’s an idiot. Everybody knows criminals don’t crap in their own backyard. Even toads like Em Harrelson. But that reminds me. I’m supposed to ask you about your famous dance with Kyle on Halloween. I mean you two were so close you were—”

  “No,” I say.

  “But I haven’t asked you yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The answer is ‘No.’”

  Gwen smiles, revealing a bright green piece of lettuce caught in her braces. “Aspen Brand. You’re hot for him.”

  I glance at Em, lingering on her furrowed, awkward gaze. “Like the surface of the sun,” I say.

  KyleKDTlovesyou

  8:12AM(8 hours ago)

  To me

  Aspen,

  I’m glad you told me about stuff hitting your window. It’s upsetting, I’d be lying if I said different, but like so many things are, it is what it is. If you found marbles, well, that’s classic Em. She used to tell me all the time how marbles are handy when it comes to fear. I know first-hand she’s scared plenty of people, rattling their windows in the dead of night. I don’t like that she’s found your house, or your window, for that matter. I don’t like that she’s taken to pestering you, especially with me being away. Tell me how your school went. So I know.

  I’m puking sick of that girl. She’s all I talked about today. Dylan started with asking how I know her, which is from kindergarten, and was I attracted to her before we dated, which if we’re talking looks I was, and did I stay attracted when she started hurting me, which I didn’t. Somewhere in the conversation I recognized how much I’d given up by staying in that relationship. And I’ll tell you, even though it’s embarrassing. When Em started hurting me I stopped feeling the way girls had always made me feel. It was like I’d been neutered (though as you know, I’m not feeling that way anymore). Em would get mad at me for something stupid, like not kissing her enough, and she’d churn her anger into a threat and with Em, threats always end up real. I’d try to kiss her just to patch her mood, but it didn’t take, I guess because I couldn’t find what I needed in me to make my kiss real. How was I supposed to show affection I didn’t feel? How can anyone be tender to the person beating on them? But it became our pattern: I’d disappoint, she’d threaten, I’d try to please, she’d hurt me.

  Right in the middle of saying all of this the connection hit home, how I didn’t just lose my love for my brother the day he died. I lost myself. How else could I have ended up that girl’s whipping post? I lost the will to care how the winds blew around me, or what they brought. For the past two years I’ve buried a part of me right along with Evan. I thought I was doing it to spare my parents more pain, but now, I don’t know. Because like I told Dylan, after Evan died and I took up with Em, I only felt good when I was in the Jam making music. That’s it.

  Dylan listened a while then asked, ‘So where are you now?’ I had to think on that a bit. Until he asked, I didn’t realize I’d been talking about my past in third-person, like the guy all that stuff happened to was someone else. I feel so different now, since that day in my truck with you.

  I launched into how I’d gotten to where every time Em hurt me I blamed myself, like I deserved it or something. I confessed I didn’t know how to confront her, or how to change. I mean, I’d been taught you don’t hit girls. I admitted it became easier to take her shit than put myself—and in my mind my parents—through what I thought would happen if I tried to get out. Dylan said a lot of abused people convince themselves they deserve what they’re getting. He said, ‘Your feelings make sense, but I’d say even when you were going through it, deep down, a part of you stayed in control. That part has the power now.’

  When I asked, ‘How do you figure that?’ Dylan’s answer earned his fee. He said, ‘Kyle, I looked you up yesterday, on YouTube, after you told me about your music. That’s where you’ve put yourself these past two years. That young man is who you are. Music protects your soul. It’s your barrier, the line you’ve drawn around everything good about you. What I want to know is who, or what, gave you the will to step beyond your Jam and risk the consequence of ending things with Em. You could have told your parents about her a long time ago. You didn’t. So what happened, that gave you what you needed to change?’

  I cried, then, like Dylan had up and given me an unexpected slap. That guy has had to pry my heart with a crowbar to get me talking, and it’s taking a toll. I’ll admit that except for when I told you about Evan and what happened with Em, I haven’t opened up to anyone since I can’t remember. I’m shy that way, I guess. Now though. Dylan’s got my emotions running crazy, tender as a fawn in spring and just as undirected. Today I cried because when he asked how I found what I needed to be free of Em I thought straight to the moment I saw you, wandering my mother’s yard sale in front of our house. Your hair was bunched in a knot and your body was hot as fire in shorts and a clingy tank. You had an old pair of my boots tucked under your arm. I stood at my bedroom wi
ndow, gawking at the sight of you, a towel wrapped round my waist. By the time I’d thought to wrangle back into my sweaty running shorts you were gone.

  Then you walk in that first day of English wearing my boots, the heels painted up like sage. You couldn’t know those boots were mine a long time back in grade school. You couldn’t know how it made me feel to see them on your feet. But I took it as a sign. I swear, I was late to class for a week for how I followed you around, memorizing your schedule and where your locker is, watching you wander the world wearing a piece of me. I wrote a song about it—the one on YouTube called Wander. Did you recognize yourself in the lyrics? I’ll tell you girl, more than half my songs are new, stuffed full of my feelings laid out plain and raw and just for you.

  Since I’ve gone this far I may as well tell the whole story. It’s not just my boots you own. You’ve been collecting pieces of me: my attention and my heart, my everything. That first day I saw you, Aspen. Something in the sight of you made the sun rise inside me. It’s a lot to lay on you, maybe. But when I saw you I knew, finally, that I was still alive.

  16

  Journal Entry One | Aspen Brand | AP English

  My mom died this year, on June third, but I don’t talk about it much. I don’t like acknowledging her death. But everything around me makes up for that. Her death is why my dad and I moved to Gillette. Her death is why I spent most of my summer unpacking.

  I miss my mom so much that I made a place for her, in a make-believe Portland, in my heart. I’m not crazy or anything. I know she’s gone. It’s that I wish she wasn’t.

  In Portland, where I come from, my mom and I had always created my school wardrobe from consignment stores and yard sales and thrift shops, plus Mom’s incredible talent as a seamstress. So in August, once our house was put together, I carried on in her tradition as best I could. I wandered out into Gillette, buying what I believed were a lot of great things to wear. It was hard to go it alone, but the shopping had an unexpected side effect—it made me more comfortable with this place. I figured out the town. I began to feel at home. I was doing what I’d always done in summer and I felt closer to my mom, even though the shopping made me miss her, too.