by Kipjo Ewers
As she twisted and turned checking out her new physique, a devious little smile grew on her face.
She quickly looked around to make sure she was alone before peeking down the inside of her sweatshirt.
“Ginger Fletcher is going to be so jealous,” she whispered under her grin.
She looked around again, pulling up the bottom of the sweater shirt to reveal her abdomen, and shuddered almost falling backwards.
She was a very active child. However, she had never done a sit up or crunch religiously in her entire ten years unless in physical education. She ran her hand across her well-defined and shredded abs. It did not end there as she felt up her newly toned arms and powerful legs.
“I’m Peter Parker,” she swallowed addressing her reflection in the mirror.
She remembered the smell of food coming from downstairs. Sooner or later she would be coming upstairs to get her. Although she would prefer to spend the next few days locked inside her new foreign bedroom examining herself and away from the person downstairs, she knew that was not going to happen.
She glanced at the clothes on the dresser and decided to change.
Her outfit consisted of a sports bra, underwear, a loose white t-shirt, and a pair of jeans shorts that covered most of her thigh. All an all, a very simple and comfortable outfit for the tropical weather.
She scowled at her reflection in the mirror.
“Total dorksville,” she sneered.
Closing the door to get some privacy, she looked around the room, pulling open the drawers to the desk, finding school pens, crayons, and notebooks. Eventually she found what she was looking for, a pair of scissors.
Taking the shorts off, she went to work cutting them a little shorter to the point of borderline Daisy Dukes. Putting them back on, she then tied the shirt she wore into a belly shirt. With one quick look in the mirror she ran her fingers through her curly hair, and then attempted strutting out of the room.
Her grand defiant entrance was railroaded when she grasped the brass door knob, crushing it in her bare hand.
“Oh!” she yelled. “Oh no!”
Like clockwork she could hear her footsteps rushing upstairs.
“Is everything okay?” Sophia nervously yelled from the other side of the door.
“I’m fine,” she stuttered.
Her mind raced trying to figure out how she would explain the door.
It was too late as the woman on the other side attempted to turn it.
“What’s wrong with the door?” she asked.
“Nothing!” Kimberly yelled back.
“Then why won’t it open?” Sophia’s voice grew higher with concern. “Did you lock it?”
“No! I… I think I broke it…” she finally admitted.
Without a word Sophia pulled the entire doorknob and locking mechanism from the door allowing it to open. She walked in first noticing the doorknob that had been crushed to paste.
Next she noticed the changes her daughter made to the outfit she laid out for her.
Kimberly lowered her head, waiting for the stern lecture from her absentee parent on how inappropriate she looked.
“You’re wearing it wrong,” was all that came from Sophia’s lips.
As she raised her head to be sure that she heard correctly, her mother walked pass her placing the broken doorknob on the table. The next thing she felt was the knot she tied in the back positioning the shirt right under her newly develop chest like a bikini top loosen and brought down. Sophia then pulled the shirt up tying it in the back right over her belly button.
“Nothing wrong with wearing a little belly shirt,” she nervously smiled, “especially in this weather, but I think this is the look you were going for… cute.”
In was simple reverse psychology, especially in this extremely fragile glass-shattering stage of their relationship.
“Thanks,” Kimberly dismissively said.
“Don’t worry about the door,” she reassured. “I’ll have it replaced by today. Now when you’re ready I have breakfast downstairs.”
She lightly patted her on the shoulder and quickly walked out of the room heading back downstairs. Kimberly narrowed her eyes at her as mixed emotions swelled up within her. She went to undo the knot she made, until she took another look in the mirror and decided to leave it.
She slipped on Michelle’s flip-flops heading for the door. She stopped turning around for one last thing. Walking back to the dresser, she picked up the mangled door knob placing it between her hands.
She pressed her hands together. The metal of the abused knob crunched and groaned as she flattened it to a near pancake. She looked at one hand and then the other. Not even a scratch or blister appeared on them.
A bright smile appeared on her face again as she examined the doorknob now rendered useless.
“Forget Peter Parker,” she beamed. “I’m Clark Kent.”
She placed the knob, now transformed into a disk, back on the table heading out the door. She wanted to stomp down the steps just to annoy her, but feared being childish would bring the entire structure down. The bone she had to pick with her birth mother did not have to entail demolishing her temporary residence.
As she slowly walked down minding her steps, she looked over the inside of the home under the shine of natural sunlight.
It was warm and cozy, the near perfect merger of a regular home and a tropical bungalow. The smell of good food directed her attention to the dining room. The table was filled with everything from pancakes and toast to scrambled and fried eggs. She narrowed her eyes in disappointment at Sir George, already seated on the table, munched away on a banana.
A nonchalant glance into the kitchen turned into a two minute long stare on the steps as she watched her moving about preparing the last bit of breakfast.
Kimberly realized one of the reasons she disliked her so much. It was hard to hate her when she looked so beautiful. Memories from birth to their second meeting at the mountain flashed before her, and she had not changed since then.
The advantage of possessing a superhuman memory was that she had an eternal reminder of who she came from. The double-ended sword was that she also had a memory of who did not want her.
Sophia looked up long enough from placing her homemade biscuits on a plate to see her just staring at her.
“Is everything okay?” she nervously asked.
Her voice pulled Kimberly out of her trance. Her indifferent face was back on again as she continued down the stairs.
“I’m fine,” she dismissively said.
She could feel her eyes watching her as she descended the rest of the stairs. It did not stop until she walked over and took her seat at one of the main chairs at the table. Kimberly snuck a dirty look at Sir George who continued to chomp away on his banana.
“Sellout,” she muttered under her breath.
The enemy came over and noticed how large the table and distance was between the two of them from where the food was positioned. She made adjustments moving the food closer to her before taking a seat at one of the side chairs.
It was then that she noticed that all of the plates and cups on the table were made of metal. Very thick metal from what she could determine, made to withstand whatever punishment she might accidently administer to them. She was not sure whether to be appreciative or insulted.
“I didn’t know what you wanted so I made a variety of things. I hope you like it.”
“Thanks.” She looked down at her plate.
“Please, dig in,” she motioned.
She took her fork, stabbing at a couple of pancakes, placing them on her plate, and then some sausages. She took her spoon, scooping out some scrambled eggs plopping it into her plate. The food smelled good, but she had no appetite. Her thoughts and focus was on the woman sitting across from her attempting to act as if this was a regular thing for them.
“So you own this island?” Kimberly blurted out while slouching in her seat.
“Uh, yes I do
,” she answered slowly, pouring tea into each of their cups.
“So, you’re rich?” Kimberly fired off another question.
“I’m well off,” Sophia politely responded with a smile minus eye contact.
“Did you buy this?” She folded her arms. “The island?”
Sweat now ran down Sophia’s back as she almost doused her cup of tea with too much sweet milk.
This blatant interrogation out of nowhere though not as verbally abusive as when she was arrested for Robert’s murder still rattled her. She took in a shallow breath, deciding to do exactly what she did during that time. Speak the truth and nothing but the truth, no matter how crazy.
“I… didn’t buy this island,” she said slowly swallowing. “I… made it.”
“You made this island?” the ten-year-old asked, narrowing her eyes.
Sophia nervously nodded while sipping her tea, hoping it would settle the violent churning in her stomach.
“How?” Kimberly leaned in asking.
She placed her arms and elbows in the table, hoping she would say something.
Her one word question unsettled her stomach again. No one ever asked her in detail how she made the island. Everyone just accepted the fact that she created it.
“I… uh… dove into the ocean,” she fought to form her words, “then I burrowed into the ground…”
“You burrowed through the Earth’s mantle,” Kimberly finished her sentence.
“Uh… yeah,” Sophia took another sip of tea, “I then cut out a section of it, and then… pushed it up to the surface.”
The answer pushed her back into her seat as she stared at her birth mother.
“Did you get in trouble for it?” she sneered.
“Not really.” Sophia looked around scratching the side of her neck.
“So, why’d you do it?” Kimberly asked while sucking her teeth. “Create an island?”
“I guess was bored,” she blurted with a smile.
Once again Sophia sat there with her foot in her mouth, wishing she could rewind and take back what she had just said. It was Robert’s PTSD all over again. She was capable of dealing with people’s problems who were neither close or family to her, but when it came to her own family she was a bumbling buffoon. She second-guessed if using textbook psychological tactics to communicate with her offspring, who clearly did not care for her, was the best way to go.
She put her cup down, sitting up with her head shamefully lowered.
“What I just said, did not come out right,” she apologized.
What she said came across as if she was occupying her time with other things instead of her own flesh and blood. The scowl Kimberly tried to hide as she sat up, signified that was how it was interpreted and received.
“So… what am I suppose to call you?” Kimberly rolled her eyes.
She decided to change the conversation before she slipped and said something she might regret.
Sophia kept her eyes down at the table. In her mind she did not earn the right to be called mom or mother.
“You can call me… Sophia,” she shrugged, “if you like.”
“Fine…” she acknowledged.
She took her knife cutting and slapping a piece of butter on her pancakes. She then grabbed the maple syrup dousing them with it. She picked at the food a bit before taking a bite. She was not sure if it was hunger, or the fact that the food tasted really good, but she dug in.
Unbeknownst to her, Sophia raised her head watching a simple act that made her heart swell and her eyes glass over. Kimberly caught it in mid munch of a sausage link and gave her a disturbed perplexed look.
“You alright?” she sneered with food in her mouth.
“Uh… yes… I am.” Sophia quickly swatted her eyes.
She collected herself as Kimberly wondered if she was trapped with someone with mental or emotional disorders.
“Um…” Sophia got up, “I… have some quick rounds to make around the island. You might want to get your room situated. You can do anything you want to it, everything in there is yours. I should be about an hour, maybe less. If you want, when I get back, we can go shopping and get you some more suitable clothes for your size.”
“Sure,” Kimberly shrugged.
She hid her relief that she was leaving. She did not have to endure faking to be around her, or attempting to get to know her.
“I’ll clean up when I get back.” She timidly smiled.
“Later.” Kimberly no longer looked her way.
She cut another piece of pancake, stuffing it in her mouth. Her mind became preoccupied with Sir George, who had finished his banana and now moved over to pick from her plate. She cut him another dirty look remembering his treasonous act. He ignored her munching away on a piece of her pancake.
Sophia nodded giving her a final look before slinking away. The rounds she had to make were not really important. Earl and the council members could have covered it. The questions were just too much for her. Sitting there and looking at her was too much for her. The woman who could bring down mountains was a sniveling psychological wreck before a ten- year-old.
What made it worse was, despite the indifferent mask Kimberly put on to hide her true feeling, Sophia knew that the child she bore hated her, did not want anything to do with her if she had it her way, and was justified about how she felt.
She walked out the door putting on her own mask so no one could see the heavy heart she carried.
With her birth mother gone to handle matters in the village, Kimberly finished her breakfast and took the time to explore the home in further detail. She started with her mother’s bedroom, which was extremely large, housing an on-suite bathroom, a walk-in closet, and double glass doors that lead out to a balcony with two regular seating chairs, a lounge chair, and a round handmade wooden table with a huge tan umbrella attached to a stand that went right through it. Entering the walk-in closet, she ran her hands, looking through the various clothes and shoes neatly hung up or placed on shelves, until something caught her eye.
She reached up pulling down a wedding photo album from a top shelf. She sat down in the closet flipping through it viewing pictures of her mother and father on their special day. Besides making out who her grandparents were on both sides along with other people who she guessed was related to her, she could tell that they were truly happy and in love with each other.
It brought a slight smile to her face to put actual faces to her imagination. It did not, however, erase the resentment and desire not to be there. Tired of flipping through pictures she got up putting the book back where she found it. She walked out of the closet, and over to the king size canopy bed, plopping down on it. She ran her hand across the softness of the sheets, the fluffy pillow, and breathed in the air where she slept. The cherry Oakwood dresser draw caught her attention and curiosity.
Nonchalantly she pulled the drawer door open. At first she did not believe what she was seeing lying at the bottom of the drawer. Her trembling hand reached in as a sick feeling crept into her stomach. In her hand she pulled out a full size picture, her school picture, taken earlier that year. Her eyes welled up as she now looked at herself before her transformation.
Before she could wonder how and why she had that picture, she found herself reaching in and pulling out more pictures of her. There was six years’ worth, every year that she attended school in Washington. An anger she never knew she had before grew in her. It tempted her to tear the pictures to shreds and dash them across the bed for her to come back later and see.
She came to her senses realizing that if she did that she would have to talk to her, which she did not want to do. She wanted to leave the island and get as far away from her as possible. The only way she could plan her escape without her knowing was by remaining distant without acting like a problem child.
Placing the pictures where she found them, and smoothing out the bed and pillows to cover her traces, she decided to leave the house so she could think.
&n
bsp; She walked back downstairs heading for the door.
“Sir George,” she called to her spider monkey, “let’s get out of here.”
The little monkey scurried from the kitchen room table leaping onto her shoulder as she flew open the front door walking out. She carefully closed it behind her remembering the doorknob incident in her temporary room. The bright sun and warm intoxicating air calmed her a bit as she stepped off the porch.
Her first stop was the garage which housed the metallic sea blue 1969 ZL1 Camaro. She stood there for awhile imagining the man in the wedding pictures sitting behind the wheel of it, and probably underneath its hood working on it. As she ran her hand across the hood of the car, she also imaged the rides he would have taken her on.
Memories she would never have; it brought forth tears and more anger.
A form a hatred formed within her for the woman that bore her, for subjecting her to these painful visuals that felt like torture to her. Another evil thought crept within her to smash the car to bits out of spite. Remembering her plan stayed her hand as she stormed off to get away from the house altogether.
