by Hart, Callie
The man stares at the clock on the wall, too. He seems to simmer on what I’ve just said for a very long time. Eventually, he says, “I suppose I’m just going to have to be satisfied with that then, aren’t I?”
“For the time being, yes.”
He sucks in a long, slow breath, closing his eyes, and it’s as though a wave of relief has just washed over him. “Fine. But I’m her father, Alex. I should be the one carving up those sick little fuckers. It’s my right.”
I don’t respond to that. He needs to sit in it for a second, to ruminate on what he’s just said without me adding anything to it. Eventually, he grimaces, shaking his head. “That was a stupid thing to say. I have no right to anything. It didn’t happen to me. I know that. I’m sorry.”
“Hey. No need to be sorry, man. You’re fucked up. You’re fucked up because of what went down. I’m fucking up because of it, too. Ironic, really, that Silver’s the only person with any real right to anything, and yet she’s the least fucked up out of all of us.”
He smiles sadly, his eyes roaming around the room again, taking everything in for a second time. He’s not pretending to look for drugs now. He’s just…seeing the place. “She’s always been like that,” he says absently. “Really well put together. Mentally. Even when she was a kid, she handled every upset, big and small, with this weird kind of understanding and…just this resilience that always blew us away. She’s so damn strong. I think that’s why her mother and I kind of forgot we were her parents for a second there. Before all of this, it hadn’t occurred to me that Silver might actually need anything from me in a very long time. She’s just so unshakeable.”
She’s broken down in front of me before. Just that once, outside the cabin. I understand what he means when he says that she’s unshakeable. I know how people tick. I can see when they’re about to snap, and I never thought Silver might break down the way she did. I went up to that cabin in the middle of the night, and it didn’t occur to me for one second that it might be a bad idea, because she’d been vulnerable and hurt before. Because she hadn’t known I was coming, and she might have been scared by an unexpected vehicle pulling up out of the dark, down that long, winding driveway. I’d just assumed it would be fine, because she seemed…so well put together, as her father just said.
A soft, rushing sound disturbs the silence as an avalanche of snow slides from the pitched eve above the window behind us and lands with a whoompf outside. “They tell us all kinds of stories when we’re kids, about us being stronger than them,” I say quietly. “Women. Truth is, we’re the weak ones. We need to think we’re protecting them to protect our egos. Meanwhile, they’re the ones keeping us together half the time.”
Mr. Parisi nods slowly, bathed in the watery, insubstantial light of the morning that’s snuck its way through a crack in the blinds and is hitting him square in the face. “You are righter than you know. We’re forever underestimating them, aren’t we?”
We sit in silence for a while, both deeply lost in our thoughts. When the clock by the television reaches seven forty, I sit up, rubbing awkwardly at the back of my neck. I’ve never had to kick my girlfriend’s father out of my place before. “I’m gonna have to get ready for school, Mr. Parisi.”
He blinks rapidly, looking a little stunned. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I was a million miles away. I forgot… No school today. Half of the faculty are snowed in. The storm’s going to get worse this afternoon. They’re saying tomorrow’s officially going to reach blizzard status. Coldest temperatures recorded in the last twenty years.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit. Get some things together. Enough for a couple of days. If we head back now, we might be able to grab some supplies at the store before everything shuts down.”
“I’m sorry. Get some things together?”
Mr. Parisi groans halfheartedly, getting to his feet. “Well, I promised myself, didn’t I. I swore, if I didn’t find you over here in bed with some other girl and there was no hypodermic hanging out of your arm, I’d take you back home with me. Only until the storm passes, that is,” he adds quickly.
“I don’t…I still don’t get it. Why?”
“Well,” he says slowly. “Silver said something yesterday about you that made me think. And I know just how fucking miserable living in a trailer can be if they’re not weatherproofed.”
He means well, I know he does, but I can’t help but be a little offended. Heat rises up the back up of my neck, burning the way embarrassment and shame are wont to do. “I’ve taken care of this place. See for yourself. Watertight. No drafts. It’ll be blazing hot in here once I’ve—”
“Alex, Alex, whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’re capable. I can see with my own two eyes that you’re managing perfectly fine here by yourself. What I should have said…fuck.” He huffs. “I’m sorry. What I should have said is that it sounds like most of us are getting snowed in for the next few days. And I know how much it would suck to be snowed in by yourself. And I know how happy it would make my daughter if you were snowed in with her. So…Christ. There’s no need to make this harder than it already is, okay?”
The heat, along with my anger subsided the second he told me he knew that I was capable. Now, I'm just a little entertained by this whole series of events. He’s inviting me, in a stilted, roundabout way, to go hang out at their place so I won’t be alone. Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it—I’ve been alone most of my fucking life. What’s a couple more days, shut off from the outside world?—but the rest of me is kind of fucking numb. No one’s ever come for me before. Shown up to take me away, so I’ll be safe, and warm, and around other people. I don’t really know what to do with that.
I get up, wondering if I even have a bag big enough to gather three days’ worth of clothes inside. “Uh, thank you, Sir. That’s very kind…”
Silver’s father rolls his eyes, exasperated. “For the love of god, don’t call me Sir, Moretti. That sounds absolutely fucking ridiculous. Just call me Cam, for Christ’s sake.”
6
SILVER
The house is silent as the grave when I wake up. It’s strange to lie beneath the covers with my eyes closed, hearing absolutely nothing. Not too long ago, I’d have been burying my head under my pillows, trying to block out the chatter of the television in the living room, and Max’s tuneless, obnoxiously loud singing in the bathroom down the hall, while Mom and Dad hurled a volley of shouted questions back and forth at one another downstairs.
I remain still, eyes closed, trying to gauge what time it is without checking the Mickey Mouse watch resting on my nightstand, and a heavy, regretful burn settles over me, taking root in my chest. I used to be frustrated as hell by all the early morning noise and commotion, especially on the weekends when I was supposed to be able to sleep in, but now the silence that hovers in the empty rooms of this house feels almost deafening.
How did this even happen? Were there signs that things were falling apart, right before they disintegrated, and no one fucking noticed? Could my parents have done more to love one another? Could I have done more to keep us all together?
These questions plague me more and more; it hasn’t escaped me that Mom began her illicit affair with her boss one month after I was attacked at Leon’s party. I was sullen during that month. Quiet, withdrawn and scared. My fear hadn’t manifested itself in the way it might have in other teenagers. I got really, really angry. I lashed out. I refused to listen to or obey simple requests. I fought with my Mom over every single little thing, roaring at her whenever she opened her mouth to say something, and in turn she snapped and sniped at me, grounding me day after day for my insolence. It was a bad month. If I hadn’t been so difficult, would she have gone looking for comfort in the arms of another man? Would she and Dad have emerged through the other side of whatever rough patch they were going through and been fine if I hadn’t been so unmanageable?
These ‘ifs’ serve no real purpose, I know. Life’s o
ne big spiderweb of decisions, actions, cause and effect, one domino after another toppling, knocking the next one down, then the next, then the next. Trying to unravel what would have happened if one small thing in the Parisi household had been different is not only impossible but futile; the past is set in stone and there’s no changing it now, no matter how badly I might want to go back.
I throw my duvet over my head, fully aware that it’s still snowing outside. I can feel the weight of the sky bearing down on the house. It’s probably been dumping all night, which isn’t the best. Getting to school is a hair-raising experience on heavy snow days, and—
DING!
Shit. My cellphone buzzes on the night stand next to my bed, disrupting the silence. I start, nearly jumping out of my damn skin, but then a slow, secret smile spreads across my face. I have no clue what the official time is, but I do know it’s early. There’s only person who’d be texting me at this time in the morning, and a message from Alex is definitely worth opening my eyes for.
Blearily, I prop myself up on one elbow, blinking rapidly, giving myself a second to accustom myself to the grey, weak morning light before I reach over and pick up my cell. I’m disappointed when I see the message isn’t from Alex after all, though. The number on the screen isn’t even saved in my contacts. I rub at my eyes as I click on the blue text box, opening up the message.
+1(564) 987 3491: Stupid lying bitch. Why don’t u just fucking kill urself.
Oh.
That was stupid of me. There is one other person who’d text me at this time in the morning. Not Jake. Jake wouldn’t be so stupid. He’d never leave hard evidence of his hatred, that could possibly be traced back to him. But for the past six weeks, someone has been sending these messages to me, making my phone chime more and more frequently. And I haven’t said a word about them. I’ve ignored them, or tried my best to anyway, but they’re becoming increasingly more hateful.
Stupid…lying…bitch….
Why don’t u just fucking kill urself.
I cover my mouth, not blinking, staring at the screen, and for a long second I think I might be about to burst into tears and let out a furious scream at the same time—the conflicting emotions feel like they’re going to rip me in two.
I was such a fucking fool. After the shooting, I allowed myself to forget. Raleigh was, and still is gripped in a fog of grief. My fellow classmates have been walking around in a daze, trying to remember how to be carefree teenagers again when there are still bullet holes in the plastered walls, and reminders of violence lurk down every corridor and hallway. People were too distracted to make life hard for me, and I became complacent, daring to lift my head and look around. I allowed myself to believe I was no longer a target for hatred and cruelty, and it was stupidest fucking thing I could have done.
And then I got the first text message.
People don’t forget. People don’t move on. People aren’t intrinsically good, no matter how badly I want them to be. High school is a Battle Royale, a fight for survival, and no one stays their hands for long. In order to make it through the experience unscathed, people will hurt and cut and bite and kick at anyone who appears weaker than them in order to get ahead. And to the students of Raleigh High, I am the easiest fucking target there is.
I tuck my knees up under my chin, a wave of sadness rippling over me as I stare at the phone lying there on the mattress two feet away. Sadness, quickly morphing to anger. So many people died when Leon walked into Raleigh and opened fire. We were taught a hard, painful lesson…but it seems some people still haven’t learned. People fight back. When you corner an injured animal, eventually it kicks and bites back even harder, and tragic things happen.
I’m done ignoring these messages. I don’t plan on participating in this vicious cycle of cruelty and short-sightedness. I just fucking won’t. I’m done bowing my head and pretending I don’t notice them staring. Pretending I don’t hear the awful, sickening things they whisper about me as I walk to class. I am done taking this. I’m not going to hide from it anymore, or let them get away with it. I’m going to face whatever abuse is hurled at me head-on, and I’m not going to back down. Because…fuck them. Life itself is a fragile, tenuous thing. It can be taken away or snuffed out at any moment. If I have another twenty-three thousand days left on Earth or only another one hundred, I’m not going to allow a small-minded, hateful group of idiots to make me scared for a single one of them.
My hand is surprisingly steady as I pick up my phone. I’m relieved as I tap out a reply to the message. Relieved. God…how have I not realized before now? All of this time spent being afraid of my classmates at Raleigh? It’s been exhausting. Living on the edge of panic, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, permanently existing in this maelstrom of fight or flight…it’s been quietly grueling in a way that I haven’t realized until this very moment. And now that I’ve made this decision—that I won’t be an active participant in their abuse—it feels like I’ve severed the taut cord that’s been dragging me underwater, trying to fucking drown me.
I hit send, and then study the one-word reply I’ve sent, the buzzing in the back of my head fading to nothing but static.
Me: COWARD
It’s appropriate. It says it all. That one word was all I needed to send. Somewhere in Raleigh, a student who goes to my high school is also studying my response, and it’s shaking them to their core…because they know it’s the truth. For some reason, whatever that might be, they’re scared too. And with that one word, I have reached down their throats, closed my hand around their heart, and I’ve squeezed.
“SILVER! OUT OF YOUR PIT, KIDDO! WE’VE GOT COMPANY!”
Downstairs, the front door slams closed, echoing throughout the empty house. The sound of my father’s voice floats up the stairs, quieter than the drill sergeant-level holler he just blasted up at me, and I realize that he’s laughing. Boots being kicked off; bags being dumped on the kitchen counter; cabinet doors slamming shut. From the racket, there are eight people in the lower level of the house and they’re as clumsy and heavy-footed as a herd of elephants.
“Silver! If you’re not down here in five minutes, I’m going to tell Alex about the time you shit yourself at Seattle Zoo.”
What?
Ooooh no.
Uh-uh.
No fucking way.
Alex isn’t here. He can’t be. It’s too early. He’s not supposed to pick me up for another…wait. What time is it? I snatch Mickey up from the bedside table, gripped with horror when I see that it’s nearly time to leave for school and Alex probably is here.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” My foot catches in the bedsheets and I nearly eat dirt when I launch myself out of bed. The Seattle Zoo shit story is not a good one. If my father breathes one word of what happened that day, I’m going to fucking kill him.
This is the problem with parents. They spend years cleaning up your vomit, teaching you how to use a bathroom, how not to shove peas/coins/marbles up your nose, dealing with you screaming and basically being a little bastard, and all the while, they’re biding their time, waiting for the day to arrive when they can tell someone you deeply care about that when you were seven years old, you sneezed so hard in front of the giraffe enclosure at Seattle Zoo that you soiled your underwear.
In my bathroom, I throw water at my face, jam my toothbrush into my mouth and try to tame my hair all at the same time. I bounce on the balls of my feet, willing myself to go faster, and I end up scraping my gum with the plastic head of the toothbrush. Hurts like a bitch, but there’s no time for pain right now.
I kick my way into some jeans, wriggle my way into a clean Billy Joel t-shirt, and fly out of my bedroom, taking the stairs three at a time.
“Dad? Dad! I swear to god—”
I screech to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen, astonished by what I’m seeing. Dad’s leaning against the counter by the sink with his arms folded across his chest, looking a little bemused as Alex crouches down next to the kitchen islan
d, scratching Nipper’s belly. The dog’s mouth is open, his tongue lolling all over the place as my boyfriend rubs his fingers into his wispy fur; it looks like the damned dog is smiling.
“Huh. Well, that’s just typical.”
Alex looks up, the vine tattoo wrapped around the base of his throat clearly displayed above the collar of his plain black vee-neck t-shirt, and he winks at me. “Morning, Dolcezza.” His voice is so deep. It resonates around the kitchen, reflecting off the tiled floor so that I feel the rasp of it through the soles of my bare feet. His thick, wavy hair is in his face again, falling into his eyes. It’s absolutely fucking criminal that he can make me feel so flustered, pinned to the spot, with nothing more than a second’s eye contact. And in front of my father no less.
Perfect.
I look up at Dad and nearly keel over from embarrassment when he arches a cool eyebrow at me. He knows me better than anyone. I’m sure he can tell what I’m feeling right now, and that thought is fucking mortifying. “Dolcezza?” he asks lightly. “My Italian’s a little rusty. What does that mean?”
Alex quickly lowers his head, hiding a smirk. He’s pretending to be absorbed in petting Nipper, but I know the truth. I can only see the crown of his head and muscles pulling tight against the back of his t-shirt but Alessandro Moretti’s a little embarrassed, too. “Ahhh, it’s just a term of endearment,” he tells my father.
Dad’s bemusement deepens. “I have the Google Translate app on my phone and I know how to use it, Moretti. If you’re planning on using a foreign language to secretly seduce my daughter, think again. I will know.”
Oh, fucking hell. Come on. Really? I screw my eyes closed, groaning as I turn my face to rest my forehead against the door jamb. “Dad, just…no, okay? No.”
