by H. M. Ward
That would never be me.
Before I had time to think another thought, someone pounded on my door. Pressing my eyes closed, I peeled my back off the door and opened it. Dad was home. That was his knock. I braced for whatever scolding I was about to receive. Pulling the door open, I said, “Hey, Dad. Home from work?”
“Yes,” he said in a clipped tone, pushing past me into my room. He had that look on his face, the one that said I didn’t measure-up, the one that made me feel like a failure. “You’re progress report showed up today. Would you like to tell me anything before we discuss it?” Dad had the piece of paper in his hand. The school sent weekly progress reports via email to psycho-parents, like mine, who demanded them. That was one of the changes my Mom made while she sat on the school board. Dad thought it was a great idea, while I found it to be less than stellar.
Dad’s dark hair was silvering at the temples. Wrinkles sprouted from the corners of his eyes making him appear older than he was. Dad had seen too much, first in the military, and then in the hospital. To him, getting good grades was a life or death thing.
I pressed my shoe to the floor, staring at the black toe. I’d loved these shoes when I’d gotten them. They were so cute, but now they seemed frivolous. Dad probably thought so, too. I shook my head, “No, sir. There’s nothing to tell.”
“It says here that you received detention this week? Mari, we’ve talked about this. You cannot have such childish things on your permanent record. College is next year. It’s not three years away. It’s only one year away, and you can bet they’ll look at this year and see this blemish.” He became more stressed as he spoke, slapping the paper into his fist. When I didn’t look up at him, he snapped, “You’re destroying your future, Mari. It’s not something that can be undone.”
My mind broke. Maybe it was Trystan, I don’t know, but I couldn’t take the emotional berating he was giving me. The guilt he dumped on me sank into my stomach and sat like soured milk. It curdled and I spewed verbal vomit at him, ranting like a lunatic, “It’s one detention, Dad! Out of how many days of school? Like seven hundred and twenty! One day doesn’t matter! They won’t even look at it.”
Dad laughed, but the sound was angry, “Young lady, so help me, I’m going to get through to you.” He leaned close to my face, speaking deliberately slow, like I was too stupid to fathom what he was saying, “Everything you do, from now until graduation, matters—every grade, every test, every day—all of it. It’s recorded and they’ll see it. If you just blew your shot at Yale, so help me God, I will—”
“What? What will you do?” Tears streamed from my eyes. I couldn’t hold them back anymore. “I made a mistake. It wasn’t even something I did. Mom knew about it and she didn’t do this to me.”
“Because your mother doesn’t know! Did she go to Yale? Did she attend an Ivy League school and have her parent’s pay for medical school?”
“No,” I said softly.
He was still up in my face. “That’s right. I did. I know what they expect and this little stunt might have just cost you everything.” He sighed and shook his head, like he knew everything and I knew nothing. Closing his eyes he inhaled hard and let it rush back out. “I only want what’s best for you, Mari.”
I stared at him. I wanted to believe him, but I didn’t. I felt like a trophy child, someone he had around to show off. It felt like it was more important that his daughter was smart, that his daughter was perfect—but, I was his daughter and I was neither of those things. I worked hard to get my grades, and I tried so hard to meet his expectations, but I failed. Over and over again, I fell short. I didn’t measure up. That feeling never faded. It’s there every day when I got a test back.
School was not for learning, not to Dad. School was to demonstrate how smart I already was, but I wasn’t. And I wasn’t him—he just didn’t see it.
I nodded, “I know, Dad.” There was nothing else to say. He couldn’t see me. It’s like I was nothing more than that paper he held in his hands. That one blemish blinded him to all the A’s. I knew it was coming. I knew he’d react this way. He always did, but today I couldn’t just nod and take it. Tears streaked my face, and I knew he saw that as a sign of weakness.
He lifted my chin in his hand, and looked me in the eye, “Only the cream rises to the top, Mari. You’re mother and I know you’re cream. Don’t disappoint us again.” His grip felt cold and distant, his gaze was even more so. I swallowed hard and nodded. He released me and said, “Get in a little studying before bed.” With that, he turned on his heel and left.
Every inch of me wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. They couldn’t know how trapped they made me feel, how smothered I was. I pushed the door shut and went to the computer not thinking about what I was doing. Before I knew it, I was on the Day Jones page and clicking play on his song, letting Trystan’s voice fill my head. I laid down on my bed, clutching the pillow, crying into it, as the song played softly and drowned out my sobs.
There were so many things that I wanted to say to my parents, but I couldn’t. They both worked non-stop trying to give me everything they never had. They acted like I was an adult with some things and a child with other things. I just wished they’d see Mari, their daughter. I wished they saw how much I liked art and how much I didn’t want to dedicate my life to something I wasn’t passionate about. It left me, their only child, alone. From the time I turned twelve, I’d spent more days alone than with them. Last year, their work schedules lined up and they were pleased. It meant they’d get more time together, but it also meant I saw them less. They worked four days on, three days off. For the days they were gone, I was on my own, and they were proud they had such a self-sufficient child.
Tears chilled my face, as they sank into my pillow. I couldn’t stand it anymore. For once, I wished I wasn’t me, that I didn’t feel the way I felt about everything. I wished I could just hook up with a random guy and not hand over a piece of my heart. It would help me forget the things that I tried so hard not to remember. No matter what happened, in a year, I knew if I didn’t fight for my life, I’d be stuck on this path forever, living the life my father wanted—not the one I wanted.
Pushing off the bed, I looked at the screen. More comments, more pleas for Day to play another song, reveal his name, post a pic, anything—and they all went unanswered.
Emotional insanity compelled me to do it. Staring at the screen, I typed in one word at a time. I watched as my fingers wrote something I would never say, something I never tried before. I wanted to know if it helped take away the sting, if that was why he did it.
WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE TO SLEEP WITH SOMEONE YOU DON’T LOVE?
My hands hovered over the keyboard. I hesitated to post it. Trystan would know it was me. There was no way he wouldn’t, and since he didn’t answer anyone, what was the point? But I wanted to know. Maybe his way of dealing with life was better. Maybe a random hookup didn’t leave everyone feeling hollow inside. Maybe that was just me and I could get over it.
My pointer finger smacked the enter button hard. The key clicked and the message posted.
CHAPTER 9
~TRYSTAN~
By the time Trystan was safe in his room, it was late. Out of habit, he grabbed the old laptop and turned it on. The machine made a hissing noise, followed by something that sounded like Cookie Monster munching gravel. It came from inside his hard drive, and Trystan knew the laptop wouldn’t last much longer, but the machine finally turned on. The screen flared to life and he checked his Facebook page, stopping by Mari’s page to look at her picture for a second, and then moving onto the Day Jones’ YouTube page. Although he vowed to stay away from it, he couldn’t. It was too insane how quickly it’d grown, how many people liked the song.
He didn’t read every post. Instead he read a handful of new comments. One post that was in bold type caught his eye. The rest of the comments were of the same vein, but this one was different. His heart clenched when he read it. It had to be Mari. It had to be.
There was no way to know for certain, but he could feel it tugging on his gut like a guitar string. The girl who wanted every kiss to have profound meaning was asking for pointers on sleeping around? That didn’t make sense. It pained him, cutting through his core, like he’d been cleaved in half. Trystan’s breath was ragged, as he stared at the screen.
Answer her.
Trystan’s fingers twitched, dying to respond. He wasn’t sure if she was scolding him or asking him how to get started. A sick feeling crept up from his gut and lodged itself in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to force it down, but it wouldn’t go away. Every part of him said that this was Mari, this was her question.
Trystan’s fingers tapped out a response on the keyboard. Carefully constructing his reply, he crafted each word so she’d know. His answer was plain and simple. There were no excuses or pleas, just the naked truth. Trystan’s finger hovered above the button. He wanted to click, he wanted to post the reply, but it was so risky. There were ways to track things back to him. He knew that, and with the number of people trying to find him, Trystan couldn’t click.
He deleted his post and closed the laptop, knowing that he had to wait until tomorrow. He’d ask her when he showed her what he was working on. The thought made him feel better. Lying back on his bed, Trystan pictured her face as he sang. The memory was burned into his brain and he loved it. Closing his eyes, he could see her face, her brown eyes filled with curious flecks of gold surrounded by a cascade of curls that were soft as silk.
Trystan closed his eyes and for once, fell asleep with a smile on his lips.
_____
Trystan heard his dad moving around when he was finishing up in the shower. Damn it. He’d taken too long. Toweling off fast, Trystan pulled on a pair of tattered jeans and a tee shirt. His clothing had seen better days. He hid it by layering his shirts with a flannel or button down shirt. He let the front hang open, which still gave him that neatly messy look.
Before he could reach the door, his father’s voice rang in his ears, “I’ve got tickets to the hockey game this weekend. I thought me and you could go.” His voice sounded softer than usual. Trystan turned slowly, carefully, and looked his old man over. “It’d be like old times.”
“What old times were those?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t.
Trystan’s dad looked down and sighed. He was wearing a gray suit with a jewel-toned blue tie. It brought out his eyes. Damn, they looked alike. It made Trystan’s skin crawl to think he was turning into his dad. He wanted nothing to do with him. Starting a new life somewhere else was a dream. He thought about it day and night. The only think holding him here was Mari. How many times had Trystan wanted to run? How many times did he nearly walk away and leave everything? Too many, he thought bitterly.
“Don’t be like that. I do the best I can. This was something I could do. Give me another chance, kid. I promise you—”
“Your promises don’t mean much. Not anymore. I’m not the little kid who used to wait for your approval. I gave up on you a long time ago. There’s no point in pretending... not anymore. As soon as I graduate, I’m gone and I’m never coming back.”
“Trystan... ,” Dad said, stepping toward him. It was hard to look his father over, hard to see how normal he seemed in the light of day. Wearing that suit, smiling that smile, he could be any nice guy, but Trystan knew better. He was the jaded drunk who’d hit him faster than he could blink.
“It’s okay, Dad. There’s no need to pretend anymore.”
His father look genuinely confused, “Pretend what?”
Trystan was so disgusted that he couldn’t even say it. Pretend you care about me—pretend you love me. Instead, he closed his eyes and shook his head. Trystan turned on his heel and left without another word.
By the time Trystan got to school, he was late. He sat down in homeroom, but Tucker didn’t say anything. No commentary on his tardy, no threat to dock his grade.
When the bell rang at the end of class, Tucker stopped him, “Mr. Scott.”
Trystan stopped. He stared straight ahead, not wanting to look at the man. It was like Tucker had radar for screwed-up students, and he was sniffing out what was wrong with Trystan. The thought made his skin grow cold and clammy. No one could know that part of his life. Ever. And Tucker was getting way too close to the truth.
Tucker waited for the other students to pass, “Want to tell me why you were late today?”
Trystan shrugged, “Had better things to do.”
Tucker hmmmfed, but didn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he said, “I’ll check on you and Mari later today. You’re a good kid, Scott, but you need to be careful. You’re walking the line and it’s too damn thin—too easy to fall on the wrong side.”
Trystan’s gaze lifted and met Tucker’s. He wanted to say, You don’t know what you’re talking about—you haven’t lived my life, but he was silent. Trystan nodded once and walked out, leaving Tucker watching his back as the room filled with the next class.
Trystan sat through his classes, not paying attention to anything. The lump in his throat didn’t abate last night. It didn’t fade while he slept. His concern over Mari’s question twisted into worry. What if she was really asking? What if she intended to sleep with someone she didn’t care about? What could he do about it?
Nothing, he thought, gripping his pencil so hard that it snapped. The crack was audible. Trystan ignored the looks of his classmates, including Seth who sat shaking his head next to him.
After the bell rang, Seth walked out next to him, “Thought you would have hit that last night, but obviously you didn’t. What happened to promising to stay away from her?” he said referring to Mari. “Do your promises mean nothing?” there was a joking quality to his voice, but it hit way too close to home for Trystan.
Trystan rounded on his friend, shoving Seth’s shoulders hard. Surprised by the sudden hostility, Seth flew back into the lockers, tripping several students in the process. When his back slammed against the metal doors, Seth’s face pinched with anger, “What the fuck, man?” Seth stood and walked back toward Trystan, shoving him back. Trystan tried to keep walking, but Seth wouldn’t shut up, “She’s nothing but a bitch,” he enunciated the word, spitting it at his friend’s back, “a tease,” he said it slowly, but Trystan still didn’t turn. Seth’s anger got the best of him and he added, “A little cun—” but before Seth could finish speaking, Trystan was on him.
The word made him snap. No one could call Mari that. Trystan threw his books to the floor and charged Seth, ramming his shoulder into Seth’s stomach. The two slammed into a group of lockers. Trystan’s fists punched into Seth’s sides, one after the other. Seth screamed at him, returning every punch, but Trystan was a better fighter. After years of beatings, he knew how to take a hit. His body moved, taking Seth’s shots in less vulnerable places or moving out of the way, so Seth’s fists missed Trystan entirely.
It didn’t take long for a group of kids to circle around them. They chanted fight, fight, fight.
Trystan thought that was stupid, standing around them in a circle and cheering them on to fight. What do they think we were doing? Dancing? Just as the thought entered his mind, Seth’s fist connected with his stomach. Trystan folded in half and rammed Seth with his shoulder. Neither of them could breathe. Blood dripped down Trystan’s lip and he wondered if it was his.
Before anything else could happen, Tucker stepped between them, yanking them apart. “Get to class!” Tucker yelled at the crowd. The kids groaned, slowly walking away when they realized there was nothing else to see. Tucker glanced at Trystan with a look of exasperation on his face, “Get to where you’re going, Scott. Seth, my room. Now.”
“You’re just gonna let Trystan walk?” Seth argued, following after Tucker but looking over at Trystan with malice. His broad shoulders were tense, the muscles in his arms still taut and ready to punch something. This wasn’t over. That much Trystan knew.
Tucker didn’t look back. He walked
at a pace that was fast for him, forcing Seth to keep up and release some that anger burning in his body. He snapped over his shoulder, “Scott’s already taken care of; you on the other hand need some guidance. Not another word or I hand this mess over to the principle and you both get suspended. Rumor has it that one more suspension gets you expelled.” Seth groaned dramatically and trailed behind Tucker and out of sight.
Trystan headed straight for the stage, rage still flowing through his muscles. He couldn’t control himself. He’d never hit Seth like that before. They’d rough-housed, wrestled and that kind of thing, but this was a fight. Trystan threw punches not caring where they landed, as long as they did some harm. He couldn’t process what was happening. Up until then, Seth had been his best friend. The guy always had his back, but this was insane. It was like he was forbidding Trystan to be with Mari, like Seth would make him choose between them.
What kind of friend would do that? Maybe he missed something. Maybe it wasn’t what it looked like, because it looked an awful lot like jealousy—but that didn’t make any sense. Seth didn’t like Mari. Trystan’s arms were still tense. His fingers clenched over and over again trying to work it out, as he bounded up the stage stairs and walked behind the wing. It was dark, as usual. He made his way to the basement door and pulled it open.
Descending swiftly, Trystan stopped at the bottom to see Mari with her legs hanging over the end of the couch and her dark hair fanned around her beautiful face. The little white tee shirt she wore clung to her body. He watched her chest rise slowly, as she drew in a breath. Mari’s eyes were closed like she was daydreaming, thinking about something wonderful. The way her pink lips pulled up slightly at the corners gave her a ghost of a smile. Her foot swung and he was treated to a full smile, though he didn’t know the cause.
