For Blood & Glory

by Cassandra Hendricks

  Sefira’s bedroom was the only room in the house where she felt completely free to claim her feelings. Good or bad. She sighed as she entered her bedroom, the white wooden door slamming behind her. If only it were soundproof; she could shut out Randall’s voice for good.

  With a thump, her bags landed on the wooden floor as she plopped down on her mattress. It jiggled under her weight as she stared at her reflection from the mirrored-dresser opposite her. Funny how quickly things could change. The girl in the mirror looked totally different than the one she’d glimpsed twenty minutes earlier in Kaetano’s car. Her thick brows were furrowed; lips formed a pout; and a steady stream of tears rained from her large, almond-shaped eyes, leaving streaks of liquid sorrow on her cocoa skin.

  She had come to expect such outbursts from Randall. From the very beginning they’d mixed about as well as oil and water. It was as if she were something of a nuisance to him. A thorn he picked at and was constantly trying to dislodge from his heel. He blamed her for everything. If it rained, it was her fault. Somewhere in that mixed up head of his, she alone was responsible for the breakup of Celeste and Richard. If he wasn’t talking about it, he was insinuating it and he mentioned it so often that even Sefira started to wonder if there were a kernel of truth to the tale. Anyway, she could deal with Randall’s antics, but mom was a different story.

  From the day they met, Celeste welcomed her with open arms and Sefira needed that. She was young when she was whisked away from her real mother and befuddled as to the reason why. It was as if her entire world had been pulled from underneath her feet and she had nothing to brace her fall. She’d landed into deep depression, mistrust and terror at the thought of being alone. And alone she was—for a while, until the day Celeste walked into her life. This new mom was all smiles and dimples. Upbeat and stable. Everything her birth mother was not.

  It took time and a lot of patience on Celeste’s part for Sefira to come around and embrace the idea of having a new family. According to her therapist, she was still adjusting after all these years. Struggling with trust, control and rejection issues which eventually lead to her “hiccup”.

  Turning her arm inward, she studied the small space of her forearm where it bent at the elbow. Her skin had healed, but she could still make out the fine dark marks she had tediously made when her anxiety had gotten the better of her. “Cutting” wasn’t something she had intended to do. It just kind of—happened.

  The day they found her in the bathtub was all one big misunderstanding. Yes, she’d cut, but she hadn’t meant to cut so deep. Ever since that day she’d been on some sort of a permanent suicide watch and anytime she was sad or worried she sensed anxiety in her mother.

  If she could take all of that back, she would. Not only did it nearly drive her mother insane, but it took a toll on everyone else as well. It was hard coming back from something like that, but she tried by immersing herself into countless hours of studying and trying to do the best she could to make her mom proud. As far as cutting was concerned, therapy helped her kick the habit and she’d taken to chewing her nails instead—icky but benign; making the conversation she’d overheard that much harder to swallow. As hard as she’d tried, she still hadn’t earned her mother’s confidence. Maybe Randall’s right. Maybe I am a nuisance.

  She moved a couple decorative pillows to the floor and folded the clothes from this morning that she’d decided not to wear, placing them at the foot of her bed. After a quick shake and fluff of her regular pillows she leaned back, elbows digging into her mattress. Using her feet, she kicked off her shoes and gently lifted both legs onto the bed as she sank, staring at the ceiling, then at the rest of her room.

  Her room was a bit messier than usual. There was a window, slightly ajar on the wall near the foot of her bed so her drawn curtains looked as if they were breathing when the wind blew. When the curtains parted, the sun’s rays danced upon the wooden desk and chair below, the latter of which was loaded with more laundry she hadn’t folded yet. Her desk was like a shrine to all things studious. It was filled with paperback books—some for school, a couple for pleasure, along with a small laptop and a coffee mug she used as a pencil holder stuffed with pens, pencils and markers. To her left was the closet. She’d left it open, so clothes and hangers poked through the doors. She’d get to cleaning in a minute. For now, she just wanted to lie and mope, so she clasped her fingers together, folded her arms behind her head and did just that.

  Mulling was something she was good at. Probably got it from her birth mom, as she would brood often. Over what, she did not know. Delilah loved her, there was no doubt about that. In fact, she was overly protective. But every now and then her mother would get this far-off look in her dark eyes and would grow quiet. Very quiet. In those moments, Delilah seemed to drift to some far-off place where even Sefira couldn’t reach her. Over time, these—spells, became more frequent and when her mother would return to reality sometimes she was a different person.

  Sefira sighed recalling one particular day when she and her mother visited Squeaky Clean Laundry. It was hot that day—sometime in the middle of the summer. She remembered the soft sheen of sweat glistening off of her mother’s forehead that worsened when they entered the stuffy laundromat. Sefira perspired as well. Every few minutes she tugged on her one-piece shorts jumpsuit to keep it from sticking to her belly.

  Despite the heat, her mother had been cheerful and promised her that they would go for ice cream afterward. Excepting a couple of folks, the laundromat was fairly empty, so it didn’t take long to get a few loads done. Sefira pulled the last of their clothes from the dryer and loaded them in a cart while Delilah folded the remainder on a table nearby. Those old carts were hard to steer, but Sefira managed to get it to her mother all by herself without bumping into anything or anyone. Feeling accomplished, she offered to top off the day by helping her mother fold clothes when she noticed her mother frozen with a towel in her hand. “Mommy?” She tugged on Delilah’s arm but her mother didn’t answer or even acknowledge her. Instead she stood there, her slender face still, with a mouth slightly agape. Sefira knew the look and decided to leave her alone.

  Quarters raked across the table as she piled them into her palms and walked over to the Pac-man video game in the corner of the store. The tink of the quarters falling through the coin slot excited her. As she waited for the game to load, a man approached. She could still recall his grin. Wide with speckled brown teeth. She’d seen him at the laundromat on other occasions as well and he seemed fairly harmless. He declared that this particular day was a lucky one for her, as he handed her a bright green sucker. Why did he do that? Delilah could move like a whisper in the wind and that day was no exception. Before she knew it, mommy had the wiry man pinned against a washer with fingers wrapped around his stubbled throat. “Reach for my daughter again and you’ll have no hand with which to do so.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide and when Delilah withdrew her hand there was a bright red ring around his neck. Needless to say, she never saw the man again and was told to heed mommy’s warning—trust no one.

  Tired of brooding, Sefira decided a distraction was long overdue. She picked up the cordless phone from her nightstand, pushed the talk button and dialed her best friend’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Zada, it’s me? What you up to?” asked Sefira. “Watchin’ TV, but I need to start on this homework. I swear Mr. Sands is like a sadist or something. What about you?” she asked, munching on something crunchy.

  “Nothing much.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  No matter how hard Sefira tried to mask her feelings, she could never shimmy past Zada the “all-knowing”. Sefira straddled the phone between her shoulder and ear, deciding to evade the question. She didn’t want to “talk”, she just wanted mindless conversation. “Nothing. What are you eating?”

  “A futile attempt to change the conversation. What happened?” asked Zada.

  Sefira sucked her teeth. “I fe
el like such a baby whining to you about stupid stuff.”

  “Let me be the judge of what’s stupid. Something’s on your mind, I can hear it in your voice. Spit it out.”

  “I just—I think maybe there’s something about me that rubs people the wrong way.”

  Zada was silent. “Really? Okay, you’re right. That’s stupid.”

  “Seriously, it’s like everywhere I go, I make enemies.”

  “Is this about that girl? Did she do something to you? Because you know I’ll come down there and open up a can of whoop-ass real quick.”

  Sefira cut her off. “It’s not just her. I mean, I’ve been living with the Carringtons for almost eight years now and Randall hates me, Celeste doesn’t trust me…”

  Zada stopped her there and cited all the reasons why she was blowing things out of proportion and how girls were just jealous (of what Sefira didn’t know); Randall was silly and her mom was just concerned. After she tied all of that up in a neat little bow, she was eager to change the subject and so was Sefira.

  Zada’s raucous chewing resumed. “So, what else is goin’ on?” she asked. “There’s gotta be some kind of silver-lining.”

  “Well, remember that guy I was telling you about? The one with the football?”

  “Model boy. Yeah.”

  Sefira nestled further into her pillows, absentmindedly fingering her braids, realizing that she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about Kaetano. “He drove me home today.”

  Zada choked.

  “Are you okay?” asked Sefira.

  “Yeah,” she muttered between coughs. After sipping something she resumed, clearer. “You said what, now? The muscle-bound man of mystery drove you home?”

  “His name is Kaetano and yeah, he drove me home.”

  “Really? Well it’s about time my little rose bud started to bloom.”

  Sefira could tell she was smiling on the other end of the receiver. “Well, don’t leave me hangin’? How did this happen? Details!” Zada’s crunching pierced Sefira’s ears. She pulled the phone slightly away from her face and repositioned herself as to get a better view of her knee, twisting it from side to side. The bruise had settled into a deep violet intermixed with ash grey. Didn’t look too good, but she’d be okay. No matter what, she wouldn’t allow Giselle to stop her from pursuing track or a friendship with Kaetano—if that’s what she wanted. That being said, there was really no reason to tell Zada the entire truth. She could handle this on her own. Besides, if Zada knew the truth she might just make good on her promise and open up that can.

  “He drove me home because I’m a total klutz and fell during track practice. Giselle was there. Anyway, he offered to take me home and he was—I don’t know—nice.”

  “Aww, the old damsel in distress routine. I told you—works like a charm. And that girl was there too? She must be seething. Serves her right.” She laughed. “Well for heaven’s sake don’t run him off, Sefira. Let’s see where this goes.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Just take my advice for once. Anyway, now that you’re on the fast track for love, I hope it won’t get in the way of what I’m about to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Okay, so check this out. My cousin invited me to a Halloween party at SCU Saturday night. Girl, I’m coming out your way. See if you can get your mom to let you go.”

  “Please, she would never let me go to a college party.”

  “It’s not like it’s a frat party or something. They’ve got school security and everything. Plus, your mom thinks Nora’s a nerd. Just tell her she’ll show you around the college or something. Trust me, it’s gonna be fun. Think of all the college boys.”

  “I told you about that….”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Zada, taking another bite out of whatever the heck she was eating. “Don’t think of all the hot college boys, then. Just come kick it with me. If there were even the slightest element of danger my parents would never let me go, so don’t worry.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Sefira pulled the receiver further away from her ear to get a reprieve, then continued. “What are you eating?”

  “Spicy pork rinds.” She sipped something, clearing her throat. “And they’re kickin’ my ass right about now.”

  Sefira laughed.

  “Aiight,” said Zada, “gotta get back to the homework. Kiss Cutie Man for me.”

  Sefira chuckled. “Bye.” The phone clicked as she pushed the end button and placed it on the charger. Zada meant well and she did cheer her up a bit, but all in all, nothing had changed. She was still lying on her bed alone, with a banged-up knee and a brother who hated her guts. She started to bite her nails and thought better of it. At some point, she was going to have to do something about Giselle before things got worse. But what?

  Blythe

  An alarm clock went off, but Blythe remained in bed, still groggy from the night before.

  “Hey, time to get up. You’ve got 30 minutes.”

  Blythe didn’t move. So what if she were late again, it’s not like she was getting an attendance award anytime soon. Her neck felt stiff, and her body was tired. The sheets fell off of her as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. What time did I get in, anyway? Three? Four? She couldn’t even say she had fun. She was out with Binx and Lauren again, smoking and getting into clubs she had no business frequenting. It was starting to get old, actually. Plus, things were getting…weird. Her body—it felt different somehow. Like it didn’t quite belong to her. When stuff like this came up, she used to confide in Natalie. She would understand and would help to navigate things. But Natalie wasn’t there anymore—only Fredo.

  Fredo wasn’t a bad dad, by any means. A matter of fact, he was great until Natalie passed. After that, he was a changed man—they both were. For starters, they didn’t communicate that well anymore and he took up drinking—the building blocks to addiction. Some days were heavier than others. That’s why Blythe was surprised he was up so early this morning. Sleeping in was a habit of his.

  “Twenty minutes,” Fredo barked from somewhere within their duplex.

  “Okay, okay. I’m up.” She’d fallen asleep with all her clothes on again; now she just felt icky. Reluctantly, she rose from her bed and grabbed a new set of clothes from her drawer. The new set were practically identical to the ones she was already wearing. Ripped black leggings, an oversized black sweatshirt and more of her trademark beads. Almost everything in her closet was either black, grey, worn or tattered. That was her thing, her comfort zone—it never occurred to her that it reflected her spirit.

  As there was no time for a shower this morning, she peeled off her old stuff and put on clean threads. The look wouldn’t be complete without her tall, silver-buckled, black lace-up boots. After brushing the sour taste of rum and coke out of her mouth and splashing water against her sand-tinted face, she quickly dried it and applied loads of her make-up trio—black eyeliner, mascara and red lipstick. The black popped against her almond-shaped green eyes and the lipstick accentuated the thickness of her bow-shaped lips. The stud in her nose was tight so she readjusted it, slipped a jacket over her tatted shoulders and was off.

  Nothing compared to walking the streets of LA. Every day was an adventure of sorts. This morning Blythe witnessed LA’s classic hallmarks—a loose Pit bull ran around scavenging for food; Louie the homeless man asked to bum a cigarette she didn’t want to give up and kids were everywhere. Most were in uniform, some were boarding buses and others were walking in directions where she knew there were no schools.

  The street noise was deafening—cars honking and making illegal turns; blasts of music here and there; sirens constantly blaring in the distance. The police and fire departments had great job security. On special occasions a car would slow down and some nameless guy would try to get a better look at her.

  Binx came into view as she approached the school. He was slightly taller than her—5’9” maybe, with a pinch of pudge. It was his hair that
gave him away. A spiked green Mohawk that she could now see needed trimming.

  “Hey, what up, B? I see you made it in this morning,” he said.

  “Yep. Tired though.” She wasn’t lying. Standing before him she could see he didn’t look much better off. First off, he had shades on, probably to mask his tired eyes. He hadn’t showered either. She could tell by the traces of glitter on his face from the girl he was hanging out with at the rave last night. For a junior in high school he had plenty of facial hair. The boy had a full-on beard and it was long enough to twist into two short braids. Compliments of his Pakistani grandfather, he’d said. But today it wasn’t groomed, it was a tangled mess.

  “You can’t be that tired. Your hair’s perfect,” said Lauren, a pale-faced girl with limp, slightly oily auburn hair that hung just past her shoulders. One of the most intriguing things about her was that she always wore a t-shirt and she rarely wore the same t-shirt twice. Thrift stores made that possible. Today’s shirt looked vintage trucker, pairing well with the red and black flannel tied around her waist and her inked blue jeans. The black combat boots she wore were compliments of the Westside mall. “We didn’t even get back till after three. When did you have time to put the red streaks in?”

  “You’re trippin’,” said Blythe, “it was like this last night—black with red streaks. Maybe it’s the pompadour that’s throwing you off. Check this out, though.” She pointed to the shaven sides of her head.

  Binx and Lauren leaned in.

  “What is that?” asked Binx with his face scrunched.

  “Hieroglyphics,” answered Lauren. “Right?”

  “Yeah, you like?” Blythe asked.

  “Dope,” answered Binx.

  “What’s it mean?” asked Lauren.

  “Hell if I know,” answered Blythe. They all started laughing.

  “Dude. Look at all those crows!” said Lauren, pointing up.

  Blythe gazed overhead. Lauren was right. A small legion of black crows had gathered on the power lines above them and more were convening on the tines of the metal gate surrounding the school. Oddly, they weren’t squawking, they were simply—there. Weird.