Fade to White

by Tara K Ross

I ignore the pulsed buzzing and ask what is likely a stupid question to distract from the noise. “What format are most of the tests in university?”

  With the last bite of bread, I push back my chair, ready to carry my plate to the sink. Mom’s trance of pretend interest is broken. “Aren’t you going to have any lasagna?”

  “No, I’m going to pass this time.” Why are you passing, Thea? “I’m thinking dairy products might be disrupting my … sleep.”

  Her head tilts, waiting for an explanation.

  “It was suggested I cut dairy out for a while.” This is not a complete lie. Dr Kowalski made no such claim, but the Wikipedia link on Instagram did report sleep can be affected by lactose intolerance. And sleep disturbances are common with anxiety, so really this makes perfect sense.

  “I doubt it’s a major factor, honey.” Mom clears her throat. “Next time, can you let me know before I spend all afternoon making lasagna?”

  “Of course.” I stare down at my empty plate. Nice, Thea. Reject the one meal Dad attempts to compliment. “Sorry, Mom. I don’t think it will go to waste,” I say as Tom and Dad reach for seconds—no wait, thirds.

  “I guess cheesecake wouldn’t tempt you to stick around?”

  Dang it. I love cheesecake. Why did I claim bowel issues? “No, I think I’ll have to pass. But thanks for dinner.” I escape to the kitchen before she offers to pull an apple strudel out of the freezer. Any other weekend I’d have gladly engulfed dessert. But right now, I have a more pressing engagement.

  It doesn’t take long for me to pack my bag with what I can salvage from my room. I swipe my jacket from the front hall hooks and yell goodbye. The front door creaks open, and I expect to feel sweet release. Instead, I hesitate at the sight of the thick darkness that has settled between the streetlamps. A gentle mist drifts through the streams of light, guiding my strained vision to the reflective glare on the asphalt. Ever since I fell hard on black ice when I was nine, I have held an irrational fear of ice when it reemerges each winter. Today, the reflection of surrounding house lights and street lamps dots the slick surface. Two blinding comets from an approaching car overtake the dots. My body slams against the doorframe. It’s like déjà vu again. A touch to my shoulder sends a cascade of goose bumps down my spine. Mom keeps her hand in place despite my flinch. “Is everything all right, honey?”

  The car races past and the shivers recede. I force a smile. “Yeah, just not used to the dark coming so early.”

  “Want me to drive you?”

  “No, Ash’s just around the corner. Eat some cheesecake for me. I’ll be fine.” I reach back to the hooks and grab my scarf. After I wrap it around my neck, the wool helps to lower my shoulders to a more relaxed position. “I’ll be home by eleven.”

  I kiss her on the cheek and step out into the bitter night.

  “Don’t forget we need to leave for your session by eight thirty tomorrow.”

  I totally forgot. “Don’t worry. I’ll be up by eight.”

  “Love you.” Her voice rises as if she has a desperate need for me to return the sentiment. “And watch out for the black ice.”

  She hasn’t forgotten about my irrational ice fears either. “Love you too, and I will.”

  Tom’s easy laughter travels from the dining room, the only uplifting tone I’ve heard all week from this family. It’s frustrating that, despite sharing the same genetics as me, Tom seems completely immune to any psychological issues. He probably doesn’t even realize how each of his boisterous taunts pops a bit more of my bubble-wrapped exterior. If only he knew how fragile I’ve become lately. He doesn’t even seem affected by Malin’s death, and he must have heard by now. He was only a year ahead of her. Meanwhile, here I am, needing therapy. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mom. Can you do me a favor?”

  She hugs herself and nods with a slowness that seems deliberate.

  “Can we keep my sessions with Dr. Kowalski on the DL?”

  “Sure, sweetie. I can do that for you.”

  In unison, we both draw lines across pursed lips. When Tom and I were at our height of sibling rivalry, Mom and I zipped secrets away on a weekly basis.

  An overwhelming urge comes over me to attempt Tom’s bear hug. Then the image of us both concussed on the icy front steps ruins that idea. Instead, I touch two fingers to my upturned lips. The glisten in her eyes confirms she has received my appreciation. If I can’t have a sister, at least I have a mom who’s pretty awesome. Sometimes. She is still forcing me to get up on a Saturday. To see a shrink. With whom she may flirt in front of me. No amount of cheesecake or secrets will completely trounce that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ashley lives in a builder home like almost everyone in Ridgefield. However, her cookie cutter is the gingerbread show home of the neighborhood, complete with licorice spindles and gumdrop bushes. The sight of her perfect silhouette framed in her bedroom window makes me feel as though I’m walking into a show-home photograph. As I approach her front steps, she welcomes me with a frenetic flapping of hands and then bounds out of her room. Her family seems to have no concerns for privacy or conservation. Each professionally decorated room is visible from the outside at any hour of the day. Today, their family room showcases her dad lounging in a wingback chair and her mom painting her nails. Mrs. Dixon joins in the frenetic welcome, but with a freshly polished foot. She lowers her tissue-entwined feet and wobbles in the direction of their front entryway.

  Their decorative glass door swings open to Ashley’s wide smile, her teeth flashing like Chiclets. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got it.”

  The koala in Ashley reemerges, and I’m dragged across the threshold. I stand firm long enough to fling my runners onto the edge of a new Persian entry rug.

  “What gives? Your mud mat is now nicer than our family room carpet.” Yeah, that should have stayed an internal thought.

  Mrs. Dixon waddles toward us and leans in for my cheek. “Thea, always nice to see you. Let me fix y’all up some—”

  A constricted smile squashes Ashley’s Chiclets. “Mom, I said not tonight, all right?”

  Then her mom wobbles to the stairs. Is she attempting to stabilize herself or block her koala offspring from escaping? “But I’ve got the best cherry pie from—”

  “Mom, I’ve already had two servings this week, and Thea just finished supper.” She pats her mom on the shoulder as we squeeze past.

  With a slow eye roll, Mrs. Dixon totters back toward her husband and then stops. “Well, let me just make y’all some sweet—”

  “No, Mom.”

  “Thanks for the offer though, Mrs. D,” I say, already dragged halfway inside Ashley’s bedroom. The door slams behind us and a click brings my attention to the handle. “How did you get a lock on your door?”

  “My dad.” She has always been able to work her dad better than I can work mine. She sits at her desk, and the next track on her K-pop playlist blares through her room. “I gave him an easy choice—grant me a physical barrier or listen to his ladies argue during golf highlights.”

  I plunk myself down on her four-poster bed. “Come on. She’s not that bad.” Usually, I would not be the one to defend Mrs. Dixon, but her offer of dessert rehashed my own mom-guilt. Not to mention I would have loved cherry pie. Ashley’s head tilts to one side, as though my comment has caused her neck to spasm.

  “Okay, so she may be a little overbearing, but at least you know she’s concerned for your basic needs. Like dessert consumption?”

  “I suppose.” She sizes up my shoddily stuffed backpack. Like she would at the discount bin at Forever 21, she rummages through my sad assortment of tank tops and shirts, stopping only when arriving at my one preteen bra. “Apparently your mom doesn’t feel undergarments are basic needs.” She tugs it out of my bag and holds it between her thumb and pointer finger as if it might bite her.

  “I warned you.” I rip it out of her fingers and stuff it back into my bag. “This is why I so unabashedly asked for your help.”

&nbs
p; “Unabashedly?” Ashley pronounces it like a foreign word. “Is that something out of the script?”

  “Argh.” I flop backwards. “Just help me to not be me.”

  She disappears into her walk-in closet while I attempt to bury my embarrassment within her throw pillows. Her less-than-subtle throat-clearing forces me to peer through my paisley shield. She stands like a DIY YouTube star, showcasing a denim shirt, black shiny leggings, and what I can only imagine is a push-up bra. It appears to already have someone else’s chest in it. With her other hand, she circles high-heeled boots around like a carrot I should want to chomp.

  “So, I had a little time while I was waiting for you and honestly think this’ll be perfect.” A twinkle actually appears in her eyes, or maybe it’s just a reflection from the ornate chandelier hanging near her face. “Try it on.” She thrusts the hanger toward me, and I know, much like her mom, “no” will not be an acceptable answer.

  Five minutes and several rounds of encouragement and coercion later, I emerge from the closet wearing Ashley’s idea of perfection.

  “Keep your eyes closed.” I remind her of our negotiation.

  She still has a sequined pillow covering her face, so I wobble across the room to her full-length mirror. I will emulate either a wannabe biker chick or a backup dancer from Mom’s workout videos. Neither seems like a win, but I step in front of the mirror, head cocked sideways, waiting to recognize myself. Somehow, a few pieces of clothing and these two-inch suede death traps have transformed my entire appearance. For the better.

  “Are you ready yet?” Ashley’s muffled voice asks from behind her pillow.

  “Yeah. Do not let this go to your head, but I may love it.” I spin around and catch myself on the corner of her rug, and my intended hug turns in to a headfirst topple toward her bed. She shrieks and rolls sideways, narrowly avoiding a headbutt to her rear. Girl giggles fill the room like a sitcom sleepover. Yep, we are that cliché.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She rights herself and surveys my feet. “Now we just need to teach you how to walk in those things.”

  “Just? Let’s start with how to stand, and I still need serious help with my hair and makeup.” I roll toward the mirror.

  “Good thing we have an amateur makeup artist for a friend.”

  I slap both my cheeks. “Is Jade coming?” When I spoke with her after school, she said her mom wasn’t letting her skip Mandarin class again.

  “Well, if it ain’t Jade downstairs, then some complete stranger is getting strong-armed into eating cherry pie.”

  Only when the current track ends do I take note of Mrs. Dixon’s singsong voice accosting a silent victim. Feet thump up the stairs and the handle jiggles against the lock.

  Before Ashley has a chance, I push past her toward the door. “Let me open it. I want to see her face.”

  On more or less steady feet, I strut to the door, unclick the lock, and fling the door open to meet Jade’s face directly. I attempt a classic selfie pose with fish lips for full effect. And freeze. Jade’s dark eyes are not laughing, shocked, or even mildly amused by my new look. There is a dullness to her already pale skin that is only increased against her black coat. Her shoulders hunch, which is typical for school-Jade, but not at all like Jade when away from the masses and amongst her friends.

  “What’s wrong?” I move aside to let her enter. She carries a glass plate of half-eaten pie as though it were a ball and chain and heaves her body next to Ashley on the bed.

  “The school called my parents and left a message on the house phone.”

  “About what?” I take the pie and sit down at Ashley’s desk, already lifting a piece to devour.

  “I got caught …” she hesitates, “… cheating in math.”

  With a full mouth I yell, “What? How is that even possible? We’re usually the ones cheating off you.”

  Jade rubs her eyelids, smearing eyeliner beyond repair. “That’s just it. Everyone thinks I’m a know-it-all, the gifted daughter—the next in line for Finance Minister. I needed to keep up the front.”

  I sit down on her other side and wrap my arm around her. “You are smart, Jade. You don’t need to keep up any fronts. My dad came to accept that I won’t be following in his footsteps. Yours will too.”

  “You don’t understand. There are no other footsteps to him. He worked so hard to get where he is. To him, my art is only a hobby. If I don’t get the math award this year, I’m screwed. He’s already threatened to put me in tutoring on Saturdays, and then I’ll have to quit my art classes. And if I don’t get the extra time in the art studio, there is no chance I can build my portfolio strong enough to get a scholarship. I’ll end up having to take business or pre-law.” She takes a swipe at her nose. “I had to find a way to guarantee the highest grade. I needed to get the assignments and test answers.”

  “But how?” Ashley thrusts a tissue box at her.

  Jade scrunches her face like she just bit into a slice of lemon, and then tears finally flow. “I didn’t think … I didn’t think it would … that he would ask that …”

  Ashley and I glance at each other, shaking our heads in mutual confusion. I rub Jade’s back and wait until she has attempted to fix her mascara. “You didn’t think ...?”

  She twists and untwists the blackened tissue. “You need to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  We both nod. This is so unlike her. Of the three of us, she’s always been low drama and predictable. Sure, she has her completely unfounded insecurities about her height and stunning features, which, to be honest, is more than a tad annoying. But when it comes to academics, she’s always seemed so in control.

  She pulls out her phone and searches through her photos, stopping on a picture of one of her drawings. Along with rocking it in math, she’s also gifted with drawing. In particular, she sketches people like a da Vinci prodigy. She has an amazing ability to capture beauty in the body and posture of others, and as her friends, we have often been the subjects of her portraits. She passes us the phone. “They start here and go forward.”

  We swipe through a few self-portraits of Jade sitting at a desk.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “These are just drawings of you. What does this have to do with cheating?”

  “Keep going.” Her foot begins to tap. “This guy at school said he really liked my drawings and asked to keep that one.” She points toward the third picture in the sequence. “He got a hundred on his last math test, so I thought sure, I can trade a sketch and get help on the next assignment. He agreed, but when I asked again, he wanted a new sketch. One of me wearing that white blouse I bought in the summer.”

  How could I forget that blouse? When Ashley assisted us with back-to-school shopping, she spotted the blouse and insisted both Jade and I should try it on. Where it gapped and pulled on all my curves, it hung gracefully for Jade.

  I continue to swipe through the drawings. They become progressively more revealing.

  “He gave me the first half of the assignment and said if I drew him another he would give me the rest, and it just kept going. He offered to botch questions on purpose to let me get the top marks. He even got me the last midterm ahead of time. And that’s where we got caught.” Her voice cracks.

  “How?” I ask.

  “Mr. Miller changed one of the questions, but I didn’t notice because I was so nervous about remembering the ones I’d memorized. And he had committed the same answers to memory too, so we both had the right answer for the old question.”

  Ashley asks, “So who is this jerk?”

  Jade stares down at her pile of tattered tissues and whispers, “Evan.”

  My mouth opens wide. Ashley surpasses all niceties and blurts out, “But he’s a pothead.”

  “A very smart, manipulative pothead,” I add.

  “Who now hates me.” Jade breaks into fresh tears. “He texted me and said he also got a call from school. And that’s not the worst. I’m the reason Nora freaked out and wants to break up with hi
m. She found one of my sketches in his notebook.”

  Ashley pulls the phone from my hand and swipes through the sketches. “You mean he has the paper versions of these? Which one did Nora see?”

  “I don’t know.” Her leg bounces uncontrollably. “That’s the scary part. He won’t respond to any of my messages. I don’t know if she has it now or if he got it back or what he did with the rest of them. What if he posts them on—”

  “Wait. You said Nora found it in his notebook?” I run over to my bag and rifle through its contents.

  “What are you doing, Thea?” Ashley moves to peer over my shoulder.

  “Dang it.” In my rushed cleanup effort, I must have taken out everything from school to make more room for the embarrassing girlie items. “I think I might have something that can help, but it’s not here.”

  “What?” they say in unison.

  “Evan’s sketchbook.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Aromas, so vivid, trump all my other senses: wafts of cinnamon and burning wood, and the distinct smell of long-forgotten textbooks. A continual shifting of images lets me know I’m dreaming. But, unlike normal dreams, my vision is not as dominant as my other senses. Like touch. A hard seat is beneath me, smooth and yet ridged, like ripples of sand against the surf. The moment feels so real, like a distant memory. And yet, I can’t place it in my past. Filtered light of blue and green surrounds me, though I can’t focus on a source. But it warms my body from my face down. My fingertips slide along the ridges and hit a book. My heartbeat quickens. Evan’s notebook? No, this is different. When I open its cover, delicate pages spiral forward. The fanning slows to a natural rest on a page with no pictures. Only a small, unfocused font. A deep melodic voice fills the air, and through the incomprehensible words, my heartbeat steadies to a slow, rhythmic pace. My entire body sighs with each breath. I feel weightless, as though I could float away. Float away ...

  Thump thump thump.

  And then I fall.

  Thump thump thump.

  My eyelids flutter. None of it was real. I bury my head under my pillow and attempt to recover the dream state. But the light, the peace, the calm will not return.