by A. M. Hudson
Vicki heaped another pile of butter-scented potatoes onto Mike’s plate. “So, what did you kids get up to today?”
“Watched movies,” I said with my mouth full.
“Anything good?” Dad asked, sprinkling salt on his dinner; Vicki just sighed at him as she sat down in the soft light of our candlelit dinner.
“Couple of oldies. Ara made me watch some black-and-white with a curly-haired kid in it,” Mike said.
Dad looked at me. “What movie?”
“Oh, um, Shirley Temple,” I said.
“Ah, yes, good ol’ Shirley.” Dad nodded.
“I used to love Shirley,” Vicki said dreamily. “I grew up watching those movies.”
Sam slid down in his seat. “You grew up watching the invention of the light bulb.”
“That’s enough, son,” Dad said sternly.
“Why the long face, Sam?” Mike asked, passing the peas to Vicki when she motioned for them.
“I got a B on my English paper…”
Big deal. At least you didn’t inadvertently tell your boyfriend you’re in love with another man.
“What’s wrong with a B?” Mike asked.
“Dad expects a B-plus-A-minus average,” I said and smiled at Dad.
“It’s not that I expect that, Ara-Rose,” Dad said, “I just know you’re both capable of it. If you aren’t achieving those results, it means you’re not applying yourselves.”
“But it isn’t my fault!” Sam dumped his elbow on the table. “Mr Benson hates me, he’s always in my face about stuff I—”
“Samuel. Teachers do not degrade papers based on their opinions of students,” Dad cut in. “You need to start accepting responsibility for yourself.” When he glared at the tabled elbow, Sam quietly removed it. “You got a B because you prioritised video games over homework.”
“Video games have more value to me than English homework, Dad. How will knowing what a verb is or deciphering Shakespeare get me a job out in the ‘real world’?”
“What do you want to do?” Mike asked, cutting off Dad’s large mouthful of Sam-serving air.
“Video game design,” Sam said into his chest.
“Cool.” Mike nodded.
Sam looked up. “Really? You think that’s cool?”
Mike looked at Dad; Dad sighed and separated himself from the conversation by pouring gravy. “Yeah. That’s a great business to get into—especially now with all the developments in graphics and, not to mention, you can actually make more money in the gaming industry than the film industry.”
“Dad doesn’t agree.” Sam’s eyes dropped their hopeful glimmer. “He says I need to be serious. That designing games isn’t gonna get me a stable income.”
Mike just laughed. “It won’t—if you don’t have a good education. How many companies do you think will hire a kid who can’t even commit to homework?”
Sam looked puzzled. “What difference will that make?”
“Because it’s not just about what you learn at school. It’s also about proving you have the ability to put your head down and do the work, especially if you care nothing for it. If you can’t do that, Sam, you don’t have the right to a job you love doing, and I can tell you—” Mike scoffed, “—even in a job you love, there’ll be moments you hate.”
Sam became smaller in his chair.
“Point is, mate, you work hard through the crap so you can enjoy the other eighty percent that’s good. Not to mention, if you want to design games, you will need English—and math.” Mike winked at me. “Creativity, passion, and some mad computer skills won’t be enough if you want a stable income. You need that piece of paper they call a degree. That’s all there is to it. So, in that way, your dad’s right. But—” he held a finger up while he shovelled a spoonful of potato in and swallowed, “—if you just do all the hard work while you have nothing else to worry about except being a kid, when you grow up and you want the job stability you care nothing for now, you won’t have to fight for it—it’ll be yours.”
Sam’s eyes changed, narrowed with thought, then he stood up and dumped his napkin on his beef and gravy.
“Sam, where are you going?” Vicki asked.
“I just realised I didn’t do my essay,” he called from the stairway before we all heard his bedroom door close.
Dad grinned and patted Mike on the shoulder.
Then, the conversation went on without me, while I pushed the food around on my plate. I just wanted to go upstairs and wait for David to come. Despite enjoying watching movies with Mike, I found myself checking the length of the shadows outside his window for most of the day—just waiting for night to fall.
“You okay, baby?” Mike asked quietly, leaning closer.
“Mm-hm.” I nodded, forcing a smile. “I’m just tired.”
“Maybe you should get an early night.” He pushed my fringe off my face.
Vicki held back a smile, watching us, then quickly looked at Dad.
“You do look a little tired,” Mike added after a lengthy silence.
I stared into his face with narrowed eyes. I wasn’t really tired at all. I just said that so I could excuse myself early to be with David. “Well, I feel tired,” I said, wondering if “you look tired” was guy-speak for “you look hideously haggard. Go see a beautician.”
“Well, why don’t you head up now and take a shower?” He nodded toward the archway. “Doesn’t look like you’re getting any closer to consuming your dinner by transforming it into a plate.”
I looked down at my canvas of mash and gravy. “Can’t yet. Gotta do the dishes first.”
“Ara—” Mike’s brows lifted, sarcasm hovering in his tone. “I’ll do the dishes for you. Just go get some rest.”
I shook my head. “No way. You’re a guest. Guests don’t do dishes, right, Dad?”
Dad looked at Mike, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not—if he’s offering.”
“Dad! You never side with me!”
“I’m sorry, Ara, but Mike’s not really a guest, is he?”
“Then what is he?”
“He’s practically family.”
My mouth hung open, allowing only a breathy scoff to show my disapproval.
“Besides, Ar, you always made me do the dishes at your old house,” Mike added with a cheeky grin.
“That’s different.” I bit my teeth together.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. ‘Cause it…it just is.”
“Ara?” Mike scratched his eyelid and sighed. “Go to bed.”
“Make me.” I folded my arms; he merely glared at me with one brow arched and a look of intent behind his half smile. “Argh, fine!” I stood up, slapping my napkin on the placemat. “You’re all traitors.”
As I reached the stairs, Mike’s laugh echoed out in response to some comment of Dad’s—probably about my mood swings.
Stuff it. As if I cared. They could have their little laugh—maybe they’d annoy me just enough to make me accept the offer to run away from all of them forever.
That’d show ‘em.
My room greeted me with the crisp scent of fresh linen under a diluted waft of coconut soap and strawberry shampoo. “David? You in here?” My gaze subconsciously flicked to the window; closed.
Maybe it was too early.
I took a shower, changed into some pyjamas and curled up in bed with a book. But I couldn’t focus. That dream I had last night—the ruby slippers, the bouquet, the look of acceptance on David’s face as he backed away—kept playing in my thoughts. And a gooey filling of dread burned a giant hole in my heart with its acid.
What if he wasn’t coming back? What if he took me literally—what if he thought I agreed with Fate’s decision?
The book landed on its side between my bed and the wall as I jumped up and, with rather quick steps, walked to the window and threw open the curtains.
No. No way. He promised he’d never leave without saying goodbye. He was just late, that was all.
In
one sweep, I sent my orderly homework into a spread of disarray over my laundry-rug, then climbed over the wood top and tucked myself into a ball against the cold glass of the window.
Pale blue light filtered in from the world outside and lit the edges of my desk and bed, casting soft shadows across my floor. The streetlight below seemed to sing loneliness down onto the vacant sidewalk, and clouds hijacked the stars from the sky. There was nothing out there that resembled life tonight, and strangely, though my heart was beating, there was nothing here that much resembled it either.
With a long, dejected sigh, I lowered my head onto my knees and closed my eyes.
A loud chime set my heart ablaze with a start; I looked up from my knees, instantly regretting having moved my stiff neck. I rubbed the top of my spine and looked around my room, then down into the street below, counting the chimes I heard in my head.
One, tw—There were only two. There should’ve been more than that. I came to bed at seven. It couldn’t be two in the morning.
My window was still shut fast into place, no sign of any vampire having entered, and as I rubbed the tingle of pins away from my toes, realisation sunk right into my heart. It really was two in the morning. David never came. He just left me here to fall asleep in the windowsill—by myself, cold and alone.
I buried my head in my arms, holding back the tears. What did I do to him? Why didn’t he come back to see me?
A tear rolled down past the tip of my nose and fell onto my thigh, trickling down into a salty pool on the windowsill.
It was the dream. It had to be. But that dream didn’t mean anything, and he didn’t even give me a chance to explain.
The gentle sobs of my heart breaking stopped abruptly when the door handle twisted and light spilled into my room, creeping in a yellow line along my floor, up my desk and over my toes. I rubbed my nose and eyes into my knees to dry the tears, feigning sleep.
The deep, husky voice of my best friend reached me with a breath of concern. “Baby girl, what’re you doing asleep here?” he whispered to no one in particular.
His wide, broad arms fixed a hold under my knees and around my back, then swept me off the windowsill, over the desk and into his body like he was some kind of ultra hot fireman rescuing me. I stayed floppy in his arms, breathing long and deep as if I were asleep, and the softness of my bed—much warmer than the cold glass my elbow was leaning on—cocooned my body safely, Mike tucking my feet under my quilt, bringing it up around my shoulders as I rolled away.
“Night, baby.” He pressed a quick kiss to my temple and left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Thanks, Mike,” I whispered quietly, allowing a smile to appear for one second before it melted away in the darkness.
* * *
“It’s alive!” Mike waved his hands dramatically as I zombie-walked into the kitchen and sat on the stool.
“Barely.” I laid my head on my hands, watching Mike by the stove.
“Hungry?” He held up a spatula.
“Not for plastic kitchen implements, if that’s what you’re offering.”
“Oh, a comedian today, huh?” He turned back to the stove, grinning. “So, are you hungry or not?”
“A little.” I grabbed an apple and took a bite. “Where is everybody?”
“Sam’s at school, Vicki’s gone to the movies with her friend, and your dad’s at work.” Mike turned back and winked at me. “It’s just us.”
“Okay, so, is that why you think it’s acceptable to wear a pink apron?”
He laughed, untying it. “Thought that might cheer you up a little.”
“What makes you think I need cheering up?” I turned my wrist over in question—the apple still in hand.
“Ara, I know you better than you know yourself. You need cheer. So—” he grabbed the fry pan and tipped the contents onto two plates in front of me, “—I made your favourite. Pancakes!”
I glared at him sceptically. “Is there maple syrup?”
Mike grinned, placing his hand on a bottle of brown liquid right by my elbow, and slid it slowly over. “Would I forget the syrup?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” I snickered and snatched the bottle.
He walked around the counter and slid onto the stool next to me, dumping a fork by my plate. My attempt at moodiness slipped away completely, though, when the first bite of his light, fluffy pancakes touched my tongue. Like sugar-coated puffs of heaven, the golden exterior of the pan-fried breakfast melted with the syrup at the perfect ratio of sweet and savoury—sending trickles of warm delight down my spine.
I stopped eating and studied him—the chef, the wonder-cook, the man who knew no failure.
“Something wrong, baby?” Mike asked, mid-shovel.
Yeah, you’re making it really hard not to love you. “I uh—I just remembered I have rehearsals today.”
“Rehearsals?”
“Mm. For a benefit concert we’re doing to raise money for this kid who died.”
“Oh. Okay. What time?” he asked.
“Dunno.” I shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll go.”
Mike sat taller, eagerness replacing his grin. “Wanna go for a run with me instead?”
“Yeah. Actually, I’d love that.”
“Great. Maybe we can make a picnic out of it. What’d ya think?”
I nodded and filled my gob again. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
* * *
“So, do you wanna talk about it?” Mike dropped to the grass by our picnic blanket and gulped a few swigs of water.
“Talk…about…what?” I huffed, letting my hands catch me on the ground, then rolled onto my back to watch the midday sun overhead.
Mike screwed the cap on his water bottle, swiped the sweat from his brow and leaned forward with his elbows draped over his hairy knees. “The reason I came in to find you asleep on your windowsill last night.”
As if controlled by a body-stiffening remote, my limbs went long. I laid very still, suddenly no longer aware of my exhaustion. “No.”
“You know that won’t gel with me, baby.” A bottle of water appeared over my face; I sat up on my elbows and took hold of it. “You need to talk, and whatever it is, you kn—”
“It’s none of your business, Mike.” I sat all the way up, unscrewed the lid and rolled the bottle to my lips, letting the cool liquid melt the heat in my throat. “Just stay out of my room if you don’t like it.”
He let out a short sigh, not an agitated or a hurt one, just more…frustrated. “Here. Eat.”
I studied the sandwich for a long breath, then snatched it with just a little too much hostility. “That won’t work on me anymore, Mike!”
“Ara? Where are you going?” Mike jumped up and ran after me as I headed toward the swing set across the park.
“Wherever you’re not.”
“Why?”
I dumped the sandwich on the ground—with a pang of regret—and said, “Because I’m not going to let you talk me into opening up to you.”
“By giving you a sandwich?” He stopped, making a point of laughing at me.
“Yes.” I looked at the discarded lunch. “Whenever you want me to open up, you feed me. And it always works, but this is none of your business.”
“Okay. Fine.” He held his arms out to the sides, still laughing. “I won’t ask. We’ll just hang. ‘Kay?”
The sandwich stared up at me; I really wished I hadn’t thrown it away. I wondered if maybe I could dust it off and eat it still. I knew I hadn’t been eating enough the last few days because my arms and elbows looked so bony and pale that the scab David left from drinking my blood looked red and malicious.
“Baby?” Mike went to touch my arm; I dropped it to my side, not having realised I was picking at the scab.
“Push me on the swing?” I said playfully.
The mask of concern dropped from his lips, but stayed in his eyes even as they lit with a smile. “Sure, baby.”
And that was that. He didn’t
even mention my weird sleeping habits again—or my mum, or David—only Vicki and my relationship with her. But I assured him things were getting better, and he said they must be since I willingly called her “Mom” the other day.
When the park emptied and a strong breeze swept half of our picnic away, we packed up and jumped in Dad’s car, then headed home.
“Are you okay?” Mike asked, looking at my knees; I looked too. My legs were so stiff and rigid that my knees turned completely white.
“Yeah. I just—I never really feel quite safe in cars, now. It’s like, before, I knew they could crash and that they were dangerous, but now I know what that feels like, I don’t feel so invincible.”
“Blind faith gone, huh?”
“Yeah. But you still have it.” I nodded to the road. “You don’t feel the fear of these deathly metal machines.”
“I know. I’m just one of the lucky ones, Ara, but the same could be said about you.”
“What’d you mean?”
“You have a real sense of what danger is now. I know that’s a pitiful consolation, but at the same time, you’re seventeen and you have an understanding about life that no other kids your age could. Cars are dangerous and people are blasé about that power. I’ve seen enough accidents in my time on the Force to know how little people value the power of these metal machines.”
The car slowed as Mike flicked on the indicator and changed gears; muscle by muscle, my legs unclenched, and as we rolled at less than half the recommended speed limit, Mike turned his head and smiled at me warmly—ignoring the honking horns from behind us.
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Anytime.”
When we pulled up in the driveway at home, the engine going quiet, a finger appeared in my peripheral. “Might wanna tie that up so you don’t trip,” Mike said.
“Uh, crud.” I bent over my legs and twisted my lace into a bow, then looked up as the door popped open.
“Thanks,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and jumping out. As the door closed after me, the look on Mike’s face became apparent. “What?”