Scar

by A. M. Brooks

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, my voice cracking from the weight of this colossal disaster.

  “It’s not your fault, babe,” she soothes me, shaking her head. “I can’t believe all these douche canoes didn’t show up. Who cares what your dad did? They’re still your friends!” Were they though?

  When I move my head in agreement, the pressure in the front of my skull builds and thrums painfully. I thought they were my friends, too. I should have known tonight would be a disaster, especially when people started distancing themselves from me since the news broke at the beginning of the week. I chose to ignore it, just as I chose to ignore my dad’s shady phone calls at odd hours of the night, the way we suddenly had money to move to Manhattan and attend the most prestigious schools, the way he started going on business trips and would be gone for days at a time. The biggest sign should have been the wear and tear I noticed in my mom, but I closed my eyes to it all. I knew she rarely slept. Even though she was lavished by my father in designer label clothes, shoes and make-up, the smile on her face was tense. She stopped making our evening meals and let staff, because we had staff now, too, do it. She suddenly had headaches when my younger sister, Mila, would ask her for help in math. All this should have been the biggest clue that our world was about to be flipped, but I kept on going as if things were normal.

  On Monday, a local New York news station broke the story that my father, Calvin Torre, had been laundering money through the company he started five years ago, as well as a litany of other fraudulent practices. Before noon, every major channel, including CNN, was covering the story. My dad had bankrupted thousands of people who had invested with him and broke business deals with the parents of the kids from the school. And now, our family was being investigated by some of New York’s finest criminal investigators. It was also discovered his company was involved with oversea accounts, making his crimes international. His face was plastered over every television screen in the country. Needless to say, prison time was hanging over his head. And what made everything worse was the fact that people questioned how my mom, my sister, and I had no clue what was happening. Our family was torn apart in front of the nation. Paparazzi waited outside our home to tail my mom as she dropped us off at school. We were accused and found guilty, without having the opportunity to defend ourselves.

  By Tuesday, we were made aware that my father had depleted a different offshore account in the Virgin Islands, purchasing a one way ticket to Cuba. He was gone, and the coward that he is left my mom and me to face the world by ourselves, to be shamed and ridiculed for his sins. When my mom’s monthly payment for Mila’s Christian middle school bounced, they were unsympathetic and gave my mom one week to pay or Mila could no longer be enrolled.

  On Wednesday, my school locker was checked, making sure I wasn’t stashing any evidence or information on my father. I stood by, fuming, while the principal wore a smug smile. Almost like she enjoyed humiliating me more with this process. The school was now fully aware what was happening with my family because of my father, and that’s when my peers, people I had started calling friends, couldn’t meet my eyes. The whispers started. The glares commenced. The shunning at lunch tables and lab stations had my stomach dropping. I was used to being looked down on by them. I was able to get past their prejudice that I wasn’t good enough because I hadn’t been born into a blue-blooded family. But now my family and I were seen as criminals, and the hate that flared in their eyes and the evil twists in their lips are what made the week completely suffocating.

  Thursday, I started receiving notifications that the friends I had invited could no longer make it to my party. But I refused to cancel. I refused to let the fuck up that my dad was responsible for have any impact on the person I was. Even if it was only my best friend and boyfriend who showed up, I had a point to prove. I wanted to show everyone that this wasn’t going to break me.

  Today, my mom kept me and my sister home from school because there had been numerous threats to our family and my father. She tried to hide most of them without us seeing. But even if she destroyed the letters in the mail, it didn’t stop the YouTube videos. People holding grudges, people who lost everything because of my dad made videos with graphic details about how they wanted to kill him. Another detailed everything about myself and Mila and the best way to kidnap us before school. My face paled after it was over. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the police were currently working on trying to figure out who threw the brick through our living room window with another death threat attached to it. My mom couldn’t work; her anxiety and lack of sleep over canceling clients made her more on edge. For the first time since we first moved into this home, her face broke with real emotion: fear. As I was getting ready for my party, we fought the whole time I curled the long strands of my dark auburn hair and rimmed my deep brown eyes in black liner. She didn’t want me to go, and I kept reminding her this wasn’t my problem. It was between her and my dad.

  It is now Saturday at 12:01am. I am officially seventeen, and nothing is as I had hoped it would be. I send a quick text to Nash, letting him know that, once again, we are done. And, I mean it this time. My time is too precious to be wasted on a boy who cares more about appearances than the actual truth of a person. With our hands locked together, Oaklynn and I find the elevator and cruise to the bottom. I crumple into the waiting vehicle she had ordered for us. The small back space is crowded with the handful of balloons she grabbed on the way out.

  “I’m so sorry, Saylor,” she says again. I can hear the emotion in her voice, and it takes all my strength not to cave into the storm inside me.

  “I’m so mad at him, Oak,” I whisper through my clenched teeth. Seriously, I would be lost without my best friend. Despite her cold looking exterior, Oaklynn is the warmest and most loyal person I know. We’ve been friends since first grade, before she moved to Manhattan. When my dad came home and surprised us with his promotion and plans to move us to Manhattan as well, Oaklynn’s parents helped mine get settled. We were so happy to be back together.

  “Your dad’s a prick,” she huffs next to me. “You’re amazing, Say. What he did has nothing to do with you and the person you are. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

  “Thanks for being here,” I tell her. “Tell your mom I’m sorry we wasted the reservation and the space.”

  “She won’t care.” Oaklynn smiles. “She just wanted you to have a good birthday, no matter what.”

  “Your mom is awesome,” I tell her, before shifting my gaze out the window.

  “Kelly is, too, Babe. She will bounce back, once she figures out how to move forward. Don’t discount her yet,” she answers. A small sliver of guilt creeps in, and I know she’s right. My mom is a victim just like me. I just wish she’d snap out of her funk and figure out what needs to be done. Mila and I are losing our spots at school, and now I know my dad is behind on our house payments as well.

  By the time the black town car pulls up to my home, the small pounding in my head is now a full-blown headache. I scan the front yard, checking for unwanted paparazzi waiting to snap my picture, before opening the car door.

  “Don’t forget these.” Oaklynn hands me the bouquet of balloons. It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time, but instead, I give her a small smile and take them from her.

  “Happy Birthday, Saylor.” She gets out and hugs me, holding on extra tight, because she knows I need it. I’m not ready to end the night; I don’t want to go back to my reality. And, I really don’t want to face my mom and Mila. I don’t want them to know my night was a disaster. Mom had begged me to cancel, somehow knowing this was probably going to be the result. That my heart would be crushed.

  I run up the front stoop and wave over my shoulder as Oaklynn’s car pulls away from my curb. The light is on in the front entry, and it’s safe to assume my mom is still awake. I slip off my favorite pair of gold, butterfly winged heels, my sixteenth birthday gift from my parents, and tiptoe toward the stairs.

  “Say
lor?” My mom’s voice calls from the kitchen. I freeze, one hand on the banister, and step lightly. The instant groan from the ancient wooden floors gives me away. Within three heartbeats, my mom’s figure emerges. Kelly Torre looks haggard. For the first time in days, I take the time to actually see her. Blue smudges, evidence from lack of sleep, under her eyes contrast with her pale complexion. The freckles across the bridge of her nose are more prominent. She’s in her pajamas, her honey brown hair piled on top of her head, and a loose bathrobe hangs off her shoulders. She pulls the extra material tighter to her body. She’s lost weight. We haven’t had a meal together all week, and, looking at her now, I’m guessing she hasn’t eaten that whole time.

  “How was the party, Sweetheart?” she asks, yawning at the same time. I have to fight the urge to hurl an insult or a jab. I want to shake her and ask her how she thinks it was now that I’m a social pariah. Instead, my shoulders shrug, and I choke back my emotions.

  “I have a headache,” I tell her, while pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers.

  “Oh.” She quickly scurries back into the kitchen. I hear bottles rattle and then she returns with two reddish orange pills. “Take these. You’ll feel better.” I hold out my hand, and she dumps them into my waiting palm.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, and start ascending the stairs.

  “Happy Birthday, Saylor,” she calls to me softly. My eyes slam shut because, as much as I want to crumble into a crying mess in her arms, I know there is nothing she can do about the pain twisting my insides. She isn’t the one who is responsible. But she’s here and he’s not. I don’t get the luxury to unload all my anger on the parent who deserves it. Instead of thanking her, I climb the rest of the stairs to my room.

  With my back safely pressed against the closed door of my room, I finally release the balloons from my grip. I watch as the pastel colors float to the ceiling and spread out. Frustrated, I take the little pain relievers form my palm and swallow them down quickly, before washing my face in my bathroom. My body is bone tired. The week long anxiety wave I’ve been riding has now crashed. I’m drowning in unknowns. I shut off the lights and welcome the darkness. The pain in my temples throbs a little less, as I slide the material of my party dress down my body and leave it pooled on the floor of my closet. I snatch my favorite sleep shorts and tank from their drawer and dress quickly, barely making it to my bed before my legs give out. My eyes close, and my breathing shallows. Sleep is my friend, and tonight, I welcome it wholeheartedly.

  Hearts and Flowers Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  End of August

  Darrian

  “You sure you don’t want me to wait for you?” Ethan asks me again as he swings his truck into the empty parking spot closest to the door.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him for the fifth time since he picked me up at the house. Slowly pushing open the truck door, I turn to take the padded end of the crutches from him. I place them down on the pavement before letting my good leg touch down, next followed by my casted leg.

  “I really don’t mind, D,” Ethan lets me know. I can feel his eyes watching my jerking movements as I try to straighten my leg before moving. I love the kid, but he’s been a pain in my ass for the past three months.

  “I know,” I respond before nodding at the brick wall of the building, “I have to do this on my own though.” I can hear him let out a frustrated breath as he reaches over to slam the door closed behind me.

  “I’ll pick you up in a couple hours,” he pushes his Ray-Bans down over his eyes again before backing up. I watch him squeal the truck’s wheels out of the parking lot before hobbling my way to the dusty red doors.

  The musty smell of the basement reaches my nose. I hold my breath until I make it to the long corridor of the new addition just like every other week. I breathe again when I get into the room and take a seat in the only open chair left. Conversations around me stop for a few seconds while I get situated, the metal of the crutch brushes against the metal chair. “Sorry,” I mutter apologetically for the noise and for arriving a few minutes after the scheduled time.

  “Mr. King, thank you for joining us,” the reverend acknowledges my presence like every week and like all the other times I sag in my seat a little more. It’s no secret about my accident or the fact that I was injured, losing my scholarship and ride to UNC. Being a King though, the fact that I was under the influence was tightly sealed away by a judge who plays golf with my father. In exchange, I was sent to rehab, my license was taken by my parents for six months, and I need to be here weekly until otherwise determined. Privilege of being rich and having a father who will be pushing taking Stanford up on their offer once I’m healed, I guess. Just another bitter, heavy lie sitting on my chest. I needed some relief, something to take the edge off, to push away the pain in my leg and to make the knowing stares from the people in the room fade to nothing. Anonymous my ass.

  “Can I say something?” I ask, watching as his eyebrows raise up in shock. I’ve been here and listened to every sob story real and fake for the past two months and I never take a turn.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” he says gently. Supposedly he’s a man of God, but I see the judgmental look on his face every time he looks at me. I wonder if my father bought his silence too.

  Pushing down the shame and anger, I stand from my seat, the metal scrapes against the floor when I bend to pick up the crutches again. The room has gone silent as I make my way to the single wooden podium at the front of the room. I’ve never had a problem with public speaking. Never felt embarrassed to call someone out or to play ball in a gymnasium full of people depending on me. It never made me falter knowing scouts were there to see me play and my whole future rode on those games. I had thrived on the fear, thrill, and power. It was something different though to stand in front of this crowd, in the basement of a church, and acknowledge my greatest regret. That’s what I was supposed to do. That’s what these meetings were really about. I had acknowledged the mistake I made with my family, but I had yet to make peace with it for myself.

  “My name is Darrian King and I was addicted to drugs. I’ve been clean for sixty-eight days. I can’t say I had one drug that was my favorite, I tried everything including the B+ pill which I believed would help me play ball better and find time to manage my homework and social life. The night of my accident, I used B+, marijuana, and alcohol before driving the car. I realize now that was a stupid mistake and I’ll only ever be thankful it was only me in the car and that no one else was injured because of what I did.” Her face swims in my vision clearly even as my eyes sting with tears. I take a deep breath before continuing. “The night I hurt the girl I love, I used cocaine. I did it on purpose to hurt her and honestly because I needed it. I had tried quitting on my own but with everything else going on…” My body shudders thinking back to those days. How could I not have seen how far gone I was? My fingers flex around the podium digging in until the skin around my nails turns almost white. “I couldn’t do it.” My gaze catches with the reverend who is leaning against the back table. He’s watching me closely and I wonder if this is what confession feels like.

  “I liked using B+ and cocaine because I felt invincible. Marijuana has just always been marijuana to me. It grows in the ground, so it’s natural, right?” I laugh to myself, shaking my head, not the right crowd, I think to myself. “Sorry,” I say before continuing. “The girl I hurt, the one I supposedly loved…she’s coming back next week. I ran her off because of a misunderstanding. I know now that what I thought happened wasn’t true. I want to see her and explain everything and beg her to take me back. I also want to get as far away from Araminta as possible so I don’t have to face her anger. I’ve even almost taken up Stanford’s offer even though I don’t want to go to school there and I know I would be miserable and probably end up right back to where I was four months ago. I guess the reason I’m here today is because she’s coming back, and I’m scared. I’m scared that I can’t
fix what happened and that makes me want to use. I’m afraid she will forgive me and that also makes me want to use. I don’t know how to be a person worthy of her or if I should even try to be. Maybe I should stay away.”

  I skim my eyes over the crowd as they watch me, listening to my sob story. “When I say it out loud, it sounds petty. Like these are his worse problems? I know many of you know me and my family. I’ve heard your stories and I get it. I sound like a privileged trust fund baby. I can’t say I know what you’ve been through. I sympathize though with your addiction. Thank you for listening to me today.”

  It’s still quiet as I crutch my way back to my seat. Cold sweat creeps down my back after releasing the fear I’d been holding onto for the past two months of sitting with these people. How do you say I’m a kid who liked to party while they’re spilling their guts about how childhood abuse caused them to use so they could forget? I hate NA meetings.

  The reverend is speaking again about forgiveness. It’s his favorite speech I think because it never changes. Just like always, I zone out, reliving the conversation with my father about the money being stolen, prom, Nora’s face when she saw me with the chick who was supposed to be her friend, the pity party I threw myself for weeks after she and her dad left town, the news report, the accident, waking up from the accident…

  My eyes feel itchy and dry, my throat clogged and scratchy like sandpaper. I glance down at my hand and see the needle attached to the clear rubber tube leading to the IV bag next to the bed. My brain registers the beeping sound coming from the other side of the bed. Before even glancing down, I know something is wrong with my leg. I remember the agonizing pain and blood after hitting the barrier. A gentle throb starts and stops, probably thanks to whatever meds they have me on. I try to move it, but it feels heavy and weighted down. My face frowns and another small stab of pain on my forehead causes me to wince. I bring my non-needled hand up to my head, my fingers graze over the bandage there.