Rebel: Enemies to Lovers Bully Romance

by Savannah Rose

  I think back to my conversation with Erika. This is the same person who called me frantically screaming into my ear the day she got the news that Amy Winehouse had died. Her music was great. No questions there, but how could she be so torn up about Amy while being so unbelievably cold about Bubba just because he’s Kace’s friend? Erika didn’t go to the same school as Amy. She didn’t brush shoulders with her. She didn’t sit in some of the same classes or share the same teachers, or the same fucking yearbook.

  How was this even possible? What the hell is wrong with her?

  What the hell is wrong with everybody?

  The sad part of all of this is that Erika isn’t the only person acting as though his existence didn’t matter. I can’t bear to think about how his family must feel and how devastated they must be in comparison to our over entitled nonchalance. Is there something in the air on this side of the tracks that makes us so oblivious to the pain of those around us?

  God I cannot stand this!

  Oceans Ate Alaska blares on my speakers as I floor the pedal, desperately wanting to get to my studio, where I know the volume will only increase.

  When I’m finally home, my mother isn’t here, thank God. I drop my bags at the bottom of the steps, sprint up into my safe space and slam the door shut behind me. I plug in both my amplifiers and turn the music up to the maximum volume before sinking to the soft plush carpet beneath me, wailing at the top of my lungs.

  There’s a pillow close by and I hug it as though my entire existence depends on it. I can feel my throat turning to sand as I continue to scream, scratching at my chest with my acrylic finger nails, wishing I could pull my chest open.

  ‘Why doesn’t anyone else care?’

  Why do I care so much? Why can’t I be different?

  Why couldn’t I be like Erika or Mrs. Jordan? They clearly don’t give a shit about anyone beyond their circle. That’s such a limiting way to live. But they seem okay.

  ‘Your way is more exhausting.’ My mind screams the words at me. And perhaps she’s right. It is.

  After an hour of screaming with the band in my studio, I walk over to the crate and pull out the plastic covering and drape it over the full length of the floor. I feel compelled to do this, to allow art to dictate my motions. I watch as my limbs prepare my most sacred altar for an act of worship I had long abandoned.

  Stripping out of my clothes, I tug on my overalls, my old sneakers and pull my hair into a ponytail. This is the appropriate garment for human sacrifice. That’s what my art has always felt like to me. A sacred rite of passage where I offer up a piece of myself in the hopes that it will be accepted.

  I don’t know what I’ll be painting. This isn’t my idea.

  I’m just going with it.

  Through my tears, I see myself dip the brush into a bucket of black paint, then red, silver... The brushstrokes are as wild as they are soothing and as violent as they are peaceful. As the tribute reveals itself to me, I am overwhelmed by the intensity of the message.

  I decide to sneak into Allison’s wine cellar and help myself to some more inspiration. I bring a bottle of champagne into the room and pop it open.

  “Cheers,” I hold the bottle up before putting it to my mouth and taking a long, painful drink.

  I’m almost out of Canvas, so I go for a larger sheet and spread it on the floor. If my art is going to make a serious comeback, I might as well go all in.

  I strip down to my underwear and pour paint onto the canvas before laying down and rolling around. As the music builds, I feel like I’m dancing and I can feel a pattern forming.

  On my knees, I punch the canvas repeatedly, releasing my rage and depositing all the pain I’ve been carrying around and some of Kace’s; as much as he allowed me to take before pushing me away.

  His pain is so palpable, it’s dangerous for him to carry that all by himself, but he insists that ‘alone’ is what he needs.

  Fool.

  I start screaming again, jumping up to my feet and stomping around on the canvas on the floor. I’ve been told that this version of my art always looks like it should be accompanied by an exorcism and tonight I know for a fact that it’s true. There’s a spirit of loss and loneliness resting pretty deep in my heart and I need to get it out.

  When the song ends, I stare down at the madness I’ve created and laugh.

  It’s perfect.

  My heart feels more at ease by the time I’ve completed my fifth painting, and only then do I realize that even though I’ve used four different techniques and three different canvas sizes, they all come together to create one overwhelmingly depressing piece.

  It’s a tribute to Bubba. It seems so insignificant now that I look at it, but it’s all I can do. I don’t know how else to help Kace and I can’t bring Bubba back. All the wishing in the world won’t get it done. God knows I wish it could.

  My mind finds its way back to Kace. I wonder how he’s mourning his friend...if he’s even mourning him. I could feel his heart breaking on the roof today as he so casually delivered the devastating news and I cringe at the fact that his face didn’t shift for a second to show it. He must be so used to having to be so strong.

  Gosh, I can’t imagine living a life that teaches you how to endure the loss of your closest friend with a straight face and thick skin. If something were to ever happen to Erika, I imagine I’d lose my mind crying over her. Yet Kace’s words carried no overt pain or sadness. Just a statement of fact.

  I hate it. I hate that I can feel the tornado within him ripping his world to shreds while he stands around with a pissed off look on his face like it’s business as usual. His best friend died for crying out loud! That isn’t business as usual.

  “That kind of thing happens in my world all the time.”

  Oh no...maybe it is.

  Maybe he’s experienced so much death that his heart has grown numb to the pain.

  I feel a wrench in my chest and I try to take a deep breath to steady myself, but I know the tears are on their way.

  How many deaths does it take to turn a heart to stone?

  I don’t imagine it’s just one.

  I could never take it.

  My insignificant painting is a tribute but it’s also a prayer for Kace. Soon enough, I find myself drifting off to sleep on the studio floor, clutching my brush, as the tears fall freely onto the carpet beneath me. I silently whisper a prayer for Kace in my heart. I want to help him.

  “Please let him let me in.”

  14

  Janey

  “Janey!” I feel chilly fingers gripping my arms, gently rousing me from my sleep. “Janey, sweetie wake up!”

  My eyes flutter open and I’m staring into the panicking face of my father.

  A hush has fallen over the room in the absence of my music. The air hangs heavy with the scent of paint and a faint whiff of champagne and my limbs feel incredibly sore.

  “Dad?” I mutter and he sags to the ground.

  What’s with him? I wonder, trying to sit up.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” he sighs, visibly relieved.

  “Why?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

  He shakes his head and stands, pulling me to my feet, before switching on the light.

  “Look at yourself,” he whispers, and I stare down at my skin. Evidence of my earlier expression streaks my body and covers what little I’m wearing. I don’t remember shedding my overalls, but here I am, standing in the middle of my room completely covered in red paint.

  Poor dad.

  “You left a trail downstairs,” he sighs. “I thought it was blood.” He sucks in a deep breath and lets out a small chuckle. “I don’t think you meant for your mother to know that you broke into her wine cellar.” When he points to my feet I see that I had forgotten to cover them.

  Our housekeeper’s definitely not going to be pleased when she shows up in the morning.

  I hide my face in my hands and shake my head. “How mad is mom?” I ask, knowing full well th
at dad won’t let her take her annoyance out on me now that he’s here.

  “I think she’s more concerned about the paint you got everywhere than the fact that you stole from her.”

  I laugh and he joins me. “I know, right? Priorities.”

  He hands me my overalls and I slip it on. He’s noticeably quiet as I get dressed and when I look up at him, I see that he’s studying my paintings.

  I start overworking my bottom lip, waiting for his criticism. He’s always kind, but I’m always overly conscious. ‘Unnecessarily Insecure’ Cori likes to call it.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks in a voice that is barely a whisper, finally breaking the silence.

  “Why would you think something’s wrong?” I counter, though I already know that he understands the frequency at which I create my art. My father speaks the language of my brush strokes and erratic movements. He’s one of the few people I know who can look at a piece and get what’s going on; feel my emotions through the markings I’ve left behind. Everyone else will probably see something creative but have no context...no clue.

  “Janey…” He sounds apologetic and it breaks my heart. “What’s been happening with you lately, kiddo?” Reaching out, he pulls me closer, holding me against his chest. “What have I missed?”

  Those words somehow manage to pry the floodgates wide open again and I start sobbing against him, clutching his shirt like I’m grasping for stability. Stroking my hair, he tries to soothe me. “Come, let’s go make you some ice cream and you can tell me what’s got you painting like that again, okay?” he offers, and I nod up at him.

  In the kitchen I drape a magazine over the stool to save me from sticking to the furniture and watch as dad sways around the room, humming a song that I’m sure is much older than I am. I laugh when he holds the spoon-mic over to me to join in and I start freestyling.

  “Bars!” dad cheers and I laugh so hard I start snorting.

  There’s something precious about a 6ft 3 inch giant of a man wearing an apron dotted with pacifiers and candy canes, singing a song written by a female country and western singer.

  It’s also just the kind of magic my soul needs.

  Dad tops my bowl off with a mountain of whipped cream and sits down across from me. His creamy mustache is meant to be a prop, I’m sure.

  “Tell Dr. Bradshaw what ails you,” he says, trying not to move his top lip too much. He used to do this a lot when I was a kid. It never failed to cheer me right up. I chuckle a little, though the humor slowly disappears as I recall my earlier run in with Kace.

  I try to find the words to start, but instead, I feel my eyes filling with tears again. Before I know it, I’m crying into my ice cream, melting the whipped cream with each tear that lands. Dad puts his bowl down and looks at me quietly, but does nothing to try to stop my tears.

  “Baby, what going on?” he asks, and the waterworks start again as he crosses the island to hold me.

  “Someone died,” I say, “and nobody seems to care. It’s horrible.”

  “Sshh,” he coos, rubbing my back. “Breathe. It’s okay. Just breathe.”

  “What’s going on down here?” I hear my mother’s voice, still slightly groggy with sleep.

  “It’s fine, Allison, go back to bed. We didn’t mean to wake you,” dad answers, his voice clipped, but even.

  His body is blocking me, so I can’t see her, but even from all the way over here, I can hear her irritation.

  “Where’s Janey? Is she planning on cleaning up the mess she made?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I mutter.

  “Oh, you’re here. Lovely.” Even if I couldn’t hear her footsteps moving toward me, the change in dad’s posture makes it evident that she’s inching toward us.

  When she’s right beside me, I look up at her and I see something that looks a bit like concern cross her face, but it only lasts for a millisecond before it fades.

  “What’s the matter with you? You’re a mess. Go clean yourself up. Steve, I can’t believe you let her come down here looking like this.”

  “Go back to bed Allison,” he says, his voice sharper than it was only moments ago.

  “I’m sorry,” I speak up, but dad comes to my defense immediately.

  “No. It’s okay. Something tragic happened. You’re allowed to grieve in the way that best heals you.” His eyes never leave hers and I can see her pursing her lips as she folds her arms across her chest.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened to your daughter, Allison?” His voice is measured, and I can sense that he’s trying not to shout.

  “I’m all used up when it comes to grief,” she says, throwing an ocean of salt into the gaping wound I’m nursing. Mom doesn’t look at me. It’s been years since she’s really been able to. My dad clenches his jaw, trying to bite back years’ worth of rebuttals. No one in this house has gotten over Dani’s death. Not my mother, not my father, not my siblings and certainly not me. None of us have dealt with it properly, either. My father deflects, caring for me twice as hard. My mother blames, hating me with a vengeance. And me, I choose art. At first it was a way to… I don’t know, to mar my features. When your twin dies it’s not everything you used to love that becomes a constant reminder of what you’ve lost. It’s you. It took me ages to look into a mirror. Even longer to finally be okay with being photographed again.

  Whenever I see myself, I see Dani. Whenever I see myself, I feel guilt. So, as much as my mother would like to believe that I’ve simply forgotten about her, she’s wrong. Dani is always with me because I am a constant reminder of just what she didn’t get to grow up to look like.

  “I’m sure you’ve got it covered,” she retorts defensively. “You’re like Speedy Gonzales when it comes to getting rid of grief.”

  My back sags against dad’s chest.

  “You’re her mother.”

  “I’m aware. But I’m also aware that I was more than just a mother to her and Cori and Josh. I’m also aware that I’m no longer a mother to Dani because of her.” With that response, she walks off, heading back upstairs.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Dad offers, and I shake my head.

  “That’s the most I’ve seen and heard of her all week. It’s okay.”

  He hugs me tighter. “Oh Janey bot, I wish I didn’t have to work such long hours.”

  Neither of us confronts what my mother has just said. Neither of us talks about Dani. Neither of us acknowledges the guilt my mother wholeheartedly rests on my shoulders.

  “I’m glad I got to see you tonight,” I say, forcing a smile because I don’t want this amazing man to ever feel like I question his unconditional devotion to me and this family. “I wouldn’t have a soundproof studio to wreck if you didn’t work so hard.”

  He laughs and boops my nose and I sigh at how easy it is to just be myself with him; how capable he is of filling up most of the spots in my heart my mother has dug out with her hate.

  “Erika let me down today,” I confess, because I can’t possibly tell Cori. She’s never been a huge fan of Erika to begin with. She calls her an opportunistic, manipulative leech. But she’s still my best friend, so I won’t give Cori any more ammo to use against her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember when I asked you about Kensington?”

  He nods, but says nothing.

  “Well there are two kids at school from Kensington,” I continue and dad looks slightly surprised. Still, he says nothing and instead nods at me to continue.

  “One of them...” I pause, trying to get the words out right. He rubs my back again, letting me know it’s safe to just speak. To say whatever it is that’s on my mind without the fear of being judged or reprimanded. I take the lead he’s extended and allow the words to fall. “He was killed this week.” I can feel the tension in his body, and I know he hasn’t quite digested what I’ve said. “When I told Erika today, she didn’t care at all. She made it seem like it was his fault for dying. Like he did it to himself. S
he said he chose the life he had, but that’s not true, is it?”

  When he says nothing, I look up at him and his eyes are closed.

  “Don’t be too hard on her, okay?” he finally says. “She doesn’t understand how hurtful that is and I’m sure she’s not the only one.”

  I nod my head, agreeing with him.

  “The project I mentioned that I want to take on…it’s tutoring the other guy. He used to be an amazing student and a stellar academic. His grades completely plummeted this year and I know it’s because of all the Kensington stress.”

  “Does he want your help, Janey?” he asks, and I can hear a warning in his tone.

  I sulk and he knows the answer.

  “Janey. I love your heart. It’s amazing. Heaven knows, I don’t know where you get it from. It’s not from me and it sure as heck isn’t from your mother, but just because you mean well, doesn’t mean that the person you want to help will be receptive of your help. In those cases, what you offer isn’t help...it’s harassment.”

  I blanch. I suppose that makes sense.

  “I support you trying to help, and if he accepts your help then I’m 100% on your team. Anything you need, you’ve got me in your corner. But if he doesn’t want your help, baby, please leave him alone, okay?”

  I sigh. He sounds like Kace.

  “Okay,” I agree, getting up to head back upstairs, feeling light-years better.

  “And Janey?” he calls after me.

  “Don’t go back to Kensington. Ever! Do you understand me?”

  I blush beet red and start chewing my inner cheek. “How did you know?” I ask, my voice low and shaky.

  “You’re an open book, Janey. You care too much. That’s just who you are. I know my kid.”

  I grin at him and nod. “Okay. I won’t go back there. I promise.”

  I think.

  15

  Kace