by CJ Adler
I still don't know how that happened.
“Good times.” I smile to myself nostalgically as I reminisce on the good ol' days. “But, yes, I will be attending,” I clarify in determination.
“No, you will not!”
“Yes, I will,” I reply back in a sing-song voice, annoying her.
“You get all double double u on me—weird and wild. I'm putting my foot down. You are not going to that party,” Bell commands bossily.
“I am.”
“Are not!”
“Are too!” I insist, batting my eyelashes at her innocently with the double p's intact—pouting and puppy-eyed. Both are effective when it comes to Bells.
“Are not!” She continues, adamant.
“Watch me.” I challenge.
Aren't friends supposed to be the bad influence on you? They're supposed to force you to go, not force you to stay away. My world is upside down.
“I forbid you.”
“Excuse me?” I laugh aloud in disbelief. “You forbid me? What are you? My mother?”
“Don't make me bring up the 'Bequeela Code',” she warns.
“You either allow me to go, or you can hold your arms wide open, ready to embrace and welcome another week of my rainbow hat worn in public,” I threaten, crossing the limits.
Her eyes widen as she gasps and places a hand over her mouth. “You would not dare! That was the worst week of my entire life!”
I cock my head to the side daringly. “Try me.”
“Fine!” she yells, exasperated. “You can go, but first we need some ground rules. Party hard and yolo are sayings that are not directed at you...at all…ever…never ever…in fact never in a bill—”
“Get to the point!” I interrupt, impatient.
“Cautious and careful, double cs, are all directed at you, m'kay?” She raises her eyebrows at me, placing her hands on her hips.
I nod to confirm that I agree with her request.
A loud sigh is heard from behind us as a result of our ongoing debate. Mason throws his head back on the couch and stares up at the ceiling, hopelessly muttering curses under his breath.
“What's wrong, babe?” Bells voices her concern.
“What are double cs and ws? You guys are so strange.” He sighs, frustrated. “Says you!” I stick my tongue out at him.
“And everybody else on the planet.” He rolls his eyes at me, expressing his irritation. He then addresses his girlfriend. “Why don't you just let the loser do whatever the hell she wants, Bell? She isn't a kid, even though she acts like one.”
“Even though she acts like one,” I mimic Mason's voice in a high-pitched tone before losing my temper. “Shut up, demon! I almost forgot you were here for the past hour.”
“Yeah, well, I sure as hell didn't forget where I was,” he mutters, annoyed at our little female rants.
I laugh at his expense. He's always around to hear our debates—from girl stuff to boys to family to even him.
“Aww, Mase. I do enjoy tormenting you.” I ruffle his hair with both my hands.
“I think I've heard enough girl issues to last me a whole lifetime,” he groans, exasperated with the both of us and our arguing.
I ignore him and turn back to Bells. “I better head home and get ready.”
Bell shakes her head at me teasingly. “Great. Now I have to babysit you at the party.”
I huff. “Pshaw! I don't need no babysitter. I'm a mature adult.”
Mason laughs aloud at my words as if what I said is unbelievably funny. I shoot him a harsh glare, in turn. He quickly shuts up before bursting out into laughter yet again.
***
“I am your mother, Aqueela, and I am telling you that you're not attending that party. Do I make myself clear?” my stepmother asks with a slur, smoking intently on her cigarette.
She's been drinking and using again.
I breathe in sharply, afraid.
I take in the kitchen's plain white walls and the mess scattered about. The tiles are so filthy that it seems as if the room hasn't been cleaned in years. There are stains all over the wooden counters and the sight is sickening. I hate being home.
“Besides, Aqueela, you have chores to still do. This house is a pigsty,” she reprimands me as if she has the right. I clean after her every day.
“Then you should get cleaning,” I pause bitterly, “Mom.”
I can tolerate her when she's sober, but not when she's like this—not when she's wasted.
Slap!
My head turns to the side on impact. I wince and reach up to touch my cheek. I shake my head at her, hurt.
“Don't you dare talk to me like that ever again! I am your mother! You're ungrateful,” she shouts and steps forward.
My fear comes crawling in as I flinch back on instinct, trembling.
I've done it now.
“I-I'm sorry,” I stutter, my words stumbling out of me in waves of panic.
“You damn right you are,” she says scornfully as she grabs me by my wrist and slowly takes the cigarette out of her mouth. “No wonder your father left us.”
I try to move back, but her nails dig deep into my forearm to keep me in place.
“Talking back gets you punished. You should know that by now,” she warns, her eyes smoldering.
The cigarette hovers just above my arm as I begin to struggle against her.
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” I yell out in desperation at the thought of reliving the pain. “I'm so sorry. I was out of line. Please, please!” I say incoherently, begging her to stop, to listen to reason.
“I must,” she slurs, out of it. “I have to be a good mother.”
“Please. You're drunk and high. You're not thinking straight,” I plead when
I see that her stone expression has yet to alter or soften.
“Begging is pitiful,” she says maliciously before the hot cigarette is forced down onto my wrist, igniting an agonizing pain within me.
I try to pull back, keeping my screams at bay. I squeeze my eyes shut, biting my tongue to feel something, anything else than the current pain that I am being forced to undergo. I think about something else to try and block out the agony, but it doesn't seem to fade, not by a long shot.
“Please. Please. Enough,” I manage to whisper weakly.
She lifts the cigarette off of my skin, leaving behind yet another scar that I have to hide from Bells and Mason.
I breathe out in relief when she releases me entirely.
“That should teach you to cheek me, your own damn mother.”
I wince. She's not my mom.
“It won't happen again,” I reply back in a hoarse voice, knowing that she's never going to stop.
“I don't want to punish you again. You know I hate doing it. I'm just teaching you a lesson the way a good mother does,” she tells me and I nod obediently.
“I know,” I murmur, terrified.
She gives me a sympathetic look before opening up her arms to me. “Come here,” she coos and wraps me up in an unearthly hug, one that I would gladly break free from if I was not so afraid of what she'd do if I did.
Over time, the drinking and the drugs have affected her.
“I love you.”
When I don't answer — can't answer — she squeezes me against her tighter, indicating that I better say something in return or else.
“I love you too.” I force out.
She lets go of me and smiles. “If this house is spotless by the time I wake up, I will allow you to go to that party, just because I'm such a great mother. You're a spoilt girl.” She laughs. “You're lucky to have me.”
“I know.”
I observe her intently as she heads to her room to sleep. I don't take my eyes off of her until I see the door shut after her. There have been times when her rage would come flaring back and she'd march right over, after she'd just turned her back on me, only to hurt me again.
I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding in. I turn around and
run to the bathroom. I turn the tap on and place my injured wrist under the cool water. I bite my lip as the burn singe turns red under the water and the pain comes back to life.
I turn off the tap and dab lightly at the wound. I glance down at both my wrists and touch the scars left behind, a reminder that it will never end. I'll be enslaved to this forever.
A traitorous tear escapes and slowly runs down my cheek. I lift up my finger and wipe it away, putting on a smile as I answer my phone, the phone that has been ringing nonstop for the past five minutes straight.
“Hey, Bells,” I answer softly, not wanting to wake her up.
“Aqueela, are you okay? You don't sound like yourself.” She immediately notices.
“I'm okay,” I say quietly. “Just have to speak softly because my mom is sleeping. Don't want her to wake up. Just getting ready for our party.”
I've been lying to Bell for a long time. She has always wanted to meet my mom, but I have always had an excuse—a lie. She has always wanted to visit. Eventually, her nagging stopped. She gave up, not on me, just on visiting me.
I hear her blissful laugh from the other side. “Dresses?”
No dresses for me. For one, it's too cold, but Bell is crazy like that.
She doesn't wait for my answer, assuming that I'll wear a dress anyway. “I'll pick you up?”
I manage a grin. “Nice try, Bells. I'll meet you there.”
“See you then,” she says before hanging up.
My cheerful tone drops as I heave out a sigh and walk toward my bedroom. I glance longingly at my blue dress but move past it and grab a long sleeve shirt instead.
When my mother had a meltdown because she was fired from her job, she took it out on me. The next day it was Mason who noticed and questioned the bruises he'd seen on my arm. I was quick to lie and tell them that I fell.
I put on the white long sleeve shirt and make sure to pull the sleeves down. I don't feel like going anymore, but Bells is amped and I have to get out this house before I smother in it.
I place a black beret on my head as I begin to clean the house to perfection before she wakes up. Once I'm done, she happens to come walking into the kitchen.
She's always in a better mood after having caught up on her sleep, after having sobered up.
In the end, she allows me to go. It's a “get-out-of-jail-free” card, an escape from purgatory.
It feels as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders when I exit the house. As I round the corner, my treacherous eyes stray toward the ice cream store, but I resist it because I'm completely broke.
I pass by as quick as possible until a voice stops me:
“Hey, Aqueela! Wait up! It's been ages.”
I turn around to face sexy, hot manager dude.
I feign a smile. “Hi.”
I don't feel up to talking. I can't help but wonder if Jay feels this way all the time.
“You've been avoiding me. I was expecting a phone call, one that never came. You sure don't let a guy down easy, do you?” he teases playfully.
I grin and shake my head. “I'm sorry. I've just been...” I trail off, unsure, before giving him a simpler version of the truth, “preoccupied with other matters.”
“Are you doing okay?” he asks gently.
I nod absentmindedly at his question, one that I've heard all too many times, one that I've developed a mental block against.
He reaches forward, and I flinch back, thinking the worst. It takes me a second to recover before I send him an apologetic smile in return. He smiles warmly and brushes away a tear from my cheek, a tear that I didn't know was there.
“You've been crying?” he states more than asks.
“Me, crying? What? No! It's just the wind, and I was walking really fast and the weather and blowing into my eyes and the tear and...” I falter when I see the disbelief sprawled across his features. I cave under his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I may or may not have been crying—just a tad. So I'm not made of stone, sue me!”
He laughs, a melody to my ears—I could use more laughter in my life.
“Well, even if it was just a tad...” he mimics, “you shouldn't have to cry at all. Want to tell me what happened?” He offers.
I shake my head. “Nope. Not at all. Anyway, goodbye. Take care,” I say all too quickly, panicked, as I sprint away from him, leaving him absolutely clueless as to what is going on with me. Heck, most days, I barely know myself.
***
“So, you just sprinted away from him, just like that?” Bells repeats, seemingly amused by the fact that I just humiliated myself in front of “nameless” yet again.
“Just like that.” I nod as we both stand in front of the paradise bar that Melinda's parents own. “Ran away faster than the chicken who crossed the road, and that's saying something.”
“Yeah, it's saying that you really like this guy. Way to make a statement.” She grins eagerly.
I have no idea how she got to that conclusion. I smile and shake my head.
“His affection is one-sided.”
Bells eyes widen in disbelief. “I cannot believe you're letting a guy like that slip right through your fingers.” She pauses in thought. “Is this because of Jay?”
I shake my head again. “Not at all. I'm happy as I am.” I don't want to be another person's burden.
Bell opens her mouth to reply, but Mason interrupts, grabbing her from the back to wrap his arms around her slender waist. “Babe, dance with me?” he says loudly into her ear.
“Hold on a sec,” she shushes him. “I'm in the middle of—”
“Just go already, Bells,” I cut her off and push the both of them in the direction of the dance floor, not wanting to stand in their way.
Mason leads her to the dance floor, but not before giving me a thumbs-up.
I glance around the bustling party . Everyone is laughing and having a good time. Everything seems to move in slow motion as they dance 'round and 'round the dance floor while I'm stuck in my own world.
“Something to drink, Milady?” a voice calls me away from my thoughts.
“Huh?” I say, quickly spinning around on the bar chair, almost toppling over onto the floor as a result. I come to register his words. “Oh. Uhm, no thanks.”
“You sure?” he asks with a dazzling grin before placing his elbows on the bar counter, leaning in toward me. “Because for you, it's on the house.” He winks flirtatiously.
I contemplate the pros and cons involved. Con: Bells might potentially kill me. Scratch that, she will kill me. I'm underage. Pro: I'll forget what happened today for a little while. It seems as if the pros are out-weighing the cons here.
I shrug. “What the hell, hit me!” I grin as he hands me a shot to down.
I don't question it and drown in the liquid, wanting to forget.
“Hit me, again!” I demand.
He laughs and does exactly that.
I down the liquid, feeling slightly dizzy. I'm a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Maybe Bell was right. Maybe I do need her to babysit me.
“Again!” I yell, raising my glass, feeling light-headed. I'm definitely tipsy, no doubt about that.
“Slow down,” a voice whispers in my ear.
Mason.
“What are you? My father?” I ask and then turn back to the bartender expectantly. I read his name tag: Benjamin. “Benjy, be a doll and surprise me with another shot.” I smile lazily up at him.
“Is it really a surprise if you know about it?” Mason asks me, shaking his head in disapproval. “Go easy,” he advises before turning to Benjy. “Brian, she's had enough for the night.”
I squint at the name tag again and discover that his name is actually Brian and not Benjamin. Wow! Everything is really blurry—knew I should have worn night vision goggles to this party.
“Ignore him, Brain. Gives me whats I want,” I slur as my neck goes limp, my head suddenly collapsing onto the counter. “Guys,” I pause, uncomfortable, as I try to sit upright again, “don't f
reak out, but my neck stopped working.”
“It can't support your big head anymore,” Mason jokes, laughing at my expense.
“First off, it's Brian. Second, your boyfriend is right. You've had enough. I have never seen someone so terrible at holding their alcohol,” Brain tells me, his dark chocolate eyes telling me a story.
I eventually lift my head and do a small curtsy with my hands. “Thanks.”
“It wasn't a compliment.” He laughs, finding this to be all very entertaining. “And neither is your face, but am I whining?” I retort back wittily.
Mason falls into splutters of laughter as Brain's smirk falls off his face.
“Oh, and just to clarify, I'm not her boyfriend—in fact, I'd rather drive off a cliff before even considering her as a possible choice. My girl is around here somewhere…” Mason pauses to glance around, not seeing Bells anywhere in sight. He shrugs and then points straight at me again. “This creature before you is none other than her spastic friend.”
“Spastic, huh? That explains a lot.” Brain smirks as he takes in my current appearance.
“I am not, I repeat, not…” I trail off and slouch back in the chair, forgetting the itsy bitsy fact that there is no backrest to support me. I end up leaning too far back and slip right off the chair only to fall flat on my back. I look up at the two of them from my position on the ground as I finish belting out my sentence. “Spastic.”
Talk about contradicting myself.
Mason gestures down to me. “My point proven. Her mother must have dropped her on the head as a baby.”
Despite my drunkenness, I still cringe at his words. Before I can protest, Mason is already on his knees, helping me back up to my feet. I appreciate him at times.
“Ah, Mason, always helping the disabled and mentally challenged. Such a good man.” Melinda smirks down at us as she passes by, guessing what happened.
I reach up to grab her heels and hopefully trip her, but Mason pulls me to my feet before I get the chance. He knows me all too well.
“I just wanted to stab her with her stilettos.” I frown up at Mason, unimpressed with his interference.
He wraps a loose arm around my waist, supporting me to prevent me from fainting and getting stitches like the previous time I blacked out at a party.