Rich Riot

by Henry, Max

  “Your name,” I correct. “Our name is Williams, not Fairchild. That’s your legacy, not ours.”

  “It could be yours,” Mum growls, hands fisted before her. “Can’t you see that?”

  “Maybe we don’t want it?” I snap.

  Colt takes a step back. His passive reaction is like a sledgehammer to my chest. I struggle to draw my next breath, stunned that now, after what has been said, after what Alicia’s physically done, he still chooses privilege over freedom.

  “Ungrateful,” Alicia spits. “That’s what you are.” I notice that since Colt stepped back, her focus has returned solely to me.

  I guess she still believes her golden child is redeemable. Me, on the other hand…

  “You have been given everything on a silver platter since you were born, and now you throw it back in my face. What is it you want? What is it you wish you had?”

  The disappointment crushes me. “A mother who simply loves me.” My entire body aches with the weight of regret.

  I yearn for ignorance. For the blind stupidity I possessed not so long ago.

  None of us moves. I steady my breath, tensed and ready to react should I need to.

  Alicia stares me down while the words sink in, the shock morphing her features until she coughs out a disbelieving laugh. “You think you’re unloved?”

  Tears well once more, born of frustration, of anger. “Am I right?” My voice shakes, but I stand firm.

  I need to hear it from her. I need to know.

  I need this to be a huge misunderstanding, and for my mother to promise to work through our differences.

  This is the moment where Alicia can redeem herself. All she has to do is soften and admit she cares. Open her arms for a hug or smile at me. A little gesture will mean so much more than words right now.

  She chooses the most significant gesture of all.

  The worst.

  Our mother hastens across the massive room toward the front doors. Her feet make quick, soft scuffs on the marble tiles, her gown once more flowing like the queen she believes she is.

  “Leave.” Alicia jerks the door wide. “If you feel that you can find a home better suited to you elsewhere, then leave.”

  “Mum…”

  Alicia lifts a hand, silencing me. “I’ve tried,” she growls. “I have tried time and time again to give you the best life you could dream of. And for what? So that I’m disowned and treated ill by my own child?” Her head whips side to side. “Get out.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Colt protests. “Let everyone calm down and—”

  “I’m calm.” Alicia looks squarely at my brother. “In fact, I’m the most at peace I’ve felt in weeks.”

  “Where will she go?” he hollers, taking a step forward.

  “I imagine her father’s,” Mum grits out through a tight jaw. “Quite frankly, it’s not my problem anymore.”

  “What about school?” I ask on a whisper. “The legal proceedings?”

  “School?” She barks a laugh. “You can return to Arcadia High for all I care. If you’re not under my roof, I’m not paying tuition at Riverbourne—especially while suspended. And as for the subpoena?” Her eyes narrow. “Good luck with that.”

  “You can’t be ser—”

  “Get out,” she repeats a little louder.

  “My things…” I ask, looking down the hall.

  “Will be organised and packed for you to collect at a later date.”

  “Lace…” Colt calls softly.

  What can he do? I stare at the floor between Mum and myself in a daze. I refuse to believe that she doesn’t love me. She’s angry. But to feel nothing for your child?

  Without another word or a look in anyone’s direction, I leave.

  My feet carry me as far as the road before my knees buckle, and I fold to the ground. I sit there for a while, staring off at the windbreak across the way, my arms folded across myself as I gently sway side to side.

  Void of thoughts, I watch a magpie hop and flutter its way across the top of the pines, collecting loose branches in its beak before it disappears, only to return to gather more. Life is so simple for wildlife when you stop to think about it. They have families, but there’s no such thing as divorce, manipulation, or betrayal. They exist purely to love and care for each other, survival their endgame.

  I suppose survival is our endgame as humans too. We’re just the largest threat to that goal as well. Irony at it’s finest.

  The bird stops to watch me; head cocked to one side. I mimic its movement, leaning to my left as a stiff wind picks up and blows my hair across my face. The magpie swoops down from the treetops, landing on the grass verge across from me.

  I got what I wanted—a return to Arcadia—but I don’t know what to do next. Mum still has my phone, and there’s no way I’m going back to the house to use the landline.

  I miss Tuck. Just as I told him, barely twelve hours since I saw him last, I’d do anything to have him here with me right now.

  I need his reassurance. His care. The way he can make me feel as though all of this commotion in my life is mere trivialities when his arms are around me.

  Brushing the wayward locks from my face, I stare down the road toward town and then tip my face to the sky. The sun is yet to rise to its highest. The days are still relatively mild, spring not quite in full swing.

  I have legs. I have feet that can carry me.

  I can walk.

  What other choice do I have? Stay and wait until Mum discards my things in the hope she includes my phone? After this long, it’s probably flat anyway. I can’t imagine she would have been considerate enough to charge it.

  The magpie hops back a few feet as I rise to mine, watching me dust the grass from my arse and legs. I give the bird a smile and sigh.

  “If only I had wings like you, huh?”

  COLT

  “You’re going to leave her out there, with no phone, no car, nothing?” I march after Mum, following her back to the bedroom.

  She ignores me, slinging the closet open to find clothes for the day.

  “She’s your daughter,” I yell. “You can’t do this to her.”

  Mum spins, a sheer blouse in her grasp. “Nothing else I’ve done has worked, Colt.” Her hand shakes. “I tried talking to her, tried therapy, moved her back here, and yet she gets worse.”

  “Worse, how?”

  “Defiant.” She throws the blouse to the bed before turning back to the closet. “Brazen.”

  “Because she wants to make her own way in the world.” I can’t believe I’m defending her choice to break away from our family like this, but unlike my mother, I love my sister, and I care about her happiness.

  Even if I have strange ways of showing it. Maybe I’m not so different from Mum, after all?

  “Doing what?” Mum cries. “What is it she wants to do that requires she push back against the resources and favours she has to call upon in Riverbourne?”

  “Something that doesn’t require her being a used housewife whose only skill is what she can do with her body.” The words leave my mouth before I have a chance to think them over.

  I back away a step, sure Mum’s about to snap and hit me similar to how she did Lacey.

  Yet she takes me by complete surprise, one hand to the closet door, back toward me while her head drops between her shoulders. “I’m tired, Colt.” She pauses for what feels like forever. “I used to wish for a way out of this life too, many moons ago, but I learned damn fast what happens when you fight against your name.”

  I don’t know what to do. Do I approach her? Stay quiet and give my mother time?

  This feels so damn weird.

  Mum turns; her eyes red, jaw stiff. “You make a mistake, and so you dig a hole to try and bury it, and then you make another, and before you know it, your goddamn lawn is riddled with holes.” She collapses to the foot of the bed, gown twisted around her lean, tan legs. “Perhaps what I do isn’t right for you kids,” she muses. “But it’s
all I know how to do.”

  “Then trust her,” I urge. “Trust Lacey’s judgement and just be there for her.”

  “She doesn’t want or need me there.”

  “Can you blame her when you hit her for speaking out?”

  Mum flinches, gaze averted. “She makes me so damn angry.”

  I huff. “Have you ever asked yourself why?”

  Mum lifts her chin, studying me a moment. “What good would that do?”

  “You can’t fix the problem if you don’t address the cause.” I ignore the shiver of recognition that instils.

  Her chest rises with a deep breath. Blonde waves hide her face, Mum’s head turned to take in the discarded blouse on the bed. “I have a brunch to attend today.” She swallows. “Do me a favour and pack your sister’s things up for me.”

  “You can’t ignore this. It won’t get better.”

  “Maybe not.” Her brash indifference has returned. “But it won’t get any worse either.”

  “This is bullshit.” I walk out of her room, injustice raging within at how futile confronting her has been.

  I curse the length of the house under my breath, striding to retrieve my phone before doubling back to head out the front. If I’m lucky, Lacey hasn’t got far, and we can call her up a ride from Dad or even Greer for the time being.

  A magpie warbles from its spot across the road as I reach the end of the driveway. There’s a patch of flattened grass on the dewy verge, but other than that, no sign of my sister. Fuck’s sake.

  My goddamn Explorer is still parked at Libby’s, the keys inaccessible until she returns from the races. What a right mess.

  I hastily flick through my contacts and punch the screen. Adrenaline is the only thing stopping me from disconnecting in shame. I’ve failed her. I’ve spent my life protecting her since she was a squishy little bundle in my mother’s arms, and now I’ve let her down.

  What a waste of effort, Colt.

  “This is early for you,” Dad answers with a jovial tone.

  I feel shit for what I’m about to do. “You need to get here, quick. Lacey needs you.”

  “What’s happened?” I catch the thud of something being put down in the background. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s not hurt.” At least physically. “Mum’s kicked her out of the house.”

  “What the fuck?” Dad exclaims. “Where is she now?”

  “Somewhere between the Mayberry’s and wherever she’s decided to walk. I don’t have my car here, so I can’t go look for her.”

  “So take your mother’s.”

  I scoff. “You think she’d let me? Besides, she’s going out to a brunch she deems more important.”

  “Colt. Put her on.”

  “I can’t.” I pace the width of the driveway. “She doesn’t want to talk about it anyway. I’ve tried.”

  “Shit.” The line rustles before he puts me on speaker. “I’ve got a tense drive into town so you may as well fill it by telling me what the hell has been going on in there.” His engine starts; the gear whines as he reverses.

  I hop up on the block mailbox and get comfortable. “Probably be best if you start by telling me what you do know.”

  “Jesus,” Dad whispers. “How bad is it? I swear to God when I see your moth—”

  “She’ll be gone by the time you get here.”

  “Lucky for her then,” he growls. “Give me the rundown, Colt. What do I need to know?”

  LACEY

  I’m far enough into my mission into town that my feet ache, and I wish I’d put shoes on before I remember something pretty damn crucial: Greer isn’t home.

  Her mum would welcome me in—that’s not the problem—it’s that Mrs Roberts would promptly let Alicia know I was there. And if I know one thing about the woman who gave birth to me, she doesn’t let you slide out of purgatory that easily.

  Regardless, there’s no point in stopping now. What am I to do? Sit on the side of the road like a hitchhiker and hope that the person who stops to give me a ride isn’t some opportunistic psycho killer?

  Guess it would fit with the context of the day.

  I smile to myself, head down to shield my eyes from the sun, and watch my feet as they crush the overgrown grass to the gravel littered dirt below. I’ve been careful to avoid any broken bottles and sharp objects, aware that as it is my feet will probably take a few days to recover.

  How we fall, huh?

  This time last year I spent hours in my room searching out the dress I wore to end of year formal. My hunt hit a snag when the perfect shoes to compliment the dress was sold out in my size. I refused to buy the half size smaller and bear the pain, yet as it stands now, I’d beg a stranger for the opportunity to save the soles of my feet from the hot pavement when I reach the suburbs.

  From first in line to take over the throne of Riverbourne Prep to walking barefoot and homeless on the outskirts. A maniacal giggle bubbles out of my throat, startling the sheep in the paddock to my right. They kick their cloven hooves and scatter to the far side of the field, their woolly arses bobbing as they run. I break down into peals of hiccupped laughter, slowing my gait to catch my breath. I’ve lost it. I’m standing on the side of the road laughing at how silly sheep look when they run.

  My laughter fades, yet the heaved breaths persist while I suck air in between my gritted teeth, the sharp intakes making a rhythmic hiss as I bring my hands to my face and grin through the pain. Everything will work out in the end. I still have Dad. And although the tether may be worn and frayed, I have Colt. In the grand scheme of my life, this will become nothing but a blip on the timeline.

  It still hurts, though.

  It still hurts to be abandoned by your mother because you aren’t what she wanted in a daughter. It hurts to be cast out because I dare to think for myself.

  It hurts that, after all the horrible and nasty things the Chosen have done, I’m the one who has to suffer alone.

  My fingers dig across my scalp, my wind-knotted hair tangled around my fingers as I tip my head back and scream. It relieves a little pressure, yet it also knocks the lid off the collected grief of the past year.

  I’ve held it together for too long, and I wonder if at some point we do need to break if we want to stand a chance at making it any farther. I don’t work right when I’m put together this way anymore. If I want to become someone new, someone stronger, then I’ll have to accept the pain and torture of being utterly destroyed before I’m rebuilt a better version.

  I fall to my arse on the grass, back to the road, and let go. Tears run in a river, curling under my chin to comfort me like gentle fingers as they caress my throat. My chest aches, my lungs burn, and I swear if I don’t stop crying, I’ll dehydrate before I make it to town.

  But it feels right. With every staggered breath, I feel the tension ease. The pressure backs off, the pain fading from an unbearable slash to the heart, to a dull ache in the pit of my gut.

  “Do you need help?”

  I lift my chin, swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, to find a middle-aged woman doing her best to run toward me down her driveway. She limps a little, possibly from a bad hip, or maybe from the extra weight she carries. But all I care about is how genuine her eyes are as she studies me bawling on her roadside verge.

  “Have you been hurt?” She arrives at my side, panting, and crouches down.

  I reach out, the comforting scent of her daffodil-based perfume infiltrating my clogged nose. My hand finds her loose cardigan, and I take hold. She’s real. She’s warm, and she’s here because she cares.

  Her arms wrap around my shoulders as she falls to her knees in the grass. “Ssh, honey. It’s okay. I’m sure whatever it is, we can fix it.”

  I cry harder.

  Nothing can fix the past.

  ***

  “Write your father’s number down on this, and I’ll give him a call while you finish your tea.” The woman—whose name is Deidre, I learnt—sets a flower-embossed piece of notepaper a
nd a Bic pen in front of me.

  One hand cradling the warm drink, I lean over the wooden dining table and carefully write out Dad’s mobile number. “Thank you.” My voice is hoarse, worn down from the exorcism of my despair.

  Deidre said chamomile tea helps a sore throat, especially with a dollop of honey added. I’m grateful for the distraction while she disappears into the adjacent room to place the call. I can’t make out her words, but the tone she uses must placate Dad the same as it did me because she hangs up after a short laugh and a cheery goodbye.

  Her dining room has three large display cabinets, painted white, and filled with an array of colourful plates, teacups, and teapots. Dried flowers hang from the outer corners, and I wonder if she bought them for decoration or made them herself.

  “He’s not far away. Your brother had already phoned.”

  My brow twitches into a frown. “Did he?”

  Deidre takes a seat adjacent to me at the corner of the table. “Are you hungry? I can fix something.”

  “No. Thank you.” With the way I feel right now, I don’t think I’ll be eating for another week yet. Food is the last thing I desire.

  “You know,” Deidre says before clearing her throat. “When I was not much older than you, I found myself in a predicament too.” She smiles softly. “I went on holiday with a friend from school and her boyfriend. Just the three of us in a campervan touring around the island. To cut the story short, they decided three was a crowd, and I was left behind in Tahunanui with only ten dollars to my name.”

  “What did you do?” I know she’s telling me this to try and keep my mind busy, but I also want to know. How did she move past being treated like that?

  “I caught a bus to Christchurch—it was all I had enough for—and found a cash job to tide me over until I was due home a week later.”

  “You never told your parents?”

  Deidre shakes her head, short wavy hair bobbing as she does. “Not right away. They found out years later.” She waves a dismissive hand between us. “But by taking charge of the situation, I think I had a better holiday than if I had continued with my friend.”