Oh My Goth

by Gena Showalter

“I’ve had better.” Mercedes glances between the pair, her eyes narrowing. “Looks like I’m going to have a pretty crappy night, too.”

  Fiona hooks a tendril of hair behind her ear, and I almost—almost—walk over to hug her. Appreciate what you have or lose it.

  “Um. Hi,” I say.

  “Hello,” she responds with a kind grin. But then, she’s always been kind to me, even on the days I was beyond rude to her.

  “This is Fiona Hart.” Dad motions to her, then frowns at me. “Hey. You mentioned a Fiona this morning. I hadn’t met her yet, so I’m not sure how you knew we’d be using her to stage the house.”

  I shrug. My go-to response from now on.

  “With her help,” he says, “we’re going to have an easier time selling.”

  “Sounds boring.” Mercedes checks her cuticles. “Hey, I know! We’ll let you guys get back to business, and we’ll spend the night with Grandma...whatever. Right, Jade?”

  “Grandma Beers. And yes. We’re going to spend the night with her.” I miss her. Despite my lack of encouragement, and her own crankiness, she sends me a card every year for my birthday.

  Mercedes snickers. “Her last name is Beers? Seriously? How intoxicating.”

  Lord save me. “You’re so original,” I say, my tone drier than dirt. Countless times, my mom wrote about the idiots who made fun of her last name.

  You’re the only Beer I want to drink...

  How about a white-hot Beer?

  Let me look through your Beer goggles...

  “After this morning’s debacle,” Dad says, “you guys need to spend the night in your rooms, thinking about ways to apologize to Nadine. Besides, Grandma lives two hours away.”

  Perform. Get this over with. “Yeah. He’s right. Let’s stay here, Mercedes. I’m eager to finish this morning’s fight and tell you all the reasons I hate you.”

  Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Excellent. Because I’m pretty sure I have more reasons to hate you than you have—”

  “Girls!” He scours a hand down his face. “Fine. Go to Tulsa.”

  Yeah. I thought so. “All right,” I say, “but only because you insist. You and your, uh, wife can enjoy a quiet night together.” Please, please let that wife be Fiona.

  I got a taste of life with Nadine this morning. I’m ready to appreciate what I had before the switch.

  “Come on. Let’s pack.” Mercedes tugs me toward the hall.

  I branch off into my bedroom, and she keeps going, heading into Ruby’s room. (I’ll never consider it Mercedes’s room.) As I stuff clothes into a bag, my motions are clipped. Limited choices make the process quick, and yet Mercedes still manages to beat me back into the kitchen. She really is eager to go.

  “Why the sudden interest in seeing your grandmother?” Dad asks.

  Fiona pretends to focus on a folder filled with pictures and papers.

  I shrug. Go-to response, remember? “Maybe I’ve learned the importance of family.” He has no idea how true that statement is.

  Everything from his expression to his posture softens. “You’re right. Family is important. But aren’t you supposed to be planning Fright Night?”

  “Um...” Am I?

  “She’s decided to delegate,” Mercedes says. “Because she deserves to live her life.”

  I catch a thread of bitterness in her tone. Does she sometimes feel as if she isn’t really living?

  “All right.” He waves toward the door. “Go. Have fun. But you’re going to have to leave Grandma’s by 4:00 to get to school on time. And you will get to school on time, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mercedes needs no further prompting. “Thank you, Mr. Leighton.” As she drags me out the door, I wave over my shoulder.

  Less than a minute later, we’re burning rubber out of the driveway, Mercedes fuming. “Your dad is married to my mom, and yet he was giggling with that...that—”

  “Don’t you dare call her a bad name.” My nails dig into the passenger seat. “She’s my stepmother. My real stepmother.”

  “Not today she’s not.”

  Well. I can’t argue with that. “Is your mom dating anyone in the real world?”

  Some of her tension drains. “No one serious. Her overbearing personality sends most guys running for cover.”

  “Overbearing? You used to think she hung the moon.”

  “Please. The only thing she’s ever hung is my sanity. She insults me daily. My hair. My weight. My future plans. Why would I ever be protective of her?”

  I know all that, witnessed it firsthand, but I also assumed she valued her mother’s opinion. Why else would she turn against me when our parents broke up?

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, eh?” I tell her. “You insult other kids daily.”

  “I do not!” She merges onto the highway with a little less finesse than usual, and slinks down in her seat. “I make suggestions for improvement.”

  “Isn’t that the excuse your mother uses?”

  “I... You...” She presses her lips together. One moment bleeds into another. Then, “The journals better get us on the right track,” she grumbles. “If they don’t...”

  Yeah. If they don’t, we’re in serious trouble.

  “I’m not sure how much more I can take.” Her voice breaks at the edges, and tears stream down her cheeks, leaving dark smudges of mascara under her lashes. She put up a good front most of the day, but now her distress is eating her alive while feeding mine.

  Honestly, I’m edging toward a breaking point as well, my one bright moment fading as realization sets in. In this reality, I’m not a bad bet to Clarik. There’s hope for us, and I’m excited by the possibilities. Numb? Not even close. Empty? Hardly.

  We could actually date; he’s attracted to me, and intrigued by me, despite the awful things he’s heard. But then what happens? I go back to the real world with real memories of our time together, only to get rejected by the real Clarik?

  Is this what my mom wants? For us to become absolute wrecks in this world and the other?

  Am I supposed to fight my pain and find happiness only to end up heartbroken?

  And again, I have to wonder if the past he shared is an illusion.

  “We will get through this,” I finally say, my raspy voice hollow. “Whatever it takes.”

  “What if we can’t get home?” There’s a raw quality to her voice I’ve never heard from her before.

  “We will.” We have to. Not just for us, but for Robb. He deserves to live his life. And I owe him a million hugs.

  “You say that so confidently.” She sounds stronger at least. More like her normal self. “Be serious. Do you truly believe you’ll read your mom’s innermost thoughts, figure out her mistakes and find a way to get back to normal?”

  I trace a finger across the dusty window, leaving a line. “Maybe.” What other hope do we have?

  A new well of tears glistens in her eyes. “And if not?”

  “I don’t know, okay? We’ll take this one day at a time and worry about failure if, and only if, we do what we think is right but still remain in this messed-up world.”

  “In the meantime, I refuse to dress up as a Goth, just to show the world I’m not the freak in this relationship.”

  My teeth gnash with so much force I’m surprised I don’t taste powdered enamel. “Stop calling me names, preppy. You’ve done it for years, and I’m sick of it.”

  “Aw, did I hurt your wittle feewings? Well, guess what? You hurt me, too, and I’m just returning the favor.”

  I sputter for a moment or twelve. “Returning the favor? What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play ignorant. You know what you did.”

  “Obviously I don’t. What I do know is this. Whatever you think I did, it is not—and will never be—a decent excuse for all the way
s you’ve lashed out at me. And others!”

  That only makes her madder. She jacks up the radio, effectively ending the conversation. Fine. Whatever. We’ve said all we need to say, anyway.

  For the first time, however, I wonder if I’ve been the cause of our animosity all along. If, in my quest to remain alone and unaffected, I hurt her the way I’ve so often hurt Robb, Linnie and Kimberly.

  I think back to the time our parents split, the last time she was ever nice to me. I remember how pale Mercedes was, how her chin trembled as she fought tears. I remember how calm I was.

  “I’ll come over every day,” she’d told me between heaving breaths.

  “No, thanks,” I’d replied. I’d known her mother would protest. Mercedes might have visited at lot at first, but slowly those visits would have tapered until we no longer saw each other. Why prolong the inevitable? “I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

  I’d said goodbye then, and shut myself in my bedroom.

  Cut and run. My specialty. Any regret or sorrow I’d felt, I’d buried.

  In the present, my stomach sinks. I did hurt her. I hurt her badly, my apathy cutting like a knife. While she mourned the breakup of our family—and that was exactly what we were—I coldly, callously walked away, so she’d cut me back.

  I’m a bad bet, just as Clarik said.

  * * *

  When we’re a few miles away, I call Grandma Beers to let her know we’re coming and we’re close. By the time we park in her driveway, she’s waiting in her doorway, grinning from ear to ear.

  For a sixtysomething-year-old woman, she has very few wrinkles, but those she does have—laugh lines around her eyes and mouth—are deep. In the real world, she wore quintessential granny attire. An oversize floral print dress. In this fake one, she wears a skintight shirt and pants the color of tinfoil. Her makeup is hyperdone, with silver eye shadow, blush and lipstick. There are neon-green streaks in her once salt-and-pepper hair, and goggles perch on the crown of her head. But it is the grin that throws me the hardest.

  “That is your grandmother?” Mercedes makes a sound that hovers somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “And I thought mine needed a makeover.”

  “This isn’t the real Grandma Beers. Besides, what’s on the outside doesn’t matter.” But, oh, wow, I sure do miss my muumuu-wearing granny. I didn’t realize how much until this very moment, when the woman I know and love is gone—when it’s too late to tell her.

  No! As long as there’s breath, there’s hope. I won’t go down easy. This isn’t the end of my sweet grandma Beers.

  “She’s a cream puff, so you had better be on your best behavior.” I exit the car and tentatively make my way to the porch. The headlights haven’t shut off yet and illuminate my path, as well as the house. The small bungalow was once painted beige, but is now—what else?—black.

  The temperature has dropped, and cold air brushes my face. It’s almost as cold as the blood in my veins. I used to enjoy this time of night, when insects hummed lazily, shadows danced freely and stars winked from a perch of black velvet.

  “Oh, my darkling,” my grandma says. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  An invisible fist squeezes my heart. “I’m happy to see you, too.”

  She gives me the hug I need, wrapping her arms around me. I hug her back, clinging, probably squeezing a little too tight.

  I’m forced to let her go when she steps back and says, “Who’s your friend?”

  “Mercedes Turner. She’s my...stepsister.”

  Grandma brightens. “The infamous Mercedes. I’ve wanted to meet you.” She draws the girl close for a hug. “You’re as pretty as a picture.”

  “You have?” I expect Mercedes to protest. Instead, she returns the embrace with genuine enthusiasm, tears glistening in her eyes. “Well, of course you have. I’m wonderful.”

  “So is everyone you insult,” I mutter.

  She glares at me.

  “No fighting. This is a combat-free zone.” Grandma Beers lets her go and leads us inside the house...or maybe into a steampunk romance.

  Edison light bulbs remain uncovered as they hang from every lamp, and every piece of furniture is either sleek-and-modern or a surprising mix of futuristic and antique. The shag carpet—the same neon green as her hair—has a pattern cut in the center, like the supposed alien symbols sometimes mowed into farm pastures.

  “Sit, sit. I just made brownies. You’ll love ’em.” She winks at me. “I added a little bit of the hash for extra flavor.”

  What! I plop on the bright pink couch, and she pads into the kitchen as if she hasn’t just rocked my world. She bakes sugar cookies, not pot brownies.

  “I’ll take two,” Mercedes calls as she settles beside me. To me, she says softly, “This world is a garbage can, but your grandma is a treasure. When we divorce, I’m keeping her.”

  I’m keeping her, thank you. “We are not eating those brownies. We have too much work to do, and we need a clear head.”

  She scowls at me. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a talent for ruining parties?”

  I pop my jaw to stop myself from screeching like a banshee.

  As she studies the room, she looks thoughtful. “I had no idea you Goths were so varied.”

  “Surprise. Even weirdoes like variety.”

  “I made a statement, not an insult,” she grates. “Your reaction is stupid.”

  Ugh. She isn’t wrong. “Sorry,” I grumble. I’ll do better.

  A pause. Then she hesitantly asks, “What does it mean to be Goth? Again, I’m not meaning to be insulting. I’m curious.”

  I think she’s trying to understand me, and it’s...nice. “We see the world through a different lens, I guess. Darkness isn’t something to fear. Differences aren’t something to eschew, but to celebrate. The freaky things shunned by mainstream can be beautiful.”

  “Beautiful,” she echoes. She nibbles on her bottom lip as she squirms. “I didn’t tell you everything your mother said to me. I—according to her—need to be torn down so I’ll understand the beauty of building someone up. I thought she was crazy. I thought I already knew. Then your grandma hugged me, told me she accepted me just as I am...” The tears return to her eyes.

  “Yeah. I get it. I never wanted to let go of her, either.”

  She brushes an invisible piece of lint from her knee. “Do you still wonder about how and when people are going to die?”

  Uncomfortable with the current topic? Fine. I can roll. “Yes, but I’m going to stop. I realize it’s become a precursor to pushing someone out of my life. Because if I don’t care, I don’t hurt when they leave me.” I didn’t intend to share so much with her or reveal the depths of my current vulnerability, but memories of our former friendship are messing me up.

  We used to sit side by side all the time, lean into each other and talk about all our hopes and dreams.

  “You’re good at pushing people out of your life,” she says softly.

  “Yes. Very good.”

  “For years you’ve peered through me, as if I no longer exist in your precious universe. It makes me want to hurt you, to make you feel something.”

  “I get that, too.”

  A throat clears, and we both jump guiltily, as if we’ve been caught robbing a store at gunpoint. Grandma Beers is standing beside a partition that separates the living room from the kitchen, holding a tray. She glides to the coffee table and sets down the tray, which holds three glasses of orange juice, a bowl of pickles and a plate of brownies. Excuse me. Hash brownies.

  “Go on,” she says. “Eat. Everything is plant based, so it’s good for you. Very nutritious.”

  Mercedes grabs two brownies, as planned.

  Grandma smiles encouragingly. “So what brings you girls to my neck of the woods, considering no one has visited me...or called me...or written me.
..or texted me in years.”

  Guilt razes me. I open my mouth to respond, apologize, something, but my phone buzzes. My brow furrows. No one texts me, not even Linnie, Kimberly and Robb. They used to, but I never responded and they eventually gave up.

  What a great friend I was, huh?

  I check the screen to find a text from Clarik, and my heart flutters.

  Hey, what are your plans this weekend?

  Why? Does he want to hang out again? The flutters pick up speed, until the organ is hammering at my ribs.

  “Well,” Mercedes says, giving me a nudge, “Jade really, really wants to read her mother’s journals. Right, Jade? Tell her.”

  “Yes.” Trembling now, I store my phone in my pocket. I’ll respond to him as soon as I’m alone and have figured out a halfway decent response.

  I don’t think Dreaming of kissing you will do me any favors.

  When I glance up, I realize the color has drained from my grandmother’s cheeks. “Why do you want to read the journals?” she asks.

  “Because...just because.” I won’t lie, but I can’t really tell her the truth, either. “I want to get to know Mom better.”

  “Jade, my darling.” She sits in the chair across from the couch and peers at me with worried eyes. “What is this about? There’s no reason to relive the past and taint the picturesque memory you have of her.”

  Picturesque? Not even close. “I know Mom wasn’t perfect. And, Grandma? I’m not leaving until I’ve read those journals.”

  She closes her eyes, as if searching for calm, before facing me again. “Miranda wouldn’t want you to know certain sides of her.”

  “I was five years old when she died, not five weeks. I remember her highs and lows. Besides, you’re wrong about her. She’s the one who sent us here.”

  Chapter 11

  The tongue is a single muscle,

  and yet it has the power to destroy a life.

  —Jade Leighton

  Grandma Beers laughs. “I think I’ve had one too many brownies. I know you didn’t just say your mother—”

  “Oh, yes, I did.” I share a look with Mercedes, who shrugs, all Do what you gotta do. Then and there, I decide to tell Grandma Beers everything. If she thinks I’m crazy, she thinks I’m crazy.