“I thought this chapter was banned?” Savannah’s grating voice pierced through my ears like nails on a chalkboard. “My momma said I can’t read any books about angels. She says anyone who refuses Jesus Christ as their lord and savior is a devil worshipper.”
I turned around and narrowed my eyes at Savannah who was sitting at the back of the room. She was such a hypocrite. She moved her body nervously when she caught me staring, then flicked her eyes away from mine.
“They’re aliens from outer space!” Vance exclaimed. “I saw it on Wake Up!”
“The conspiracy theory channel?” the orange-haired girl frowned.
“Yeah,” Vance replied. “The government is hiding their real identity. They’re working together with the Illuminati.”
As the conversation escalated, I focused my attention back to the book. There were many pictures of the asteroid before it was named Stone Mountain and an image from the Atlanta Newspaper with a headline that read ANGELS EXIST! Underneath it, there were various photographs of people watching the White House announcement at bars, churches, and schools confirming the creatures who arrived on Y2K were in fact angels.
Shortly after arrival day, the angels were integrated into our society. They were given jobs, social security cards, houses. When questioned about religion, the angels refused to acknowledge the existence of God or Lucifer. They argued the bible was a self-help book Man created to control the human population. The angels and demons described in the book were supposed to serve as metaphors for the good and bad thoughts that floated inside the human mind. Adam and Eve represented the conscious and subconscious mind. And Lucifer our ego.
So you could imagine the chaos, the protests. The hard-core religionists refused to take the angels’ word standing firm with their beliefs. They weren’t thrilled about a supernatural being moving in next door. Especially in the South. To this day, people’s reactions were mixed, and many of the religious theories were still up for debate.
I didn’t know what to believe. I was raised a God-fearing Catholic, I seriously thought I was damned to go to hell for every sin I committed. Talk about childhood trauma. My mother always told me the angels were liars and shouldn’t be trusted. But there were times I questioned everything. What if the angels were telling the truth? What if everything I grew up believing was a lie?
“She’s a quill-lovin’ angel sympathizer. I’m tellin’ ya.” Mason exclaimed as he continued to attack the girl with the orange hair. “I vote to kick her out of class.”
“Mason, I think that’s enough lip from you today,” Mr. Harris warned.
“Cut it out,” Eddie told Mason. “Let’s pay attention and learn something for a change.”
I scoffed when Eddie said it.
Mason turned to me with hostility in his eyes. “You got something to say, Alexis?”
I looked up from my history book and narrowed my eyes at Mason. “No. I think we’ve heard enough stupidity for one day.”
The snorts and giggles from the class echoed throughout the room as they oohed at my comment. Mason shot me a murderous glare, I thought he was going to get up and punch me.
His lip curled into an evil smile. “Why don’t you kiss my ass?”
“I think that’s Vance’s job.” I smiled.
Eddie shot up from his seat so fast I didn’t have time to blink.
“Come on, man,” he told Mason. “That’s not cool.”
“What? You’re gonna fight me, bro?” Mason said peering up at Eddie. “Over this skank?”
Skank. That’s what Mason called any girl who’s refused him. Mason was the type of boy who was so good-looking, he could get any girl he wanted. He’s been with almost every girl in our class including Dawn.
Except me.
So he’s made sure I felt his wrath on a daily basis.
“Everyone settle down!” Mr. Harris ordered. “You two”—Mr. Harris pointed at Eddie and Mason—“Principal’s office, now. And you too young lady.”
Mr. Harris looked at me with a no-nonsense glare.
“Wha—what did I do?” I protested.
“You interrupted my class. Now get!” He snapped his fingers.
Way to stay out of trouble, Alexis.
I grabbed my backpack and left the room dragging my feet down the hallway. On my walk to the principal’s office, I sensed a knot in my throat I couldn’t swallow. I’d never gotten in trouble before, not really. That was Priscilla’s job, she was the troubled child in the family, not me. What if I got detention? Or my mother was called into the school? Or worse, held me back a year? There was no way in hell I was getting stuck in this podunk town.
I slumped against the bench across from Mason and focused my attention on the bulletin board full of school club flyers. I realized Mason was staring at me.
Without looking at him, I asked, “What?”
“Just admit it, you want me,” he said with a Southern accent. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be so mean to me all the time.”
“Wow. So you think I’m mean because I like you?” I scoffed. Where did Mason get the outdated information? A fifth grader off the elementary school playground?
“Yep.”
I snorted. “When pigs fly.”
“Done. They already do.”
I squirmed in my seat. “You know, you’re right. I can barely restrain myself when I’m around you.”
“I knew it,” Mason said with a big grin. “How about we go back to my place after school so I can show you a good time?”
The door to the principal’s office opened. Eddie walked out as I jumped up to go inside. I turned around to face Mason then blew him a kiss that turned into the middle finger. “Not even in your wildest dreams.”
I slid in the chair sitting in front of the desk while I stared at the back of the principal’s balding head. He flipped through the file cabinet in search of my school record. After a few seconds, he grabbed a thick manila folder and dropped it on his desk. Principal Abraham sunk into his chair, then leafed through the pages.
“Your file is impressive, Miss Minerva,” he said as he began to read the details on the page out loud as if he were reading a to-do list. “In-school-suspension for fighting, class disruption, skipping class.”
I furrowed my eyebrows confused. I was pretty sure it wasn’t my file. The only time I’d ever gotten detention was freshman year after raking up so many unexcused tardies because Paul wouldn’t let my mother drive me to school after I’d missed the bus. Luckily, my mother had a spare key.
“It says right here you got expelled for half the semester for bringing alcohol to school. And it looks like you have twenty-eight unexcused absences—”
“You must be reading the wrong file, Mr. Abraham,” I said cutting him off.
He scanned the file and pulled his eyebrows together. “Your name is not Priscilla Minerva?”
“No, sir. I’m Alexis Minerva. Priscilla is my sister,” I corrected.
“My apologies.” Mr. Abraham rose and walked back to the file cabinet. This time, he came back with a much thinner folder. “Wow, quite the contrast. Mr. Harris tells me you were disrupting his class,“ he said as he looked up at me. “Is that true?”
“I wasn’t disrupting his class, I was only defending myself,” I answered.
After briefly scanning the correct file, Mr. Harris closed it. “Alexis, you’re a good student. Good grades, no behavioral issues. And because of that, I’m going to let you off with a warning this time.”
I let out a huge sigh of relief.
“I don’t want to see you in here again. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” I quickly shot out of my seat and left the room. As much as I hated kissing ass, it was the only thing keeping me out of trouble.
CHAPTER
4
When I got home from school, I ran straight for the mailbox. A couple of weeks ago I requested information about the L.A. County Film School after I watched a video tour of their facilities on their website. The school had state of
the art sound stages, editing labs, and film sets. They were stocked with the latest film cameras and equipment, unlike my school. I formed part of the AV club where we produced the morning announcements and taped all the sports games, but the only equipment the school owned was an outdated Panasonic HVX 200 and dinosaur Mac’s. It took forever to edit video footage on those things.
A large white envelope greeted me when I opened the mailbox. It was thick and heavy with information. I ripped open the package and flipped through the colorful pages filled with pictures of the Hollywood sign, Capitol Records, and shiny happy film students working the cameras. I skipped through most of the book until I found the tuition section.
I almost dropped the mail when I saw the number: $45,000 out-of-state tuition per semester.
What. The. Hell. Are these people serious?
They must be insane if they believe anyone could afford this. Where do they expect I get the money? Out of my ass? I ran past the front door to my room where I dropped my backpack on the floor and went straight for my bible tucked away in the bookshelf. Opening it, I grabbed the money I had stashed inside a makeshift hole. Counting my hard earned cash carefully, it totaled nine-hundred and eleven dollars.
My mood plummeted. I threw the money in the air, making it rain.
I slumped against the wall, money bills falling at my sides. The thought of getting stuck in Dixon almost made me cry. I could ask my dad for the money. But it was a long shot. He could barely afford the studio apartment he rented in Hawthorne.
I had to figure something out. I was determined to get out of Dixon even if I had to sell my soul to the devil.
Later that day, I spent the evening sketching in my leather binder eating ramen noodles for dinner. I was still reeling over the tuition for the L.A. County Film School, and nothing I did was helping me feel better.
It was days like these where I found myself missing my grandmother’s homemade flour tortillas. The woman was a fantastic cook. She made the best Mexican bread and tamales in her whole block back in L.A. I wished my mother had inherited her cooking skills. We were lucky if she made us pancakes.
Glancing over to the living room, Isaac was glued to the couch hypnotized by our flat screen. My mother was in the kitchen washing dishes vacantly staring out the kitchen window. She wasn’t due at the hospital for another hour, so she usually hung out in there.
Happy Birthday to me.
As I glumly twirled the noodles around my fork, I suddenly wished I was anywhere but here. I was stuck at home like any other Friday night instead of enjoying it with my friends or at football games like a regular teenager—even though I hated football games. I just wanted to get out of the house.
I found myself wondering if Dawn and Julian ever made it to Eve’s Paradise. It sounded more exciting than this. My life was officially depressing.
“Isaac, have you finished your homework?” my mother called from the kitchen.
Isaac didn’t break contact from the TV.
“It’s Friday,” he replied with a mouth full of food. “No homework.”
That’s it. I stood up determined to do something—anything—tonight. I wasn’t going to let my life zip past me while everyone else had fun. I strode into the kitchen with a sense of purpose, trying to gather up the courage to ask my mother for permission to go out. But I stiffened as soon as I saw her, the words got stuck in my throat. I glanced at the trash bin and noticed it was full. So I made myself useful and decided to take it out. Maybe she’d notice how helpful I was without her asking and she’d take pity on me.
“Can I...” I began. “Can I go to the movies with some friends tonight?” I didn’t have any plans yet, but I figured I’d plan details later.
“Friends. Do you mean Dawn and Julian?” My mother always made sure to add an extra note of harshness when she mentioned my friends by name.
“Please?”
“No,” she replied sternly.
“But why not? Aren’t I allowed some sort of freedom?” I argued. The last time she let me out of the house—with permission—was with Jane and her family. My mother trusted Jane because her father was the pastor at our church.
“When you’re living on your own, in college, and paying your own bills you can do whatever you want Alexis.”
“Yeah right. I bet the ball and chain around my ankle will follow me there too.” I slammed the trash bin shut. “I don’t understand why you don’t trust me. I can’t even go out because you’re afraid—” I stopped mid-sentence.
“Go ahead, finish what you were going to say.” My mother signaled with her finger.
My jaw tensed. I wasn’t sure if I could finish the sentence, but the anger inside my body boiled, I exploded. “You’re afraid I’m going to screw up like Priscilla.”
My mother’s face tightened at the sound of my sister’s name. “It’s not you I don’t trust, it’s the world around you.”
I wanted to scream. The drama my sister caused took an emotional toll on our family, and I get she didn’t want history repeating itself, but I wasn’t my sister.
“You’ve been telling me that since I was ten. Don’t you think it’s getting a little old?” I snapped.
She turned her attention back to the dishes. She was clearly avoiding me.
“Why don’t you just admit it,” bitterness spewing out of every word, “you’re afraid I’m going to make the same mistake as Priscilla.”
She tossed the sponge aside sighing in defeat. “Honestly, yes. I am afraid. I’m not going to bust my ass at work all night, worrying about what my sixteen-year-old daughter might be doing at the movies or who she’s with. Your friends are bad influences. Dawn is a little promiscuous and Julian is a pothead!”
“That’s what you’re afraid of?” I said tossing the trash bag on the floor. The garbage spilled all over. “Aren’t you afraid you might be pushing me away? Or that I might run away like her?”
Tears started to swell in my mother’s eyes. It was odd to see her show any emotion. Priscilla had been gone for seven years now, we didn’t know where she was. Or the identity of the angel boyfriend.
“Fantastic!” my mother screamed. “Look at the mess you made!”
Just as I was about to say something I would regret, Paul stepped in wearing his usual military green jacket with a sweaty and greasy undershirt that had seen better days. I scrunched my face in disgust as he walked past me to the refrigerator.
“What are you two fightin’ about now? I can hear you hollerin’ from outside,” he said in a Southern drawl that always annoyed me. Paul may have left Dixon behind long ago, but the Dixon accent followed him everywhere. And it’s funny because retired First Sergeant Paul Torrez wasn’t even white. He was a good ole southern boy who didn’t know he was Mexican until he turned twelve because someone at school kept calling him a beaner.
“Nothing,” my mother said. “Do you want something to eat?”
Paul searched the refrigerator then slammed it shut. “My beer’s gone.”
“You probably drank it all.” My mother insisted. “I can send Alexis to the store.”
“I’m not going anywhere for him,” I spat.
He turned to me narrowing his dark eyes. “Did you drink my beer?”
I glanced at my mother and shook my head in disbelief. She turned away focusing on the dishes again. I wanted to sit there and argue with Paul and call him out on everything he’d been doing to Isaac and me while my mother was at work, but I knew it was a lost cause. The last time I told my mother Paul locked us out of the house because Isaac was ‘too noisy,’ she brushed it off and said she would talk to him, but I’m assuming she never did.
“I don’t drink beer.” I balled my hands into fists, looked at my mother and said, “And by the way, I’m seventeen today.”
I spun around then ran up to my room slamming the door behind me. I slumped onto my bed, closed my eyes and visualized what life would be like if I didn’t live here. I envisioned myself living with my dad in Los
Angeles possibly attending a film school and mingling with like-minded people who appreciated indie films, grunge music, rock, and metal.
I stared at the poster right above my bookcase of The Virgin Suicides. I felt repressed like the Lisbon sisters, confined by the four walls of my bedroom, and isolated from the world. The only way out of this prison was through my balcony.
I rolled over on my bed and noticed an old picture on the side table. Inside was a photograph of my sister and me standing in front of my mother’s red Expedition. Her copper hair was tied in a messy bun above her head. Even though we shared the same DNA, Priscilla and I looked nothing alike. She had a cute button nose covered with freckles while my nose was long and narrow. My grandmother used to call her Canela when she was little, which meant cinnamon in Spanish. Apparently, red-heads ran in our family.
I quickly noticed a small tattoo of a symbol I couldn’t make out between her dumb and index finger. I reached for the picture frame to take a closer look, but a soft rapping coming from my balcony door startled me. I flipped around and gasped when I saw Dawn peeking through a crack in the curtain. I thought by now she and Julian would be in the city sipping drinks with exotic names at Eve’s Paradise.
I got up and opened the door. Dawn walked past me wearing a body-hugging sequence mini-dress that left nothing to the imagination. I opened my mouth in shock but not totally surprised. Dawn enjoyed male attention, and she went to great lengths to get it. How she managed to climb my balcony in her peep-toed pumps was beyond me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve come to rescue you, my dear,” she said in her best British accent. “How do I look?”
“Like a streetwalker.”
“Thanks.” She smiled and colored her lips blood-red in my vanity mirror.
“I know what you’re doing,” I began. “I told you I’m not going back to Eve’s Paradise.”
“Change of plans. Marisa from gym told me about a new teen club that’s opening in downtown ATL tonight. Birthday girls get in for free.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said with my arms crossed. “You told me a very similar lie last night.”
THE TRAGIC + DIVINE Page 4