“I’ll see you later Abrams. Say hi to your mom for me” he said as he shuffled off.
“I will when I see her. If I ever do”.
Chapter 6
My home being empty was nothing out of the ordinary. Hearing the usual clatter and chatter of a well lived-in home was a rarity. It was becoming so rare that I could barely remember what it felt like to have such a thing. After my mom married Peter, all she seemed to want to do was go away. Maybe the year, when it was just the two of us, was enough for her to know her daughter. Of course, I managed to change as teenagers tend to do between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, but it would be news to me if she noticed. It wasn’t easy after my dad died. It was sudden.
He was on his way out of town to pick up a delivery of medical supplies. My dad was one of only a handful of people who were permitted to come and go from Manere without much of a hassle. Those were the rules, just delivery drivers and medical professionals were allowed in and out of Manere. I was never sure exactly how many miles he was required to drive on those journeys, but he racked-up both mileage and stress.
But Dan Abrams never said quit. He worked for days without any sleep and not much to eat. My parents were fighting a good deal a few months before he died. Yelling or just hushed arguments seeped through the thin walls. One of the days my mom asked him not to go, he left and never came back. The police said his truck never made it out of the city limits. They said that he turned off a dirt road and went full speed into the side of an abandoned brick schoolhouse. I couldn’t understand why he would do something like that. I blamed my mom for years. He seemed so unhappy, and it was obvious he would do anything to quit his job. I never could figure out why she was so adamant about him keeping it. It paid well, sure, but it wasn’t worth it to see him in constant anxiety attacks.
Even at my sixth-grade dance recital, he fell asleep during my solo and felt so terrible about it that he apologized multiple times a day for weeks. I told him that it wasn’t a big deal, it wasn’t like I was much of a dancer. He asked me if I would do my routine for him in our backyard. When I agreed, I found him waiting in a lawn chair. He had hung twinkly lights through the trees and patio overhang and had brought in wood pallets from work for a stage. He even connected our record player to his guitar’s amplifier, so the entire neighborhood could hear the music. It was my best performance.
After my dad died, even when there were people in the house, the feeling of home left along with him. I forgave my mom. I knew in the end that it wasn’t her fault. Even if the stress or pure exhaustion of the job was what led him to end it all, she couldn’t do much about it. She seemed more shocked that he would end his own life than I was.
My bedroom had an unpleasant odor that usually came from impending humidity. The chance of showers was unlikely but the clouds still hung over the sky with a mocking deceptive assurance. It was going to become miserably sweaty with no chance of a watery reprieve. I looked in my closet to go over the clothes I was planning to take to college. If the officer in the park was right, I would probably have to take all my stuff with me, anyway. Sadly, looking around the room made me realize that I would probably not miss most of what sat in my room. Maybe years later I would think fondly of one particular shirt or copy of my favorite book that I left behind, but it would only be a momentary nostalgia, and it would eventually subside. Thinking of my childhood suddenly reminded me of another relic from childhood. Milo and a particular memory. Milo and I were walking home from a birthday party in sixth grade. We weren’t supposed to walk home because we weren’t allowed if the sun was going down, but we ditched the party before anyone noticed.
As we were walking, we noticed this strange man standing next to a tree in the darkness staring at us. He didn’t say a thing, he just watched us. He was filthy and probably homeless, but there was such an empty look in his eyes. Milo grabbed my hand, and we ran to his house, locked his front door, ran to his room and locked that door too. His mother wasn’t home, she was working late. We both had our knees crushed into the carpet, the padding had long ago worn away, as we peeked out the window to see if the deranged man had followed us. It was frightening but also so much fun being afraid together. The doors were locked and we probably both knew that the man wasn’t following us, but we wanted to believe that it was us versus the world. It was always more fun that way.
I also remember that night because it was the first time, I felt a twinge of something more for Milo. After the coast was clear, we sat on his bed looking for something to watch on television. He settled on something stupid and mindless, so my attention started to drift, and I noticed our legs were touching. I was wearing my favorite white shorts with the ruffles on the hem, and he was wearing long jeans. The warmth of his leg next to mine made me nervous. There was never a sense of being unfamiliar with each other. We were practically a part of each other. The feeling washed over me, like an unease but also with the slightest flutter in my stomach. He said something to me, but I was so in my own head about what I was feeling, and my mind was racing too much to focus on anything else around me. I just gave out a noncommittal sound unsure of what my expected response was supposed to be.
When I went home that night, I remember drifting in and out of sleep while playing out different scenarios in my mind. Milo accidentally touching my leg but keeping his hand on there for just a little too long. Our eyes would meet. What would happen after that was beyond anything I could imagine, maybe there was something I had seen in some teen movie. It seemed silly. It was Milo. Just a boy. After that, I may have tried a little too hard to avoid the emotions I was feeling. The comfort I felt with him somehow made me want to resist his friendship. Hot summer days he would pull weeds in his yard shirtless, and I couldn’t help but peek. The same thing happened when he would play basketball in his driveway. It wasn’t that he had an impressive body or anything my friends would notice. It was his complete vulnerability without his knowledge of being vulnerable that got me.
When we were younger, he always shared his fears and random thoughts about life. I never thought anything of it. I did the same thing to him. Once something changed on my side, attraction? Confusion? It made it too complicated to understand. After my dad died, I was the one who drifted away. I blocked him out of my life even after he tried desperately to make it better. I never could imagine that another person would be able to lessen the pain of losing my dad. It wasn’t until years later that I wished I had given him the chance to try.
I looked over at my desk where my diploma was collecting dust. It didn’t take long for things to collect dust. Proof that without constant attention something that seemed to be the most crucial thing in the world holds no more importance than an unexamined advertisement for a dentist. I gathered a few pens and placed them on my spiral notebook. I needed to prepare myself for summer school.
Summer school in Manere was not what it used to be. Before I was in high school, it was a typical summer school program that included enough subjects that allowed students who missed core classes or just failed them, to take them over again. Even such a simple concept became too much for the town to handle on such a tight budget. Some form of summer courses remained. Only five were left at my high school. It was a way for the school district to provide kids with something to do in a town with nothing to do. There had been rumors for years that a skating rink was coming to town, or an arcade may open next to Joe’s pizza. Nothing ever came of it. School was the only option. I was the only one I knew who had graduated who was taking a summer school class.
It seemed like a better idea when I registered before school ended. I thought taking one final class in a place I had spent my entire life would be memorable. The prospect of potentially learning something without the distraction of my friends made it even more enticing, and it was a poetry class, something that was never offered in my four years at Manere high. Even more exciting was that it was going to be taught by someone outside of Manere. For unexplained reasons, a poet named Astrid
Salvatore, who had taught all over the world would be teaching at the high school to ‘illuminate the minds of young aspiring writers and poets on Manere.' I wasn’t particularly interested in poetry but the ability to get to know someone who was cultured made it worth it. No matter how bad the poems that spill out of me could get, I didn’t want to miss the chance to pick the brain of Ms. Salvatore. She had already given instructions before the class started to call her by her first name, Astrid. Astrid would be the only one to help bridge the gap between Manere and Pennsylvania.
Chapter 7
Returning to school so soon after leaving was more of a bummer than I imagined. I had taken summer school classes almost every summer for as long as I could remember but going back after graduating seemed increasingly comical the more, I thought about it. Before entering the classroom I saw Derek’s mother, Principal Mayhew walking toward me. “Angela. How are you on this fine sunny morning?”
“I’m good. Um, doing well. How are you, Ms. Mayhew?”
“Can’t complain. Cannot complain. I was wondering if your mother was abandoning us over at the Elks.”
“I don’t think so. I guess she hasn’t really mentioned Bingo lately.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen her in months. At first, I was relieved because she was always beating me but jeez it has been too long. We need to catch up on some gossip,”.
My mother was never much into gossip, at least not compared to everyone else in town. She seemed to only go along with it to maintain a friendly relationship with the women she knew. I wasn’t even sure if she liked playing Bingo all that much. She loved games, and the idea of winning anything was enough for her to try her hand at it, but she wasn’t ever like the other Bingo players. She was also in a bowling league for a while but since the bowling alley had to limit their business hours from six days a week to three days a week, there weren’t enough days or lanes for all the leagues to play.
“Say hello to her, for me if you could,”
I nodded as she began to walk away but seemed to have remembered something.
“Oh, Angela. Are you planning to go to Derek’s birthday party? I was trying to get a rough estimate of how many of his friends we could expect. Should I mark you down as coming?”
“Sure. I don’t think I have to work that day. It should be fine.”
Ms. Mayhew put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze as she smiled and nodded as if to say, ‘good girl.' Ms. Mayhew had been the principal for the last two years of high school, and she was not only the bizarre principal I had ever met but also one of the unusual people in general. I was never sure how I was supposed to talk to her. Her social behavior was unlike anyone else I had ever known. Even though Derek and his dad made situations uncomfortable sometimes, they still seemed to be from planet Earth.
Ms. Mayhew was an entirely different species. She made it a point to talk to certain students about things that would normally be left unsaid. ‘It’s one of those days huh?’, or ‘Can you believe this day?’ There was never any follow up on her statement. Confusion was the only thing that could be resultant from her casual small talk. Was she saying she was having one of those days? Was she assuming we were? Was there something going on a mass level that no one was aware of? It was best to smile and move on. She wasn’t too harsh of a disciplinarian, so no one said a thing about it.
“Angie! How was your first day?” Lucy came fumbling toward me from across the corridor. Her presence threw me off.
“Lucy. What are you doing here? Are you taking a class?”
“I think I may take that poetry class with you.”
“Oh,” I said trying my best not to sound disappointed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with Lucy, it was just that we had six classes together the last year of high school and Lucy tended to pass notes when she shared classes with her friends.
It wouldn’t have bothered me if it was just the occasional note, but she would do it throughout the entire class, every class. It became grueling. I felt like I could never concentrate on what we were being taught because I was always getting back a piece of paper that could be intercepted by the teacher at any time. The idea that a teacher would realize I was passing notes was even more petrifying. I was a good student. Even when I was getting a reputation for being less than sweet around my peers, the teachers were always convinced I was a perfect angel. I didn’t want to change this image they had.
“I thought you didn’t care about poetry,” I said
“I thought you didn’t care about poetry either” she rebutted
“I like it. I want to read more of it. Maybe find something about it that I never knew before.”
Lucy giggled. “I’m kidding Angie. I am not taking your boring old poetry class. You can rest easy and be all nerdy without me. I won’t tell. I promise” I let out a sigh hoping she didn’t catch how relieved I was.
“So, what are you doing here? Just missed this place that much?”
“You could say that. I was stopping by to say hi to you and Derek. I also thought I saw Ellie around here too but now I can’t find her”.
“Always the social butterfly.”
“You know it” she winked.
“So?”
“So?”
“How was your first day with Abby?”
I knew Lucy was asking only because she wanted me to say something cruel about Abby. I was not going to get pulled in like I always did. While I took complete responsibility for the way I treated people in front of them and especially behind their back, it was Lucy who usually made her best effort to draw the worst from me. She didn’t like getting her own hands dirty.
“It was fun. She’s nice” I shrugged.
“Oh, come on. What’s wrong? You worried she’s going to get you fired if you’re honest.”
“No Lucy. She really is fine. I got to get to class, and you must get to harassing a whole mess of people. So, I’ll talk to you later”.
“Okay, little miss perfect.”
“Bye, my equally perfect best friend” I gave an exaggerated wave.
As I was walking over to the classroom, I noticed a group huddled near the bathroom. One of them was holding something, and everyone else was transfixed by it. I couldn’t quite see it from so far away, but it looked like a black rectangle. I stopped to see if I could get a better view. I usually wasn’t so curious about things that caused people to huddle in excitement because it was often something I didn’t care much to see. The black rectangle lit up. And they began to tap it with their fingers. I walked closer to see it more completely, and when I did, I could hear sounds emanating from the rectangle. The illumination on the crowd’s face was entrancing. I moved closer to get an even better look. I too wanted to be a part of the huddle for once. Before I could get too close, Principal Mayhew showed up causing the cluster to disperse.
I veered off my intended path to avoid being associated with the group. She grabbed the rectangle swiftly and carefully from Chris Barrett’s hand like it was a firearm. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it didn’t seem nearly as dangerous as she made it appear. She whispered something in his ear. It was apparent he was going to lose whatever he was holding for at least the day. The punishment seemed unavoidable for both Chris and his friends.
“Everyone, in my office right now,” she said sternly. She looked over in my direction, but I kept my head down scribbling nonsense in my notebook. She led them down the corridor, and I walked directly into my poetry class.
Chapter 8
“Who here writes poetry? Ms. Salvatore asked.
A few people raised their hands. I looked around to see that I was only one of ten students. The classes were usually small, but since this one was for any grade from eighth-twelfth and was to even include graduates, it seemed uncomfortably small. I decided to raise my hand. I had written a poem before so, I wasn’t lying, but I wanted Ms. Salvatore to notice me more than anything. I also felt like she would appreciate if the class was as interes
ted in the subject as she was. I must have made eye contact with her because she called on me.
“What do you write your poetry about? If you don’t mind me asking?”
I struggled to find an answer. I couldn’t muster up a single poem I had written or what it was about. I cocked my head to let her know that I was merely contemplating the question and hoped she would think I was such a thoughtful person that I needed to sift through to find a single example among hundreds.
“You don’t have to share with us. Sometimes poetry can be personal.”
“My dad” I blurted out.
The students in the small class looked at me in pity. What happened to Dan Abrams wasn’t a secret, they knew the story, but it was something I never spoke of. I never felt the need to share my thoughts or feelings with most people about my dad because I hadn’t yet worked things out for myself. While the students waited eagerly for me to continue, Ms. Salvatore waited for something more. She was the one person who knew nothing about my dad, and still, she appeared worried about asking any follow-up questions.
“Is there anything you would like to add?” She said.
“Not really.”
“Does writing about your dad make you feel better?”
“Sometimes”
Since I had not written poetry in years, I didn’t remember how much it helped. When I did jot down a few thoughts that forced their way out of me, it did seem to do something. Once my mom started getting too nosy and began going through my things, I threw them all away. I didn’t want her to see what I had written. It may have hurt her, or she may have wanted to have a long conversation about it, and I wasn’t ready for either. Her preoccupation with me didn’t last long after my dad died and it became more of an effort to sit her down for a few minutes to talk about life than worry about her going through my stuff.
All That Remains (Manere Book 1) Page 4