Rock Country

by K. Webster

  For two days now, I just lie here, thinking about what would have happened had I not walked in. Would we still be getting married? Nothing can bring me out of this terrible place. Pepper tries, but she can’t even begin to even touch the depths of where I am now.

  School doesn’t matter. Food sucks. Hygiene? What’s that? She keeps threatening to call my mom but all I hear is “blah, blah, blah”. Whatever.

  He keeps texting me, but how can I begin to ever even talk to him? I’m afraid if I see him that I’ll just run right to his arms, hoping he’ll make it all better. But I know deep down that isn’t right. If he did it once, he’ll probably do it again. God, my heart hurts so fucking bad!

  I guess I’ll just cry myself to sleep…again.

  Present

  “Come on, Andi! I don’t have all day. Some of us have been ready for hours,” Pepper called to me from the living room. Of course she’d been ready for hours. She was wearing jeans and a sweater for crying out loud, and it probably took two minutes to readjust her bun.

  “Perfection takes time,” I told Olive, who was sitting on my bed while I applied the last of my makeup. “You sure you don’t want to go with us, hon?” I asked, turning to look at her. Olive was our new friend. She was a gorgeous black girl with legs that went on for miles. Her hair was smooth as silk and her eyes were the palest orbs that contrasted vividly against her chocolate skin.

  Olive moved in with us about a month ago. She somehow managed to escape an extremely abusive relationship but had nowhere to go. When I found her crying at the café one day, I took her under my wing, praying Pepper would be okay with it. Of course Pepper fell in love with the leggy chocolate goddess as well, and she’d been living with us ever since.

  Olive got modeling gigs left and right because she was perfection personified. But her fears of her ex sometimes cripple her socially. A lot of times. Like tonight, she was adamantly shaking her head to my offer. She had a fear that she might run into Drake and he’d drag her away from us, never to be seen again. It always gave me the shivers to think about what he must have done to her to make her so afraid. And the fact that she refused to ever let us see her without being fully clothed made me wonder if he’d done something to her body. Just the thought made me sick to my stomach.

  The modeling jobs she took were mostly for magazines. She absolutely refused to do any live modeling at shows even though that would have been the best way for her to get noticed by more well-known agents. Olive gave us money when she got paid on these jobs, but we never asked her for any. We just wanted our girl safe with us.

  I didn’t make much money at the café so Pepper was our breadwinner. Well, if you call having a monthly trust fund “breadwinning” then she was definitely it. Her dad was a high-powered attorney there in the city and didn’t want his little girl to hurt for anything. We lived in a sweet little apartment and didn’t hurt for much either thanks to Pepper being “Daddy’s Little Girl.” Oh, and she played the part so well. The girl could be downright bitchy, but when—Daddy—was around, her voice was as sweet as sugar.

  Thankfully, I was going to start my new job on Monday and would be able to help Pepper out more than just buying the groceries. Even though her dad took care of a lot for us, I still felt guilty about being a total freeloader. Today was my last day at the café and now we were going to celebrate. It took several months after college of applying all over the city to finally land a job at Compton Enterprises. The job I really wanted was to be an architect, but working as an assistant at an architectural firm was a good foot in the door. Everyone has to start somewhere.

  “One day I’ll go with you guys. But it’s just too soon. Please have fun for me. I have a date with American Idol,” she smiled at me.

  “Okay, fine. But I’m holding you to it. Now, how do I look?” I asked her, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

  Ever since the day I found Brayden cheating on me, something in me snapped. Gone was the blond-haired innocent. Gone was my optimism. My outlook on life and love had been ruined the moment I saw that girl’s big tits bouncing as she rode my man. He had stolen it all away from me when he decided to sleep with some bimbo after almost four years of dating.

  Now, I was this hard, jaded woman. Away had gone my conservative ways and I had welcomed my inner skank. I glanced at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. My platinum-blond hair was flat-ironed perfectly straight halfway down my back. I had carefully made up my face, complete with smoky eyes and plump red lips. The dress I chose to wear was black, tight, and short. Just the way I liked it. The plunging neckline revealed my adequate cleavage. My red pumps put me up three inches higher than my five foot seven frame.

  “You look beautiful as always, Andi,” Olive genuinely assured, making me smile at her.

  I was in “Man-Killer Mode” as Pepper called it. I’d have them falling at my feet tonight. One of them would get lucky too. I was on the prowl, and even Pepper wouldn’t be able to tame me. This Friday night was about to get crazy.

  “Thanks, babe. See you in the morning,” I waved to her as I grabbed my clutch and walked out my bedroom door. Pepper was curled up in the recliner reading a book. “Let’s go, bitch,” I told her as I shrugged into my coat.

  “About time, bitch,” she shot at me, picking up hers from the back of the chair as she stood up. Man-Killer Mode: Activated.

  Here are a few snippets from some other authors you might enjoy…

  One Summer by Elle Jefferson

  I have seen and talked to the dead forever, more specifically to ghosts of the Jean family lineage. In fact, I, Matilda Jean Scott’s (Maddie to my friends) very first conversation was with great aunt Tilly from mom’s side who died in 1920 at the age of fifteen. It was a month after my third birthday. You know the age where things start sticking and you start forming memories you can recall. I remember that day because I wanted to play with my brother, Brayden, but he was in his tree fort. Girls weren’t allowed in there. Especially, red-headed, hazel-eyed, freckle-faced three year olds named Matilda Jean.

  There I was, standing on the other side of Brayden’s tree fort door, begging to be let in and him saying, “No, you have to know the password,” over and over in a teasing lilt. That’s when great aunt Tilly showed up and whispered in my ear, “Turkey.”

  Me, looking at aunt Tilly as nothing more than the bestest friend in the world, repeated “Turkey,” aloud. Brayden’s freckled face came peering out the fort window. Blue eyes wide as he looked down on me and said, “What’d you say?”

  “Turkey,” I repeated, though back then it sounded more like “thurchey.”

  Brayden shook his head and disappeared back inside. A second later metal was rattling while my brother’s exasperated voice was yelling, “Which one of you told her the password? I gotta let her in ‘cuz I promised mom if she got the word right I would.”

  After that, seeing deceased members of the Jean family tree became a regular occurrence for me. Charlene Jean, my mom, told me that it was the voodoo blood still running through the Jean women’s veins generations later which allowed me to communicate with my relatives from beyond the grave.

  Cousin Henry came around whenever I watched movies, particularly ones based on Shakespeare. He’d sit down beside me and start reciting lines. Great Grandma Gertrude usually came around when there was baking to be done. And great Aunt Tilly always showed up to play games or help with reading.

  Whether it was voodoo blood in my veins or not, whatever the reason for my ability, it was definitely tied to the Jean’s genes because all the dead ancestors I’d encountered hung from the Jean branch. Most of them were a friendly sort. A bit sad at times, but they came around to help anyway, like guardian angels or something. The only relative I hated stopping by was Grandpa Jack, my mom’s dad, because he was, as Gram would say, an ornery ass. A particular trait death enhanced in him.

  This ability of seeing ghosts, which made me a superhero in elementary school, a freak in middle school,
and an outcast by high school, was now my identity. I wore it like a badge of honor, an honor I didn’t share with anyone anymore. Though I liked being different, I had no desire to fit in and follow the norm, didn’t mean I advertised my difference.

  But … my sixth sense was also the reason why two months ago, exactly one day after my twentieth birthday, I awoke to my mom in the middle of the night at my best friend Tanya’s house. She was sitting at the foot of the bed rubbing my feet like she did when I was little. It didn’t startle me, the foot rubbing was soothing, it actually took me a whole ten minutes of conversation with mom before I remembered I was at Tanya’s and not at my own home.

  It was a full ten minutes more, before the weight of it sunk in … I was talking to my mom’s ghost. She’d fallen asleep behind the wheel on Highway 82 drove off the edge and crashed into an eighteen-wheeler on a street below. While medics tried to resuscitate her body, her spirit came to me. She was saying goodbye for good.

  “Seriously, Gram, what’s the point? If Uncle Ollie couldn’t be bothered to be at mom’s funeral then why in the world are we bothering to bring him her stuff? It’s not like he cares.”

  Gram glanced over at me, one eye squinted like she was sucking on a salt chip, before looking back at the road. “This was your momma’s last wish and by God we will do it.”

  “Why do you care? Why do you want to fulfill my mom’s last request, she wasn’t your daughter?”

  “Matilda Jean Scott, you watch your mouth,” Gram made the sign of the cross over her chest, “there are two rules you need to know, never speak ill of the dead and always satisfy their last request or else they won’t find peace on the other side and they’ll pull a poltergeist on you.”

  Twenty years and Gram still didn’t acknowledge that Jean women, including me, spoke to the dead regularly. She refused to believe my abilities were real and instead lived under the guise I had imaginary friends stemming from an overactive imagination and two indulgent parents. “Um, Gram—”

  “Maddie Jean don’t you dare start up again with all that voodoo mumbo jumbo. You know I don’t like it. We’re doing this because it’s important to your momma, who was important to you and Brayden and you and Brayden are important to me.”

  Gram did another sign of the cross over her heart and started fidgeting with her CB radio system next to the steering wheel. It was Gram’s polite way of saying conversation over. Gram wanted to satisfy Charlene Jean’s last wish, fine. Why in the hell did she drag me along to do it? This pointless and stupid road trip meant I had to cancel a photography class I’d planned on taking for over six months. A class I was looking forward to. Worse, U-Tech wouldn’t refund the money I’d already paid, putting me out a full fifteen-hundred bucks. I sighed and sank back into my chair.

  Could this fucking motorhome go any slower?

  I chewed on my thumbnail as desert whipped past my passenger window. I leaned my head on the glass and sighed. Started sliding my feet back and forth before fidgeting with air vents on the dash. I sighed again, readjusted my feet. Crossed and uncrossed my legs. Sat indian style. Put my feet back on the floor. Moved the arm rest up and down. Opened the glove box. Closed it. Sighed again. Swiveled my captains chair back and forth then started tapping out a tune with my feet.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  “I’m hungry, make me a sandwich,” Gram said, never taking her eyes from the road, “and while you’re at it make sure Dexter’s sleeping nicely in his cat carrier, maybe give him a Frisky.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I got up and headed back to the tiny kitchen trying to keep my footing as the motorhome swayed like we were on a boat in the ocean and not creeping—top speed in this boat was sixty-five mph—along I-10.

  There on the table next to the counter was a box. Ordinary brown packing box taped shut. It wasn’t a very large box. No bigger than a shoebox and it was heavy, like a bowling ball was inside. Was my mom’s last wish that Uncle Ollie take up bowling? I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was so important that my mom specified in her will nobody but Uncle Ollie was to open it. Good old Uncle Ollie, mom’s older brother, more like stupid Uncle Ollie, one of only two siblings mom had, and the only sibling not at her funeral. Couldn’t be bothered with trivial things like burying his baby sister.

  Even aunt Jackie, the eldest Jean daughter, was there. Her and mom weren’t even close. They hadn’t talked or seen each other in almost ten years, but Jackie managed to be at the funeral. Yet, Uncle Ollie, who mom was super close to—he was mine and Brayden’s godfather—wasn’t. He went on all our family vacations, even when dad and mom were still together. In fact, Uncle Ollie was in every happy memory I could recall from childhood and even that wasn’t enough to get him to the service. Didn’t he want to say goodbye or at least be there for Brayden and me?

  Whatever transpired a year before mom’s death drove a major wedge between her and Uncle Ollie. I turned away from the box and pulled out a loaf of bread from the bread box. I went to grab lunchmeat and condiments from the fridge but the door wouldn’t budge.

  After a second turned into a full minute of wrestling with the refrigerator door and it not opening, I tried slapping it. When that didn’t work I resorted to kicking it.

  Stupid refrigerator. Stupid motorhome. Stupid winding highway. Stupid brown box. Stupid dying wishes.

  After another minute of kicking I was spent and slumped down onto the five by six square of linoleum and started crying. I hated everyone and everything. I pulled my knees to my chest. I stared at the blue diamond pattern on the floor tracing it with my finger. Damn erratic ghosts.

  “Maddie, you all right back there?”

  “I’m fine, just taking off my shoes.”

  “Well, I found my Snickers bag, so forget about a sandwich.”

  I peeked up over my knees and sure enough Gram was watching me from over her shoulder. Gram had pulled off onto the shoulder and put on the brakes. “Why don’t you try taking a nap, need to be in top shape to see your daddy and brother.”

  I didn’t bother with a response. I knew a Gram knock-it-off when I heard one. I got up and plodded to the back bedroom and made sure to slam the door for good measure before slumping down onto the bed.

  “If you wanted to make an appearance right now, mom, I wouldn’t mind it.”

  Of course mom didn’t show up. As I expected. The dead were about as dependable as telling time with chewing gum. It could be weeks, months, before my mom showed up again, if she showed up. The motorhome started moving again filling the small bedroom with a swishing hum that lulled me to sleep.

  Bang!

  I squinted an eye open, saw nothing, closed it again.

  Bang! Bang!

  I bolted up. What the hell? I didn't hear the humming of tires on asphalt anymore. We’d stopped.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The banging was going down the length of the motorhome. What was going on? I crawled out of the bed and opened the bedroom door following the banging sound to the motorhome’s main door. Gram was gone and all the curtains were pulled closed.

  Leave it to Gram to park somewhere and not bother to wake me. Yes, I was in a funk for most of this trip and maybe overly moody, but Gram insisted I come along so she only had herself to blame.

  Gram should have flown, like I suggested, without me. Then she would have had a drama-free flight. I was perfectly content staying alone at my condo in Palo Alto with Donovan. Spending the entire summer at the beach or in my dark room. I wouldn’t even have to get out of my bathing suit all summer.

  Driving halfway across the country to Dallas, Texas was not how I had planned or wanted to spend the summer. Sweating my ass off under a Texas sun while feeling the air stick to me sounded awful. And of course there wasn’t a beach or a Donovan here.

  Sweet, sexy Donovan.

  He was Tanya’s roommate and the boy I wished to be my boyfriend. Of course, without me there cock-blocking, who knew how many girls panties those loose
-fitting khakis were getting into.

  I didn’t have any desire to see my father and I definitely did not want to deliver that stupid box to Uncle Ollie.

  BANG! BANG!

  Mother fuc— “Who is it?” I said in the most stern sounding voice I had.

  No answer more knocking.

  Dammit!

  I flung open the door, “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Is that how you greet your brother?”

  “Brayden?” I slammed the door to the motorhome behind me and hurried down the three steps to grassy ground.

  “Gram wasn’t kidding about the chip on your shoulder.”

  “If you were napping and then violently awoken by gunshots you’d be a bit cranky too.”

  “Gunshots?” Brayden started laughing. “Have you been to the gun show?” He flexed his left bicep then his right, “Bam, bam.”

  “Oh. My. God. You’re such a hick, flirting with your own sister. Shit, you’re in Texas, not Mississippi.”

  Brayden laughed. “Can I help it if everything’s bigger in Texas, including libidos?”

  I scrunched up my nose and shook my head, “That’s disgusting. How can you talk like that in front of mom?”

  Brayden choked on his laughter, “What?” He looked all around him, “Is she here right now? Like next to me?”He stared over his right shoulder, his eyes scanning expecting to see her too. Unlike me, Brayden didn’t have the sixth sense, but he never questioned mine. He believed me one-hundred percent which made him easy pickings at times. He was my older brother who could do no wrong. I, on the other hand, was always in trouble, seemed I could do no right. So I tended to pay golden boy back in ghost dollars.

  “No,” I said moving past him, “but she could be.”

  “That ain’t funny Matilda.”