The Rebellion

by S. L. Scott

  Not able to concentrate, I toss the pencil down and lean back with my guitar over my lap. Strumming softly, I reply, “She’s good. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you about Lara and if maybe she’d consider helping my mom finish decorating her place.”

  Kaz smiles, that goofy grin he sports anytime his fiancée’s name is mentioned. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’ll pay her. I don’t want my mom spending a dime.”

  “I’ll make sure she charges you double,” he replies, going back to his game.

  That sixth sense kicks in and a text comes through from my mom as if she knows we’re talking about her. I tap the screen and read: Having lunch on Thursday with Nita. She’s picking me up since my car is going into the shop. Can you pick me up from her house?

  What? Nita?

  I reply: Nita Grenier? Jaymes’s mom?

  The dots are flashing and I’m losing patience, along with my shit. Finally her text arrives: Yes.

  Damn. Coincidence or irony?

  She hasn’t seen Nita Grenier in years. Fuck, it’s been, what, three years? Nita had once been someone special to me, someone, who like my mom, had wanted more for me. More for us. Why is Mom going to have lunch with her now? They went through a lot together, as did most moms of that neighborhood. But few emerged from its smothering darkness. My mom being one of the few. Not everyone was so lucky. Some of her friends lost kids to gunfire. Some to drugs. A few escaped. Mom and I are the lucky ones.

  I was given a second chance, a new beginning, but not everyone was that lucky. Jaymes. Whether she chose to stay for her mother, or chose to let me leave alone, she remained behind. From the rumors I heard before I forbid her name mentioned, she has paid the price.

  I type: No problem. Why is your car going into the shop?

  Mom: It has a recall and now they need it in to fix it.

  Oh. Me: Let me know what they say.

  Mom: Okay, dear. Love you.

  Me: Love you.

  A lump forms in my throat. Jaymes doesn’t live with her mother, Nita, like she once did, but if I happen to run into her while picking Mom up, do I really want to take that risk of seeing her again? Stupid question, Masters. You know you need to see her again. To somehow put all these memories to bed once and for all.

  Or reopen old wounds.

  Hell, they’ve already reopened.

  Maybe this time they’ll heal.

  3

  Jaymes Grenier

  I don’t think I’ve ever bolted from bed so fast. That’s what bad memories do to you. All it takes is one riff from “Here Comes My Girl” by Tom Petty to send me flying toward my alarm. Everything about that song reminds me of one person, and that person is the last one I intend to ever give any of my time to again. He just stole my usual five-minute bonus snooze.

  Damn him.

  The alarm clock is whacked and the song that reminds me of a life I let go of years ago is silenced. Tried to let go of . . .

  Sometimes thoughts of that life still linger along with my girlhood dreams of marrying someone who loves me unconditionally, reminding me of what has become a fantasy. Disappointment sets in for like the billionth time. I know with all my heart that I’d never trade Ace for fulfilled dreams. Often I just wish fulfilled dreams and Ace could have gone together.

  I flick my bedroom light as I walk into the hall and pad quietly past his room. Sneaking into the bathroom, I turn the light on and squint as I work my way to the shower and start the water. Stripping my pajamas off, I step in before the water heats up. The reality is it’s never going to get hot enough to make that much of a difference. I’m just hoping for lukewarm this morning. I tilt my head under the spray, keeping my body angled away. I’d rather deal with cold air than ice-cold water.

  Five minutes later I’m out and drying off. Cold showers have taught me to be quick. It’s funny what we get used to when we’re out of options. While scrubbing the towel over my head I realize this applies to more than cold showers. I don’t dwell. It’s a trait I embraced wholeheartedly when I decided I would—and could—face whatever life threw my way. I’m not making lemonade out of my lemons quite yet, but I strive for it every day. For Ace. He deserves better than this life has given us.

  A soft knock pushes the door open. As a single mom, I never use locks inside the house, but the bathroom one is broken anyway, so any pressure opens the door. I pull it open the rest of the way and smile when I see my sleepy little baby. “Good morning,” I say, leaning down and kissing the top of his head.

  My sweet five-year-old rubs his eyes, the light from the bathroom blinding compared to the dark room he came from—from the darkness he came from. He’s good. So good. My light. My purpose. I would trade my dreams any day for him. No matter the circumstances, I’ve been blessed to be given this purpose, blessed to be his mom.

  “Good morning, Mommy.”

  The best name I’ve ever been called. “Good morning, buddy. You hungry?”

  “Yes. Pancakes?” He looks up with all the hope I used to have. It’s contagious. Big brown eyes that don’t match mine, but I can’t help loving. Bright. Happy. I put that there. I’d give him everything if I could.

  “I think we have just enough mix to make some.”

  He jumps up with excitement. “Yay!”

  “Go get dressed and I’ll start making breakfast.”

  He runs off just as I bring our small apartment to life, switching lights on as I make my way to the kitchen. With a towel wrapped around my body, I start making the pancakes. I see the TV flick on a few minutes later and Ace sitting on the loveseat with the remote in his hand. The news is on, and he looks frustrated the way he’s handling the remote. The pancakes aren’t bubbling yet, so I take a piece of tape from the drawer and go to sit down next to him. Taking the remote, I flip it over and tape down the battery door. When it’s loose, it won’t work. I hand it back and he smiles when it works as if I just performed a magic trick.

  Running back into the kitchen, I flip the pancakes and a few minutes later, I mentally add syrup to the shopping list in my head while serving the pancakes and the last of the syrup. It’s the simple things kids love and appreciate. I’ve become the hero of my son’s world just for making pancakes. Like being his mother, pancake hero is another title I adore. I relish. It’s good to feel loved without conditions, loved for just being. I treat him the same. This world will do its job and cause enough damage, so I’ll work hard to do mine and try to protect him from it.

  With my hair dried and my skirt on, but unzipped, I pull my blouse on and give the warning, “Five minutes, buddy. Brush your teeth and hair and get your shoes on.”

  “’K, Mommy.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re heading out the door. I’ve learned to build in extra time. With a kid, it’s inevitable we’re going to be late. I don’t have that luxury though. I can’t be late to work or I’ll be fired.

  The car starts with a gruff and a puff of black smoke kicked out the back, but it starts and that feels like a victory in and of itself. After dropping Ace off at kindergarten with a kiss and a lunchbox, I drive the twenty minutes to work. My backpack is slung over my shoulder and I head inside.

  Leah, the office manager and one of my closest friends, greets me, “Good Morning, Jamie.”

  “Morning.” I drop my pack to the floor behind the reception desk and take the chair.

  She leans against the wall with a cup of coffee in her hands. “How are you? You look tired.”

  My head tilts. “Geez, thanks.”

  Shrugging, she laughs. “Sorry. I’ve seen you look better.”

  I push my hair back away from my face and sigh. “I am tired. My classes are tough this semester. I’m not getting much sleep. I was up until three studying for a test I have tonight. Six a.m. was painful.”

  “Oh no. You should have told me. I could have talked to David.”

  “You know he doesn’t allow anybody to be late, so it wasn’t even an option to ask.”

/>   She sighs, standing back up. After glancing at the clock on the wall, she says, “True. Well, if I can help out this weekend with Ace, let me know. Roger’s on the road through Wednesday. So I’ll be around.”

  “Thanks. I might take you up on that offer. I have to go to the library at some point and do some research. It would be easier not having to keep one eye on Ace the whole time.”

  “You got it.”

  Through the windows to the side, we both spot the king of used cars—at least in a two-mile radius—also known as our boss, parking his very shiny new car. “Off to work we go.”

  She hurries to her desk, both of us at our stations for the day, exactly how he likes us. The door swings wide and he grumbles until he sees me. It’s only eight in the morning, but his balding head is already beading with sweat. Traffic is hell when you drive in from a fancy neighborhood like Brentwood each day to slum it with us on the south side. Five graying hairs cling to his brow before he brushes them to the side. The only thing he’s missing is the beer belly. He may not have a lot of hair, but he’s relatively fit, so he can catch a woman’s eye. It’s his personality where he falls flat. Recently divorced, he has become a man on the prowl for his next ex-wife. I’ve managed to say no despite the very attractive drunken proposals I’ve received. I mean, I’m still surprised I was able to resist his lecherous hands cupping my ass when I was changing the toner on the printer last week. He told me I was missing the opportunity of a lifetime. I kept my eye-rolls in check until he left the room. I also added another shot of bourbon to his coffee the way he likes it. The thought of his hands on me still makes me cringe. With the smile I know he expects to see on my face, I say, “Good morning, David.”

  “Mornin’, Jamie. Any calls?”

  I covertly click the after-hours voicemail system off, and reply, “None so far.”

  “Good. I’ll be busy most of the day.” When he says this, it means he’ll be playing poker online. He has a nasty gambling habit. “So only disturb me if it’s absolutely necessary or to close a deal.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He stops in front of my desk, and his eyes seem to have problems focusing on mine. He talks to my breasts regularly. Even though I’m buttoned practically to my chin, he still stares, and then disappointingly sighs. “You’re very dressed up. You’re not interviewing somewhere else, are you?”

  No. I’m keeping your eyes from molesting my chest. With a plastered smile still on my face, I don’t say what I really think because I need this job. “Nope. Just thought I’d look nice.”

  “Well, you do,” he replies somewhere between giving a compliment and feeling left out of the party. The phone rings. Thank God. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Turning away to start my day, I answer with fake enthusiasm, “It’s a wonderful day to buy a Calvert Car. How may I direct your call?”

  And so it begins . . .

  * * *

  I’m startled awake and turn to the window. Jose, our top salesman this month, is just outside my car. I wipe the drool from the side of my mouth and check my watch. Shoot. The door flies open and I’m already dreading going inside. “Gracias, Jose.”

  “Mr. Calvert’s looking for you,” he replies in a thick accent. His smile is gentle, leaning toward sympathetic. He knows David can be an asshole.

  “Thanks,” I say, dashing for the door. I undo my top two buttons, needing to use any ammunition I have, before reaching the door. It swings open and I step into the air conditioning. It feels good against my heated skin. My lunchtime nap in the car wasn’t long, but I can’t afford to leave it running. The afternoon sun is strong through the cracked windshield, so I feel a little sweaty, the cotton sticking to my back.

  David is sitting at my desk. “The phone rang.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, rushing toward him to take my place. “I fell as—”

  His hand goes up, stopping me before I can finish. “I’ll let it slide this time, but you can stay late on Thursday to make up for it.”

  Not a question, though he likes to hide behind the ambiguity of it. “Sure.” I have no choice. I’ve tried to argue before, but to no avail. I’ll just be reminded how he’s done me a favor and if I don’t appreciate it, I can find work elsewhere.

  He stands. I sit, and then ask, “Did the call get taken care of?”

  “No. I can’t be answering my own phone. How would that look to customers? Small time.” He knocks on my desk. “That’s how.”

  Small time. That’s how I feel. Small.

  I’m left to do my small job, in my small life, and my even smaller future. “I’ve got to graduate next semester,” I mumble under my breath. So much hinges on that one thing. Graduation. With my degree, I’ll finally dictate where and who I work for. I’m not wishing for the stars. I’m not dreaming above who I am. But I will be more than a glorified customer service operator working for someone who hired me in hopes of sleeping with me.

  I’ll never be anything more than someone else’s employee, but at least I’ll be respected. At least I’ll have that.

  4

  Jaymes

  Five minutes over on my lunch the other day and I’m stuck doing an extra hour in penance. I’m well aware that David does this on purpose to ensure I’ll be alone. It’s the only way I’ll voluntarily spend time with him—forced atonement.

  Leah did me another favor and picked Ace up since my mom is working until six. I owe her a mountain of favors in return. Another debt I’ll never be able to pay off. At least my mom feeds her. She loves that, and Ace.

  David saunters in after the last employee has left. I smell the bourbon before he even gets near the desk. I keep my headset on as a deterrent. I’m a great actress when I need to be. My mom says I missed my calling, but really it wasn’t the big screen calling. It was the stage. That call just never came through like I once dreamed it would.

  With papers shaking in the air, he says, “Jamie, I need you to—”

  With my hand pressed to my headset, I hold my finger up, and mouth, “Hold on.”

  Looking impatient, he waits, standing closer to me than I like. He won’t dare interrupt a potential customer or sale though, so I know I’m good for a minute or so, hoping he gets bored and goes back to his office. The problem is, ever since his divorce last year he spends a lot more time hanging around here, and especially around me. Beyond the inappropriate proposals, he has asked me out more than a dozen times, offered to make my life easier, and to, and I quote “help take care of that kid of yours. He needs a father in his life.” After swallowing down the bile that filled my mouth after that offer, I politely told him to fuck off. Though my exact words escape me, they were more along the lines of me wanting to do this on my own.

  What a lie.

  This was never how I planned to live my life. Having a kid out of wedlock wasn’t a big deal. Not in this day and age, or any other. I can defend my decision if need be. What I can’t defend are the actions of Ace’s father.

  David leaves in a huff and I stop jabbering like someone is actually at the other end of this fake call.

  By seven, I’m out the door and driving to my mom’s house. I park out front and am welcomed with open arms from Ace. “Hey, you,” I say, cupping his face and smiling. “How’s it going?”

  “Missed you, Mommy.”

  Bringing him to me, I hold his small body in my arms, close my eyes, and breathe easier now that I’m here. “Missed you too, buddy.” I stand and take his hand, walking to the house. “Did you eat all your dinner?”

  “Yes, Grandma said I did good and made me brownies.”

  My smile grows. “She’s the best like that.”

  Leah is on the front porch, waiting. “We need to talk.” If she said that to me without the big smile on her face, I would have been worried.

  “Now or in a few?”

  “It can wait, but not long.”

  Laughing from her mysterious, but excited secret holding reaction, I ask, “Do I need wine for this?”


  “Most definitely.”

  We go inside just as my mom calls from the kitchen, “Brownies are ready.”

  “Hey, Mom. I’m here.”

  Her head pops around the corner, and a smile that has seen more than its fair share of tragedy to dampen it, still shines bright for Ace and me. “Jamie, you’re here. I saved you a plate. You hungry?”

  “Always for your cooking.”

  When we enter the kitchen she’s pouring three glasses of white wine from the box spout. Not the expensive stuff, but it gets the job done and I can’t complain. I also like the taste. “Did Leah already tell you?”

  “No, but she’s bursting at the seams. What happened?”

  “C’mon, you. The grown-ups are going to talk.” My mom ushers Ace out and sets him up in the living room with a cartoon, a brownie, and a glass of milk. She returns and picks up her cup and takes a sip. A plate of food is set down at the table and we sit around it. “I had lunch with an old friend today.”

  “Oh? That’s nice. Who was it?” I take my first bite of broccoli.

  “Diane Masters.”

  I start to choke, coughing furiously until the food dislodges from my throat.

  Before I can react with more than the wide eyes and a sore throat, Leah says, “Derrick came by to pick her up.”

  Derrick.

  Derrick Masters.

  How can she say his name so casually? His name rolls off her tongue in a way that reminds me of many nights confiding in her through tears and wine and support. My heart even now, fracturing inside.

  The fork slips from my hand and clatters off the side of the plate. I watch the metal as it bounces across the table. I shake my head as the name Masters makes my heart start aching. My mom picks up the fork and hands it to me. Softly, she asks, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I um.” Two sips of wine and then a big gulp to empty the glass follows.

  Leah takes my empty glass and stands. “Let me get you another.”

  “No, it’s okay. I have to drive home, and I have studying to do.” This time I stand, push back from the table, hoping my legs will hold me. The metal feet of the chair grind against the linoleum. Somehow the screech of the chair feels like the noise of hearing his name. Later I’ll try to get my head around the fact that my mom had lunch with Diane. Much later.