Dark Secrets Box Set

by Angela M Hudson

  “Well, I don’t need someone making those decisions for me. If I want to get myself in trouble, that’s my prerogative.” I folded my arms, sounding too Aussie on the last word.

  After a second, David breathed out through his nose, his shoulders sinking. “You’re right. I’m sorry I stepped in; it was not my intention to offend you. I just didn’t want…” His jaw went tight as his eyes narrowed, tracing every inch of my face like I was the most irritating person in the world, which made me angry.

  “It’s an apple bomb,” I said. “Get over it.”

  “It’s not the apple bomb I have a problem with.” He sat back a little, gaining distance. “It’s you and your altruistic need to get yourself marked as a target.”

  Altruistic? Me? Boy, he so did not know me. I cleared my throat, half aware of all the eyes at our table bearing down on David and me. “Why would that irritate you so much? You don’t even know me. I’m not your problem.”

  My words only made him rub his brow. He took a long breath, turning the tension around the table into dense air. “Ara. You just don’t get it.”

  “Don’t get it? Don’t get what?” I wanted to stand up so I could yell. “That you had no right to play white knight and step in when I was going to help someone. I am not a little girl. I can take care of myself.”

  He opened his mouth then closed it quickly. “You know what, fine. Go ahead. Throw a damn apple at them, and see what they do to you.”

  “Fine.” I stood up and grabbed the apple off Alana’s plate.

  “Whoa!” David had his hand on my wrist before I even drew it back by my side. “I was bluffing, Ara.”

  A smirk formed laughter in the back of my throat, my shoulders shaking with the sound. “And I was calling your bluff.” I pointed at him, letting him take the apple. “You should see the look on your face.”

  Emily and Ryan laughed, but Alana just looked ultimately worried. David, however, drew a breath to support a probably very massive tongue-lashing.

  “So, Ara?” Emily interjected. “You moved over here from Oz. Why?”

  My posture drooped. Not likely noticeable, but enough to make me feel smaller. David sat down again, and I followed with a little too much weight in the slump.

  “I… uh.” As I scanned the room, wishing the gorillas would throw a banana or something, David reached across to grab the salt from my tray and somehow managed to knock my milk carton flat. Everyone jumped back just as chocolate rivers spread across the plastic table, trickling onto the floor right where our feet had been.

  “Ara, I’m sorry. That was an accident.” He pushed our trays out of the mess, shaking his head. “I’ll get a sponge.”

  After he walked away, I looked at Emily, and we both broke into laughter.

  David didn’t know it, but he just saved me from having to explain my tragic life. I owed him. Big time.

  * * *

  When the bell rang, I stacked my tray on the trolley and smacked straight into David’s chest as I turned around. “Crap. You scared me!”

  “Sorry.” He smiled and placed his tray on mine, staying awkwardly close to me. I took half a step back so I could look up at him without straining my neck. “Are you okay, Ara?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and hunched my shoulders a little. “Why would you ask that?”

  He glanced around the almost empty lunchroom before speaking. “I’ve seen you avoid the topic of your family and your home twice today.”

  “And?”

  He closed the gap I made between us. “And I just want you to know that I am an excellent listener.”

  “I—” I couldn’t speak with his body so close, distracting me. His lips nearly brushed my hair as I nodded, and the heat of his warm, sweet breath—with an underlying cool, like he’d just had a mint—trickled over the bridge of my nose. I took another step back from him, afraid I might accidentally stand on my toes and kiss him. “I… um. It’s nothing. I’m fine. I just—” really should’ve made up some elaborate lie before I came to this school, is all.

  “Okay.” David exhaled, standing taller. “Like I said, I’ll be here when you want to talk. I can see there’s something bothering you. I don’t have to know you to notice that.”

  “Well. That’s… a little bit concerning.” I laughed it off, but I was worried others might notice. “Look, when I need a friend, I promise you’ll be the first person I come to.”

  He looked into my eyes for a long moment. I wondered what he could see there. I’d been told my emotions displayed themselves on my face, but for my sake, I really hoped not.

  “Come on.” He ushered with a nod. “Let’s get you to class.”

  * * *

  The shrill peal of a whistle summoned football practice to start behind me, and the dull thud of a boot on the ball made my skin itch to be off the field. But I wasn’t ready to go home, so I perched myself on a tree stump at the edge of the road and looked at the white house on the corner. It was like a different world over there. The maple trees lined the paths on both sides of the street, and behind them sat quaint little houses—whimsical yet mysterious—like something from a fairy tale. They were pretty much all the same as my dad’s, just different colors; some gray, some olive green, but mostly white. The kind of houses that, on the fourth of July, had flags hanging from the porches and kids running from the long, grass-lined driveways, waving sparklers around. Most houses had low wooden fences around their backyards—to keep their dogs in—but ours was a hedge fence because my stepmother had an aversion to Man’s Best Friend. Instead, we had an overfed cat, whose one value was keeping my feet warm in winter. I could see his tail sticking out from behind the gutter over the porch, the same place he was sitting last time he fell from the roof. Stupid cat.

  “Hey, Ara.”

  I looked up, squinting in the sun. “Hi?”

  “Do you live around here, or are you lost?” asked a lanky boy with sandy hair.

  “Uh, yeah. I live just over there.” I pointed across the road.

  “The house with the blue door?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hm.” He nodded, thoughtful. “That’s pretty cool. Ours is brown.”

  I chuckled. I knew he was just trying to be friendly and make conversation. I didn’t think he really cared about the color of the door. “Yeah, blue is supposed to bring good luck.”

  His lips tightened. “Didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Well, red’s actually good luck. But, I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom. She’s old. She gets confused,” I joked.

  “You should just paint it red then, and tell her it’s blue. She probably won’t even notice.” He smiled down at me and extended his hand. “I’m Spencer, by the way.”

  “Hi.” I shook it.

  “Well, since you’re not lost and don’t need saving, I better go. Later.” He flipped his chin before walking across the road, disappearing into the shade of dancing maple leaves.

  Dad was right. I nodded to myself. The kids here weren’t so bad.

  “You can go in,” someone muttered sarcastically from behind.

  “Hey, Sam.”

  “Hey. What ya starin’ at?”

  “Cat’s up on the roof again.”

  He chuckled. “So go get him down.”

  “No way. I already fell off that roof. Not planning to do it again.”

  “Ha! Yeah, I remember that. What were you, like, seven?”

  “Six, actually.” I looked at the second story of the house. “And you shouldn’t laugh. It was a big fall. I could’ve been killed.”

  “Mom thought you were, remember?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you remember her running down the stairs behind Dad? ‘She’s dead! Oh, my God, Greg, she’s dead’. Vivid memory.” He tapped his temple. I chuckled. He imitated a very good version of Vicki’s panicky voice. “That was my first traumatic experience, y’know? And I owe it all to you.”

  “Well. You’re welcome.” I r
olled my eyes.

  “Isn’t that why Dad bricked up your balcony door—and put a desk there?”

  “Yes. But probably also ’cause it’s harder to sneak out a window than a door.”

  Sam smiled, and somewhere, as the day had gone on, despite what I felt for him this morning, I kind of felt a pang of a connection then—seeing my dad’s eyes in his.

  “Do you smell that?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Vicki’s making casserole.” I inhaled the scent of gravy and Italian herb.

  Sam took off running. “I’ll race you.”

  “Hey. No fair. You got a head start!” I darted after him, catching up as we both jumped the creaky bottom step of the porch then burst through the front door.

  “Sam? Ara-Rose, is that you?” Vicki called from the kitchen.

  “Who else would it be?” Sam muttered to me as we dumped our schoolbags on the staircase.

  “Come in here and have a snack before homework please,” she called.

  As I walked into the dining area, Italian herb blended warmly with garlic and onion, sparking a flashback of cold winters and roast dinners. But the oak dining table by the window—littered with Vicki’s scrapbooking mess—and the island counter sitting center to a dark wood kitchen held too much class above the little beach house I grew up in, obliterating any sense of ‘coming home’ after a long day.

  “Did you shut the front door? You’re letting all the cool air out,” Vicki yapped from her position at the counter.

  Sam waltzed past, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. “Sorry. I got homework to do. Ara-Rose can shut it.”

  “What, like I don’t have homework?”

  He shrugged, biting his apple, and wandered into the forbidden formal rooms through an archway on the other side of the kitchen.

  “You’re such a pain, Sam.”

  “Be nice, Ara-Rose,” Vicki warned.

  I groaned and headed back to the entranceway, shut the front door, then stomped into the kitchen again.

  “Tough day?” Vicki asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “You just seem moodier than your usual self.”

  “Moody? I’m never moody.” I grabbed an apple and plonked into a dining chair facing the window. Outside, football practice was in full swing across the road, with shirtless guys running back and forth over the grass. I kind of wished David was on the team this year so I could sit on the tree stump and watch him train. Then again, Vicki would probably be sitting right here in the chair watching me watch him. I knew she’d been sitting in it just before we came in, probably watching me talk to that Spencer kid, because the seat was still warm.

  “So?” Vicki prompted. “How was school?”

  That question hit my ears like bad news, because it so clearly wasn’t just a light-hearted attempt at decent conversation. It was a probe. She wanted me to tell her she was right—that school wasn’t as bad as I thought—and busying herself washing coriander couldn’t disguise that meddlesome undertone. She should’ve known better. After all, it was her profession. Okay, so she hadn’t worked as a psychiatrist since she married my dad, but she still practiced—on me.

  “School was fine,” I muttered absently, fingering through the mess of photos and cardboard frames.

  “Did you make any friends?”

  “No one makes friends on the first day, Vicki.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t really care.

  “Did you see any cute guys?” Her tone became light, inclusive.

  With a short sigh, I bit into my apple, licking the sweet juice as it spilled onto my lip.

  “Ara-Rose?” she prompted.

  “What?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  I sat back, closing my eyes slowly. I really didn’t want another mom. I didn’t want to have these cozy after-school conversations about boys and friends with anyone but my real mom. But Vicki wasn’t going to let this go. She was hell-bent on ‘assessing’ me this afternoon, when all I wanted was to sink inside myself and brew over my troubles. But if I didn’t attempt to play along, she’d tell my dad I was exhibiting asocial behavior again.

  “Ara-Rose?” she said, standing right beside me.

  “Cute guys? Uh… yes.” I grinned widely, keeping my face down. “A guy that’s so cute he makes Stefan look like a dweeb.”

  “Who’s Stefan?”

  I groaned. “Never mind. He’s cute, he’s fictional, that’s all that matters.”

  “Do you… like him?”

  “Who, Stefan?”

  “No, this boy you saw today.”

  “Like him?”

  “Yeah, do you like him?” she repeated. “As more than a friend?”

  Yes, I do. “No. I just met him. But he’s cute.”

  She exhaled, her shoulders sinking. The movement was small, but so obvious to me. I was accustomed to the casual displays of indifference she used in order to psychologically assess or relate to me. She counted on the fact that I was a docile teen with no clue what went on around me. Clearly, she’d never been a teenager. I knew all the tricks, and I never gave anything away about my psychological well-being, or lack thereof. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I knew that falling for a guy on the first meeting was a very clear indication that I was not okay, and I knew it spelled trouble to come. But he made me feel happy, and I was not going to let her ‘rationalize’ that away.

  She walked away again, and I shifted the photos until the dark wood of the table bared itself from under them. Not one of those photos was of me. I had spent every summer and at least six winters here since I was a child, but the absence of my face in these scrapbooks was just another indicator that I really was just a walk-in—a temporary fixture made permanent by circumstance. I was like a painting you hung on the wrong wall using your last nail.

  “Did you sit with anyone at lunch?” Vicki asked.

  I spun around again and watched her fussing about near the stove. “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s good. I knew you wouldn’t end up sitting alone, even though you were so sure you would.” She laughed lightly.

  “Guess you were right.”

  She ignored my disingenuous tone, tipping the chopping block over the pot and breaking the cloud of steam with the veggies. “So, do you like any of your teachers?”

  “No.” But my friend likes your husband.

  “What about Dad? You’re in his class, right?”

  “Yeah, but he gives boring lectures.” I assume. Not that I was listening.

  “Well, don’t tell him that. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

  Almost as if his past self heard me, his smiling face stood out among the pile of photos. He was so much younger in this picture. His hair was darker and the crinkles around his eyes weren’t as deep. Vicki was younger, too. Her hair was still the same straight blonde, but the smile lines hadn’t yet formed on her thin white face. They were abysmal now, running down from her nose to the outside corners of her mouth like a V… for Vicki.

  “What did you think of the cafeteria food?” Vicki asked, tasting her casserole.

  I spun my apple core between my fingers and watched her rinse the spoon off under the faucet. “It was okay. Pricey, though.”

  “Shall I give you some extra money tomorrow—did you have enough today?” She looked up with round eyes of concern.

  “Actually, I didn’t use my own money.”

  “Well, how—”

  “Someone offered to spot me.” Well, forced me to let them.

  “Oh, that was nice. Who was it?”

  “A guy named David Knight.”

  “Hm. David… David,” she muttered his name under her breath, her brow wrinkles deepening. “Nope. Never heard of him.”

  I shrugged.

  “Well,” she said, “sounds like you’ve made an impression, Ara-Rose. I told you people would like you. You’re a very lovely girl.”

  I dropped the snotty teen facade and
sat back against my chair. It was hard to be hostile when she was being genuinely nice. For once. “Um thanks. I mean, that’s great and all, but I don’t think being a lovely girl is an asset in high school these days, Vicki. Also, I’m just gonna go by Ara now.”

  “Oh really? But you always loved your name. What does your dad think of that?”

  “Well, it’s my name.”

  “But you were given the name Rose for a reason, dear. I know it would break your fathe—”

  “Mike always called me just Ara, Vicki. It doesn’t bother me, so it shouldn’t bother my dad.”

  “Okay.” She nodded and turned back to the stove. “If you’re sure.”

  But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to drop the Rose. I didn’t want to go to a new school, make new friends—pretend to be something I just wasn’t sure I could be anymore. And being called ‘Ara’ was a constant and painful reminder of the friend back home that I’d never see again.

  “I’ll be in my room,” I said, shoving my chair out and tossing my apple into the bin. “I have a lot of homework to do.”

  “Okay, Ara,” Vicki called after me with a hint of detest behind my new name.

  Why did she have to make it worse? She could just be nice about it—supportive, even. I mean, in what twisted version of this life was I supposed to seek my dad’s permission to omit my middle name?

  “Is Mom still cooking?” Sam asked, coming in through the arch that led to the den.

  “Yes, why?”

  He grinned and dropped his books in his schoolbag, then dumped it back on the stair. “I’m gonna watch TV. Don’t tell, okay?”

  “She’ll hear it.”

  He held up his wireless headphones.

  “Whatever,” I said, then grabbed my bag and stomped up the stairs. I pushed my door open, and the tension of the day trickled away a little as the afternoon sun reached through the crystals hanging over my window and splashed dancing prisms across my lemon walls.

  Back home, I’d lie on my bed in the afternoon sun, talking to my best friend Mike on the phone and watching the prancing spectrums perform their final act for the day. But here, my window faced east, giving me only morning sun. Dad somehow knew how much that daily routine meant to me, so he bought Plane Mirrors that we’d positioned carefully outside, so they’d catch the light of the retiring sun and cast it onto my crystals. It was just a little piece of magic from a lost life that he wanted me to hold onto.