Trent shouts for me but I’m already gone.
My feet pound against the hardwood floor and carry me out of there fast as hell. Rhett’s behind me – I can hear his footsteps – and Michael’s running too. I just keep going. A hollow sob that doesn’t really know what to do with itself wrecks my lungs and I’m retching with tears and for oxygen as I burst into the night air. The sprinklers have turned on and it seems too fitting that, as I sprint through the golf course, mud flies around me and stains the dress and my legs and everything on me.
Abruptly I stop.
Concentrate.
My breaths are ragged and labored from the running and the panic and I have to take my pulse. Too fast to count with my brain slipping in and out of lucidity every second. Like a dying rabbit waiting for the grim reaper. I buckle over, hands firmly on knees, and there’s a splash behind me of a foot landing too hard in a puddle of mud.
Struck by the thought that it could very well be Michael trying to be a father to me or some bullshit like that, I start running again despite the hard knocking of my heart. I just have to get away right now. I have no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing or how to get there but I know I’m going.
“Hey!” Michael. Pretending to care. “Del! Cordelia Charlotte Kane! Get the hell back here!”
No no no no no no no no no.
I run and run and run until my legs think they’re done for the night and then I run some more.
Until Michael catches up with me. His fingers nab my upper arm and tear me backwards. I let out a howl from the slap of pain clawed through my shoulder.
“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”
I’m screaming and crying and not completely sure what’s happening. All I know is he’s holding me tightly with both hands on my arms and the moon is suffocating bright and my mother is replacing me with a new child. “Get off of me!”
“I am your father and you will respect me,” he argues kindly without a raised voice.
I gasp in air and shout at the top of my lungs, “You will never be my father! Get the fuck away from me right now. This is harassment!”
Between words, I try to yank my arms away from him to no avail. He’s much stronger than me and has more motivation to restrain me than Trent did.
“Listen to me, Del. You need to calm down. Everything’s going to be fine if you calm down right now.”
“Let me go, Michael!”
Then Rhett’s there behind Michael with his jacket off and his tie undone. “Hey, asshole, she asked you to leave her alone.”
Michael turns around but doesn’t loosen his grip on my arms, giving me the chance to catch my breath and collect myself without him seeing. “And who do you think you are?”
“Cordelia’s boyfriend,” he answers softly but charged, “and I’m afraid you need to let go or-”
“Or what? You’re some kid. I’m her legal guardian. I have a right to discipline my child.”
“Then I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
My heaving lungs and liquefied stomach distract me from the exchange until the gunshot of Rhett’s knuckles connecting with Michael’s face catches me off guard. My stepfather clutches his face and lets out a string of rather impressive expletives before trying to smack Rhett in the face with his own fist. But Rhett’s too fast and Michael’s nails catch his collarbone and nothing else. So Rhett pushes him onto the ground and sends one boot into his stomach for good measure.
Michael groans and, before passing out, glares up at me. “Don’t you dare come home tonight.”
Back to my senses, things start to clear up and seem a bit more cut and dry.
Mom’s having a baby, presumably to try again at raising children.
Michael’s on the ground with a possibly punctured lung and severe facial bruising.
Rhett’s standing in front of me with a very serious expression plastered on his features.
“Holy shit!” My voice is a tinny, girlish croak as I look at Rhett.
“I know, right? That was awesome!”
“That was so risky. He would’ve hurt you if he had the chance.”
Rhett shrugs it off, adding sparks to the flame already burning in my overworked chest. I’m mad at him for so many reasons and only a few. “It was a calculated risk, but I’ve never been good at math.”
“No!” I walk over and shove his chest, with each word pushing him harder back. “You can’t play this off with a flirty smile and a cheap one-liner. I would’ve been fine if you hadn’t shown up. I would’ve had a freak out and been fine. I don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight because of you, Rhett Tressler, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. That was stupid and boyish and not at all worth whatever the hell you were trying to accomplish!”
He’s not quite hurt, but nearly there. “I don’t see why you’re mad at me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m the one who came out here to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection!” I’m almost shouting again, so I try to bring down my levels of unexpected anger and stress and general angst to a normal volume. “We’ve known one another for less than twenty four hours, and I have a strong suspicious I’m in more shit than I’ve been in my entire life. God, I thought you were different. I thought…Jesus, I am so stupid!”
“What did you think about me?” He’s hurt now as the words slips out.
There’s no stopping my attack, though; I’m charged up and feeling like throwing punches at anyone in the line of fire. “I thought, maybe, just maybe, you’d be the first guy who didn’t treat me like a flower who needed to be fixed or like a nutcase who needs to be locked up. I thought, for a few seconds, that things could work out and you could be important to me because no boy has ever bothered to be cute and funny and sarcastic and flirtatious to me before today. But I can’t be around people who’ll get me into more trouble than they’re worth. I can do that much on my own, okay?”
He nods, biting back something welling up inside himself, and tells me one last thing before walking away, “Cordelia Kane, you deserve to have every boy try to win your heart. You deserve every witty sarcastic comment thrown your way in an attempt to woo you. You deserve everything and so much more. I’ll see you around.”
And I walk away.
Chapter Three – Being Assimilated
My legs are aching and my throat is rough and raw. Everything hurts as I stumble through the pitch black streets of Lightfoot. There are only scattered streetlamps every quarter mile or so but I’m not afraid. After all, what’s there to be afraid of?
The endless expanse of night stretches its legs above me, the stars a smattering of freckles and the moon an all-seeing eye watching me trudge through its light with pity. I pass closed shops and open bars and walk over the cracked sidewalk with dread lodged in my stomach like a tumor. Tomorrow’s Sunday and I have to be at my job at the Country Club at eight fifteen in the morning. But I can’t go because mom or Michael or Amanda or someone will be there and see me or maybe Rhett will try to talk to me there because I told him where I work besides the coffee shop.
As I finally reach the place I must’ve been going to this whole time – Memorial Park – I stop and realize I’m going to have to apologize. Though, for now, the bouncy castle constantly inflated in the park for fairs and such seems like a pretty great place to weather the night, I know it can’t be a home. There’s a warm house and a mildly hateful family waiting for me if I can bring myself to apologize on behalf of myself and Rhett. Michael will cool down after tonight and, hopefully, by tomorrow he’ll be ready to hear my groveling apology.
Exhausted beyond belief and emotionally drained, I slog over to the still-inflated rainbow bounce castle and climb inside. The thick nylon is scratchy against my bare legs but it’s better than being outside tonight. God knows why Lightfoot pays to keep this thing up 24/7 but I’m not complaining. It’s a place to sleep, and I’m so tired that’s exactly what I do.
“Jesus Christ, Del, are you se
rious?” I blink my eyes slowly open to blinding daylight and see my loving, caring, probably hung over brother looming above me. “What the hell are you doing in a bouncy castle at ten in the morning?”
“I was sleeping,” I answer, my voice garbled by tiredness and what is quite possibly a fly that died and fell into my open mouth. I cough and find there’s nothing in my throat. Then I jolt upright. “Did you say ten in the morning?! Trent, I was supposed to be at work two hours ago.”
“Actually, no,” he replies while reaching behind himself for a brown paper bag. Our of it he procures two donuts and a coffee, which, upon further inspection, happens to be a caramel macchiato. “You’ve been fired from Twin Rivers, unfortunately for them, and I’m pretty sure you’ve been excommunicated. Michael went to the board when he woke up, erm, in the grass at two in the morning. If you don’t mind me asking, was it you who beat him up or that biracial butterfly you brought along?”
I groan loudly and take an angry bite of the donut. “Yes, Rhett beat up Michael and now I don’t know how I’m going to apologize.”
“Real talk for a second.” Trent puts a definitely intoxicated to some degree finger on my lips and tell me, “You shouldn’t have to apologize to that bastard who knocked up our nearly menopausal mother, but I’m going to drop some truth on you.”
“And what’s that?” I ask under his finger, than swat it away.
He nods, feeling the wise-guru vibe like normal. “It’s not Michael you should be talking to. It’s mom. Let her in. Tell her how bad you feel and how much you want to cooperate in this new family she’s trying to put together. Tell her you’ll go shopping with her, help paint a nursery, whatever you need to do to get back in the good books. Because our mock-home is a matriarchy, dear sister, and Michael, King of Dicks, will bend to her will without a second thought. Sure, you’ll get punished, probably won’t be allowed to see that pretty boy of yours-”
“Don’t care.”
“Touchy much? Anyway, you’ll get grounded but it’s not like you have a social life or any friends besides that smokin’ as hell chick Sky-”
“She’s, like, six years younger than you.”
“Long hair, don’t care,” he laughs, waving his blond locks in my face. “Don’t sweat it too hard is all I’m saying. Let it happen and everyone’ll get over it. This too shall pass.”
I take his advice into consideration. “Thanks, Trent. And thanks for the breakfast.”
“Any time, sister of mine.” He stands, jumps once, and bounds out the entrance on his stomach. “Let’s get back to the abode and have a chit-chat with mom!”
And so, an hour later, I’m sitting on mom’s bed with her after showering and dressing in my most mom-approved outfit (a nefarious ‘deep sea foam’ polka-dotted blouse with a pair of high-waisted shorts I stole from Amanda’s closet) and she’s eyeing me up while I think of a proper apology.
I decide to go classic. “I’ve realized that this is a really special time for you and I want to be as supportive as possible to help you and…dad-” I choke it out and she grins, exactly as planned “-out in whatever ways I can. I’m sorry about freaking out last night. I was shocked, that’s all, and I’m really, honestly happy for our family.” I throw in a bit of blinking and smiling until my performance is so flawless it’s Oscar worthy.
She buys it and leans over to embrace me gingerly. “Oh, honey, I knew we should’ve told you before the party, but daddy thought it was for the best. I completely forgive you. Of course, you understand that you’ll never see that boy again while living under my roof.”
“Absolutely. He was trouble anyway.” This time, I’m not lying. The more I think about it, the more I realize Rhett’s an outsider for a reason. To put icing on the proverbial cake, I throw in: “Mom, why don’t we go shopping together? Whenever you’re free, just to have some mom-daughter bonding time. We could even go to have my hair redone if you want.”
She smiles genuinely for quite possibly the first time since we left my dad. “Shopping sounds wonderful, Del, and it’s so nice of you to offer to change your hair but-” I can see she’s lying to make is seem like she’s a fair, kindly mother willing to compromise. I roll with it anyway “your hair’s starting to grow on me. You’re not a little kid anymore and the hair’s growing from your head, so you should be able to do what you want with it.”
And that’s how I – Cordelia Kane, whose last shopping trip ended with me being banned from the mall because APPARENTLY some things are frowned upon to do in your local department story – ended up being dragged around expensive boutiques for the next five hours (yes, five) of my pathetic existence.
I’ll give you a basic overview of your average shopping trip with Veronica Singer:
Mom bursts through doors like she’s just happened upon nirvana in a pair of shoes and each and every receptionist grins like mad, knowing they’re about to make their biggest sale of the week. Attendants rush forward in a flood of hidden agendas to assist mother in her ‘retail therapy.’ Mom insists, of course, that this trip is ‘strictly business’ and ‘meant to help my lovely daughter find her wings.’ So then she (normally a she, but there was one person of questionable gender) grabs me with well-manicured nails and looks me over from blue roots to pale legs, measures me in uncomfortable places, and dashes off to whatever circle of hell Satan keeps his local fashionistas in.
Mom leads me around, showing off merchandise she thinks would look good on me until the shady attendants return bearing armfuls of clothes in every color and fabric. God, I’ve never seen so much material in my life. They hands the clothes off to mom, who goes over them with a perceptive eye and sorts them into two piles – love and hate. There is no in-between. When she’s finished, she hands the love pile back to the attendant and ushers me away.
I go with whichever woman is leading me around at this point and head to the dressing suits (they’re not called rooms in fancy salons because they’re bigger than my old kitchen). She asks me to change into every garment and come out then she makes notes to herself and puts pins where they need to go. It’s a quiet process where the only speaking is either ‘Oh my god if I had a body like yours’ statements or ‘We just need to do small adjustments here’ with a quick jab to the area of interest.
Basically, the entire thing is so much fun I want to claw my eyes out with a hanger.
When we leave the last boutique (and the day is half over), I’m dragging approximately thirty garment bags of clothes home to a closet that needs to be cleaned out. Worse, when we return home, mom makes me twirl around in a bunch of dresses and have my nails painted, the works. The final tally: enough shirts and blouses to clothe every struggling fashion student in New York, enough dresses to make a Disney princess drool, and enough pairs of tights to give away to the cast of every production of The Sound of Music ever made.
Later on, I’m sitting in my bedroom finishing up some mind-numbing homework when Michael knocks on my door. His head pokes around the doorframe as he asks, “Del? Can I come in?” His voice is saccharine sweet and sounds like molasses running down my walls.
I shrug. He enters and sits himself on my bed like there’s nothing going on between us right now and this is just a normal daddy/daughter talk.
“Alright, kiddo, it’s time for us to have a good-ole-fashioned conversation. Mano a…woman-o.”
Kiddo? Woman-o? Sighing heavily and with unbridled irritation, I shut my astronomy book and swivel in my chair to face him. “What’s up?”
“I want to make something very clear.” He pauses and puts on his best dad-of-the-year face and throws in serious-macho-man voice for shits and giggles. “Until we have the baby, you need to be on your best behavior. I heard about your pep talk with your mom, and I know it was utter bullshit.”
I blink, feigning childish shock. “What could you possibly mean, daddy? Why wouldn’t I be über-pumped to have another perfect sibling related to you?”
Michael sighs almost as heavily as I do. “List
en, Del, I understand your perspective here. Both my parents are divorcees and I’ve got a few half-siblings myself. But if this pregnancy is going to go well and we’re going to have a healthy baby – and no matter how much you hate this, you can’t wish ill on an innocent child – you need to cooperate. When you speak to me, I expect you to call me dad and to respect me like I respect you. For your mother’s sake. And you’re grounded. Three weeks minimum with a potential for good behavior probation.”
Not in the mood to argue with him, I nod. “Fine.”
“I need more than that. Promise me you’ll be good, that you won’t see that boy again and you’ll do everything asked of you.”
“I swear on my real dad’s grave I won’t see Rhett again and will do everything you ask,” I say through clenched teeth and eyes begging to roll.
Then he leaves, and I realize how quickly I’m going to break that promise.
Because there’s a tapping on my window.
Please no.
It’s got to be Rhett. Who else would show up in my backyard at (I check the clock) 11:29 at night?
I ignore the sound, incessant and just loud enough to annoy the crap out of me. My pen drifts across the pages of my astronomy work, them my calc work, and the tapping goes on and on and on. Constantly the metallic clank of something against my window grates on my brain. Every knock drills at my thoughts until I’m no longer writing but clutching my red pen between white knuckles and waiting for it to stop all the while praying it doesn’t.
Because I know it’s him. And, despite having promised less than ten minutes ago that I would stay the hell away from Rhett and thinking this very day that he’s trouble and an outsider and nothing like my family, he’s alluring. A speck of brightness on a sheet of black. A moment of color.
So, without any real conscious thought, I’m standing up because I know it’s him and the tug in that direction is impossible to resist. It’s not like he’s going to be right outside the window – I live on the third floor, after all – so what’s the harm in seeing him, if only for a moment? It’s not like things could get any worse between us after last night.
Love in the Time of Cynicism Page 4