It Started with Goodbye

by Christina June

  I looked away and pressed my mouth into a firm little line. We chattered amiably for the rest of our shift. By the time Alicia blew her silver whistle and called us back to the clearing, we’d filled six garbage bags full of branches and leaves. I looked back at the honeysuckle we’d been working on, and my heart fell into my stomach as I realized that even though we’d been cutting and stuffing for hours, we’d only just begun.

  Chapter 6

  When I got home, dirty and exhausted, I hopped right into the shower and stayed there for a solid twenty minutes. The hot water running over my aching shoulders provided a small shred of relief, albeit only physical. My conversation with Abby made me both sad and hopeful at the same time. I was grateful to have someone to talk to again, but that connection also scared me. She could become just one more person who’d end up disappointed in me. I didn’t know if it was worth it to let her in, to trust her, but a little part of me thought it might be.

  A loud banging came at the door. “Tatum! Mom says you need to come out of there.” For a quiet girl, Tilly sure could yell.

  I gritted my teeth, not ready to leave the warmth and solitude of the shower yet. “In a minute!”

  She banged again. “Mom says you’re wasting water!”

  A snarky retort was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. I counted to ten, slower than a tortoise, and shut the water off. I toweled dry and slid on a loose tank and worn pajama pants. The soft fabric felt fantastic on my tired and slightly crispy skin. I reminded myself to throw a higher SPF sunscreen in my bag for next time. Belén had lots of expensive tubes of 50 and higher stashed in her bathroom. I hung up my towel, opened the door, and smacked right into Tilly. Why was she still out there?

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, not totally meaning it. I shoved past her and made it almost all the way to my room before she called out in a sing-songy voice, “Mom says you have to come down to dinner tonight.”

  After my long day, the last thing I wanted was a dinner filled with awkward conversation and Belén’s opinions on everything. I’d been looking forward to some peace and quiet. “What if I’m not hungry?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I think you know she’s capable of dragging you down there, so you might as well just submit.”

  As much as I didn’t want to admit it, she was right. I would not want to meet Belén in a dark alley. If she was paired up against a gang member in a street fight, my money would be on the pretty Chilean woman every time. Tilly marched down the stairs, never letting go of her dancer’s posture, and I followed behind her reluctantly.

  Blanche was putting a large bowl of porotos con riendas—bean and pasta stew—on the table when we arrived. I inhaled deeply, the savory scent making my stomach rumble. It smelled more delicious than the last time we’d had it; I wondered if Blanche had made it instead of Belén. I was grateful that one third of the company, as well as the food, wouldn’t be as bad as usual. I filled a glass with water and sat down at my place.

  “Could you get everyone else something to drink, Tatum?” Belén looked at me with disdain from the stove, like I should have known to serve everyone. Oops.

  I pursed my lips, stood, and filled three more water glasses. As I set them down, Blanche winked at me. I gave her a small smile.

  Once everyone was seated and Belén had said the blessing, which she did every night without fail, I filled my bowl to the brim and started shoveling it in. Apparently, manual labor made me really, really hungry. The clanging of silverware and porcelain ceased, and I looked up.

  “What?” I said, which came out garbled because of the spoonfuls of happiness crowding my mouth. Belén and Tilly were looking at me like I was born in a barn, and Blanche was trying not to snicker.

  “Why don’t you tell us about your first day at work, Tatum?” Blanche’s eyes crinkled in the corners, and I brightened.

  “It’s community service, Abuela,” Tilly pointed out.

  “Hush, Matilda. Let’s let Tatum speak for herself. So?”

  I swallowed and focused on Blanche. “It was okay. A lot of hard work. You have to use regular garden tools to clip branches, which can be super tedious. But it wasn’t terrible. There are a couple of kids I know from school doing it too.”

  Blanche smiled warmly. “It’s always better to do difficult tasks with friends.”

  Belén frowned. “I hope you’re actually working and not socializing the whole time. Don’t forget you have to get your supervisor to sign off on your hours, and if you’re talking instead of working, I highly doubt you will earn his or her signature. You’re not there to make friends, Tatum; you’re there to do penance.”

  Penance? Was this the Middle Ages? “I know. My supervisor—her name is Alicia—put us in pairs. We work with the buddy system.”

  “You just make sure you obey all of Alicia’s rules.” Belén took a birdlike bite of soup and chewed for what felt like an hour. “Have you spoken to the Schmidts? Do you have a schedule worked out? I need to put it on the calendar.”

  Belén, in addition to color-coded spare keys, had a color-coded and meticulously labeled calendar that had all of the family activities and appointments on it. I couldn’t deny it was helpful, since one of us was almost always somewhere doing something, but seeing my every move recorded for everyone to observe was a little disconcerting, a little Big Brother. It also made me sad to see “Ken—Out of Country” written on so many days.

  I looked her straight in the eye and lied. It felt like the only way to get away from the new, stricter regime of our house and get a little time to myself. “I’ll be watching the girls evenings only, so it won’t conflict with the park service.”

  “Perfect. And just so you’re aware, I will be writing down the mileage on your car when you leave for their house and when you return, so don’t even think about going somewhere else.”

  My jaw popped open when she dropped that bomb. “Was that your idea, or did you read it on your favorite blog?”

  She shook her head and set her fork down. “You have to learn responsibility. Someone has to make you accountable.” I hated how she automatically assumed the most restrictive method was the best.

  Turns out I was wrong about dinner being tolerable. Not even Blanche or delicious food could change my stepmother.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” I said between gritted teeth.

  With my heart pounding in my chest and my legs shaking, I pushed out from the table and stomped up the stairs to my room, and slammed the door as hard as I could, rattling the pictures on my walls. I slid down to the floor and squeezed my eyes shut so tight that I started seeing little spots of light behind my lids. I exhaled and opened them. I had a sudden urge to call my dad, even though I knew he was asleep halfway across the world, and tell him what Belén was doing to me, but I didn’t think it was going to do any good. What if this new development had been his idea?

  I decided to write to him instead.

  Hi Dad,

  Just wanted to say hello. My first day removing plants is in the books, and it went pretty well. Some kids from school are working there too, so at least I’m not alone, and my partner and I got a lot of nasty stuff cleared. In other news, it’s hot. How hot is it there?

  Love, Tatum

  I pressed send. Ten seconds later, my email dinged. Had Dad responded already? Nope. But someone had sent the very first email to my new TLC inbox!

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I picked up your card at the McIntosh High School Summer Showcase last week and I was happy to see that you offer design services. I am a rising senior at MHS, and was interested in having you create a book cover for the science fiction novel I plan on self-publishing. I have some general thoughts on what it should include, but I’m curious what someone with design experience would have to suggest. Please respond as soon as you can.

  Thanks for your time,

  Emily Berger

  It had been sent from a McIntosh.edu address. A little thrill started in my chest and rose to
my throat, where it exited my body in a yelp. My first official client! Not that Abby wasn’t official, but I already knew her, and I didn’t have my own business when she asked me to do her site.

  I jumped up out of the chair and did a little dance, not unlike those I’d seen football players do in the end zone. This was my end zone. A bright spot in an otherwise pathetically awful night. Someone, this Emily Berger, whoever she was, was willing to take a chance on me. She was putting her publishing dreams in my hands. She was asking me to make her look good. Something shimmered in my veins; it felt a little like joy, though that emotion was relatively foreign as of late. I allowed myself a small smile and sat back down to write back to Emily.

  Dear Emily,

  Thank you so much for reaching out. I would be glad to put something together for you. If you could please fill out the attached questionnaire and include your thoughts on the cover, I’ll write up a proposal, which you can look over and let me know what you think, as well as make changes or suggestions. If you’re interested in seeing some of my previous work, please visit the link below. If you’d like to speak to a current client about her experience, Abigail Gold’s contact information is also below. I look forward to hearing from you and hopefully working with you soon.

  Sincerely,

  TLC

  Was Sincerely the best way to close? I was starting to think I had a valediction complex, I was worrying about it so much. I wanted to come across as professional, but also approachable and fun. I thought for a second, held back from googling the list again, and changed Sincerely to:

  Cheers,

  TLC

  I was careful to stick with my faux alias, just in case this somehow made it back to Tilly. She could be friends with this Emily person, for all I knew. I typed in the URL for my website, which was still a work in progress, and added Abby’s email address under “References” at the bottom of the email. I didn’t think Abby’d mind, especially since this whole thing was her idea. I also attached my brand-spanking-new client preferences survey for Emily to fill out so I could start brainstorming. My index finger hovered over the keyboard. I wished I had my keychain to rub for luck, but without it I crossed my fingers instead and sent my reply out into the ether.

  I leaned back in my chair, possible cover ideas whizzing around my head faster than Katniss’s arrows. Just for grins, I pulled up Photoshop and fiddled around. After a while, the door to my room edged open. The smell of something warm and spicy hit me before I saw Blanche set a full bowl down next to me. She bent over my shoulder and looked at the screen.

  “New project?”

  “New client,” I whispered.

  Blanche squeezed my shoulder lightly. “Am I allowed to say I told you so?”

  I laughed. “I guess so.”

  “So just one new client so far?” She leaned up against the desk, facing me.

  “Just one. But I gave a bunch of business cards and pens to the PTA lady at the thingy last weekend. She actually looked a little impressed.”

  “Good girl,” Blanche said softly. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, Tatum. I think creating things will be good for you.”

  My breath caught, and I struggled to respond. Her kindness was going to undo me. “I think so too.”

  Blanche patted me on the shoulder again and left me alone in the room, my thoughts still churning like the spin cycle, but no longer about Emily’s book cover.

  “Hey there, Mr. Blue.” I tapped on the glass of the fish tank. The brilliantly blue beta, named only as a preschooler could, swam lazily toward me, and even though his little fishy expression stayed the same, I imagined he was staring at me with disinterest.

  “Cheeky little guy,” I said with a laugh. It wasn’t until I dropped some food flakes into the top of his bowl that he moved with purpose. “That’s right. Eat up, buddy.” I replaced the cap and put the food container back on Kate’s dresser.

  I exited her fairy-themed bedroom—decorated in pink, pink, and more pink—and moved next door to Maya’s slightly more subdued blue-and-green animal sanctuary. The hamster, Princess Sweetheart, was asleep in her little plastic cave, so I quickly replaced her food pellets and changed the water. She never stirred. “Sweet dreams, Your Highness,” I whispered, and headed downstairs to fill Gus’s bowl.

  When I’d left the house, Belén had checked the mileage on my odometer as promised. She entered the Schmidts’ address into her phone’s map app and told me I should add no more than six point four miles to the number on the dash.

  “If you go anywhere other than their house, Tatum, there will be consequences.” She stared at me, using her full height, practically singeing my eyebrows with her judgment lasers.

  “There and back,” I said, and saluted her. At least that part of the lie was true. As I’d turned to go, I caught a glimpse of her face wearing an unmistakable look of sadness. What was that about? Surely she couldn’t be feeling guilty about playing bad cop. I wanted to ask her, but by the time I opened my mouth, she did an about-face and clacked back into the house.

  I was actually looking forward to the peace and quiet of the Schmidt house, just me and the animals. The worst they could do was scratch me. My house was quiet—sometimes it was like a tomb even when all four of us were there. Silent and also a little creepy. But this was different. Away from home, I could get actual solitude. A time to relax. Rejuvenate.

  Animals fed and watered, I sat down on the cushy couch in the living room, sinking into the overstuffed pillows as Gus lounged at my side. Kate and Maya loved to make forts out of those pillows, draping them with sheets from their bedrooms and crouching on hands and knees underneath, pretending they were spelunking in a treacherous cave or deep-sea diving for pearls. They always made sure to turn on their play camping lantern, just the right size for adventuring in the safety of their own home. I missed them. It would have been fun to hang out with those ridiculous little girls this summer. Instead, their introverted pets would have to do.

  I’d brought my laptop with me, hoping to get some work done on Emily’s book cover proposal without the worry of Belén or Tilly walking in and asking what I was doing. A little voice in my head was saying I should have told them the truth about pet sitting. There wasn’t really any particular reason to not tell them, since it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong, but I didn’t want Belén to shut me down and keep me in the house any more than she already did. Now didn’t seem to be the right time to bring it up with her. Maybe later . . . when she wasn’t quite so mad at me over the whole “getting arrested” debacle.

  Emily had sent me a vague idea for her cover—gears—and she’d also sent back the questionnaire, meant to help me figure out the best representative colors and style. Besides loving the obvious Doctor Who and Firefly, like all card-carrying sci-fi fans, she also liked Hitchcock movies and CSI, in all varieties and iterations. Emily was a mystery junkie. My gut told me starting with something in black and white might be a good plan.

  I emailed her back.

  Dear Emily,

  This is really helpful, thank you so much. Could you send me a couple sample chapters or a synopsis of the book so I can make sure my idea will work?

  Cheers,

  TLC

  I sent it off and snuggled deeper into the pillows. I closed my eyes and started having visions of Emily’s book winning awards, and all the fanfare my spectacular cover might garner in the process. This business could very well be a springboard to something bigger for me. College. A job. Self-actualization. The possibilities were endless. Maybe.

  My email dinged, and I struggled to sit up in the midst of the mountain of down and canvas. I had to use both hands to push myself out of the crevice. Best darn couch ever.

  Dear TLC Design,

  I’m interested in putting together an online portfolio for college. Is that something you can help me with? Please let me know.

  Thanks,

  SK

  Another client! And, it was another McIntosh email a
ddress. God bless Blanche and her evil-genius mind. SKipsang@McIntosh.edu, it said. Why did I know that name? I was sure I’d heard it somewhere. I replied immediately. No point in wasting time where there was fine money to earn.

  Hi SK,

  Yes, I can definitely help you. Please see the link below for examples of my work. What kind of portfolio do you need?

  Cheers,

  TLC

  I typed my website at the bottom and pressed send. I sat on the edge of the couch, not wanting to fall back into the black hole, in case my new potential client was still online and wrote back right away. Thirty seconds later, another ding. Assumption correct.

  Thanks for getting back to me so fast. I play cello. I’d like it to have my musical résumé and some audio files, at the bare minimum.

  SK

  Cello! This was the musician whose performance poster I’d bashed at the McIntosh showcase. Oops. At least he hadn’t designed it. Remembering looking at that poster, I blushed. I’d been critiquing it next to an amazingly gorgeous and intelligent guy. My fist smacked into the fluffy couch. I was still mad at myself for not asking him what his name was. Maybe SK or Emily knew him. Maybe I could ask them. Or maybe not. Because emailing a perfect stranger and saying “Hi, do you know an incredibly attractive guy with brown skin, dark hair, and sea-green eyes? Can you tell him I’ve been drooling over him? Okay, thanks so much” wouldn’t be the least bit disturbing. Strike that idea.

  SK,

  That’s easy to take care of. If you fill out the attached survey, I will start putting together a proposal for you ASAP.

  Cheers,

  TLC

  I was very much enjoying using “cheers.” It made me feel like I was from somewhere far away, like England or Scotland. Continuing my earlier fantasy, I started thinking about when it would be my turn to apply to college and leave the house. Belén had already started dropping hints about standardized testing. I could move way up north and totally reinvent myself. Get a fresh start and not have to live in the shadow of my perfect stepsister and a false accusation. Just as I was picturing myself walking across a campus dotted with red-and yellow-leaved trees, wooly scarf around my neck and latte in my hand, my email dinged again.