by M. N. Forgy
I sling my tie-dye shoulder bag over my chest, my mouth dry at the mere thought of starting another new school, add on it’s at the end of the year making it worse. I catch the receptionist running a disapproving eye over me, her thin brows narrowed in as if she’s looking at an old throw pillow out of place on a fancy couch.
I’m used to side looks like that though. I’ve been told I don’t dress or act like teenagers my age, and next to my parents, I’m a sore thumb. Looking down, I fiddle with my colorful bracelets. Hippie. Flower child. Bohemian princess. These are all names I’ve been called, but ask the fucks I give. I was born in the wrong era. I could have thrived in the sixties. A time where there was no judgment and everyone was friends with everyone. Life was wild, and the only morals anyone had was where they got their drugs from and who to pleasure.
I’m just like my grandma which my mother disapproves. She says I remind her of her mother too much. The way I dress and act so free willed. Seeing as how I hung out with my grandma until her death, it should be no surprise I act like her.
In all honesty, she could care less about what I’m into as long as I don’t embarrass her and stay out of trouble. As far as she’s concerned, a girl should be pretty and sophisticated. Preaching “Money follows beauty, River.” My being five foot two with long wavy chestnut hair, and green eyes isn’t what bothers her though, it’s my array of headbands I wear around my forehead each day, my bohemian style outfits, and lead-stained fingertips from drawing that has grossed her out. Grandma would love it.
My father, on the other hand, could care less what I look like, he’s always on my back about keeping my head in the books, and that doesn’t include art books. He thinks being an artist is a waste of brain activity and time. My grandma would disagree if she were still alive.
“The Addingtons!” My head snaps up at the mention of my last name finding a tall man wearing a cheap suit and a smug smile stepping out of a back office. The principal’s office. His hair combed over and sprayed with hairspray so heavily it shines. He looks like he’s trying out for a fifty’s porno.
“I’m Principal Green, and can I just say how happy we are to have you in our town?” He grips my father’s hand, shaking it a little too eagerly. Typical principals’ reaction to my parents.
My dad’s face remains somber, he’s used to people being dramatically excited for his arrival. He smells of money, and he knows it. I could care less about money, especially now that I know how he earns it. Maybe I can say that because I’ve always had it, but I can tell you from behind closed doors it doesn’t make people happy.
Flashbacks from growing up of my parents screaming at each other string in the back of my mind. I have to sigh heavily to veer myself away from that emotional roller coaster. They don’t trust each other, always thinking the other is messing around the other’s back. Knowing who they work for, I can see why now.
My parents met attending a seminar on ‘How to Be the Richest Friend on The Block.’
My dad locked eyes with her from the stage and they said it was love at first sight. Twenty minutes later they were in the hotel room and I was conceived.
“You’re here on business, correct?” Principal Green pushes. Wondering how long he’s staying, and will he invest in the school activities I participate in, I’m sure. Giving my parents a sideways glance I can’t help but wonder if everyone knows of the activities my parents bestow on each town they come to.
“Will we make you rich if that’s what you mean?” Mother laughs, her fake giggles gyrating my nerves.
“Business later,” Dad interrupts, rubbing my mother’s back with a tight smile across his face.
“Right, we’re here for our daughter River’s first day,” my mother interrupts. The way she draws her words out as if her language is of riches, drives me crazy. She pulls at my green top, and sighs loudly when she tucks up behind me closely and whispers in my ear, “You couldn’t wear something a little nicer?”
“I have my two piece romper back home. You know, the blue sequined one? It would go nicely with the mascot colors here, don’t you think?” I sass, my tone and face serious. I’ve gotten good at acting when it comes to my mother. If I can’t have fun with her, I’d be some depressed teenager who can’t cope that her parents don’t understand her.
“Right, let’s get your classes in order and get you started!” Mr. Green slaps his hands together, making my mother jump where she stands.
“Do you have an art program?” I can’t help but ask. My last school had tons of opportunities for me to dig my hands into something creative. But that was New York, not here in bo-donk hell.
I love sketching the most which is the most simple form of art I can think of, so surely they have something like that here. I can’t help but ask because it’s my only escape. I get lost in the drawing and drown out the faded blur that has become my existence. Art is my way of exploring an imagination, a world that is my own. Art is something nobody can take away from me, even moving from state to state. Art is who I am.
My parents both groan in protest at my question, but I ignore them and await the response of Mr. Green’s reply.
“You want to be an artist?” he asks with amusement, his tone as if he was talking to a small child. I should say ‘I want to be a stripper, where do I sign up for those classes’ and really give everyone in here a shock they can’t come back from.
I don’t reply, because it will only earn me further growls from my parents who think art is a waste of time, and I really don’t care to have that conversation here in the hallway. At least not this early in the morning.
Besides, I don’t just want to be an artist, I want to be the art. Every step I take forward, or may it be backward, I want an array of colors to tell my story in my wake.
Mom hugs me tightly as if it’s my first day of school. Well, it is, but the way she’s squeezing me you’d think I was six and not seventeen. “What happened to the Chanel perfume I got you? You smell of pencil shavings,” she scoffs in my ear, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at her. That bottle was donated to the thrift store when we moved. It smelled so strong I couldn’t smell anything but it. Her hand trails down my arm, and I know she’s about to check my nails and fingers next. Which my chipped blue fingernail polish will no doubt be the wrong color and then she’ll notice my lead-stained fingertips which will really get her going on me.
“Your locker is seventy-four.” The receptionist hands me a small piece of paper with the combination written on it. Jerking my hand from Mom’s grip, I take the slip from the receptionist, and the principal hands me my class schedule. I bite my cheek to hide how relieved I am for the distraction.
“Thanks,” I whisper, praying I don’t lose the small piece of paper with the combination on it.
“See you tonight, kid.” Dad gives my shoulder a firm grip, the smell of his cologne strong. This is his usual way of telling me he cares about me, and have a good day. He’s never been the touchy-feely kind, not that I can remember anyway. The lack of connection in our family can’t be missed from wondering eyes, but I would have never noticed if it weren’t for seeing other families hug and love on their kids, or watching movies or parents reading stories to their kids before bedtime.
It’s whatever. I’m fine. You can’t miss something you never had, can you?
“Don’t be such a hippie,” Mom whisper-yells behind her hand, giving a small laugh afterward conveying she’s joking. “Seriously though, take that headband off and maybe a few bracelets,” she points at my wrists.
Knowing I need to get away from her before she starts trying to pull my bracelets off herself, I take a step away and start down the hall.
With a tight smile pulling at my cheeks, I head for my locker to put my things away just as a loud bell rings. Warm bodies swarm the halls getting to their next class, and I quickly find my locker and hide behind the door to put my things away. Sighing heavily, I try to erase my parents’ voices in my head. I’ve lived by the rules m
y parents have had carved in stone since I can remember. But for the first time ever, I feel the urge to… rebel.
I should, I deserve it after everything that happened in our last town.
A familiar smell wafts past me. One that is spicy and does things to my body. Tingles running up my spine, hair raising on my neck. Things that don’t happen every day. Glancing over my shoulder, I see nameless faces, but I remember that smell from the night I ran away from a hotel into a field of fire. I’ll never forget that night.
3
River
“If you ask me, that River had a chip on her shoulders just like her parents.” - High School receptionist.
Taking a deep breath, my dry throat feels like sandpaper, I open the classroom door to a room full of students. Their eyes suddenly all on me. I freeze.
“Can I help you?” an older man standing at the front of the class wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants asks.
“I’m River, the new student.” I hand him a slip that the front desk gave me, and his eyes light up with recognition.
“That’s right! Well, welcome to biology. Find a seat and I’ll—”
My bag clutched to my chest, I look around for an empty seat. It’s so packed in here I start to panic I’ll have to sit on the floor. Alas, there’s one empty chair and it’s at the back of the class and I all but run to it.
“Excuse me.” I turn sideways, snaking myself through the tight space between desks.
Setting my bag down on the floor, I slip into the seat and it wobbles from my weight. Eyes wide, my hands strangle the side as I try and catch my balance. Looking down, one of the legs is shorter than the other three, like it’s missing a peg or something. Shit.
Not daring to move, I situate myself carefully and look up just in time to find a tall guy wearing a letterman jacket with the number nine printed along the back of it. His choppy blond locks fall into his face, and he hits me with a charming smile while he walks toward me.
Holy shit, it’s the guy from the party with baby blue eyes I could never forget, looking right into my line of sight.
“Trade me seats?” he suggests. His hooded eyes, sharp chin, and kissable lips remind me of that night like it was yesterday. Tension builds between us as he knows who I am and I know who he is. My body fills with liquid heat that couldn’t compare to the bonfire of that night we met. Everyone is watching us, and I clear my throat and avert my eyes downward.
“Oh, that’s okay, I—” The desk wobbles, and a couple girls start to laugh at my expense. Giving them a side glance, I can already tell they’re the popular clique of the school. The type everyone hates but secretly wants to be. Except me.
Pressing two palms on top of the desk he leans in, the smell of Old Spice wafting around me. Goddamn was he this good-looking back when we hooked up?
“Come on, don’t make me look like an ass in front of everyone.” He winks, and I feel his smoldering stare all the way to my toes. Closing my eyes, I breathe through the sound of his familiar voice. It’s definitely him. It’s the guy I gave my virginity to one hot spring night, and I didn’t even catch his name. This is awkward.
No names, no seeing each other again, and definitely no ocean blue eyes I’d ever have to look at again. That was the way it was supposed to be. Especially after letting myself go like a Catholic school girl who was pissed at her parents.
“Okay fine.” I shrug. He’s already made a big enough scene. Standing, I grab my bag and head to the desk he was sitting in with shaky knees. He slips into the broken one without problem, it doesn’t even wobble on him. Go figure. The girls in the corner stare at me with red faces, obviously not happy Mr. Letterman Jacket was nice to me. I wonder if one of them is his girlfriend? Were they together when we were together?
Tucking hair behind my ear, I try and keep my head down the remainder of the class, but adrenaline fills my veins knowing he’s staring at me, taking in every inch of skin I have to offer from just two seats over. Risking a glance, I look at him – he’s watching me. He smirks, chewing on the end of a pencil before taking his gaze back to the teacher who is talking about what they’ve learned this year. I don’t know what that is at the moment. I can’t think, I can’t even breathe.
“Warner, do you think biology will help you this summer?” the teacher calls upon him and it catches my attention that his name is Warner. I like it. It’s strong and bold. Like him.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have a lot of experience with biology this summer, Mr. Lightner.” The whole class begins to chuckle, and Warner looks at me as if I am his newest prey.
Gulping down the lump in my throat, I continue to draw on my notepad. He is cute. His face is sharp, cheeks covered with stubble. His eyebrows thick giving his baby blue eyes the touch of haughtiness that has me curling my toes when he looks at me. And those lips, Jesus I’ve never seen such a full pair of lips on a guy, his cupid bow making me nibble at my own.
Side-eyeing him, my eyes trail down the rest of him, curious if he’s muscular. Is he tan? Does he have tattoos?
He catches me looking, and I still. Our eyes locked, my mind replaying the moans of that night on repeat in the back of my head.
The bell rings, and everyone stands instantly, breaking mine and Warner’s stare-off. Blinking rapidly, I gather my things for the next class, ready for this day to be over with. I feel like an idiot joining a school at the end of senior year.
“So you’re the new girl?” My eyes snap up to a cheeky blonde girl glaring at me. I give a fake smile, and try and step around her but she steps in my way. “I saw the way you were staring at Warner. Hell, the whole class saw you nearly throw your panties in his direction.” She scoffs.
My brows pinch together, and my mouth drops at the tone of this bitch. I’m not usually one for confrontation, I’m more relaxed and forgiving, but she is coming on super strong and pissing me off.
“Wow, you need to chill.” I don’t know why she’s so bent out of shape.
She takes a step up, closing the gap between us. “Stay. Away.” She enunciates each word, making her glossy lips pucker.
I raise a brow at her threat. She clearly isn’t friendly and isn’t going to relax any time soon. I bet if I told her Warner and I hooked up she’d have a stroke right here. Hmm, it’s tempting.
“Come on Kellie, she gets the message,” a girl that looks identical to Kellie whispers from behind. Kellie doesn’t budge, and I’m done with theatrical drama queens for one day.
I step forward, slamming my shoulder into Kellie causing her to drop her things to the floor.
Glancing over my shoulder at the mess I left behind, the group of blondes gasp horrifically and instantly begin to help Kellie pick her things up.
“You’ll regret that,” one of them threatens.
I stop, not sure how to handle the situation. I’ve seen bullies and school fights, sure, but nobody has ever had a problem with me. I’m the girl that is friends with everyone. That can sit anywhere and be accepted. However, these girls clearly are not going to be friendly any time soon, and I won’t let someone jerk me around either. One of the blondes continues to stare at me with a heated look, and anger builds in my chest at the way she’s treating me. These girls don’t even know me and they’re already deciding to hate me.
“Yeah, maybe if you all put your brains together you can come up with a really good comeback,” I insult. A smile breaks through my lips, a little proud of myself at that one, and head out of class.
Thank God there are only a couple weeks left of school, then again, I like a good challenge.
Not that I’m threatened by Kellie or her squad. But maybe stirring up some trouble in this town will keep me from being so bored.
4
Warner
“Warner seemed distracted that night after River came to town. It wasn’t like him to not drink with us.” - Football player number 37.
Sitting on the tailgate of my truck on Old Man Richard’s dried out farm, I listen to the gu
ys talk about who’ve they fucked lately, what they’re doing after school lets out, and just about everything else. But the only thing I can think about is a certain string tattoo on a sexy little hippie’s ankle. River. I never did catch the name of the girl that night in the tent, but I know River is her. I can feel it when I look at her. The way she looks at me.
River.
The name is perfect for her. It’s… beautiful and strong. Like her.
“Dude, where’s your head at?” Axel slaps my arm, wanting me to join in on the boys talkin’. I stake a sip of the beer Axel stole from his uncle’s garage. Burping, I crinkle the can in my hand and toss it in the field.
“Nowhere,” I mumble, my mind trapped in a tent that was on this very field the night I met River. The boys and I have been coming here since we were kids. I still remember the night Axel wrecked his mom’s BMW and he was scared to go home so we met here, and that one time Dad got so drunk and sucker punched me to the point I could barely stand straight. I called Axel to meet me here and wrap my ribs.
It’s not all bad times though, memories of every kind grow with the grass of this open field. We come out here to drink and talk shit almost every night, and after every game win or lose, we’re taking over this place. Looking down, you can see the permanent imprint my tires have left in the ground I’m here so often.
My life is so routine, I could walk it with my eyes shut. Shit, every move and every resident is predictable in their every action in this town.
Maybe that’s why River stands out to me. In a small town like ours, all the girls try to be like Kellie.
Slicked back blonde hair into a tight ponytail at the back of their heads, skin-tight outfits that would make anyone stare longer than they should, and with their overdone makeup, it’s like they’re carbon copies of one another on a teen commercial.
My mind drifts to the gumball machine at Pop’s Dime-In restaurant. Every time you turn the knob, you get a blue gumball.
There are no other colors, and the taste becomes bland and the excitement of what you’re going to get dull. Kinda like this town and the people in it. River is different though. She’s not even in the mix of stale gumballs swirling the smudged glass of the local restaurant. She’s the thorn on a rose bush just outside, green and living free in the air and sunshine, and I want to prick my finger on her. Watch the pad of my finger bleed, and the feel of pain sprout a glimpse of excitement my life has been lacking for far too fucking long.