My Lullaby of You

by Alia Rose

  I turned my focus back on my mom and found the cart almost full with stuff. I blinked, biting my tongue. There were five candles now in the basket. I took each out, smelling them. I almost gagged when I got to the last one.

  “Mom,” I said sternly. “Stop it.”

  “All of this. The moving boxes, the candles, the constant muttering. I know what you’re doing, so stop guilt-tripping me. I said I was sorry, and I’m trying to give you space. If you want me to go ahead and pack my bags now, I’ll spend my summer in Chicago. Just say the word and I will.”

  I started putting the candles back on the shelf. My mom just stood there, staring at me. Maybe I had been too harsh, but she needed to hear it.

  She sighed quietly, then walked away from me and out of the store. I pushed the cart toward the front of the store and saw my mom pulling out of the parking lot. I pressed my hand to my head, hating myself. I took the comforter out of the basket and held it up.

  “I hate green,” I mumbled.

  Two miles later, I sat at the café off the beach. It was only ten in the morning and everyone’s day was just beginning while I sat wishing mine was ending.

  I watched Paul make his way across the beach, talking to three girls. They giggled once he turned away. I scanned the beach for Obnoxious Guy. He wasn’t there, and I thought about the night before again.

  I still wondered why I had sat down with him, as if I had known him for more than just a day. I didn’t understand why he tested my patience. I could tell he got satisfaction out of making people squirm by staring at them intensely. Little did he know who he was messing with.

  I sipped my coffee and racked my brain for some explanation. I came up short and gave up. As I watched the water calmly crashing the shore, performing its daily routine, I figured it out. It was comfort that I found within his eyes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Seth

  I lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling. The sun shined through the curtains, telling me it was at least eleven. I rolled over, not wanting to face the day. I checked the clock. Ten thirty. I was close.

  I stumbled out of bed and decided to commence with my first plan. Face my father.

  I didn’t know much about what my dad did for a living now. Back when I was younger, he was a construction manager for a major company, so I figured I’d start there. I walked around town and went in the only construction building complex I could find.

  It took me ten minutes to reach the construction site where the secretary said he was. The site was a mess. There wasn’t much of a building yet, just dirt being pushed from one side to the other. I spotted him near a shed discussing plans.

  I walked toward him and took a deep breath. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, he turned around. He did a double take when he saw me but didn’t look all that surprised to see me. Instead he seemed angry. He turned back around and continued working. Frustrated, I turned around to head back but then hesitated. Even though the look on his face told me that I was wasting my time, I knew I couldn’t leave again without at least trying to get some answers. Even if he didn’t care or didn’t want to face it, it would make things right in my mind. After so many years, I had given up on him and accepted that he wanted nothing to do with me; I had detached from the emotions I had for him. Now, all I cared about was the answers.

  I walked up to him, getting closer this time. I wanted to make sure he could hear me.

  “John,” I said. He didn’t turn around, but I saw his shoulders tense. “I’m not here to ruin your life, if that’s what you think. I need answers. I’m staying at the Beach Motel. I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

  I stepped back and waited for him to turn around or say something. Instead someone called out his name near a trailer, and he walked away without acknowledging me at all. I could feel myself getting angry. My dad had always avoided conflict as much as possible, and would run away from his problems instead of dealing with them. It was clear that, to him, I was definitely more of a problem than a son.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow!” I called out, even though I was pretty sure he was out of hearing range. It was clear that time had not changed anything between us.

  I walked back to my hotel room feeling defeated. I fell onto my bed and went back to staring at my ceiling. I sighed, closing my eyes, and tried to think of something else.

  I let my mind wander to the girl on the beach, the lifeguard. She was different.

  I always had been the mastermind when it came to girls. They were predictable and, in some ways, easy to figure out. She stumped me, though. I found that fascinating somehow, which was odd because I liked being a step ahead. Not knowing was something I usually hated.

  However, I didn’t know her that well. She might not be that impossible to figure out. I shook my head, scolding myself. She didn’t deserve to be treated as a challenge, but I was running out of things to do in this town.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Amy

  It was a couple days after the Bed Bath & Beyond fight, and it was time to straighten things out with my mom. I found her sitting in her usual spot in the kitchen, smoking. She looked up when I walked in, saw it was me and turned her back.

  I sighed. “Mom, can we talk?”

  She remained silent, so I sat down and starting talking anyway.

  “Listen, Mom, I know you don’t want me going to Chicago, but you have to understand why. I know you think it’s all about Dad, but I promise you it’s not. The Art Institute has a good architecture program—a great program. And architecture is what I’ve always wanted to do.” I paused. “You know that.”

  She didn’t comment or even acknowledge that I was talking. Still, I continued, hoping she was actually listening. I felt lost and I did not know what else there was to say. I did not know what statement would make her listen or make her understand. I sat there, waiting for some kind of response, but after five minutes of just watching her stare straight ahead, I knew I wasn’t going to get one.

  I walked out of the kitchen and paused at the doorway. I watched as she lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. I remembered the years when she didn’t smoke. She didn’t start until I was ten or eleven, a year or two before my dad left. That was when things were beginning to turn sour. I remembered my dad telling her that he didn’t like her smoking and my mom retorting that she didn’t like him staying out late every night. I watched them glare at each other, thinking to myself then that neither of those things would change.

  They hadn’t changed, and here was my mom, smoking her life away.

  I went into my room and slammed the door behind me, running into the brown moving boxes. I kicked them out of the way and jumped onto my bed. I sat there, pulling my knees to my chest, feeling depressed. I glanced at my bedside table and grabbed the navy blue folder. My portfolio. Getting into the Art Institute would have been impossible without it.

  I flipped through it, remembering how hard I had worked to make my portfolio good and unique. My high school didn’t have any design classes, so I used dual enrollment to take college classes at the community college outside of town. There I took basic design and architecture classes, learning how to hand-draft plans and elevations and how to render them to effectively portray the design intent.

  I continued to flip through, pausing at the project I had worked on over the past year. It was a sustainable housing project, and I loved the problem-solving aspect of it. In the end, it was the one I was most proud of. I had gathered inspiration from architects like Frank Lloyd Wright and his use of context and surroundings, and from Gaudi, who used sculpture and form to portray the emotional side of design. The idea that a building was in fact art fascinated me.

  The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. My mom was being so selfish.

  I tossed the folder aside and grabbed my iPod. I needed a run.

  After jogging on the beach for an hour, I was boiling. I hadn’t thought about how it was way past noon and hot. Most people would do thei
r jogging in the morning.

  I went over to the lifeguard stand and put my stuff next to it.

  “You’re the only person I know who enjoys torturing themselves on their afternoon off,” Paul told me.

  I ignored him and ran toward the water. I heard him blow his whistle and resisted the urge to flip him off. The water wasn’t cold, but it was cold enough to cool me off. I swam farther out, fighting with the waves. It was a battle they eventually lost once I got past the biggest waves. I reached my favorite spot by the lonely black rock. It was big enough to sit on, but too slippery. I held on to the side of it for support while I caught my breath and regained my energy for the swim back.

  At this angle, the water was terrifying. For most people. It was dark, loud, and surrounded me. Land looked far away, and the water spread out, pulling me deeper in, not wanting to let me go back. The shore was closer than it looked, and I could make out Paul on the lifeguard stand, but just barely.

  I looked around me, not feeling scared at all. I trusted the water and trusted myself with it. I actually felt safe and found comfort in the fact that only the water and waves were my biggest problems. To me, things were so much more complicated on land.

  Once back on the beach, I grabbed my stuff and threw on a cover-up dress to help me dry off. Now I needed my smoothie. The smoothie shack was right off the boardwalk and had the best smoothies. It also helped if your best friend made them.

  Kelly was dressed in a hot pink collared shirt with an orange apron. The red smoothie shack hat she wore matched the color of her face. She looked flustered.

  “Hey, what’s with you?” I asked.

  “Nothing, it’s just really hot.” She sighed.

  “Yeah, it is. Which is why I need your specialty,” I said, flashing a smile. She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Extra large?”

  “Biggest cup you have, girl,” I told her, smacking my hand on the counter. She shook her head and walked to the back to begin making it.

  “Can we actually do something fun tonight?” she said, handing me my smoothie.

  I shrugged. “Call me after work.”

  I looked around at the boardwalk. It was filling up as people crowded around the benches and stood in line for smoothies and corn dogs. It had to be the biggest hangout for high schoolers who had nothing to do. I remembered the hangouts sophomore year, and the feeling of being so amazingly cool.

  With my smoothie in hand, I went back down to the beach. I drank the combination of strawberry, mango, banana, and orange and felt the chill run through my body. Yum.

  My moment in smoothie paradise was rudely interrupted by a body plopping down next to me. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

  “Now what do you want?” I demanded.

  “I want,” he said, “your name.”

  I looked up and Obnoxious Guy smiled at me. I felt myself flush but was glad I was probably already red from running. I glared at him and turned back to the beach.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” he challenged.

  “Why are you answering me with a question?” I asked, getting annoyed.

  “Because you didn’t answer mine.”

  “Wanting to know my name is not a question,” I pointed out.

  He opened his mouth and then closed it. I took the opportunity to get up and start walking away.

  “Wait,” he called after me, “why are you always storming off?”

  I stopped and turned back around. “Why are you stalking me?”

  “I am not stalking you.” He scoffed. “Trying to buy you a smoothie for your sorry attempt to save me.” He paused, holding back a laugh. I raised my eyebrows and he continued. “Bumping into you at the beach last night and you sitting with me was not stalking you.” He walked closer to me, staring at me intensely. I stared back, not lowering my gaze. He blinked away from me and faced the water.

  I could have walked away then, but I decided not to.

  “Amy,” I said, finally giving in and sitting back down.

  He glanced at me, then back at the ocean before joining me on the sand. “You’re pretty impossible.”

  I found this to be satisfying. “So I’ve been told.”

  We continued sitting there, waiting for the other to say something.

  “So what’s your story?” he finally asked.

  “My story?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, your story?” he echoed, still staring straight ahead.

  I sighed. “Okay, I was born and raised here. I live with my mom and stepdad. I just graduated a week ago.” I paused. “I’m a lifeguard,” I emphasized, giving him a look. “And I’m going off to college once summer ends.”

  He nodded. I looked at him curiously. I wondered why he cared.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  He laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair. I looked at him with my eyebrows raised, waiting.

  He looked back at me and held my gaze before saying, “I was curious.”

  “You were curious.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “You seem interesting.”

  “Trying to drown you and accusing you of being a stalker is interesting?” I questioned.

  “Hah, yeah, it is,” he said, “to me.”

  I shook my head, not understanding him at all. He was different. Weird. Strange. I told him this.

  “So I’ve been told,” was his reply. Figures.

  “Obnoxious?” I added.

  “Yup, that too,” he said flashing a smile, “along with handsome, smart, charming, and irresistible.”

  I snorted, a smile escaping. “I’m sure.”

  He chuckled. “Hey, it’s better than what describes you.”

  I smiled. This game, I could play. “Really? Let’s see if I can get this right.” I started counting on my fingers. “Stubborn, moody, defiant, rude, impossible.” I paused, holding up five fingers. “I can go on for hours.”

  “I’m sure you could.” He smirked.

  This time I nudged him, causing him to stagger a little.

  “Watch it. You already bruised me once,” he warned.

  I shrugged. “You deserved it.”

  He laughed again. I looked at him, wondering what had just happened. He met my gaze and held it.

  “You wouldn’t be hungry by any chance?” he asked me, smiling.

  “Hmm, maybe a little,” I answered, a little caught off guard by the question.

  He stood up and pointed in the direction of the seafood place.

  “You’re in luck. I love that place,” I said, standing up.

  “I wouldn’t call it luck,” he said, winking. I rolled my eyes, wondering what I was getting myself into.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Seth

  Amy was unlike anyone I had ever met before. She was blunt, complicated, and perplexing. Her flaws fascinated me. If I had been smart I would have stayed away from her. I felt as if she could see right through me: a good reason to run away. She was a distraction, and she wasn’t what I needed right now. And yet I was mesmerized; I was also the idiot who asked her to lunch.

  As we sat looking over our menus, I watched her, her brow furrowed with concentration. It looked as though deciding on what to eat for lunch was a life-altering decision. She caught me looking at her and raised her eyebrows. I looked down at my menu and glanced back up. She shifted her menu, covering her entire face with it. I smiled.

  I decided on grilled salmon and closed my menu. I set it aside and cleared my throat. Amy looked up, then closed her menu and put it aside as well.

  Time to start conversing, tough guy, I said to myself after we ordered.

  “So, what are you going to school for?” I tried to guess her answer. Lawyer, maybe.

  “Architecture,” she said without hesitation.

  Wrong guess. Point for her. “Ah. That’s interesting.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What did you go
for?”

  Her question took me off guard. It was strange for her to ask that. As if, one, she knew I had gone to college, and two, that I had already graduated.

  “Music,” I said.

  She nodded. “So do you play, sing, or write?”

  I smiled. “All of the above.”

  I could tell she was surprised, but she didn’t show it for long before asking me another question.

  “What do you play?”

  “Piano and guitar.” I felt like I was getting interrogated.

  “Genre?” she asked.

  I shrugged, wondering which one to say. My career or my hobby. “I don’t really have one.”

  She paused. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t fit into one category. I write the song and it’s just a song. I don’t base it on a certain genre. I write a lot of stuff.”

  “I get it.” she said. I nodded, not sure what was next.

  “Are we done?” I finally asked after a couple minutes of silence.

  “Done what?” she asked, confused.

  “Interrogating me with questions.”

  “Hah,” she smiled. “Not yet, but I’ll give you time to recover.”

  “Whew,” I said sarcastically. “Thanks. It’s my turn anyways.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, pulling her shoulders back and cracking her fingers. “I’m ready.”

  I held back a smile. “What school are you going to?”

  “The Art Institute of Chicago,” she said fast, as if answering a test question.

  “Whoa, you’re smart.” I had to admit, I was impressed but not surprised.

  She shrugged. “My portfolio is what got me in.”

  “Why architecture?” I asked next. This one she didn’t answer right away.