The Firsts Series Box Set

by M. J. Fields

  “London,” my sister Lexington whispers.

  I inhale a deep, calming breath, trying to rid the annoyance I have kept at bay for the past month. The annoyance that only a little sister can spring on, like nails on a chalkboard.

  I look over and smile. “Yes, Lexi?”

  She points out the window at the mall, Destiny USA in Syracuse. Then she points to our mom. “She’s being strong.”

  I nod my agreement.

  “But you should pay attention to her. She loves you, London.”

  Lexington’s irritating know-it all statement precedes her blue-green eyes filling with tears.

  Lexi’s tears don’t come often. She is a very happy and self-confident child. Even at the age of ten, she has that blind sort of confidence gained from a lifetime of love and near pain-free living.

  Her tears are my weakness. The tears of anyone I love messes with my persistent—or as some may see it, tenacious and unfaltering—grip on the strength I have gained through a life of questions and life-altering lessons.

  Weak, I am not. Swayed easily from my beliefs and morals, I am not. Well, not until I see tears.

  Like water to Elphaba, Christine to the Phantom, and legacy to Hamilton, Lexington’s tears are all those things to me.

  Her eyes now red, I’m unable to resist. I reach over and grab her hand, giving it a light squeeze and trying my best to smile.

  “You should, too, then, okay?”

  Her lips quiver a bit as she nods. Then one tear escapes her pretty blue-greens, a perfect combination of Mom’s and Brody’s eyes.

  “I’m an hour away, Lexi. Just an hour.”

  As the second tear spills down her cheek, she quickly licks it away as it hits her top lip. I am done for.

  I look down at my seatbelt, reaching to unbuckle it as my hands shake in resounding fear.

  When Lexi covers my hand with hers, I look up as she whispers, “You don’t have to.”

  “The only reason she’s alive is because of her seatbelt,” I hear the paramedic’s voice in my head as if it were yesterday, and not ten years ago.

  I lived through the accident that killed my father because I had mine on. He would have lived had he worn his.

  Fear. Fear is crippling to us all. When the fear stems from an actual event, or a lesson, as I like to call them, causing a person not just the worry of what could happen, but stops them from doing what must be done in order to stop another chain of events that will inevitably cause more tears, a person needs to do what they have to.

  I hit the orange button that pushes up the console between us. Then I scoot closer to Lexi and grab the seatbelt to secure me. Looking for the latch, feeling the onset of an anxiety attack, I find it in Lexington’s hand.

  I push it in and wait for the click. Then I breathe in a sigh of relief as I put my arm behind my sister and she rests her head on my shoulder.

  “You’ll be fine, Lex,” I whisper.

  “So will you, London. You are fine.” She smiles up at me as, what I hope, the third and final tear falls.

  I lay my head atop hers and nod. “We all will be. Change isn’t easy, but it’s sometimes for the best.”

  “I know,” she sighs out.

  I look up to see Brody’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror. He gives me a wink, and I give him a nod. He then turns up the radio and, as if on cue, The Brody Hines Band booms through the Bose system with the latest platinum selling single, “That’s My Girl.”

  I smile at him, and when he smiles back, I think, That’s my dad.

  When Brody pulls up to the curb at Lawrinson Hall, I pull every strength, plus a little bit of acting ability, out of my internal box of tricks and jump out. Dragging Lexington behind me, I get wrapped up in the excitement of the next chapter in my life, knowingly wrapping her in it, as well.

  We are checking-in two hours early, another perk of being Brody’s “Girl.” That’s topped with the staff and administrators at Syracuse University not wanting a riot because Brody, the normally level-headed one, the ‘rent who doesn’t let fear and emotion cloud his judgment, told the college, “Over my dead and rotting corpse will I not be here when my girl takes her first step into adulthood because an overpriced education that will inevitably amount to her using her God-given talents to make a living, and not a piece of fucking paper legitimizing who she already is, stops me from being her dad. Figure it the fuck out or you can kiss her tuition and the new theatre construction goodbye.”

  Mom and I just stood there, jaws on the floor, me seconds from yelling at him in typical teenage fashion, when he added, “Fuckers,” right before hanging up the phone.

  Both of us were speechless when he stood up from his desk and turned toward us.

  “I am all for being level-headed, until you fuck with what’s mine.” He pointed at me, and I stepped back. This was not normal Brody behavior. “You’re mine.”

  “Brody,” Mom began, her voice a clear indication that she would be the level-headed one in the relationship this time.

  “Em,” he almost growled as he walked toward the door. “Five minutes, and then you’ll be needed upstairs.”

  Now, a normal child would think the ‘rents were about to have an “adult talk” in the bedroom, beyond the ears of their children. I knew better. They weren’t normal. In fact, I not only knew differently, but I knew they needed to work through their “emotions.” Therefore, as mom walked up the stairs very slowly, I walked toward the front door, grabbed my car keys, and then grabbed Lexi’s hand.

  “We going to Maddox and Harper’s?” she asked, trying to keep up with my fast pace.

  “Yep,” I answered.

  “For how long?” she asked as she got in the back seat and allowed me to buckle her up.

  “It’s gonna be awhile.”

  When I started the car, “That’s My Girl” started to play.

  “Daddy’s song to you, London,” Lexi shrieked.

  “Yeah.” I smile.

  “That’s My Girl” was written by my stepfather Brody, my dad, as a graduation gift because, as he said, “Nothing money can buy means more than you, London.”

  Yeah, I’m his girl, and I couldn’t be prouder that he has wanted that since the first time he met me.

  We are met at the curb by what is possibly the entire staff of Lawrinson Hall. As a result, the entire contents of my new room are unloaded in one trip and are up on the eighth floor in no time.

  Mom busies herself by making my bed, setting up the air purifier, putting away my clothes—you know, doing mom things, but with a slight obsessiveness that worries even me.

  Meanwhile, to keep Lexi’s tears at bay, she and I set up my desk.

  Lexington loves to organize things, much like Mom. Normally, I would tell her to keep her paws off my technology, but not today.

  When she has organized and reorganized at least five times, I look back to see Mom. She is still inside my shoebox sized closet, and Brody’s watching her closely.

  When she begins to color coordinate the contents, I look at my watch, and then to Brody. He glances at me, then his watch. I then watch his chest rise as if he is trying to take in enough breath to sustain the oxygen needed for the two females who will no doubt lose their cool within the next two minutes.

  He grips Mom’s shoulder firmly but gently, and she looks back at him. I watch their eyes meet, and then he gives her a slight nod. She shakes her head, and I hear Lexi sniffle.

  Needing to stop the inevitable, I take Lexi’s hand and the two steps it takes to get from my desk to my closet.

  “Fifty-three miles, Mom. It’s less than an hour’s drive,” I reiterate what I have said a million times since my acceptance letter from Syracuse University came in March.

  March was the month when the hugs became longer, when every night became a face-to-face goodnight, and if I fell asleep before she said it, she woke me up just to tell me goodnight. Who does that?

  My mom, Emma.

  Brody would just stand in the
doorway, taking turns smiling at her adoringly and smirking at me when I would roll my eyes as the hugs lasted longer each and every night.

  Brody is standing beside her at his full height, shoulders squared, his usual smiling face hard as stone, and his lips are in a straight line. He’s being strong for her while she breaks.

  When Mom hugs me a little tighter than usual, I whisper, “You promised me, Mom.” I am trying to act as if it’s no big deal that I’m now a freshman in college.

  “I’m sorry, London, but I can’t let you do this,” she whispers her near silent cry.

  I know she expects a fight—that’s what she has gotten for months now. I have been a complete and total brat because, like it or not, I am growing up, and it is time to become...me. I was trying the tough love thing on her because, well, she needed it, and I needed her to get it together for me, for Lexington, and yes, for Brody. I know this, she knows this. It’s nothing different than what any other family deals with.

  But we aren’t any other family. No matter how much we want to be, we never have been.

  “Remember the plan, Em?” Brody whispers from behind her.

  We all remember the plan. They may not know it, but Lexi and I have used it as some sort of humorous outlet to soften the blow that this day would bring.

  I look at Lexi and cross my eyes. When she laughs, I give her a big hug and whisper, “Number three, it’s time for you to take control of the ‘rents.”

  “Number two, I can do that, just until you get home. Or if Maddox is around, because he’s number one.”

  “Right.” I lean back and give her a stern nod.

  She returns it then turns toward our parents. “It’s time to go. Get it together so these people don’t remember you all boo-boo faced when it’s my turn to bleed orange.” Lexi uses the catch phrase that all the Syracuse Orange fans use.

  To this, we all laugh. I mean, it’s only half a joke to little Miss Know-it-all, but it’s still funny.

  I allow one more quick hug, when mom starts up.

  “You could be in an apartment with security.”

  “There’s security, and I’m in a quad, with a private room and a locking door,” I remind her.

  “You could be—”

  Tough love, I think before I tell her, “You want me home for the first long weekend or to stay here?”

  “London!” she gasps.

  “Mom, please. This isn’t easy for me either.”

  Her face scrunches up with realization and she squeaks out, “I love you more, London.” Then she looks at Lexington, “You ready?”

  I watch them walk out the door to the quad leading to the hallway.

  Lexington turns and looks at me, right before the dam breaks and her tears burst out. I crouch down and open my arms as she runs back to me.

  Hugging her, I whisper, “You were supposed to be the strong one.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she whispers, hugging me tighter.

  “I love you more, Lexi,” I whisper, giving her another squeeze before she finally lets go.

  “I know.” She smiles as I wipe away her tears. “Even when you’re being an angsty teen.”

  “Yeah, even then.” I roll my eyes, fighting tears of my own.

  Then she runs back to our parents.

  I stand in the hallway, watching them walk out. I look at my watch again to see how much time I have left before I meet the three girls I will share this space with while not being London Fields anymore, but being Elle Fields.

  After taking a walk around the floor, using the map given in the orientation package, I return to my room. I have over an hour before I meet the roomies.

  Nervous excitement causes me to nearly give in to biting my nails, a habit I have worked hard on breaking. I laugh as I remember Lexi telling me to get tips on them when she saw me struggling not to scrape the gel polish off them with my teeth.

  I told her I would not have any artificial parts on my body.

  She laughed and said, “Like Logan’s girls?”

  I couldn’t help laughing, too. Then I made sure she knew my nails had nothing to do with a boy.

  What came out of her know-it-all little mouth? “Maybe not consciously.”

  Consciously? What the heck does that even mean? Clearly, I’m aware of what it means, but how did she even know? At nine?

  I laugh long and hard, then hear a deep laugh and nearly jump off my bed.

  I look up to see a tall, hooded man at my door with a pizza. Then I look at my phone and sigh.

  “Do you think the hoodie makes you unrecognizable?” I scold Maddox, though I can’t help smiling.

  My stepbrother is six-feet-tall, with a wavy mess of dark brown hair. His face is never without stubble, and no way in hell could he be mistaken for a pizza delivery boy, regardless of what that stupid sweatshirt says.

  “It doesn’t?” he asks, walking over and sitting on my bed.

  “What are you doing?” I say with a chuckle.

  “Wanted to check out the place, see where you’d be, and give you this.” He hands me the pizza before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a black box. “And this.”

  I toss the pizza down and grab the box, ready to open it, then hesitating. “It can’t be flashy, or I won’t accept.”

  “I don’t do flashy, London.” He smiles, pushing it back to me. “Open it.”

  Inside the box is a very thin cuff bracelet. It’s silver and dainty. Inscribed on it are the words, Love Yourself More.

  I look up at him, and he smirks.

  “Secrets can be hidden from the ‘rents, London, but not from your big brother.” He wraps it around my wrist. “You never judged me. Even at my weakest, you kicked me in the ass with your words when I deserved it.” He finally clasps it and lets go, “Never hide anything from me, London, and I will always be your biggest fan. Just like you were mine from the first day we met.”

  Love...Yourself More

  London

  I read over the saved post on my blog, Love Yourself More, and then hit publish before closing my laptop. It’s the one thing I have been able to hide from my parents, but obviously not from Maddox. It’s been the place I have vomited all the feelings and lessons they have taught me.

  My following is big. Like, way bigger than I ever imagined. And all through high school, it was the one way I have been able to connect with people who have the same interests as me.

  I just told them all that I will be taking a break, and I would miss them. I plan on doing just that, because I know being someone other than London Fields will allow that to happen.

  I put away the laptop in the top drawer of my desk, close it, allowing its security, and walk out to the common room.

  Sitting on the couch in a room that I know will soon be shared with others, I am excited yet nervous. I have an hour before I meet them. Lisa’s a soprano from Tennessee. Her best friend Christy is also a soprano. Jamie is an alto from Mississippi. I’m a mezzo. All of us are enrolled in the musical theatre program, working to earn a Bachelor’s Degree in the Fine Arts. Not all of us are focused on the same part of the theatre industry, but we have a lot in common.

  We have all maintained good—no, great—grades; otherwise, we wouldn’t have been accepted into Syracuse University. We all play an instrument, have some acting experience, have taken dance classes since we were much younger, and can sing.

  I’m hopeful it will be a better experience as college students than high school drama club where you collect phony “congratulations,” and then the whispers they think you can’t hear.

  “She got the part because of her father,” Joan said.

  Maxine snickered. “Her stepfather, you mean. He’s not even her real dad. Her real dad is dead.”

  I remember the immediate sting in my eyes, the lump in my throat, and walking as fast as I could to get to the bathroom so that no one would see me cry.

  From that day, in sixth grade, Mom was always there to explain to me the whys. Why people are so mean. Why
they think I’m not good enough. Why they hate me so much.

  I’m happy for them, so why can’t they just be happy for me?

  “You have to love yourself more, London. More than their words, more than their actions, more than how they make you feel. You have to love yourself more than anyone in the entire world. Without self-love and knowing who you are, all those things you work hard to achieve will be tainted by all those whose opinion you value over your own. Don’t ever give them that power.”

  I didn’t like her explanation. It didn’t answer the questions I asked, the whys.

  “You’ll never truly understand other people’s actions until you’ve walked in their shoes.” She gave me a sad smile, and then Brody cleared his throat as he walked in the room.

  Through tears and, yes, anger caused by the confusion of a child, I looked up at him as he sat beside me on the opposite side of the couch.

  He threw his arm around me and leaned down, kissing the top of my head. “And some people’s shoes, little princess, are just not worth walking in.”

  I also remember overhearing him later asking Mom, “Who the fuck are these kids?”

  “It’s not the kids fault, Brody. It’s learned behavior from their parents.”

  “I’m gonna kick their fathers’ asses.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re gonna help me teach her how to be better.”

  “Whose gonna teach them?” he growled.

  “They aren’t our priority. She is. We need to make her stronger.”

  “Shouldn’t have to be, Em. She’s a good kid, kind heart, and...and I am her father.”

  For a year, I looked at the shoes of the kids who were nasty to me or others. The problem was, some had the same shoes I did, so I still didn’t understand.

  The next year, I didn’t just get the lead in the middle school play again, I got a part in the high school one, as well. While standing there, looking at the cast list, I smiled, until I heard the whispers again. This time, it wasn’t just silly middle schoolers, but high schoolers.

  When I got home, I was too quiet. Mom and Dad kept looking at me, but at this point, I was getting tired of answering the same question every time I came home from school after dealing with that sort of thing.