Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1)

by Alex A King

  “Nice,” she says. “Your dad is on his way over.”

  Nothing but silence.

  “Kiddo, your father loves you. Just because we're separated – ”

  “I don't care,” Melissa murmurs.

  “Of course you do. This is just going to take some getting used to.”

  “I don't care.” She slams the book shut. Contempt turns her eyes a hard, glossy brown. “And you shouldn't either. God, look at you, you got all dressed up for him. You're pathetic.”

  Wow, Vivi thinks, because Melissa just punched every other word out of her head. Just . . . Wow.

  Is that how her daughter really feels? That Vivi’s a pathetic creature to be pitied?

  Yeah, no. Not even close.

  Okay, maybe a bit.

  “Well, I might be pathetic, but I'm still your mother and while you're living under my roof, I'd like some respect. After that, we can renegotiate.”

  Vivi sulks in her room for thirty seconds. Knees tight against her chin, shins mashed against her thighs. She’s a hedgehog, stripped of its needles.

  She’s still got a spine though, hasn’t she?

  John walked out and the world is still spinning. Melissa is safe, healthy, and in the next room. John's leaving hasn’t killed Vivi – he doesn’t have the power.

  Her head falls back, bangs the wall.

  “I can hear you, Mom,” Melissa calls out. “Quit spying on me.”

  Yeah, that’s enough brooding for today.

  The boxes are in the garage, like she remembered, flat and stripped of old packing tape. Like a machine, she goes at them, pushing cardboard chunks back into shape, sealing their bottoms with tape.

  A whole second is how long she gives herself to admire her handiwork, when she’s done. She grabs four, then it’s upstairs for cleanup duty.

  The closet steps up to the plate first.

  Once upon a time, she loved this closet. Now, looking at John’s suits, sorted by color and season, she hates its guts.

  These stupid suits have got to go. She rips them from their hangers, dumps them in the boxes. Shirts, underwear, socks stuffed in the box. Shoes on top of those, leather-soled fabric weights. Watches? Dumped in the box. Cufflinks? Dumped in the box. Everything John’s? Dumped in the box.

  The lavender drawer liners can stay.

  Box four goes in the bathroom. She shoves it up to the counter – the His side.

  Dozens of bottles crowding the counter, crowding the cupboard. John does love his potions. Promise John youth and he’s there, swiping his credit card.

  In one smooth move, she sweeps every last bottle and jar over the edge. Some don’t make it, and that’s okay. She cleans the mess with toilet paper, and does what?

  Dumps it in the box.

  Let him clean up his own mess.

  Now the boxes are overflowing with John’s junk, so she climbs in one box at a time, stamps, stomps, makes wine.

  It takes a lot of tape to keep all that together. Good thing she has an abundance of tape.

  Hair pops loose from her ponytail. While she shoves it back in she’s humming. There’s nothing like a good spring (or, um, fall) cleaning to blast away the cobwebs.

  Now all she needs is a good way to get John’s shit downstairs.

  * * *

  John’s timing is . . .

  5

  VIVI

  IMPECCABLE,” VIVI HOLLERS OUT the bedroom window.

  One box to go. Her hip persuades it to jump.

  She’s not gloating – she’s not. But her lips are curving up, enjoying the sight of the box crashing on the concrete driveway. Like its three predecessors, it bounces slightly before the cardboard splits and it’s disemboweled.

  He’s gaping in his car, the man who would be a fish.

  Vivi gives her husband a one-fingered wave. “Pick up your things, would you? Curb appeal, John. Curb appeal.”

  John’s all action now, falling out of his shiny, shiny car in a tangle of limbs and seatbelt. He scuttles here and there, snatching up his belongings, stuffing them into the car.

  The cold wind doesn’t bite the smile off Vivi’s face.

  “You're a crazy bitch,” he shouts.

  Tense jaw, eyes sunken slits, rigid plastic forehead. He’s a stranger.

  “I love you, too, John!”

  The neighbors are getting a great show for free. They’re slow-walking their dogs, mowing the same patch of grass, staaaaaring out their windows. Good times at the Tyler house. Don’t miss the performance; after tonight, it’s going dark.

  Vivi drops the window, goes looking for Melissa, who hasn’t moved.

  “Dad’s here,” she says.

  Melissa lowers the book. “What's that noise?”

  Vivi leans in the doorway, describes the scene in Technicolor.

  “No kidding?”

  “Would I lie about something like that?” A tiny smile from Melissa. Better than nothing. “So are you coming down to see him?”

  “Nope.”

  What’s a mother to do? The girl is old enough to make up her own mind.

  Still, it doesn’t take a genius to see Melissa is taking this harder than Vivi anticipated. Her attitude toward her father is downright hostile. What is going on her lovely head? Vivi wonders if she should arrange for her daughter to see the school counselor. Maybe she’ll talk to an impartial third party the way she won’t talk to Mom.

  Which sucks.

  It seems like yesterday Melissa used to share every tiny detail about her day. Now they’re adversaries, glaring across the battlefield.

  Vivi doesn’t like it. She wants her girl back – the one with sweet breath and a fuzzy head; the gap-toothed girl with pigtails, the girl who fizzed.

  She loves Melissa so much it hurts.

  What’s she going to do to bring the happy girl back?

  * * *

  John’s in the kitchen brewing espresso in the fancy machine he gave her for Christmas a couple of years ago.

  She leans against the door jamb, watches him go through the familiar routine. Looks like he’s got homicide on his mind.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  “Where's Mel?”

  “Doing homework.”

  “Go and get her. I'm taking her out.”

  “I told her. She said nope.”

  His face goes mental. “You're poisoning her against me. Just wait until the courts – ”

  “What did you do, John? I only gave her the bare facts about you leaving – which is about all you gave me. You might be a cheating scumbag, but you're the only father she's got. So you must have fucked up somehow.”

  “There's no one else.”

  “Bullshit. I deserve better than that. If you push me to it, I can probably even prove it.”

  “Are you going somewhere with this shit?”

  “We need to talk about money.”

  “My lawyer will be in touch.”

  “Play fair, John. We’ve been together a long time.

  He slumps against the counter. “What do you want? Everything I suppose.”

  She crosses the room, pats his shoulder, gives him the comfort she’s always given.

  “I'm not greedy, I just want what's fair. And I want you to buy out my half of this house, sell it if you have to. I never liked it much, anyway. You picked it out so you can have it. Mel and I will do just fine in something much smaller.”

  “Why didn’t you say something – about the house?”

  “I did, but you were too excited to listen.”

  “Vivi – ”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not now.”

  They go quiet – for a spell.

  “What else?”

  “Full custody and child support.”

  John digests her words while he finishes making coffee. “I can live with that,” he says flatly. “Visitation?”

  “As much as you and Melissa want.”

  “I'll talk to my lawyer.” In his condescending movie-star voice.
>
  “You do that,” she says. “And soon.”

  * * *

  Did she ever love John? Now . . . It’s hard to say. And if she did – when did it start, the withering?

  She picks at her memories, pulls strings, searches for that most recent glittering moment of love, that time when his touch burned and turned her thermostat to fever.

  But . . .

  It’s never been that way.

  They were never a romcom or a paperback novel. The tale of Vivi and John started as a Dear Abby letter, and it’s ending in the same, sad column.

  6

  VIVI

  VIVI GOT KNOCKED UP same way most girls her age do.

  Vivi loved John. John loved talking about how much he loved Vivi. Not the same thing, but who knows that when they’re nineteen?

  Okay, maybe some people, but not Vivi. She was too busy being blinded by his glow.

  John Tyler was sweet. Old fashioned. He liked holding hands and cuddling. He wanted to wait and she wanted to not wait.

  Exhibit A (also known as Melissa Jane Tyler) proves that John eventually caved, and caved, and caved.

  And caved.

  John liked caving when there was a gallon of beer involved.

  So, John was drunk and she was sober enough to realize somewhere along the way his dick shed the condom.

  The doctor said, “No,” to emergency contraception. Didn’t consider college girls having accidents a bona fide emergency. Said, “Come back if you miss your period.”

  Four weeks later, the same doctor said, “You’ve got three choices . . .”

  Not one of them involved the doctor paying for the cost of raising a child, or stepping into a time machine so he could scribble UNDO on that prescription pad.

  * * *

  Eleni said: “I will kill you.”

  No one abuses the power of an empty threat like Eleni Pappas.

  7

  MELISSA

  OKAY, SO MELISSA’S NOT totally naïve. She’s seen gay porn on the Internet and she knows what men do together. She can totally deal with it. That kiss is the problem. Even if she keeps her eyes open, that kiss is seared onto her corneas.

  And . . .

  Josh Cartwright was right.

  Which totally sucks.

  Dad’s really gay, and everyone at school knows it. Yesterday, Josh brushed past her and whispered, “Your dad sucks balls,” with a big smirk on his stupid face. Tonya told him to screw himself, but guys do that all the time anyway, so it was a wasted opportunity to really zing Josh.

  Afterward, she hid in the library. It's not that Melissa doesn’t appreciate Tonya standing up for her, but it would be so much better if no one knew; she could pretend things were totally normal.

  “You okay there, Honey?”

  Is Mom high? No, she’s not okay. She’s not even in the same dictionary as okay.

  They’re on their way to Grams’ and Grampy’s house for dinner. Mom is smiling, but it makes her look crazy, not happy. Grams is going to know Mom has lost it. Grams can sniff out insanity from a mile away. Uncle Chris says crazy people know their own kind.

  Fine,” she says.

  Melissa sounds empty, like a missing person. Looks crazy (lots of that going around) sitting there wrapped around her backpack, staring at the great suburban nothing on the other side of the glass. Her fingernails are biting into her palms. Yeah, it hurts, but in a good way. Her hand is the only part of her that feels alive.

  “Don't worry about the dragon. Let me handle her.”

  Mom thinks she’s worried about Grams? Not even. She shrugs. Says, “Fine, whatever,” and Mom goes back to smiling at the road.

  Grams and Grampy live in the same house they’ve always lived in, from before Mom and Uncle Chris were even born. Years ago, Dad tried to sell them another one, and Grams told him the bones of her enemies were buried under this house. Dad was like, “Oooookay . . .” He quit asking in case it was true.

  Too cold now, but in spring and summer her grandparents sit outside on the covered porch, drinking doll-sized cups of muddy coffee, while they watch the neighbors and mind everyone else's business. Melissa has seen the world from their porch, and mostly it consists of old people hunched over walkers, or kids her age practically making out in the street. Grams always yells, “Just you wait, I'm going to tell your mother she raised a whore!” And Grampy always says, “Eleni, let them be young, eh? Remember when we used to be young?” And then Grams says, “I am still young, but in an old woman’s body.”

  The front door flies open before the car stops. Grams is there with a smile for Melissa and a mouthful of “I told you so” for Mom.

  “Don’t even say it,” Mom says.

  Grams gives her a dark look. “Too late, I already said it. And I will say it again, soon.” She turns her attention back to Melissa. “My angel, you look more Greek every day!”

  Then Grampy’s there, dishing out hugs.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” Melissa says.

  Mom steers them both into the house. “You just went before we left the house.”

  “Maybe she has a urinary infection,” Grams says. “Look at her. You let her wear such skimpy clothes. Probably her bladder got a chill. Even the prostitutes put on warm clothes in winter.”

  Whaaaat? No way. Her jeans are barely low and she’s wearing a long sweater with a cropped jacket. Not exactly the latest in hooker fashions.

  “I have to go again. It’s probably that shitty generic cola we buy now.”

  “Language,” Vivi says. “And we only bought it once.”

  Grams crosses herself. “Ay-yi-yi! You let her drink that poison?”

  “We have to conserve money. It doesn't exactly grow on trees,” Mom says.

  “Actually, it kind of does,” Melissa says. “It's mostly cotton, which grows on shrubs.”

  Vivi says, “Mom, she's my daughter – ”

  “And she is my granddaughter. All that sugar!”

  “It's diet,” Melissa mutters, but no one is listening to her now – Melissa the ghost.

  The ghost of Melissa Tyler slips past the arguing women. Eyes shut, she makes her way to upstairs, fingers brushing the wall. She knows this house by heart.

  The arguing dims. By the time she closes the guest bathroom’s door, it’s just her and her footsteps.

  Melissa Tyler, last person on earth. Sounds okay.

  Out the tiny window, she watches the neighbor’s dog stop its squirrel chase to crap.

  Melissa wants a dog. Melissa has always wanted a dog.

  But no – of course. Dad is allergic to cats, dogs, and any pet Melissa has ever wanted.

  Probably a lie, like everything else.

  She leans on the counter, takes a good look in the mirror. Leans, leans, until the knobby elbow joints ache.

  Relax, Mel. Enjoy it.

  She relaxes. The pain fades to pastels. Then she pushes down, until her bones sing.

  End result: Purple, pink, no bruise.

  Too bad.

  What does this mirror have to say?

  Nothing she doesn’t already know. Lots of ugly black dots on her nose. She put those nose strips on Mom’s shopping list, but if she bought them, they never made it home. She’ll be sorry when clogged pores conquer Melissa’s whole face.

  And another thing: Grams is full of crap. Melissa doesn’t look anything like Greek. She looks like Dad; everyone says so, except Grams.

  Her whole family is so full of crap that they’re drowning in crap soup. Except Grampy, but he’s always so busy at the lab, or with his woodwork, that he doesn’t bother anybody.

  She sits on the fuzzy pink toilet cover that goes with the rest of the room. Used to be she loved this bathroom and its bright pink everything. Now it looks like Pepto-Bismol puke.

  Way too bright. Way too loud.

  Melissa closes her eyes just to make the room shut up. Her hand dives into the backpack’s front pocket. Fingers dance around the tight corners.

 
There it is – her just-in-case. A tiny, silver safety pin Mom put there along with a few quarters.

  Just in case, she said.

  She thumbs the sharpened tip. Four scabs on her wrist. About to be five.

  The mirror watches her stick her tongue out the way it did when she was a kid, poring over a coloring book, focused on staying inside the lines.

  She goes slow. Draaaaags the point along a parallel path.

  Melissa is flint. Together she and the pin create sparks of bright, shiny pain. The walls are nothing compared to the stars they make.

  The pink cotton room cradles her, while she rides the wave.

  Nothing else matters except here, except now.

  She is alive. She is dead.

  She is numb.

  8

  VIVI

  HOSTAGE SITUATION – VIVI KNEW it.

  All she can do is sit and fake invisibility until the inevitable regimen of torture commences. Dad folds his newspaper, winks, vanishes to his hideaway beneath the house.

  Neat trick. Now it’s just her in the audience.

  Eleni pulls an extended-family-sized tray of pastitsio, with its bubbling béchamel sauce, from the oven, eases the whole pasta and meat dish onto a large wooden chopping board. Then it’s goodbye, oven mitts.

  She won’t sit yet. No tactical advantage.

  “I made galaktobouriko, too. Plenty for you to take home.”

  Figures. “You just reprimanded me for giving Melissa sugary drinks, but desserts are okay?”

  Eleni waves her magic hand and Vivi’s objections disappear. “It is the chemicals. My galaktobouriko is natural – no preservatives or colors made in a laboratory.”

  Her galaktobouriko, Vivi’s ass.

  Eleni can’t make sweets to save her own life. A thousand times, Vivi and Chris sat in this kitchen, ate her mistakes like they were good, ate like they had a choice.

  Too sweet.

  Too salty.

  Too Hindenburg.

  Ten bucks says Eleni rushed down to the local Greek restaurant this afternoon, demanded a whole tray of the custard and pastry dish. If Vivi checked the trash she’d find the foil stashed at the bottom, under the bags – guaranteed.