“So what do you have to say for yourself?” Aunt Marge asked with the voice of an evil witch.
Libby knew a trick question when she heard it. No matter what she said, it wouldn’t change the temperature of the hot water she was in.
“Speak up, don’t play your shy game with me, I know better.” Aunt Marge leaned against the counter, which was cluttered with days worth of shriveled up French fries, piles of dishes with dried ketchup and stacks of junk mail, sales flyers and unpaid bills.
“I’m sorry.”
What more could she say? If she had money, she wouldn’t need to steal. Her parents would have given her an allowance, or at least let her get a job and earn her own money.
“Sorry? Do you really think you can make this go away with a simple sorry? Hah!” she spat. “That arrogant principal dared pull me away from my work to preach about the value of integrity and discipline. He seems to think I haven’t been firm enough with you.” She glared resentfully at Libby.
Libby stood silent, waiting for the storm to hit full force.
“So what are we gonna do about this?” Aunt Marge took a drag of her beer; the smell of hops hung in the air. “Your stealing shows your need for attention. What was so important you needed seventeen bucks?”
Her aunt eyed her like a cat about to pounce on a tiny mouse. Libby couldn’t tell her about the Jamieson CD, she’d take it away or ruin it. No way, the CD belonged to her, regardless of how she got it. What could she say? Her mind darted for something, anything to explain it.
“I bought perfume,” she blurted. “From the drugstore.” Hopefully that would appease her.
Aunt Marge’s eyes narrowed. “Perfume, what for?”
“I just wanted to smell good. I always smell like smoke.” Oops.
“Is that so?” Aunt Marge’s lip curled in distaste. “You saying it stinks in here?” Libby watched her aunt peer around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. Piles of dirty clothes stunk in a corner, bags overflowing with beer cans spilled onto the floor and the kitchen table strained under the weight of more junk and clutter.
“Well, we can’t have your royal highness unhappy. Tell you what. Since you’re so upset about the way you smell, this is the perfect time for you to clean up this place.” A cruel smile appeared on her face.
“But I have homework.” It would take hours, maybe days to clean this disaster. Plus she wanted to get back to Peter.
“You can start with the kitchen today and we’ll have you work your way through the house, a new room every day. You’ll smell fresh and clean like lemon pledge when you’re done.”
“But . . .” Libby interrupted.
“Uh, uh, uh.” Her aunt pointed a tobacco stained finger at her. Her voice crooned innocence, but darkness threatened below the surface. “You are not in a position to argue. I do not ever want to hear the voice of your principal again. You have a lot of work to do here.” She tilted her beer can and poured it onto the kitchen floor. “It’s a real mess in here,” Aunt Marge sneered as she trailed out of the kitchen letting the remainder of her beer trickle throughout the house as she went.
# # #
Hours later, Libby was plotting the fifty ways she’d torture her aunt. One way was to wring the wicked woman’s neck, but she could never stand getting that close to her. Rat poison in her beer would be nice, or maybe hit her on the head with a Bourbon bottle.
Despite her anger, Libby dove into her punishment with fervor, beginning with the mountain of dirty dishes and utensils. It took forever, since dried food cemented itself to the surface of every item. While dishes soaked, she tossed out half-empty bags of stale doughnuts, fast food bags and dozens of other partially remaining food items. She wiped up the stained countertops and returned kitchen items to their rightful place. Libby looked at the pile of dirty clothes. What did her aunt do? Strip in the kitchen? She took them to the laundry room, then hauled several loads of trash out to the burner behind the house.
The room began to resemble a normal kitchen, except the table still overflowed with god knew what. It surprised Libby the pride she felt cleaning up the pig sty. She dragged the trash bin to the table and took a seat. Libby began to sort through the piles. She tossed newspapers and junk mail, discovered more dirty dishes and coffee cups as well as a long forgotten loaf of bread growing penicillin for anyone brave enough to touch it. She scooped the bread into the trash bag with a newspaper.
She stacked bills and unopened mail in a growing pile, then grabbed another empty envelope. As she tossed it in the trash, something caught her eye. She paused, and stared down at the familiar handwriting on the envelope. Her heart raced as she reached in and retrieved it.
Libby Sawyer.
Her name was printed on the envelope in her father’s neat penmanship. He wrote her. Libby’s breath caught in her throat. He hadn’t forgotten her. She looked inside, but the envelope was empty. She scanned the messy table for the letter then returned to the envelope. The postmark read May 16th, Atlanta, Georgia.
Atlanta? Why was he in Atlanta? Thoughts rushed through her mind. Did he have a new job there? Did he live there? Was he coming to get her soon?
Libby set the precious envelope aside and turned back to the mountain of trash on the table before her. She rifled through it, tossing odd items to the floor, heedless to the new mess she created. Where was the letter? Her urgency grew as her fingers touched item after item.
Hidden under a plate of fossilized pizza, Libby discovered another envelope. This one contained a letter. Her heart soared as she pulled out the single sheet and read.
Dear Libby
I hope this letter finds you happy in Rockville, enjoying the carefree days of high school. I’m sorry I’m not there for you, but losing your mother and Sarah has sent me to a painful place I don’t know how to escape.
The last months I’ve driven the back roads of the south, trying to find myself and make sense of all that has happened. One day we had it all and the next it was gone. No one ever taught me how to survive such loss. Part of me wishes to see you again, but the other part knows that every time I look at you, I will see your mother looking back. It breaks my heart. Please forgive your old man for his weakness.
Here are a few dollars, go out with your friends and catch a movie or buy something nice. God knows you deserve better.
Dad
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She traced his signature with her finger. Touching the ink was the closest she could get to him. Didn’t he want her anymore? Libby picked up the envelope and flipped it over. The faded postmark read Tatum, New Mexico, June 29th. Where was that? She’d never head of such a place. He had abandoned her at Aunt Marge’s. How could he do that to her when she needed him so much?
She wiped away the tears with her sleeve. Crying wouldn’t help anything. She returned to the remaining mess on the table searching for any more correspondence, but discovered nothing. Her heart felt empty and lonely as she sat with two envelopes and a sad letter. Loneliness settled around her.
The phone vibrated in her back pocket forcing her thoughts back to the present. Peter. A small smile lit her face. She reached for the phone and read the text.
Concert’s over, can you talk?
She responded, her fingers still fumbled over the keys of her new toy.
No, soon. I’ll call you.
She returned the phone to the safety of her pocket. Before she talked to Peter, there was something she needed to do.
Libby walked into the living room, ammo in hand. Things were about to change. Her aunt had some questions to answer and Libby refused to be bullied anymore. Aunt Marge snored lightly in her chair. No big surprise there. QVC droned in the background. How did one wake a sleeping monster?
Libby turned off the TV and flipped on a light, illuminating the harsh room. Her aunt sputtered.
“What? Who’s there?”
Libby waited, patient. Aunt Marge shook off her sleep and sat up straighter, her eyes narrow slits of su
spicion.
“What’s your problem now? Got that kitchen clean?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“About this?” she held out the letter, far enough so her aunt could see it, but not take it. The woman would never touch Libby’s letter again.
Realization washed across her aunt’s face, her posture tensed for a split second, and then passed. “Oh that.” She waved her hand at the letter then reached for a pack of cigarettes.
“This letter belongs to me. Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“I guess I forgot.” She placed a cigarette in her mouth and lit it.
“Where is the other letter? And where is the money he sent?” Libby glared at her, willing to fight this to the end. Aunt Marge was keeping her from her Dad.
“First off, this is my house, not yours. Anything in it belongs to me and I’ll do what I want with it.” She took a long drag on the cigarette. “Secondly, your father owes me far more than the paltry money he adds to his letters. Fifty dollars once a month doesn’t begin to pay for your lunches let alone all the other things you need.” She blew the smoke into the air between them.
“Once a month! He’s written every month?” Libby couldn’t believe it. She had missed him so much and here he’d been writing regularly. “Where are the letters? They belong to me. I want them. Now!” She stepped closer, her hands on her hips in a vain attempt to appear threatening.
“They’re gone. Burned out back,” she answered unfazed. “You should thank me too. All he did was drivel on about how sad he is. Trust me, you don’t need his ramblings. When you got here, you were a shy mousy little thing afraid of your own shadow. Look at you now! Not only are you standing up for yourself, you’re shoplifting.” She tipped the ash of her cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. “You’re growing a back bone. It’s enough to make your auntie proud, but I can’t be having you getting caught. That will not do.”
“I didn’t shoplift,” she stated through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, whatever. You stole the cash, that’s all that matters.”
“And if I had the money my dad sent, I would have never lowered myself to that level.” Her anger so strong, it tasted like a bitter pill.
“Never say never. You’d be surprised at how that can come back to haunt you.” Aunt Marge said.
“You don’t know anything about me, so don’t pretend you do. The next time my father writes, I expect to get the letter. Unopened.” Her fury raged within. God she hated this woman.
“You’d better learn to watch your mouth, or I’ll be doing it for you. Oh, and I wouldn’t go expecting anything soon. He hasn’t written in a few months. He’s probably moved on and forgotten you. It’s just you and me now, two peas in a pod.” A tiny bug crawled across the arm of her chair. She grabbed a nearby newspaper and squashed it.
Libby wanted to reach out and slap her, but knew she never could. With lack of a good comeback she turned on her heel and stomped upstairs. She needed privacy, away from this horrible woman who seemed to enjoy her pain. Plus Peter waited for her call. Talking to him would instantly take her mind off her troubles and her aunt’s betrayal. She slammed her door for effect.
Chapter 9
After two weeks of late-night whispering and daily texting, Peter finally met up with Libby at Parfrey’s for a full day and evening together.
“I’d sure love to see you perform,” Libby said as they wandered through the woods, hand in hand, in no particular direction.
“You want to come to a concert?” Peter looked surprised.
“Of course I do! But that’s not going to happen. Not unless you’re playing Rockville High School.”
“Hmm, that’s a good idea; then I can call you out in front of everyone and declare my love.” He pulled her close.
Peter said he loved her. Sort of. Her face turned a predictable shade of pink. She was speechless.
“What? I’ve discovered how to keep you quiet for a change?” Peter grinned enjoying her embarrassment.
Libby smacked him lightly on the arm, then rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m not saying a thing.” But inside she glowed.
“So the girl wants a performance. Hmm. I can’t afford to have an unhappy fan. I believe this calls for an impromptu show.”
He led her to a clearing surrounded by tall pines. “Miss, here is your front row seat. The concert will begin in just a moment." Peter walked a good twenty feet away and hid behind a clump of brush.
“No peeking. This is back stage and strictly off limits to general ticket holders.”
Libby turned her head away and held back a smile.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he roared in a mock announcer’s voice. “I mean, girl in the front row sitting on the ground.”
Libby threw a pinecone at him.
“Hey, I haven’t started yet! You can’t boo until I do something.”
She leaned back on her hands. She couldn’t wait to see what he did next.
“Girl in the front row, I present to you . . . the Jamieson Brothers. Oops. I mean Peter Jamieson.”
He sauntered out from behind the brush making faux roaring noises. “The crowd goes wild for Jamieson. Rrrrrr.” He walked center stage, in front of the brush, and picked up a stick for a microphone.
“Jamieson has entered the building.” He raised his hands toward the sky and let loose another crowd roar.
“The two million mega watt lighting system kicks up. Spotlights search the arena for the star. Lasers ripple through the air. Fog rises around the stage. The intro music builds.” Peter motioned dramatically to the trees and bushes around them as if this were the real deal.
“The cheers in the arena are deafening!” He waved his hands in the air again, making another rrr sound.
Libby laughed. Peter stepped forward onto his imaginary stage.
“The star! The legend! Feast your eyes on the world’s most talented singer, PETER JAMIESON!” He roared into the open expanse of nature.
“Girls are fainting at the mere mention of his name,” he whispered to the side.
Libby watched as Peter paced his mock stage, setting the scene.
“First starts the tinkling of piano keys, the lights pick up the beat.” His fingers played the imaginary piano and then motioned at pretend lights.
“Bass guitarist, Garrett, the pock-faced boy, enters the mix.”
She giggled.
“Next lead guitarist, adolescent voyeur Adam, adds his soulful sound. And then . . .” Peter held the fake microphone like a pro and started to sing.
Peter’s pure voice rang through the woods. Libby watched, so overwhelmed by his talent that the words didn’t register. All she could do was watch his moves, his stance, and listen to his amazing voice. Libby sat dumbstruck in the pine needles and leaves.
“Here’s where the drums take the beat, ‘ch cha cha, ch cha cha, ch cha cha.’” He played the imaginary drum. “The guitars come in, tinka ting, tinka ting, and Peter Jamieson fades to the back, giving his mediocre brothers a chance to shine.” He rewarded her with a wink.
“And then, the melody takes back the night.” He stood atop an old fallen log and sang, his entire body creating the percussion that went unheard. It captivated Libby, and transported her to the concert hall.
“Then to seal the deal, the Boy Wonder awes the audience with his world-class flying eagle.” Peter jumped high into the air above her, reached out and touched his toes.
Libby’s eyes followed him like an awestruck fan.
He landed and picked up the song again, gesturing the percussion and guitar licks as he went.
Peter’s talent far exceeded her wildest imagination. He was an incredibly gifted performer and she never understood it until now. Sure he was well known, but it never affected her. Time and distance was their barrier, nothing else. She had never witnessed it firsthand. His cute, cocky performance revealed only a small hint of the talent flowing just beneath the surface. His v
oice held power and confidence and moved her to tears.
“Hey, I’m ready for the big finish.” Peter posed, feet set wide apart, his fake mic replaced with a long walking stick. He gripped the mock mic stand firmly and leaned to the side, his body kept the beat.
He looked up from his rocker pose. “What’s wrong?”
Libby covered her mouth with her hand.
Peter rushed over and squatted before her. “What’s the matter? Was I that bad?”
“That’s not funny.” She pushed out at him, as tears welled in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. Garrett can’t help playing so bad.”
His joke hit the mark and she laughed, then took a deep breath. “I didn’t realize.” She shook her head. “That you’re so good.” She couldn’t help but feel devastated. Her life was so tiny and unimportant and his was over-the-top huge. Peter didn’t belong with her. He should be with a famous model or actress.
He knelt before her and took her hands in his. “What are you talking about?” He looked deep into her eyes. “I’m still me. Nothing’s changed. This is just another part of my life.” He gripped her hands firmly. “Heck, I wasn’t that great, the band isn’t very good today.” A grin curled his lips and his eyes sparkled.
She laughed and he delivered another mega-watt smile. Libby gazed at him, mulling her decision to open up or not. The honesty and trust in his eyes made her decision.
“You don’t belong with me.” It hurt to say it, but she had to tell him the truth.
“What are you talking about?” He sat down, one leg on each side of her, creating a warm cocoon.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” What an understatement.
He nodded in acceptance. “Yeah? There’s a lot you don’t know about me too. That’s why it’s called dating. So we can spend every possible moment together on the phone or pining away for each other.”
He knew how to make her feel special. “Stop joking.” She sobered, ready to open up for the first time.
Rock and a Hard Place Page 7