by K. A. Tucker
As I step into the main room, I inhale deeply, welcoming the security it brings with it. Three years ago, after the hospital released me from long term care—after extensive physiotherapy to strengthen the right side of my body, shattered in the accident—I joined a gym. I spent hours there each day, lifting weights, doing cardio, all the things that strengthened my shattered body, but did nothing to help my devastated soul.
Then one day, a ripped guy named Jeff with more piercings and tattoos than a jaded rock star introduced himself. “You’re pretty intense in your workouts,” he said. I nodded, uninterested in any direction the conversation could go. Until he handed me his card. “Have you tried O’Malleys down the road? I teach kick boxing down there a few nights a week.”
I’m a natural, apparently. I quickly excelled as his star pupil, probably because I trained seven days a week without fail. It has turned out to be the perfect coping mechanism for me. With each kick and each hit, I’m able to channel my anger, my frustration, and my hurt into one solid blow. All the emotions I work hard to bury in my life, I can release here in a non-destructive way.
Thankfully, The Breaking Point is cheap and they let you pay month to month with no enrollment fees. I have enough cash set aside for one month. I know it should be going toward food but not working out is not an option for me. Society is better off with me in a gym.
After I enroll and get the grand tour, I drop my gear by an available sand bag. And I feel their eyes on me, the questioning stares. Who’s the redhead? Doesn’t she realize what kind of gym this is? They’re wondering if I can throw a punch worth shit. They’re probably taking bets already on who gets me in the shower first.
Let them try.
I ignore the attention, the flagrant comments and snickers, as I stretch my muscles, afraid I’ll strain something after missing three days. And I smirk. Cocky assholes.
Taking several breaths to sooth my nerves, I focus on this bag, this gracious thing that will absorb all my pain, my suffering, my hatred without protest.
And then I release it all.
***
The sun isn’t even up yet, and the worst kind of old man heavy metal blasts through my room. My alarm clock reads six a.m. Yup. Right on schedule. It’s the third day in a row that my neighbor wakes me up to this racket. “Keep thy peace,” I mutter as I jerk my covers over my head, replaying Tanner’s words. I guess keeping thy peace means not kicking down thy neighbor’s door and smashing thy electronics against the wall.
That doesn’t mean I can’t exact thy revenge.
I grab my iPod—one of the few non-clothes possessions I grabbed in our dash—and scroll through the playlists. There it is. Hannah Montana. My best friend, Jenny, loaded all this tween shit as a joke years ago. Looks like it’s finally going to come in handy. I push away the ache that goes along with the memories tied to it as I hit play and crank the volume to max. The contorted sound bounces off the walls of my confined space. The speakers will likely blow but this is worth it.
And then I dance.
Like a maniac, I bop around my room, waving my arms, hoping this person hates Hannah Montana as much as I do.
“What are you doing?” Livie yells, barreling into my room in rumpled PJs, her hair untamed. She leaps onto my iPod to slam the power button off.
“Just teaching our neighbor a lesson about waking me up. He’s some kind of dickhole.”
She frowns. “Have you met him? How do you know it’s a guy?”
“Because no chick blasts that shit at six in the morning, Livie.”
“Oh. I guess I can’t hear it in my room.” Her brow puckers as she studies the adjoining wall. “That’s dreadful.”
I give her a quirked brow. “Ya think? Especially when I worked until eleven last night!” I started my first shift at a Starbucks in a nearby neighborhood. They were desperate and I have a stellar reference letter thanks to my old manager, a twenty-four year old mama’s boy named Jake with a crush on the bad ass redhead. I was smart enough to play nice with him. It paid off.
With a pause and then a shrug, Livie shouts, “Dance party!” and cranks up the volume.
The two of us jump around my room in a giggling fit until we hear the pounding on our front door.
Livie’s face drains of all color. She’s like that—all bark, no bite. Me? I’m not worried. I throw on my ratty purple house coat and proudly strut over. Let’s see what he has to say about that.
My hand is on the lock, about to throw the door open, when Livie whispers harshly, “Wait!”
I pause and turn back to find Livie’s waggling index finger, like my mother used to do when she was scolding. “Remember, you promised! That was the deal. We’re starting fresh here, right? New life? New Kacey?”
“Yeah. And?”
“And, can you please try not to be an ice queen? Try to be more like the Before Kacey? You know, the one who doesn’t stone-wall everyone who comes close? Who knows, maybe we can make some friends here. Just try.”
“You want to make friends with old men, Livie? If that’s the case, we could have stayed home,” I say coolly. But her words sting like a long needle inserted straight into my heart. From anyone else, they would slide off my tough Teflon exterior. The problem is I don’t know who Before Kacey is. I don’t remember her. I hear her irises shined when she laughed, her rendition of “Stairway to Heaven” on the piano made her dad tear up. She had hordes of friends, and she snuck in hugs and kisses and handholding with her boyfriend whenever she could.
Before Kacey died four years ago and all that’s left is a mess. A mess who spent a year in physical rehabilitation to repair her shattered body, only to be released with a shattered soul. A mess whose grades did a nose dive into the bottom of the class. Who sunk into a world of drugs and alcohol for a year as a way of coping. After Kacey doesn’t cry, not a single tear. I’m not sure she knows how. She doesn’t open up about anything; she can’t stand the feel of hands because they remind her of death. She doesn’t let people in, because pain trails closely. The sight of a piano sends her into a dizzying haze. Her only solace is to beat the crap out of giant sand bags until her knuckles are red and her feet are raw and her body—held together with countless metal rods and pins—feels like it’s going to crumble. I know After Kacey well. For better or for worse, I’m sure I’m stuck with her.
But Livie remembers Before Kacey and for Livie, I’ll try anything. I push the corners of my mouth out to form a smile. It feels awkward and foreign and, by the wince on Livie’s face, probably looks a little bit menacing. “Okay.” I go to turn the handle.
“Wait!”
“God, Livie! What now?” I sigh with exasperation.
“Here.” She hands me her pink and black polka-dot umbrella. “He could be a serial killer.”
Now I tip my head back and laugh. Such an odd, rare sound because I don’t do it often but it’s genuine. “And what should I do with this? Poke him?”
She shrugs. “Better than beating the snot out of him like you’ll want to do.”
“Okay, okay, let’s see what we’re dealing with here.” I lean over to the window beside the door and push back the gossamer curtain, looking for a graying man with a faded too-small t-shirt and black socks. A tiny part of me sparks at the idea that it’s that Trent guy from the laundromat. Those smoldering eyes invaded my thoughts several times without invitation over the past few days, and I’ve had a hard time kicking him out when he’s there. I’ve even caught myself staring at the adjoining wall between our apartments like a creeper, wondering what he’s doing. But the music is coming from the other side so it can’t be him.
A corn silk blonde ponytail wags back and forth outside our door instead. “Seriously?” I snort, fumbling with the lock.
Barbie’s standing outside. No joke. A real life five-foot-nine, highly toned, blonde bombshell with plump lips and giant periwinkle blue irises. I find myself speechless, taking in her tiny cotton shorts and the way the “Play Boy” logo distorts as
it stretches across the front of her tank top. Those are so not real. They’re the size of hot air balloons.
A soft drawl breaks my trance. “Hi, I’m Nora Matthews, from next door. Everyone calls me Storm.”
Storm? Storm from next door with giant balloons sewn on to her chest?
A throat clears and I realize I’m still staring at them. I quickly avert my gaze back to her face.
“It’s okay. The doctor gave me a free upsize while I was asleep,” she jokes with a nervous giggle, earning a choking cough of shock from Livie.
Our new neighbor, Nora, a.k.a 'Storm,’ with giant, fake boobs. I wonder if Tanner gave her a “no orgies, keep thy peace” speech when he handed her the keys.
She extends a toned arm and I immediately tense up, fighting not to visibly recoil. This is why I hate meeting new people. In this diseased day and age, can’t we all just wave at each other and move along?
A raven black head pops into my view as Livie dives to grab Storm’s outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Livie.” I silently thank my sister for saving me yet again. “This is my sister, Kacey. We’re new to Miami.”
Storm offers Livie a perfect smile and turns back to me. “Look, I’m so sorry about the music.” So she can tell I’m the instigator. “I had no idea someone moved in next door. I work nights and my five year old has me up early in the morning. It’s all I can do to stay awake.”
It’s then that I notice the whites of her eyes are bloodshot. Guilt stabs me, knowing there’s a kid involved. Dammit. I hate feeling guilt, especially for strangers.
Livie clears her throat and settles a “remember not to be a bitch,” gaze on me.
“No big deal. Just maybe, not quite so loud? Or so 1980’s?” I suggest.
“My dad got me hooked on AC/DC. I know, not cool.” She grins. “I’m taking requests. Anything but Hannah Montana, please!” She holds her hands in front of her in sign of surrender, earning a giggle from Livie.
“Mommy!” A tiny version of Storm in striped pajamas appears, tucking herself behind her mother’s shapely long legs as she peers up to examine us with her thumb in her mouth. She’s about the most gorgeous little kid I’ve ever seen.
“These are our new neighbors, Kacey and Livie. This is Mia,” Storm introduces, her hand stroking the little girl’s dark blonde waves.
“Hi!” Livie hollers with that tone reserved for little kids. “Pleased to meet you.”
No matter what kind of mess I’ve turned into, little kids have the power to temporarily melt the layer of protective ice coating my heart. Them and pot-bellied puppies. “Hello, Mia,” I offer softly.
Mia ducks back with hesitation, glancing up at Storm.
“She’s shy around strangers,” Storm apologizes then looks down to address Mia. “It’s okay. Maybe these girls will be your new friends.”
The words ‘new friends’ is all it takes. Mia steps out from behind her mother’s legs and wanders into our apartment, dragging a faded yellow fleece blanket behind her. At first she simply takes in our place, likely investigating for hints about her new ‘friends.’ When her eyes finally rest on Livie, they don’t shift again.
Livie drops to her knees to meet Mia face to face, a giant grin stretching her lips. “I’m Livie.”
Mia holds up her blanket, her face serious. “This is Mr. Magoo. He’s my friend.” Now that she’s talking, I can see a giant gap where she’s lost her two front teeth. She’s instantly that much cuter.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Magoo.” Livie squeezes the fabric between her thumb and index finger, mock-shaking its hand. Livie must have passed the Mr. Magoo test because Mia grabs her arm and tugs her out the door. “Come meet my other friends.” They disappear into Storm’s apartment, leaving Storm and I alone.
“You guys aren’t from around these parts.” It’s a statement, not a question. I hope she leaves it at that. “Have you been here long?” Storm’s evaluating eyes float over our sparse living room, much like her daughter’s had, hanging over a framed picture of us with my parents on the living room wall. Livie pulled it off Aunt Darla’s family room wall as we ran out the door.
I silently admonish Livie for hanging it up there for all to see, to ask questions, even though I have no right to. There are a few times when Livie digs her heels in. That’s one of them. If it were up to me, it’d be in Livie’s room where I can work up to visiting it occasionally.
It’s just too hard for me to look at their faces.
“Just a few days. Isn’t it homey?”
Storm’s mouth curves into a smirk at my attempt at humor. Livie and I ransacked the local Dollarama for some basic necessities. Aside from that and the family picture, the only thing we’ve added is the scent of bleach in place of mothballs.
Storm nods, folding her arms over her chest as if to ward off a chill. There is no chill. Miami is hot, even at six a.m. “It’s what works for now, right? That’s all we can ask for,” she says softly. Somehow I get the feeling she’s talking about more than the apartment.
There’s a squeal of delight next door and Storm laughs. “Your sister’s good with kids.”
“Yeah, Livie has some sort of magnetic power over them. No kid can resist her. Back home she volunteered at our local daycare a lot. I’m sure she’ll have at least twelve of her own.” I lean in for a mock whisper behind my hand. “Wait ’til she learns what she needs to do with boys for that to happen.”
Storm chuckles softly. “I’m sure she’ll learn soon enough. She’s striking. How old is she?”
“Fifteen.”
She nods slowly. “And you? You in college?”
“Me?” I heave a sigh, fighting the urge to clam up. She’s asking a lot of personal questions about us. I hear Livie's voice inside my head. Try … “No, I’m working right now. School will come later. Maybe in another year or two.” Or ten. I’ll make sure Livie’s set up before me, that’s for sure. She’s the one with a bright future ahead of her.
There’s a long pause as we’re both lost in our own thoughts. “It’s what works for now, right?” I echo her earlier words and I see an understanding in those blue eyes, thinly veiling her own dark closet of skeletons.
Stage Two ~ Denial
Chapter Three
I wander half-asleep into the kitchen to find Livie and Mia at the little dining table, playing Go Fish.
“Good morning!” Livie sings.
“Good morning!” Mia mimics.
“It’s like eight a.m.” I mutter as I grab the cheap jug of OJ I splurged on the other day from the fridge.
“How was work?” Livie asked.
I take a giant gulp right from the jug. “Shit.”
There’s a sharp gasp and I find Mia’s short finger stabbing the air in my direction. “Kacey just said a naughty word!” she whispers.
I cringe as I catch Livie’s unimpressed glare. “I get one, okay?” I say, looking for a way to excuse myself. I’ll have to watch my language if Mia’s going to be hanging around.
Mia’s head cocks to one side, likely considering my logic. Then, like any good five year old’s limited attention span, my heinous infraction is quickly forgotten. She smiles and announces, “You guys are coming over for brunch. Not breakfast and not lunch.”
Now it’s my turn to glare at Livie. “Are we now?”
Lowering her brow, Livie gets up and comes to my side. “You said you’d try,” she reminds me in a low whisper so Mia doesn’t overhear.
“I said I’d be nice. I didn’t say I’d swap muffin recipes with the neighbors,” I respond, trying hard not to growl.
I get an eye roll. “Stop being dramatic. Storm’s cool. I think you’ll like her if you’d stop avoiding her. And all other living creatures.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve graciously served over a thousand cups of coffee this week to living creatures. Some questionable ones too.”
Crossing her arms, Livie’s glare flattens, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not avoiding people.
” Yes, I am. Everyone, including Barbie. And Dimples next door. Definitely him. I’m sure I’ve spotted his lean frame watching out the window as I came home at night a few times, but I ducked my head and sped past, my insides constricting at the thought of seeing him face to face again.
“Really? ’Cause Storm sure thinks you are. She came out to talk to you the other day, and you rushed into the apartment like lightning before she could say ‘hi.’”
I hide behind another sip of juice. Busted. I totally did that. I heard her door unlock and the beginnings of a “Hello, Kacey,” and I hurried to shut our apartment door.
“I am like lightning. Lightning Girl has a nice ring to it,” I say.
Livie watches as I scan the meager contents of our fridge and my stomach protests with a perfectly-timed growl. We agreed to spend as little as possible until I had a pay check or two in the bank so we’ve been living off no-name Cheerios and bologna sandwiches for more than a week. Given I need more calories than the average twenty year old to function, it’s left me sluggish. I guess offering to feed us earns Storm at least five points in the potential friend bank.
My tongue slides over my top teeth. “Fine.”
Livie’s face brightens. “That’s a yes?”
I shrug, acting nonchalant. Inside, panic is rising. Livie’s getting too attached to these people. Attachments are bad. Attachments lead to hurt. I make a face. “As long as she’s not making bologna.”
She giggles and I know it’s more than my lame joke. She knows I’m trying, and that makes her happy.
I change the subject. “How’s your new school, by the way?” I’d worked the afternoon shift all week so we haven’t talked once, besides a few kitchen counter notes.
“Oh … right.” Livie’s face pales like she’s seen a ghost. She reaches for her backpack, with a glance back to see Mia busy playing her own card game at the table. “I checked my email account at school,” she explains as she hands me a piece of paper.
My back stiffens. I knew this was coming.
Dearest Olivia,