by Ally B
Max hops out, and I force myself to as well. He jogs toward the porch, bends down, and picks up a rock, flipping it over and pulling out the false bottom, revealing a key. He unlocks the door and sets the rock down, pressing the key into my barely-unclenched fist.
I nod. “Let me know when you get home for real?”
“You really aren’t going to let me stay?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want you to miss any more of the party.”
“Pheebs, I was going to leave by twelve-thirty anyway.” He shakes his head and says softly, “just tell me I can stay.”
“Fine,” I walk inside and force a little normalcy by adding, “brat.”
He closes the door behind him, flipping the deadbolt lock.
“Do you want water?” He asks me.
I shake my head ‘no,’ trudging up the stairs toward my room, body heavy and extremely weak.
“Put on some pajamas?” He suggests, feeling like he has to walk me through simple tasks like I’m a child.
I close my bedroom door, pulling off my soaking wet clothes and changing into pajama shorts and an oversized Syracuse University hoodie my mom had handed down to me years ago. It’s a chore, and it feels like it takes an eternity as my body aches, and my hands refuse to cooperate.
I open my bedroom door for Max before pulling my hair into a ponytail, not worrying about bumps and baby hairs like I typically would.
I sit down on my bed and slide toward the corner closest to the wall.
Max covers me with my comforter before sitting next to me on top of it, flicking my lamp off.
After a few minutes of silence, he speaks up. “Do you want to talk about this?”
“Not really,” I tell him.
“Do you feel like it would be beneficial to talk about it?” He rephrases.
“Probably,” I say, my voice heavy with sleep. “Please don’t let my mom call the therapist.”
“I thought he was cool,” Max says, confused.
“He is. I just feel like he’s going to be mad at me.”
“Why would he be mad at you?” He asks.
“I didn’t do any of the things he told me to.” I roll to my back and stare at the glow-in-the-dark constellations on my ceiling.
“Why?”
“I couldn’t remember any of it. There’s a bunch of acronyms and rhymes and shit.”
“Swear jar,” he says with a smile in his voice.
“It balances out,” I mutter.
“Why’s that?”
“You never put money in,” I tell him, closing my eyes.
“Get some rest,” he instructs.
“I will, but I’m right.”
“I know you are.” He takes my hand in his, massaging circles into my palm with his thumb.
“I’m never going to let you live that down,” I tell him as I turn to face the wall.
“I’m well aware.” I can hear the smile in his voice again. “Go to sleep.”
“Okay, mom.”
“Call me Camila,” he jokes.
“Love you,” I tell him softly.
His “love you too,” is the last thing I hear before I doze off.
Auriga
The Charioteer
I wake up to my mom standing over me, nearly causing me to have a heart attack as her long blonde hair falls in her face while she scrolls through her phone like something out of a horror movie.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she says, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Good morning.” I attempt to rub the sleep away from my eyes as I sit up in bed, bringing to light the delightful realization that I’d left my contacts in last night.
“Max told me you had an attack last night?”
I groan, flopping back down and covering my face with my pillow. “I don’t remember any of it.”
“I’m going to schedule an appointment with Doctor Hines for some time this week, just to talk it over.”
“What is there to talk over?” I pull the pillow off of my face. “I don’t remember it.”
“Just coping mechanisms, and the possibility of getting you on your meds again.”
“I don’t need the benzos.” I groan, sitting up and leaning against my headboard.
“Things are changing a lot right now with your father coming back into your life. I think it might be a good idea for you to have them on hand, especially after last night.”
“I’ll go. But I’m going to tell him I don’t want the meds.” I tell her bluntly. “I don’t like feeling like a zombie.”
“But you’ll go?” She asks.
“Yeah,” I answer her. “What time is it?”
“Eight fifty-seven,” she answers, glancing at her watch.
“I’ve got to go get my car,” I tell her, climbing out of bed.
“I can bring you. Is it at Jackson’s?” She asks.
“It’s at Kendall’s, and I think Max is going to bring me,” I tell her. “I need to thank him for last night.”
She stands slowly and exits the room even slower. I know she worries. The residual effects of my earliest attacks left me in bed for at least a day with body aches and other symptoms resembling the flu. The only thing that got me out of bed was when mom told me Max wanted to come over and show me his new phone.
I check the weather on my phone before deciding on an oversized light blue sweater and a pair of black leggings with my white Air Force Ones, not bothering to dress up.
My grandfather—who hates me—is turning seventy-five, I’m not having tea with the queen.
I pull my hair into a semi-decent bun on the top of my head and text Max before quickly applying my usual makeup.
Max
Dunkin’ run? -Phoebe
Bribing me to get your car? - Max
Of course. - Phoebe
See you in 5. - Max
I slide my glasses on before making my way down the stairs to where my mom is sitting at the kitchen table.
“You sure you don’t want to come to this thing?” I ask her.
“My ex-husband’s father’s birthday party? I’ll pass.” She pauses. “Get Max breakfast to say thank you.” She reaches for her purse.
“Two steps ahead of you.” I hold up my wallet.
“Always are.” She smiles. “You going right to your grandfather’s?”
“After I pick Tom up,” I tell her.
“If it gets too awkward for you, don’t be afraid to leave. I can’t believe he’s making you do this,” she huffs.
“It’s fine, honestly. I volunteered to bring him.”
“Birthday gift for his highness?” She refers to my grandfather. He’s always been open about his hate for her and her ‘crazy liberal beliefs,’ which she thankfully passed on to me. He’s always been less argumentative to me about it than he did with her, but in his old age, he’s begun to lose what little of a filter he once had.
“Everyone is giving him Lowes gift cards.”
“They let you into the family group chat or something?” She jokes. We’d been blatantly ignored by my father’s side of the family for the last four years.
“Ava,” I tell her, referring to my cousin, who serves as the messenger between my father’s sisters and me.
“Classy.” She sips her tea. “Are you going to work right after?”
“Exciting day, right?” I joke.
“Are you sure you feel up to it?” She asks.
I nod.
“Come home to get something to eat before if you have time.”
“There’s going to be food at the party. I’ll be fine.”
“Your aunt’s cooking isn’t real food.” She pauses. “Do you remember their Thanksgivings?”
The only memorable things about Thanksgiving with my father’s family were the political arguments and Ava’s mother’s signature burnt turkey. Mom always made a turkey and pie at our house to make up for the burnt and inedible food we’d pushed around our plates and pretended to eat at my grandfather’s h
ouse. My mom doesn’t have family in New York, so there was no way to have a decent holiday meal without doing it ourselves.
“I’ll see you tonight?” I ask her.
“Yep. I have the weekend off,” she tells me.
“Big plans for today?” I ask her.
“Hot date with a book.” She laughs. “See you at 9:30 for movie night?”
“You’re on,” I tell her, closing the side door behind me.
“Took you long enough!” Max shouts from his driver’s seat as I walk across his lawn, then climb into his passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt, my fingers still not moving as quickly as I want them to.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Was chatting with Mom.”
“How is she?” He asks, backing out of his driveway and turning in the direction of Kendall’s house.
“You should know, you blew my cover.”
“I’m not going to pretend to be sorry,” he states. “Otherwise, how is she?”
“She’s good. She seems tired, though,” I tell him as we turn into Dunkin’.
“She works all the time. I’m sure she’s tired.” He places our orders, and I hand him the money.
“I’ve got it,” he refuses.
“It’s my taxi fare. I know you hate driving.” I force the money into his hand, and he reluctantly accepts it.
“You feeling any better?” He asks after taking a bite of his breakfast sandwich.
“Just a headache. A little bit sore,” I tell him, knowing he’ll understand.
“Did you take anything?” He asks me.
I shake my head no as I pick off a piece of my blueberry muffin.
He pulls over into the parking lot, quickly digging through his center console and pulling out a bottle of Motrin. He hands it to me before pulling back out onto the road and continuing the drive to Kendall’s.
I pop two of the pills into my mouth and cringe as I swallow them dry.
“When did you go home?” I ask him.
“Your mom got home at like 6:30, so I just told her what was up and left,” he answers.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know you have nightmares after nights like that. I didn’t want you to wake up and be alone in the house,” he explains.
“Thank you, Maxie.” I use his mother’s nickname for him, obviously to annoy him.
“You can thank me by never calling me Maxie again.”
“You like it.”
“I don’t, actually,” he says as we pull into Kendall’s driveway.
We walk to Kendall’s door together, and I knock.
The door flings open almost immediately, revealing Violet in an oversized Lakers T-shirt with her hair in a ponytail.
“Come in! We have things to talk about!” She grabs my arm, pulling me into the house. Max follows close behind.
When we get to the kitchen, Violet runs over to help Kendall, who seems to be busy flipping pancakes.
Max and I sit on stools on the opposite side of the kitchen island, waiting for Violet’s party re-cap.
“Okay, so after you left last night, a bunch of wild shit happened.” She turns to face us, leaning against the counter next to the stove. “First, Graham asked where you were, and when we told him you went home, he looked sad. Hot, but sad.”
“Violet!” Kendall scolds.
“He’s like weirdly hot for a teenage boy. Tell me I’m wrong.” She raises her eyebrows, looking at the three of us. “See? No objections.”
No objections would be correct.
“Yes, objections—” Max says, but he’s quickly cut off by Violet.
“Max, are you attracted to men?” She asks, earning a snicker from Kendall. He’d attempted to date both of them at different times, so she’s clearly asking to prove some kind of point.
“No,” he answers definitively.
“Then respectfully, you get no say here.” She pauses. “Anyway, he was looking all hot and lonely, and Gabby approached him and totally started flirting, but do you know what he said? Do you?” She asks, leaning her elbows on the counter and holding her face in her hands.
“I don’t,” I tell her.
“He shut her down because he’s interested in someone else!” She squeals. “And as hot as I am,” she gestures to her oversized T-shirt and messy ponytail. “I don’t think he was talking about me!”
“How the hell do you have this much energy when you’re hungover?” Max asks her genuinely.
“Vi doesn’t get hungover. She’s like this twenty-four-seven. It’s honestly exhausting,” Kendall says, setting a plate of pancakes down in front of Violet.
“And to think you could’ve had all of this,” she jokes, drowning her pancakes in syrup.
“Moral of the story, Gabby was super-pissed, so have fun dealing with Ava today,” Kendall says, placing her plate down on the counter. “You guys want pancakes?”
“I’ve got to get going,” I tell them as I stand up. “Thanks for filling me in.”
As I walk toward the door, Violet says, “you should text Graham. Something cute.”
“Thanks for everything last night, and the ride,” I say to Max softly.
“It’s how I keep you around.” He winks. “Talk to you later.”
“Love you guys!” I shout as I walk to the entry, grab my keys from the hook next to Kendall’s door, and walk out.
Canes Venatici
The Hunting Dogs
Again, I’m forced to parallel park at my dad’s apartment. This time it takes a little bit longer to squeeze between the truck in front of me and the hybrid behind me, but I managed nonetheless.
By the time I get out of the car and make it to the steps leading to my father’s door, he’s locking it behind him. He’s wearing a brown tweed blazer over a white T-shirt with dark blue denim jeans and brown leather shoes.
“Good morning Professor Mitchell.” I make an attempt at a joke.
“Is it too much?” He asks. “I think I have time to change.”
“No. It’s good. It’s you,” I tell him, nodding to the car.
“You're sure?"
“Yep,” I say before crossing the road, my father by my side.
When a car comes into sight, he throws his hand in front of me protectively.
“There was plenty of time to cross,” I laugh.
He runs his hand through his hair nervously, “right.”
Neither of us says a thing while we get in the vehicle and buckle our seatbelts before I pull out of the spot.
“Do you remember how to get there?” I ask him.
“You get us to Emerson, and I’ll get us to my dad’s house,” he says.
“So, how was the game last night?” He asks.
“It was crazy. They won in like the last ten seconds.” I shake my head.
“Sounds like a good game.” He’s always loved soccer, to the point of forcing Jack to play throughout high school even though he was terrible.
“It was McArthur, so it was insane.”
“Was it home?” He asks as I make a right turn.
“Yeah.” I turn up the volume on the radio, allowing synthesized pop music to fill the awkward silence that I know will follow.
The drive is comfortable and familiar. The roads between towns are lined with dense forests whose leaves are finally beginning to turn as the long-lasting summer begins to dwindle.
The roads are surprisingly empty for a Saturday, but I’m still cautious as we approach the more residential areas of Emerson.
“Where do I go from here?” I ask him as we pass the ‘Welcome to The Village of Emerson’ sign.
He turns down the music, “left at the light.”
I follow his directions for a while before realizing where I am and taking over.
“I’ve got it from here,” I tell him.
I pull into my grandfather’s house outside of town at 12:07, too late for a decent parking spot. I pull my car onto the grass next to an unfamiliar car.
“You re
ady?” My father asks me, nervously tapping his foot.
“Are you?” I ask him.
“It’s been a while,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, not bothering to add that when his family ostracized him, we were all in the same boat.
“Let’s do this.” He opens the passenger door, and I follow behind him, tucking my key lanyard into the pocket of my leggings.
We walk to the front door, where he knocks before entering the already noisy house.
“Dad! Thomas is here!” My aunt Amy shouts, announcing our entrance to the busy room.
Lyla and Chase run in front of us, chasing after my grandfather’s dog, Spot. Lola dotes after them slowly but surely. Her chubby little legs struggle to keep up with her brother and sister’s, but she doesn’t give up.
“Hey, Tom! Good to see you!” Greg is the first one to dare acknowledge my father, shaking his hand and calling my aunt Lori over. “How are you?”
“Hi, sweetie.” Lori wraps her arms around me in an extremely awkward hug. “How’s your back?”
“It’s fine. Hasn’t been a problem in a while,” I tell her.
“That’s good. I was just so sad to hear about the end of your gymnastics career. You used to be so good at those flips and things. I was sure we were going to have our first Olympian.” Yes, I had to quit gymnastics after the accident because of my back, but I was also pretty terrible. Even before the accident, Simone Biles had no need to worry about her career.
“Oh, yeah. Guess it’ll have to be Chase.” I laugh nervously.
“He is quite the little soccer star,” she gushes. “We’re going to get him into baseball this year, though.”
“Who needs the Olympics when he could be the next Derek Jeter?” Jeter is the only baseball player I know, but judging by her expression, I named the right one.
“That’s what I’ve been telling Greg, right, honey?” She asks her husband, who is clearly engaged in a conversation with my father. “The kiddos will be so excited to see you! It’s been such a long time.”
“Yeah, they’ve gotten so big,” I tell them, avoiding the fact that I’ve still never met my youngest cousin.