by KB Anne
Ryan ruffles Scott’s shaggy auburn hair. “And damn if he doesn’t need it. He couldn’t throw for shit last Friday.”
Lizzie cracks her gum. She chews it like a fiend during the school day to make up for missed opportunities after school, because according to her parents’ JW philosophy, gum chewing leads to sin.
“Boys, Gi doesn’t want to hear about football or your inability to make a touchdown.”
Ryan wraps his arm around her and pulls her close. “Sweetheart, we don’t make touchdowns. Scott throws it, I catch it, and … magic.”
She lets him nestle her into his chest before winking at me as she swats his arm.
This flirting has been going on for months. All the while Ryan’s made his way through most of the school’s female population with notions of parental rebellion, because he represents everything the majority of the townspeople are not, and Lizzie’s gone out with half the marching band and three-quarters of the stoners, chess club, and motocross bikers with notions of, well, boy-craziness. Her JW parents might prohibit her interaction with non-JWs after school and on weekends, but during the school day and after lights out, she manages to find the time.
I cradle Gram’s mug between my hands. This little piece of her grounds me to this tiny, sterile room with my three best friends surrounding me.
“I hate that Uncle Mark has to cancel class to come get me.”
Scott shrugs. “Dad was on his way anyway. Evidently someone named Breas, who will be living with us, got under Donahue’s skin more than you, and that’s saying something.”
Breas’s words come flooding back to me with a pull of familiarity. I take another sip of tea, and the impressions fall away.
I know in the United States possession is nine-tenths of the law. I wonder if Ireland follows the same laws we do.
4
Judgment and Bitch Moves
Uncle Mark pulls into our driveway. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you inside?”
“If I can’t make it into the house stone sober, I’ll be in deep shit this weekend.”
“Gigi, I don’t like you talking like that.”
I tug at the car door handle and hop out. “Well, lucky for me, you’re just my next-door neighbor and not my dad.”
His hands grip the steering wheel. I peek back inside, which at my height doesn’t require much ducking.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Mark. Sometimes I’m just a bitch. Thanks for the ride home.”
He forces a smile, but hurt still lurks in his eyes. Nothing like feeling even more like an asshole before snack time.
“You’re welcome, Gigi. Anytime.”
I slam the door and stroll up the path.
“You know that, right?” he shouts.
I turn back to see him standing outside his car, ready to run over and catch me if I fall. It reminds me of when he taught me to ride a bike without training wheels. He’d run up and down the street with me all day no matter how fast I peddled or how much I whined for him to let me go. He refused to leave my side until I could ride without wobbling. Even weeks later, he stayed within grabbing range.
“I’ll be here for you no matter what.”
I give him my trademark impish smirk. “I know, Uncle Mark. I know you will be.”
His lips rise into another smile, but he seems sad too. “I’ll see you at dinner. Meatless Monday?”
His comment makes me laugh. It’s always Meatless Monday at our house, even when it’s not Monday. “Gram’s been experimenting with quinoa and tofu.”
He winces. “Maybe we’ll pass on dinner.”
“That might be the safest option.” I don’t add that I’d rather they skipped eating at our house the entire length of Breas’s stay—I’ve already hurt his feeling enough for one day.
Laughing, he climbs back into his car. “Take care, Gigi.”
I nod and watch him reverse down the driveway, drive thirty feet down the street, and pull in next door. He waves from his stone path as if he didn’t just leave me. Smiling to myself, I wave back.
Scott and Uncle Mark moved in sometime before I was born. We’re not related or anything. I just call him “Uncle Mark” and Scott calls Gram “Gram” because we spend so much time together. They eat most meals at our house, including holidays and birthdays. Scott even has his own room here. Uncle Mark’s a professor of Celtic Mythology and Folklore at the University of Pittsburgh, so he travels to far-off places to study old books and ancient artifacts and to present his findings to people interested in academic stuff, or as I like to call them, Irish Geeks. In fact, he goes to Ireland three or four times a year. He still hasn’t taken me with him, even though I’ve begged him at least a million times. He says Gram would miss me too much, which I suppose is true. Plus, she doesn’t leave the property, so she relies on family and friends to go shopping for her. She’d be lost without me.
My only consolation is that he doesn’t take Scott with him either.
Not quite ready to go inside, I stop to deadhead the geranium still in bloom on the porch railing. Mid-pluck, my eyes drift over to the front yard of our other neighbor’s house. The tiny patch of grass, once my birthing place, is now hidden behind a tall white picket fence. It still must infuriate the church freak that a wild hippie girl fell to the snowy frozen ground that first day of February sixteen years ago. The birth of the fatherless heathen, the final insult.
A barely formed shadow hides behind the thin, white curtains. She’s always watching. Always judging.
My sweatshirt slips down my arm exposing one of my tattoos. Not that she needs additional ammunition to hate the fatherless heathen. The tattoo just confirms what she already knows.
My shoulders round in on themselves. I feel myself breaking down, which frustrates me even more than my judgmental neighbor. I don’t know why I let the demons snap at my exposed throat.
Actually, that’s a lie. I know why. It’s freaking exhausting always being The Delinquent. To pretend I don’t hear the ugly nicknames and the mean laughter. To pretend I don’t see the pointing fingers or notice the scratches on the bathroom wall with the creative tag, “For a good time call Skunk Girl 555-555-5555.”
The impenetrable fortress I constructed, lie by lie, occasionally fissures along the carefully knit seams. My breath starts to catch in short impatient gasps. Some unknown force takes a strangle hold on my throat. Carbon dioxide leaves my body, but no oxygen replaces it.
I blink back tears.
Not today.
Not now.
A panic attack would be the shitty topper to an even shittier day. I try to breathe through my nose, taking wisps of breath in. Wisps of breath out. I grip the purple railing with the rainbow-colored spindles, digging so tightly into it I’d get a splinter if it wasn’t freshly painted. It grounds me to this world.
This is me.
This is who I am.
I take one full breath in. One full breath out. Then another. And another. The strangle hold begins to release, and oxygen slowly seeps back into my lungs.
I’d never admit it to my old therapist, but her little breathing tricks work. When I’m finished almost suffocating to death, I decide to get inside before my brain and heart enter another epic battle of their own again.
“Move, Sphinx,” I tell the fat cat who took up residence on the front doormat. She stretches across the threshold instead. She likes to pretend she can’t hear. She hears just fine. It’s two blind eyes that make it hard for her to see.
And yes, I have a blind cat and a blind dog. I also own a hamster with a walker in addition to a menagerie of other homeless and handicapped pets that have adopted Gram and me as their caretakers. You got a problem with that?
Good. I didn’t think so.
I step over Sphinx. She mews a complaint before quickly returning to her dreams of world domination.
“Gram,” I shout from the front door. “Hey, Gram!”
When her singsong, “Hello” doesn’t reach me, I drop my bag and keep wa
lking through the house to the kitchen. The comfort of home pushes the final edges of the panic attack away.
Boo Bear wobbles over to me, his tail wagging in greeting. I pick him up, grab the steaming mug of tea Gram left for me on the counter, and follow the path to the herb garden.
“Hello, dear,” Gram sings before I even round the corner. “Feeling better?”
I drop Boo Bear in her lap and fold myself onto the ground in front of her. The sweet smell of lavender fills the space between us.
“Yeah, I guess. Did you know Uncle Mark was getting a foreign exchange student?”
She pushes a few flyaways back into her ponytail. “He called me this morning. Breas is the son of one of Mark’s childhood friends. He showed up just after you and Scott left for school. He insisted Mark enroll him today.” She stops and smiles at me. “I think your uncle spun tales of adventures to a young Breas, and now that he’s grown, he wants to experience this Great America on his own.”
“I don’t like him.”
She scratches Boo Bear behind the ears. He pushes his head into her hand and purrs. The dog is part cat, I tell you.
“You will.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’ll get to know him tonight at dinner.”
“Gram,” I say, trying not to whine, “do we have to?”
She carefully places Boo Bear on the path and stands up. He nudges his nose into the back of her leg—his signal it’s time to get moving.
“Why don’t you go into the greenhouse and cut some roses for the vase. The other ones seek to return to Earth.”
“Are you trying to distract me?”
She winks at me. “My dear, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Drink your tea and get me some flowers please.”
I take another sip, feeling more and more like myself. I know it’s a combination of herbs Gram’s blended together. The chamomile, lemon verbena, and lavender all have soothing qualities. I don’t know what the other herbs do, but combined together, the blend makes me feel better. More like me.
Although most of the time I don’t know who that is.
5
Dinner with Demons
A pile of yellow roses lies strewn across the old worktable. I add heather and a few sprigs of fern, then decide aster would provide some good contrast.
“So, this is where you hide,” a male voice says with an Irish accent much thicker than Uncle Mark’s.
For point twenty-seven seconds my heart flutters in my chest. Then I find my anger with a capital V for Vengeance.
I jab more roses into the arrangement. “This is a gross invasion of my privacy.”
He steps up alongside me. “Is it?”
I grab another rose stalk and squeeze. The thorns bite into my palm. “Damn it.” I suck the fresh cuts. The taste of rust fills my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“Fetching you for dinner.”
I shove the rest of the flowers into the vase. “Ironically, I’ve lost my appetite.”
He moves closer. “Shall we make use of this table in some other manner then?”
“That’s it—” I stomp on his foot.
He doesn’t wince. He doesn’t scowl. He especially doesn’t yelp.
He does wear a cocky grin I’d like to knock off.
“Steel-toed,” he murmurs.
I growl. Actually growl. Then I remember my words. “You better back the fuck up.”
“Everything all right in here?” Scott asks from the doorway. He glances from me with my scissors to Breas with his cocky grin and back to me.
“Everything’s fine, laddie,” Breas says.
I point my scissors at the Irishman, then him. “Did you know about this?”
Scott backs away, knowing what I’m capable of when armed with sharp objects. “No, no. I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t know anything about him until Mrs. Kelso called me down to the nurse’s office when you fainted. I already told you that.”
Betrayal rushes through me. I set the scissors down before I do anything I might regret. “Why didn’t your dad tell us?”
He lifts his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“I can answer that question,” Breas says, inserting himself into the conversation. “He didn’t know until I showed up at his door this morning.”
Scott folds his arms and leans against the door frame, sliding into his casual, conversational act. He eases his victims into giving him everything he wants to know. He’s not a patented ass-kicker like myself, though his method often gets him better results—I really can’t stand that about him.
“How do you know my dad?”
Breas smiles. “He and I have known each other for a long time. A very long time.”
I pick at my nails to draw attention to their very sharp dagger points. I may not be holding the scissors anymore, but I am still capable of maiming. “Funny that it’s the first time we’ve ever heard of you.”
“We’ve met before.” He glances back and forth between us. “We’ve all met before.”
Scott and I share a long look.
Scott doesn’t remember him anymore than I do. However, he’s far too polite to mention this fact to Breas.
Luckily, I’m not.
“It’s amazing how easily you were forgotten. Remember that.” I pick up the vase and start walking toward the door, but the stupid idiot blocks my path.
“Move,” I growl.
He shoves his hands in his pockets.
I brush past him.
Well, “brush” isn’t the best word. I elbow him in the gut.
He drops low to my ear. “Is that any way to welcome a guest?”
“You’re no guest of mine,” I hiss through clenched teeth, his little claiming scene from this morning still fresh in my mind. “I don’t like you.”
“You will,” he laughs. “You don’t have a choice.”
“I’ve got a choice all right, and mine includes a shallow grave in the backyard.”
He winks at me. “You are a naughty one. Exactly how I like them.”
If the vase wasn’t Gram’s favorite, I’d smash it over his head and wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt about it.
He claps Scott on the back. “She’s something.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Scott warns him. He knows how quickly things can turn.
They follow me down the path. Scott peppers him with questions about Ireland and how he knows his dad again—Breas still didn’t answer that one. By the time we get into the house, Gram’s already set the table. In addition to the tofu and quinoa, she made some other dishes involving potatoes, onions, and carrots—I suppose in honor of our “special” guest, though he certainly doesn’t deserve it. After placing the vase in the center of the table, I glare at her to make her realize exactly the punishment I’ve suffered as a result of Breas.
She tilts her head away from me instead and slips into her chair. “Why doesn’t everyone take a seat?”
Mark and Scott sit in their usual spots, leaving only two seats next to each other. I sigh, unable to believe the mistreatment I’m forced to suffer through even at dinnertime.
Round tables work for family and friends who enjoy exchanging pleasantries about the day in a cyclical, roundabout way—there’s nothing pleasant about sitting next to some asshole who keeps invading your space and insinuating you’re together and who also, for some reason that you can’t possibly fathom, you’re inexplicably drawn to, which makes you detest his presence even more. I wish we had a rectangular table with sharp corners to separate me from Irish ding-dongs.
Breas makes himself comfortable by sitting as close to me as he can without sitting on my lap—which he probably considered but didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. It’s only the gentle touch of Gram’s palm against the top of my hand that keeps me from stabbing him.
After she thanks the day for the blessings of our plentiful table—although I strongly disagree with her—we fill our plates and eat in silen
ce. I attribute the lack of conversation to Mr. Rat Bastard’s presence. It’s obvious Uncle Mark, Scott, and Gram don’t know what to say to him any more than I do. With any luck, they’ll come to their senses and kick him out before he can cause any more havoc.
Our “guest,” and I use that term loosely, eats and drinks like it’s normal not to talk during a meal. He makes himself right at home, taking seconds of quinoa, before adding some to my plate without even asking.
“There you go, Gigi,” he says.
I stop the heaping spoon in midair. “No, thank you,” I yell, but it’s too late. Quinoa, celery, carrots, and currants splatter across the table. All because of the stupid oaf. “Are you happy now?”
“Gigi, you aren’t being particularly friendly to our guest,” Gram says.
He flashes me a reckless grin.
I glare at him. “I’m not feeling particularly hungry either. Excuse me.”
Before Gram can guilt me into staying, I disappear from the table. She might not be the punishing type, but her disappointment carries a burden far greater than any grounding or reprimand. I hate disappointing her. The birth vessel did that enough to last a lifetime.
When I’m in a bad mood, I go to the greenhouse, but Breas’s presence corrupted it. Tomorrow I’ll need to purify the space with incense and candles. Until then it’s off-limits, unless of course I want to torture myself some more, but I believe I’ve experienced enough pain and suffering for one day. The jackass has never been in my bedroom, but one floor of separation is not enough distance between us. The attic puts me two stories away from the table and the Irish asshole. And if he should find me, I’ll fling one of Gram’s silver daggers at him.
Actually, that’s not a bad plan. No court would try me if I claim self-defense.
When I plop down into the worn velvet chair by the window, dust motes dance in the early evening light. I try to catch them with my fingers in the hopes that tiny sparkling fairies will grant me my wish of ridding the house of unwanted guests. After several minutes of catching and releasing potential fairies, a rumble of laughter echoes from downstairs, and I know my wish hasn’t been granted. Big surprise. There are wish givers and there are wish receivers, and then there is the lint between the wishes. Can you guess what I am?