Dear Rockstar (19 page)

But I was done trying to wake her up, to make her see. To save her.

The only person I could save was myself.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, glancing up at me. “You better not be going out to see any boys, you little whore!”

“I’ll be back later.” I walked toward the door, determined, ignoring his question and his snide remark.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

His words stopped my progress toward the door. I turned back as he lit a cigarette, watching me. He shook the match out and the motion recalled the memory of him hitting me—hitting her—and I flinched. I knew if I escaped, she’d be the only one here for him to take it out on. I knew it—and I was going to leave anyway.

A sick rage heated my chest, spreading thickly.

“I’m an adult. I’ll do what I want. You don’t own me.”

I was suddenly, amazingly calm. It was as if everything in my body had gone still.

“What?” His my-ears-must-be-deceiving-me tone was almost comical. So was the expression his face.

“I’m going. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Wrong!” He stood, towering over me and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother shrink back against the sofa. “I’m your father! I make the money! I say what goes around here!”

“You’re not my father.” I was trembling, a cold sweat running between my breasts toward my navel under the t-shirt I was wearing. But the words didn’t stop. It wasn’t that I couldn’t stop the words—it was the words themselves. They wouldn’t stop. “And you don’t make the money around here anymore, do you? The world doesn’t revolve around you, asshole! I’m done letting you tell me what to do. Do you hear me? You can beat me, you can fuck me—do whatever you want—but the next time you touch me, you’re going to have to kill me, because I’m done!”

I thought I might faint before I could turn the doorknob and escape, but I didn’t. The shock must have stopped even him for the next thirty seconds or so, because I was crouched upstairs on the third floor, fetal and rocking just outside Dale’s door, when I heard my father explode out of our apartment, tearing open the door to our building, screaming my name.

I took the opportunity to knock on Dale’s door, but I didn’t have the strength to stand. My legs wouldn’t hold me.

Dale answered, wearing just a pair of boxers, hair tousled, eyes half-closed. He liked to sleep late on Saturdays.

“Sara?” He went from sleepy and yawning to alert in an instant, reaching down and picking me up like I weighed nothing, taking me inside and kicking the door shut behind him. The apartment was quiet.

“Is John still sleeping?” I whispered as Dale carried me down the hall to his bedroom.

“Not here,” he said shortly, kneeing open his bedroom door and kicking it closed, putting me down on the bed. I was still wearing my coat and boots and he took those off, wrapping me up in his arms and his comforter before asking me, “What happened?”

I opened my mouth to tell him, to explain what I’d just done, unable to really comprehend the magnitude of it myself. The words had ebbed away.

“Are you okay? Sara? Look at me. Are you okay?” He searched my face, his simple concern, so genuine, starting my sobs, and he pulled me close with startled concern, trying desperately to comfort me. I clutched him, my flushed cheek resting against his bare shoulder.

I told him about Pete getting fired, about his theft and lies, my voice hitching and low. I told him I’d stood up to him and left. But what I didn’t tell him weighed so much it was like an anvil on my chest, a pain no one could take away, not even Dale.

Still he rocked me and he held me and he loved me.

And it was almost enough.

     
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN     

“Sara, will you run back and grab a gallon of milk?” My mother stood next to her cart in the middle of Farmer Jack, looking down at her list.

“Sure.” I went back to get it. She was usually so worried and distracted, she always managed to forget something. When I returned, she was checking things off her list. I put the milk in the cart.

“Has your father said anything to you?” She moved up the aisle, pushing the cart.

“He’s not my father,” I snapped. “And no. Not a fucking word.”

“Nice language.” She frowned. “He may not be your biological father, Sara, but he’s the man who raised you.”

I didn’t say anything, helping her put cans of tomato soup into the cart. I tried to remember a time when the stepbeast had been human. Had he ever loved me? I didn’t really believe it. I didn’t even believe he loved my mother. I was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of that emotion. He seemed driven by animal instincts alone—hunger, sleep, self-preservation, mating. He truly was a beast.

“He’s a good man, Sara.” She moved the cart up the next aisle. “Underneath... you don’t know him like I do.”

I blinked at her. “I don’t think you know him like I do.”

“What does that mean?” She glanced over her shoulder at me, frowning.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“He’s really very generous. He pays your insurance on your car every month. He didn’t even want you to have that car, but he’s willing to pay your insurance. He gives you spending money.”

I snorted, rolling my eyes, but didn’t reply.

“And he’s very loyal. He stays with us. He takes care of us.”

That was too much.

“Oh right,” I snorted. “So loyal, he’d steal from your own brother?”

“He didn’t steal.” She ticked things off her list as she moved up the aisle. “Besides, my brother can’t prove anything …”

“Are you kidding me?” I nearly screamed. An old woman stocking up on pasta glared at us. “My God, Mother, what are you, some sort of robot? He feeds in the information and you spit it right back out? What happened to your ability to think for yourself?”

“What do you mean?” She blinked, looking at me doubtfully.

“Never mind, Mom.” I sighed, shaking my head. “Just… never mind.”

At least the stepbeast had left me completely alone since I went off on him.

The checkouts were packed with people. It was a Saturday afternoon and everybody was out shopping. We had to wait half an hour before we got up to the cashier. I began loading things up onto the conveyer belt. When I was through, I moved the cart to the end so the bagger could load it with groceries.

“That comes to ninety dollars and thirty-sex cents,” the cashier, a short blonde girl who snapped her gum and whose name tag read ‘Tammi,’ said impatiently. I thought I remembered her from high school. She’d been a year behind us, which would make her a senior this year.

“Oh.” My mother sounded surprised and I looked over, seeing for the first time what she held in her hands. It was a book of food stamps. I’d seen them often enough when we were on welfare, but it had been so long, it didn’t register at first. My heart plummeted when I recognized the booklet and my mouth felt dry.

“I only have eighty dollars here,” my mother said quietly. “Sara, hand me those packages of broccoli and corn. I have enough vegetables in the freezer to last me.”

I got them just before the bagger did and I offered him a weak smile of apology. His name was Danny and he’d been in my World Lit class my junior year. Tammi took them off the order.

“That’ll be eighty-eight twenty-nine.” Tammi snapped her gum, looking impatiently at my mother. The people behind us were watching with disgusted interest.

“Sara, hand me the peanut butter and the coffee,” my mother said. This time Danny handed them to me personally. My throat felt tight. Tammi took those off the order. Her gum snapping was beginning to grind on my nerves.

“That’s seventy-nine forty-nine,” she said impatiently. “Come on, lady, we don’t have all day. I have other paying customers waiting.”

“Here.” My mother, turning a paler shade of white, gave her the eighty-dollars in food stamps. I grabbed the cart and started out of the store. My cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

“There.” My mother caught up to me in the parking lot. “That was taken care of easily enough.”

I didn’t say anything and kept on walking.

John opened the door and I almost fell on top of him. I’d been pounding on it for what felt like forever.

“Is Dale here?” I panted.

“He’s in his room. Are you okay?”

“I’m great!” I cried over my shoulder. “I’m fantastic!”

He shut the door, calling after me, “You staying for dinner? Fresh catfish!”

“Sounds great!” I called back, bursting through Dale’s door.

“Hey!” He smiled when he saw me standing there.

“Dale!” I cried, throwing my arms wide, beaming. “Guess what?”

“What?” He was sitting bare-chested on his bed, staring at me, guitar poised in mid-air, and normally I
would have immediately jumped him just on principle, but I was too excited—I could barely breathe.

“I’m going to Maine!” I shook the envelope at him, in case he’d missed it. “I placed! I placed!”

He set his guitar aside just in time, because I tackled him, kissing him hard, practically knocking us both off the bed.

“Congratulations.” He kissed the tip of my nose, smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes—there was no dimple in it. “So now what?”

“Look.” I handed him the letter and he sat on the edge of his bed with it.

“Dear Student,” Dale read softly. “Congratulations, you have placed in the Maine Difference Creative Competition. You are invited to attend the Maine Difference Open House Program on April twenty-second to claim your prize and take a good look at our campus and the college way of life.”

He paused and the piece of paper trembled slightly in his hands.

“Isn’t it great?” I cried. “Placed. That means something. I might not get first—that’s the full scholarship—and second and third place are cash prizes. But at least I placed! I’m going to Maine!” 

“It’s terrific, Sara.” He handed the letter back to me. “I’m so proud of you.”

He didn’t look happy, and I knew why, and I couldn’t blame him. I felt a lump in my throat, swallowing around it, wanting to tell him it was all going to be okay, but John interrupted us.

“They still doing that Maine Difference contest thing?” John asked from the doorway and I jumped, startled.

“Dad!” Dale frowned. “How long have you been there?”

“Sorry,” John said sheepishly. “I heard Maine and it drew my attention. I didn’t know you wanted to go to the University of Maine, Sara. Which one?”

“Orono.”

“Great school.” He nodded. “You planning on going into forestry?”

“No.” I looked down at Dale’s bedspread.

“Engineering?”

“She’s going to major in art.” Dale looked at me. “She’s very talented.”

“Art?” John scratched his head. “Why are you going to Maine to major in art? The New York Studio School is right—”

“It’s a long story,” Dale sighed. “Just forget it, Dad.”

John looked between the two of us, frowning. Now I felt like I owed him some sort of an explanation.

“Do you know who Tyler Vincent is?”

John chuckled. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Well… Tyler Vincent lives in Maine.”

“Yep, he does.”

“So… if I go to college in Maine, I’ll have a better chance of meeting him.”

John stared at me for a moment. Then he laughed, long and loud. “What a reason to pick a college!”

I looked back down at the bedspread, hurt by his laughter. Dale didn’t say a word.

“I’ve got a better chance of it in Maine than I do if I stay here,” I snapped, defensive.

“Here, now, don’t go getting all ruffled up.” John smiled. “I didn’t mean an insult. Come on into the kitchen and we’ll talk about this at dinner. Catfish is frying.”

John waited. I finally got up and followed him. Dale trailed behind us. John piled our plates with catfish and potato salad, boasting that the catfish breading was a “secret recipe” passed down through generations.

“Used to catch it ourselves, didn’t we, son?”

Dale just stared at his plate and shrugged one shoulder. John eyed him for a moment and then looked at me. I poked my fork around my own plate, trying to imagine Dale Diamond holding a fishing pole.

“Let me tell you something, Sara. I love Maine. I was born and bred there, and it’s probably one of the most beautiful places on this earth.” John leaned back in his chair. “There are a lot of good people in Maine. Mind you, they don’t take too well to outsiders, but they get used to you. After a fashion.”

He paused again and looked at Dale, who was picking onions out of his potato salad with his fork. “You miss it, Dale?”

“No,” Dale said, not looking up. 

“Well his mother’s there.” John frowned, looking back at me. “I didn’t mean to laugh at your choice, Sara. University of Maine is an excellent school, but it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a good school for
you
… Understand?”

“Yeah.” I understood, all right. I understood plenty. He was going to tell me not to go, plain and simple. He was going to say it was ridiculous to pick a college for the reasons I had. But what he didn’t understand and what Dale didn’t understand, what even Aimee didn’t understand, was this was my chance, my one chance, to get out of here for good.

But I respected his opinion. I respected him. So I shut up and listened.

“It’s a fine school, but sweetheart, you want to major in
art.
I’m not saying they don’t have a good art program. It’s just fine, but it’s not exactly prime rib for the price you’d be paying per pound. It’s more like… round steak.”

I laughed. He was always coming up with analogies like that.

“What if I decide to go into something else?” I shrugged. “I know they have an excellent education department. What if I decide to teach art instead of becoming an actual artist?”

“An idea,” he conceded. “But I don’t know if it’s a good one, because I’m not you. Is teaching what you really want to do?”