Authors: Mechelle Morrison
35
Journal Entry
fourteen | Aspen Brand | AP English
I stare at my journal, tapping the bruised pink of my pencil’s eraser against my desk. Mrs. Martin says, “I’ll thank you to stop that, Miss Brand.”
I stop, but
I don’t know what to write. Since Saturday night, the night Kyle and I spent talking until we fell asleep from communication-induced exhaustion, I’m sworn to silence. I write:
The silence-thing was my idea.
I study the words, then erase them.
I’m convinced that if we tell
my dad what Em’s been doing he’ll drag me off to Portland. Kyle didn’t disagree. He said, “I’m willin’ to see if we can handle things on our own. For now, anyway.”
So w
e decided that if our communication has to do with Em it’s off limits: from our friends, our parents, from everything. If we talk about Em we do it face to face, though Kyle admitted, “I’m not willing to cover her tracks for long.”
I
doodle on the blank journal page, drawing stars and flowers and thinking about everything and nothing, all at once. Some part of me understands that Em is trying to scare me. But the other part doesn’t get her game. She shot Rox! Does that mean she’s trying to kill me? And the other stuff—like the red squares of cloth. I don’t get that at all.
When I’d asked
Kyle about it, he had shrugged.
“She did that once, to a girl who ruffled her feathers.”
“
And the black ribbon?”
“Call it a
sick twist on yellow.”
“What, l
ike yellow is a welcome home and black’s a grim good-bye?”
“
All I know is it’s a power thing. Em likes control. A lot. And something more, girl.”
“
What?”
“
She’s back in school come January. The principal called my dad and told him Em’s been a model citizen, paying her society debt. He said she’s allowed to return as long as she keeps up with her community service and remains free of trouble. I’m sure your dad knows. Our parents have probably talked about it. Your dad just isn’t saying.”
That Em is
coming back to school bothers me. I had hoped she was gone for good. But her return is not what bothers me most. It’s that Dad knows. He had to know Kyle would tell me. Why didn’t he just tell me himself?
My dad is a secret-keeper—especially when it comes to his extended family. He hid them from me when I was growing up. He still does. I don’t know if he has brothers and sisters. I don’t know if my Brand grandparents are alive. The only thing I know is that Dad’s from Wyoming—maybe even Gillette. Maybe that’s why we moved here.
I’ll admit, w
hen my mom was alive his secrets seemed normal. I was younger then, and a world away, in Portland. I took it for granted that his life happened before my time. I had questions, but I learned not to ask them. Now I wish I’d been more insistent. I wish he’d gotten over whatever happened in his past. I wish he’d open up about the stuff he still hides. But he won’t.
The truth is
, I’m turning out to be a secret-keeper too. I don’t know if it’s just Dad’s example, or if it’s in my DNA.
Dad and I have
struggled to communicate since Mom died. I swear every time we turn around we’re discovering things about each other that are different from what we thought we knew. But Saturday night I found out my dad is hiding something I have the right to know—something he should have told me a week ago.
I hold it against him
even though I shouldn’t—I mean I’m no different. I hide stuff from him all the time, mostly because I’m afraid of how he’ll react if he knew the truth. But now I wonder. Do we hide things as a way of protecting the other? Or ourselves?
Mrs. Martin’s phone quacks and I startle. My knees hit the underside of my desk. Kyle touches my shoulder and says, “What’s going on?”
I turn
around, but I don’t say anything. Can he tell, from just looking, how much I wish I could disappear into his Monet-blue eyes? If I could do that, then maybe the only thing going on would be
us
.
As Kyle and I exit the building Dad’s Jeep is there, in the teachers’ lot, parked along the sidewalk curb. He’s idling even though he knows the planet’s in a global warming crisis.
“This won’t be good,” I say.
“Maybe it’ll just be interesting.” Kyle takes my hand.
When we’re close,
Dad rolls his window down. “Hey, baby,” he says. “Hey, Kyle.”
Kyle nods.
I smile and say, “Hi.” Dad’s wearing a leather jacket lined in lamb’s wool, a heavy pale blue denim shirt and a scratchy-looking scarf. I don’t think he’s shaved in days, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve been at the Thackers since Saturday night. The Jeep’s passenger seat is piled with work stuff: a computer, manila folders, geological maps. “What’s going on?” I ask.
Dad
laughs. “I worked through the weekend. This morning I realized we haven’t seen each other for a while. Is it okay if I take you home today? Spend some time with my girl?”
Kyle glances at me from the corners of his dreamy blue eyes. “
I’m good,” he says.
I
look past Dad to the passenger seat. “All right, but—”
“Oh. Sorry about the mess.” Dad nods. “Hop in the back, ‘
kay?”
Kyle opens the door for me. He holds my bag as I climb in,
then passes the bag across me while he kisses me good-bye. “I’ll come over tonight,” he says, and closes my door. I wait until I can’t see him anymore, then I fasten my seatbelt.
“
I’ve got a few errands,” Dad says. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“
No worries.” There’s a paper coffee cup sitting in the console next to Dad. “What’re you drinking?” I ask.
“
Oregon Chai.” He lifts the tall-sized cup from the holder and hands it to me. “It’s almost gone. Want to finish it?”
I love Oregon
Chai. Love it. It’s sugary and tastes like warm spice. Dad always has his made with whole milk, which makes the tea extra-creamy. “Thanks,” I say, taking the cup. I test the flavor, smacking my lips. After one sip more I peel away the black plastic lid and gulp the Chai down, swilling the last of it round and round before draining it into my mouth. “Delish,” I say. “As usual.”
It’s a cold day, but sunny, and as Dad
parks next to the dry cleaners the sun falls through my window, warm as a fleece blanket. I close my eyes and lean against the seat. A fuzzy, empty feeling washes over me, like the power’s out inside my head. Dad opens his door and I hear the rustle of thin plastic as he tosses his cleaning into the back next to me. He starts the engine then asks, “Feeling sleepy?”
“
Mmmmm,” I say.
The
car becomes a moving cradle, the music on the radio a distant lullaby. Dad is talking on his cell phone, though his voice is soft. I hear, “Yeah. Yeah, I know. We’re on our way.” And then I’m gone.
36
I HAVE TO PEE
.
I have to pee I have to pee I have to pee! I stumble out of bed, trip over something on the floor and walk into a piece of furniture sitting exactly where my bedroom door should be.
“Ouch! What the?” For a moment I stand on one foot, rubbing my aching toe as a dull throb ignites in my head. The throb becomes a rush of pain, like my blood has been dammed and now it’s found a way to flow again. I lean against the furniture, which is covered in coarse fabric. What is it? I don’t remember anything like this in my room. I feel along its edge, trying to place it in my house. When I reach its end I stretch my hands into the dark and move forward until I touch a wall.
I can’t find the light switch.
I can’t find the way into the hall, or even see a hint of light beneath what has to be my nearby door. Why is my room so confusing? Nothing is where it’s supposed to be. I’d say I’m dreaming but my bladder knows I’m not. I’ve got to pee. So bad I’m going to cry.
The wall makes an abrupt turn and I follow it until I reach
a broad expanse of emptiness. The flooring changes from carpet to tile and I swish my hands around, keeping low, praying I’ll make contact with a toilet. When I finally touch cold porcelain I burst into tears.
I
almost lose it before I can get my jeans undone. I yank everything down, lift the toilet lid with a bang and sit, nearly falling in because I’ve lifted the seat, thinking it was the lid, and I’m sitting on the rim.
But it’s too late to care.
I zone into my childhood habit of counting and make it to ninety-four before my bladder runs dry. It’s a stupid thought, but I might be the first person in the world to pee for a minute thirty-four seconds straight. I flush—
the handle seems different
—and pull up my pants. Then I feel around the walls until I find a switch.
A panel of four clear bulbs burst
s with light, illuminating a bathroom I’ve never seen before in my life. The walls are papered in faux knotty pine. Two hand towels bunch from horse-shoe rungs. Hanging below the light fixture, and framed in an old barn-wood mirror, is a view of me, dressed in the clothes I wore to school today. My hair sticks this way and that. Pillow creases track the left side of my face. Tears glisten on my cheeks.
Where the hell am I?
Above the toilet is a rack filled with fresh white towels and washcloths. There’s a box of tissue, bottles of shampoo and body wash on the toilet tank. Hand cleaner, toothbrushes, paste and lotion, shaving cream and feminine products take up half the counter. I wash my hands slowly, trying to back-track from this moment to the one where I got into Dad’s Jeep. We stopped for something. Laundry, right? Dad had given me his Chai. I was tired.
No matter how hard I concentrate
I can’t find a single memory more.
I hear a soft click
. Pale yellow light blossoms along the wall outside the bathroom door. I follow the light, still wringing my hands in a towel, and walk into a cramped, western-styled motel room.
I had been sleeping in the room’s only bed. A small table, two wooden chairs, a corduroy-upholstered armchair, our suitcases and about a weeks’ worth of groceries are stacked in front
of heavy, deep red drapes. Dad has pushed the couch up against what I’m sure is the outside door; the rough fabric of the couch’s back faces me. He’d been sleeping there, I guess, ‘cause now he’s sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes oddly alert for how sleep-worn he looks.
We glare
at each other for what could be a second or a century. Then I scream.
Dad jumps over the back of the couch like
he’s been catapulted. I run at him, swinging my fists and cursing, kicking at his shins. He grabs my wrist and whirls me round until my back is tight to his chest. He holds my arms across my body like a straight-jacket. I go crazy, stomping on his feet and rearing my head against his throat. He yanks my arms so hard my shoulder pops. “You’re hurting me!” I say.
A
s Dad releases me I spin, slapping him hard across the face. Something as brief as lightning, and just as hot, burns in his gaze. “You lied to me,” he says.
“I did not! You just don’t trust me!” My eyes
cloud with tears. I lunge at him again, unable to control myself. Dad shoves me away, like my strength is nothing, and I fall across the bed.
“The truth only stings, Aspen, when you’ve been putting all your energy into hiding it from yourself and everybody around you.
So now you’ll get used to life being elsewhere.”
I shake my head. “It’s my life! You have no right!”
“There was a dead squirrel on our porch Saturday morning!”
I mentally kick myself. I should have known Em would keep doing things on the weekend. But I say, “So? A cat could have left it.”
“Cats don’t hunt with guns. Yesterday I found a mutilated bird in the mailbox. Today, a painted black rock slammed into our front door while you were probably on your way to school. End of discussion. I drugged the Chai and took you.”
“You—?
With what?”
“
Valium.”
I
snug my legs against my chest and give into my tears. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“
I’m just doing what I think is best.”
“You
have no right!”
“
I have every right,” Dad shouts. “You are my child! You won’t see that you’re in danger. You won’t trust me with the truth. You and I both know Em’s stalking you. We both know she shot that horse.”
“If she shot
Rox she meant to! Kyle says—”
The muscles along Dad’s jaw line flex.
“Kyle says! He’s a kid, Aspen, like you.”
I start to say, “He knows Em better than you do!” but I never finish. Dad
steps near the bed and I throw myself at him. He grabs my arm and pushes me away. I launch at him again and he wrestles me down.
“
You want to battle until we’re both weeping blood,” he says, “we will. Either way we’re gonna stay here, in this room, until you’ve spilled every secret you’ve been harboring. If you can manage that then maybe,
maybe
, we’ll get to where we can really talk.”