Like dragonflies, p.4
Like Dragonflies, page 4
I fumble for the right words to say. Words that won’t anger him. “I don’t know, sir.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he roars, charging for me. His fist grabs the front of my hoodie and he yanks me so we’re face-to-face. The pungent smell of whiskey on his breath sours my stomach. “I worked my ass off while your mother was pregnant. We tried so hard to be a normal family. But then you were born.” He spits out his words. “You were born, screaming twenty-four fucking seven. While I was working my fingers to the bones at the mill, your mother was stuck with you. It drove her crazy. No wonder she took up meth. Anything to cope.” His face is bright red with fury.
I swallow down my emotion and stay deathly still. There’s no arguing or apologizing when he gets like this.
“So you owe it to her. To fucking me. You owe it to your parents who gave up their lives for you. If I even hear one word from Ricky Beauchamp about you stepping out of line, you’ll be done.” He shoves me away from him and I crash into a chair.
I right myself, clutching my backpack strap hard, and whip around to face him. Clenching my teeth, I bite back every hateful word I want to say back to him. My mouth gets me in trouble all the damn time. With anyone else, I don’t care. With Dad, I try my hardest not to piss him off.
“Yes, sir,” I mutter.
“You’re a loser, Mars,” he says, his voice turning icy. “Me, letting you stay here—well past eighteen—and borrowing against my pension to pay for your education, is me giving you a fighting chance.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I offer my best look of gratitude. While I’m thankful he’s paying for this first semester of my college, I hate being a mooch for needing that help. The tuition. The truck. The room to stay in. Hell, even the groceries in the cabinet. I’m in his debt.
His phone rings and saves me from further lecturing that would no doubt lead to bruises or a busted lip. As soon as he answers, his voice turns from cruel to flirty as he tries to lure his newest conquest into his bed. I slip past him quietly, rushing to my room. Pictures of my mom hang on the walls—something Aunt Darcy did for us when I was small—leading to my bedroom at the end of the hall. You can pick my room out of the mix because it’s the only one with holes punched in the door.
I push inside my room and flick on the light before closing the door behind me. There’s no point in locking it. Once, I thought that would keep my father out when he was in a rage. All it did was infuriate him more. He showed me real quick, when I was just thirteen, how a thin plywood door is no match for a man of his size and strength. I was no match.
Tossing my bag to the floor, I let out a heavy sigh. The day is catching up with me and I’m dead on my feet. I should study or shower. Instead, I peel off my hoodie and shirt before kicking off my shoes. I sprawl out on my double bed and admire the chaos that is my room.
Posters. Pictures. Scraps of paper. Stolen coasters from Duncan D’s. Sketches and paintings and some weird kite thing I found in a field. Whatever cool shit I can scrounge up ends up on my walls. To most, it probably looks like a big mess. To me, it’s a snapshot of me. A bunch of random parts that make up the man I am today.
Grabbing my sketchbook and a pencil from the bedside table, I doodle some meaningless art. Just stuff to clear my mind. I end up drawing a dragonfly with rings that seem to orbit its narrow body in place of wings. The stress of this evening fades away as my white sheet of paper becomes dark with pencil shading, mimicking the deep void of space. My dragonfly and its unusual wings seem to fly through the stars. An escape, far away from here. Inside the body of the dragonfly, I scribble out the name “SAGE.” It’s small and I make the letters stretch from one side of the body to the other, so it almost looks like a design within it. I decide it looks cool enough for the wall and rip it out.
As I slip out of bed and pin it on a semi-free area near the window, I stop to think about her again.
Pretty, shy, perfect Sage.
I wonder if her dad is a good one. I hope so. No one deserves the shit I put up with. Nathan McKinney should have never had me. Sometimes, I really wish he’d have remembered to wear a condom that night. At least Mom would still be alive.
My eyes grow droopy with the need to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll need to study and take a shift or two over at Jimmy’s. After turning out the lights and crawling back into bed, I can’t help but think about Sage’s cute, pouty mouth and the way she’d shyly hidden it behind her knuckle.
A smile plays at my lips as I drift toward sleep.
Until the trailer starts rocking. The moans rumble through the walls. Dirty talk that turns my stomach and nearly makes my ears bleed. Grunts. Screams of pleasure. Laughter.
Nobody wants to hear their wasted father fuck some barfly.
I’ve gotta get the hell out of here.
I don’t know how much more of this place I can take.
Sage
Vibrant purples and blues stare back at me from my dragonfly canvas. I decide it needs red because when I think about Mars, I think about red. And thinking about Mars is literally all I can do lately.
The bristles of my brush swim in muted red tones I’ve mixed together. I add a smudge here and another over there until the dragonfly, with its lacy wings and thin body, looks like it’s floating in an aura of crimson. It’s not an angry crimson though because Mars doesn’t strike me as angry. It’s full of energy. Like him.
My mind buzzes at the thought of figuring out what makes him tick. Most people are so vapid I have no interest in being around them for longer than I have to be.
Mars is different though.
He has depth and mystery and I’m drawn to him like a moth to a fatal flame. I hope thinking about him so much doesn’t drive me insane. I’ve never thought about a boy as much as I do him.
That’s why when I went to The Grind House on Tuesday with my hair actually washed and brushed, wearing a pair of jeans and a cute sweater, I was upset he wasn’t there. Instead of sulking, I told Martina he made my drink perfectly and asked what days he worked. If I weren’t such a spaz, I would have asked him when he stopped to talk to me on Monday. From talking to Martina, I found out Mars worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays in the evening.
“Sage, are you ready?” Mom knocks on my door, poking her head in my room and I jolt with shock.
“Ready?” I ask, setting down my paintbrush. She pushes my door open, totally ignoring the fact it was closed for a reason, and interjects herself into my safe place. My place away from her.
My back stiffens and my shoulders pull back. My body immediately remembers that perfect posture is a must around Mom.
Don’t slouch, Sage. You look like a hobo.
Her voice darts around in my head like an incessant pest. I roll my eyes at it and I know outwardly, I look like a brat. Mom anchors her fists to her hips and sighs as if I’m hopeless. “It’s my turn to host the Ladies of Ashton Hills autumn dinner party. How is it that I print out a social calendar for you to follow every month, and you still manage to forget everything?” I can tell by the tight line she’s pressed her lips into, I’m about to get an earful.
I cringe, but only in my mind because I’m not allowed to have anything other than a spine stiff as a board in front of Mom.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I say, hoping to smooth things over so the grating lecture doesn’t last too long. I’m so close to finishing my painting, and I’d give anything for her to turn and walk out so I can put the final touches on it.
No such luck.
“It’s almost like you don’t want this gorgeous life your father and I are handing you. We offered to send you to Columbia University and you opted to attend Ashton Hills Community College instead. You sneak away from every social gathering I try to involve you in, and now you’re just flat-out forgetting your obligations.” Her words bore into my chest like a drill, and I’m left bouncing my knuckle against my lip to keep in all the words I want to spew out.
I don’t want everything she’s trying to push on me. I never have. Mom has always been a vicarious parent, and I’ve always gone along with what she wanted while quietly dying inside.
I never protested the bows, ponytails, and frilly dresses she adorned me with when I was little. I never told her I hated ballet or piano lessons when I was in elementary school. I did whatever she wanted with a smile because I saw the brokenness in her eyes when she looked at me.
I saw jagged little bits of longing, and I didn’t have the heart to push back when she artfully arranged my life. If I did, I knew she’d crack.
If I had my way, I’d live a simple life: free from social circles and phony smiles. I’d live happily with a normal job and a few good friends who understood me. Hell, I’d kill for one person in the world who understood me.
My mind clicks back into motion and I realize Mom is still fussing at me. “If you’d stop worrying about stupid things like painting, maybe you’d pay attention to your social obligations,” Mom huffs.
Those are your social obligations. Not mine.
I hate when she belittles painting. It’s the only thing I love. It’s the only thing that sets me apart from the social clusterfuck all around me. It’s the only time I can hide from the stone wall.
“I know,” I say before combing my fingers through my hair. I feel her ice-blue gaze on my eyebrows, and I slide the pads of my fingers over them before she can threaten me with brow gel.
“Honestly, Sage, there are girls who would kill to be in your shoes. I’m sure some girl over in Duncan would do anything to live the life you’re living.” It’s back, the broken stare she gives me whenever I’m not sticking to the script. The weight of Mom’s expectations sinks into my chest like lead and the rumbling of stone begins. I feel my chest tighten and my lungs try and fail to fully inflate.
“I’ll get dressed,” I mutter, while examining my toes and the way they sink into the plush carpet. There are tiny specks of paint dotting the floor. All different colors like sprinkles. Mom hates it and lets me know all the time how I’ve ruined perfectly good carpet, but I like the way it looks.
“Please don’t wear jeans, for the love of God.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes for a brief moment then she leaves fussing under her breath.
The second my bedroom door closes, my shoulders drop and my spine curls forward. The stone wall recedes and a dull throb radiates across my skull.
My mind flits to Mars and I’m envious of how carefree he seems. His parents are probably just as easygoing and charming as he is. I wonder if he’s being shoved into a box that doesn’t fit him.
Probably not. That’s just you, Sage.
I flip through the clothes in my closet and pick out something I know Mom will approve of. I rush to get dressed in a cream Chanel blouse and a black pleated skirt. I let all of my hair down and brush it until it behaves. Then I run a flat iron over the unruly ends until they’re straight.
My gaze falls to the ornate jewelry box sitting on my vanity and I sigh. Mom will forget she was ever mad at me if I wear pearls.
I hate pearls.
Mom loves them.
I grab a string and fasten them around my neck. Now, all the personality has been groomed right out of my body, and I look like Eleanor Emerson’s daughter.
When I walk into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad are talking and laughing, I pause for a moment to absorb the happy sounds. At least they love each other.
I mean, I know they love me too, especially Dad. He’s always in my corner. He’s the reason why I have an easel in my room now. I guess Mom loves me too. I just wish she’d love me for who I really am and not who she wants me to be.
“There she is.” Dad’s big voice reaches out to me before his long arms pull me in for a hug. “You look beautiful, kiddo.” He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead that makes me smile.
“Thanks, Dad.” I squeeze him a little tighter because I know soon I’ll be surrounded by Mom’s friends and their daughters. I know Leah and Sophia will be there, talking amongst themselves, and I know I’ll be slowly dying inside while it all happens.
“Oh, so you do know how to do something other than paint,” Mom snorts. Her heels on the kitchen floor make the bright clicking noise and I fall into the melody. Anything to ignore her while she talks. “For goodness sake, Sage, did you even bother to wash the paint from your hands?”
I glance at my paint-smudged fingers and curl them into the palm of my hand, away from her scrutiny.
Mars flickers into my mind and I remember how softly he touched my hand. He looked at the color on my fingers with awe. Not disgust like Mom.
“Wash your hands and let’s go,” Mom says, snatching me away from my thoughts of Mars.
“Okay,” I mumble before heading to the sink. I listen as her heels click out of the kitchen and toward the foyer. Dad shoots me an apologetic smile before he rubs my shoulder.
“Just think, when you get home, you can finish that awesome dragonfly you’re working on.” When he winks at me, I smile. He’s so handsome. It’s easy to see why Mom married him.
For a man in his forties, he’s incredibly fit and strong, with hair brown as mahogany, and eyes to match. His high cheekbones make him look years younger than he is. All the ladies in Mom’s group swoon when he smiles at them. She hates it but Dad doesn’t pay them any attention. All he can see is her.
“You’ve been spying on my art,” I tease. A smirk plays on my lips.
“I have to or else I’d never know what beauty you’re up there making.”
“That’s not true.” I laugh a little and shut the water off before inspecting my hands. They’re not paint-free but it’s as close as they’re going to get.
“What made you paint such a cool looking dragonfly?” he asks. “You hate bugs.” He’s right. Bugs of all sorts creep me the hell out.
“A new barista at The Grind House made me a latte with a dragonfly on top, and I thought it was really cool,” I tell him. I can’t help smiling when I think about the artful way Mars poured cream on top of my drink. It makes my ears warm and my palms tingly.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this new barista is a guy.” Dad taps the tips of my ears and I feel heat inching up my neck, dying to settle on my cheeks.
“Oh God, Dad.” I groan, burying my face in my hands.
“Sage, let’s go!” Mom’s voice is like a sword through a warm, tender moment. I shoot Dad a look that says sorry before I dash to the foyer.
The autumn dinner is being held at Giovanni’s, an Italian restaurant with nothing on the menu under twenty dollars. Mom clearly went all out.
I feel my chest aching from the weight of the stone wall, so I stare down at the soft white linen napkin in my lap. I wonder how it would look drenched in colors. My fingers paint an invisible dragonfly in the center of the napkin.
I wish I had wings right about now. I’d fly the fuck away from this dinner.
I try to pull in a breath but my chest won’t allow it. It’s too compressed. I wonder if anyone can tell I’m being crushed. I look up for a moment to see Leah and Sophia staring at me from across the table. They look at each other when I catch their eyes and start to laugh.
I hate it so much. Prickly heat blankets my neck and ears. I should have told Mom I was sick or something.
Without thinking, I tap my knuckle against my lips while I look around the long rectangular table at a bunch of women whom I’ve never held a real conversation with. Most of them wouldn’t know a real conversation if it hit them in the face.
The thought makes me snort. Mom sends daggers my way. Her eyes narrow and I grab the glass of water in front of me so I don’t get caught in her crosshairs.
I lift the heavy crystal to my lips but the vibrating phone in my purse causes my fingers to slip. Ice water drenches my chest and thighs, pulling a sharp gasp from me. I spring from my chair and shake drops of water from my blouse.
“Sage,” Mom’s voice is tight and hard as she reprimands me for splashing the ladies in front of me. “Go to the bathroom,” she hisses.
No need to tell me twice. I bolt, wobbling uncomfortably in my heels. My ribs must be dust by now. The stone wall of anxiety that lives in my mind has crushed me beyond repair.
What a way to fuck up.
I blot my shirt with cloth napkins stacked in the bathroom and mutter curse words beneath my breath. Goosebumps blanket my skin as my teeth chatter.
The bathroom door squeaks open and Mom appears. “What were you thinking, Sage? Do you know how badly you’ve embarrassed me?” She snatches the napkin from my fingers and throws it down. My eyes follow its descent to the counter.
“It was an accident,” I explain. I wrap my arms around my middle and squeeze to generate warmth.
“An accident,” she scoffs. “Your blouse is see-through now. You can’t possibly sit at the dinner table showing everyone your bra. Is it too much to ask for you to just sit and smile?”
“I’m sorry,” I groan, rubbing my forehead.
“I’m calling Charles to come get you. I’m sure that’s what you wanted anyway though, isn’t it? Anything to get out of your social obligations.” Her top lip curls in disgust and my chest aches. I finger the string of pearls around my neck and wedge myself into the corner. I just want to stay out of her path.
My ears are on fire, listening to her call Dad. After a few moments of her telling him what happened, she ends the call and turns her unforgiving glare toward me. “He’s on his way.” Mom is steeped in disapproval. It radiates from her in thick waves that suffocate me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again. “It was an accident.” She holds up her hand, effectively silencing me, then she turns on her heel and leaves me alone in the bathroom.
Ten minutes pass before Dad texts my phone, telling me he’s outside. When I check his message, I see the initial text that caused me to drop my water. It was from Sophia.
Sophia: There’s no way your awkward ass is the offspring of Charles and Eleanor Emerson. You must be adopted LOL.
Embarrassment burns my cheeks and ears. It feels like I’m standing on the face of the sun. I rush from the bathroom and fly by the table of chatting women without lifting my gaze.
