Текст книги "Art & Soul"

Автор книги: Brittainy C. Cherry

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

3 Aria

There wasn’t a Sunday dinner when my family didn’t all eat together. Most of the time during the week Mom and Dad worked different shifts, so everyone eating together wasn’t all that common. Except for Sundays; Sundays we always ate together at our dining table because my parents thought it was important to catch up on life over a homemade meal at least once a week.

Mom passed the bowl of crescent rolls around. “Oh! There’s news! Aria, Mr. Harper called about the art show you signed up for a few months ago. He said your work is going to be highlighted as the featured piece in the art museum. It all sounds like a very big deal.” Mom’s voice was soaked in pride and wrapped in golden approval. She never minded that I was more into the creative world than the medical world she lived in. She was one of those parents who believed their children should be their own people.

The crescent roll bowl landed in my hands and I passed it on to Mike, not replying to Mom’s excitement.

“I thought you would be excited.” A slight frown hit her. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

Nothing from me.

“Aria, your mother’s talking to you,” Dad said with command in his tone, even though his eyes were looking past the dining room table to the television in the living room playing Sports Center. Dad had a way of backing Mom up when he was hardly paying attention. He always came into the conversations at precisely the right time, like a spousal sixth sense.

“I’m pregnant,” I stated nonchalantly, stuffing a spoonful of peas into my mouth. The words rolled off of my tongue as if it was a normal thing for me to be saying. As if I’d been trying for months to become impregnated by the love of my life. As if it was the next logical step in my life.

Mike held his crescent roll in midair, his eyes darting back and forth between our parents. My younger sister Grace’s eyes were bugged out. My baby sister KitKat threw a few peas at Dad, but that was normal because she was a one-year-old and always threw peas at Dad.

I supposed their reactions were the precise way to look based on what I’d told them twenty seconds before.

I wished I was invisible.

My eyes shut. “Just kidding.” I laughed, becoming wary of the strange silence that filled the dining room. I poked Mom’s special meatloaf with my fork. Everyone’s faces softened, the shock subsiding.

“You’re kidding?” Mom choked out.

“She’s kidding.” Mike sighed.

“Kidding?” Dad sang.

Grace nodded with understanding. “Totally kidding.”

KitKat giggled, but then again she was always either giggling, howling in tears, or throwing peas.

“Yeah,” I muttered, my voice wanting to shake. I wouldn’t allow it to. “Not kidding.”

Dad tilted his head and was alarmingly calm. “Mike, Grace, take KitKat upstairs.”

“But!” Mike began to argue. He wanted to be front row center to watch our parents verbally assault me and my bad decisions. He was normally the one to get in trouble for drinking and partying with a few of the other football players, so it must’ve been nice to not have the parents eyeballing him with stern looks for a change. I was always the well-behaved kid who promised and delivered straight A report cards each semester. My acts of rebellion were small in comparison: a shaved head and too much eyeliner had been the extent of my wild and crazy—until now.

Dad turned his deceivingly calm stare to Mike. That shut him up quick. He lifted KitKat out of her chair and left the room.

The dinner table conversation took a turn for the worse, and I knew I should’ve told Mom alone first. She was a pediatrician and worked closely with kids and their issues, so maybe she would have understood. But instead, I’d tried to be all nonchalant about the issue and decided to drop my big news in front of my father.

He wasn’t a pediatrician.

He didn’t “get” kids.

He was a plumber.

He dealt with people’s crap for forty plus hours a week. Clogged toilets, sinks, nasty tub drains—you name it, he fixed it.

Which meant by dinnertime, he was pretty annoyed by other people’s shit. Including mine.

“Pregnant, Aria?” Dad hissed, his face turning redder and redder by the second. The bald spot on the top of his head was bright and steaming with anger. Dad was a heavyset man of very few words. He never had much reason to raise his voice at us. We were, on the whole, decent kids. Even with Mike’s drinking and partying, Dad would scold him quietly. He’d had it pretty easy raising us until about three minutes ago.

I didn’t reply to his question. My non-responsiveness made it worse.

“Pregnant?!” His voice became a holler as his fists slammed against the table, knocking over the salt shaker. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands, and I accidently bit the inside of my lip. Dad’s blue eyes were stern with disappointment and his mouth was so intent on forming a frown that it made me feel sad, too.

“Adam.” Mom grimaced, bothered by the way he was raising his voice at me. “Do you want the neighbors to hear?”

“I doubt that would matter because I’m pretty sure they’ll be able to see it soon enough!”

He was at a full-blown shout, and I was terrified.

“Screaming isn’t going to make it better,” Mom explained.

“And speaking softly isn’t going to either,” Dad replied.

“I don’t like your tone, Adam.”

“And I don’t like that our sixteen-year-old daughter is pregnant!”

My body tensed up. If there was anything worse than saying the word pregnant myself, it was hearing the word fly from Dad’s mouth. My stomach was tightly knotted, and I felt my dinner rising back up my throat. I’d never made any mistake that would make my parents seem so broken. How had I screwed up that much?

They were fighting.

They never fought.

The last time I’d heard them do anything close to fighting was when they were trying to pick a nickname for KitKat, and that had ended with Dad kissing Mom’s forehead and rubbing her feet during an episode of “NCIS”.

My hands fell to my lap, and I wanted to try to explain to them how it had happened. I wanted them to understand how I knew being pregnant as a teenager was a terrible thing. I repeat: being sixteen and pregnant is a terrible thing. I’d watched the show “16 & Pregnant” on MTV way too many times, and I should’ve known to keep my lady parts away from that guy, but something weird happened to my brain when he called me beautiful. Well, not beautiful, but cute, which was more than I’d ever been called before by anyone other than my parents. Weird and freak, yes. Cute? Not so much.

Mom ran her fingers through her wavy black hair. She had goose bumps running down her caramel arms. I looked more like her, more Mexican than Caucasian like my father. Her lips were full and her eyes were the color of chocolate candies. Those same eyes were currently filled with disappointment and confusion.

“Maybe I should talk to her alone first,” Mom offered.

Dad grunted before pushing himself away from the table. He didn’t have the same look of confusion and disappointment, he just seemed disgusted with me. “Have at it.”

When he left the room the conversation with Mom moved pretty quickly.

“How do you know you’re pregnant?” she asked.

“Took four tests,” I replied.

“How do you know you performed the tests right?”

“Come on, Mom.”

“Is Simon…?”

“What? No way!”

“Why on Earth wouldn’t you use protection?”

“I made a mistake.” I cleared my throat, feeling ashamed. After seeing the condescending look in her eyes, I bailed on the logic and tried for a more playful approach. “Didn’t you say to Dad that KitKat was an accident, too? Can’t you see how these things could happen?”

“Aria Lauren, watch your words. You’re this close to the edge,” she scolded me. When Mom got upset, her face tightened and the smile lines around her mouth disappeared. She also tugged on her right ear when extremely irritated.

She was right.

I was hanging from the edge, reaching out toward her to pull me up, but she was too busy tugging her ear to death.

“Tomorrow I’ll pick you up after school and we’re going to head to the doctor and get you checked out. For now, head to your room so I can talk to your father.”

My feet dragged toward my bedroom, and I paused on the wooden floor panels before turning on my heel to face her again. “Can you ask Dad not to hate me too much?”

Her mouth softened and those smile lines returned. “I’ll make sure that it’s the perfect amount of hatred.”

It’d been fifty-four minutes of yelling and screaming between my parents. Even though they were really upset with me, they were determined to take it out on one another. I sat cross-legged on my bed, ear buds in ears, and a blank canvas in front of me. The music was cranked to a deafening volume to avoid hearing my parents fall apart. I would lose myself in my artwork and music to try to forget that I’d broken my family.

At least that was the plan until Mike came and stood in my doorway. His lips moved at a nonstop speed, but luckily my music was shutting out whatever he was saying. Lifting my iPod, I stupidly turned down the sound.

“You ruined this, you know. My senior year is supposed to be epic, but instead I’m going to be the guy with a knocked up younger sister.”

“You’re right. I should’ve really thought about how this would affect my older, popular brother. It was a lot easier when nobody noticed me, right?” I sarcastically rolled my eyes. Mike was a huge guy, the star running back of the football team and on his way to being offered full rides to play football at some of the biggest colleges in the Midwest. With his blue eyes and light brown hair, he looked more like Dad than Mom.

“You’re so fucking stupid. You really don’t know what you’ve done, do you? Listen to them.” He gestured toward the living room.

“Shut up, Mike.” I turned the volume back up on my music. He kept yapping for a good few minutes before he dramatically flipped me off and stormed away. My brother, my hero.

Hours passed before the lights in the house faded to black. Mom and Dad never came to check on me. I hadn’t been able to paint, either. The brush rested in my grip, ready, but I never pushed it against my canvas.

Grace poked her head into my room, but she didn’t know what to say to her big sister who was pregnant.

She walked back and forth for a while trying to figure out something to say, glancing into my bedroom before giving me a sly smirk. “You know KitKat is going to be an aunt to someone that’s only a year younger than her? That’s creepy.”

Twelve-year-olds were a lot more forward than I wanted them to be, that was for sure.

“Get lost, twerp.”

“You’re a twerp, twerp!” she mocked back, placing her hands on her hips and rolling her neck back and forth as if she was nothing more than a body of sass. “I have questions.”

“Of course you do.”

“Do you pee on yourself?”

“What?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Do. You. Pee. On. Yourself? My teacher Mrs. Thompson was pregnant last year and she peed all over the hallway when we were walking to music class.”

“I don’t pee on myself.” Not yet at least. Was that something I should be worried about? Would I start randomly peeing on myself for some strange reason? Note to self—Google pissing during pregnancy.

“I bet you’re going to be super fat too. Some people are really pretty pregnant, like Mrs. Thompson, but I don’t think you are going to be one of those people.”

“You can leave any time, Grace.”

“I’m not changing any dirty diapers. Do you even know how to change a diaper?!”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Shouldn’t you not be pregnant?”

Touché.

I did the only mature thing I could think of.

I took off my dirty socks and threw them at her face, hitting her right in her mouth.

“Eww! You’re nasty!” she whined, washing her tongue against the palm of her hand. “I’m telling!”

Right, because our parents’ biggest issue at that moment was the fact that I’d put dirty socks in my sister’s mouth.

I went digging into my dresser and pulled out a pair of underwear and one of my oversized T-shirts to sleep in. I knew I should’ve been in bed already. School didn’t really care if I was tired in the morning. School didn’t care that my life was going through a complete upheaval. School didn’t care that I was moments away from a breakdown.

School just wanted me there by the first bell.

I hopped into the shower to try to clear the fog that was residing inside my head. The water rained down on me for over an hour before I stepped out and dried myself off with a towel. The mirror in front of me felt mocking. My fingers fell to my stomach, and I stared into the mirror trying to understand how I could look the same, but be so different.

I slid the T-shirt over my head, and I glanced at myself once more before walking out of the bathroom. I cringed when I saw Dad lying on the living room couch. He looked like a giant trying to get comfortable on a seashell, twisting and turning unsuccessfully.

My lips parted. My brain searched for the right words.

After standing still for a minute, it was clear there weren’t any right words.

So I left.

Monday morning Mike refused to drive me to school.

He said it was because he had to be there an hour early to lift weights before school started, but that had never stopped him in the past. I always ended up going to the art room and messing around for an hour before school.

Even so, he was very adamant that I wouldn’t ride with him. I wanted to complain to my parents about it, but the timing couldn’t have been worse, so the bus was my only choice.

The bus stop was two blocks away from my house. When I tossed my backpack on and left, I saw Simon already standing on the corner. The moment I stood beside him, he could tell everything I hadn’t yet vocalized—best friend extrasensory perception.

“You told them?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Mike’s making you take the bus?”

I nodded again.

“Are you all right?”

I shook my head, my eyes studying the curbside. “But if we could get through today not talking about it, that would be great.”

“Right. Well, I’ll make sure to bury you so far into my own issues that you’ll completely forget about your own. Trust me, I got a lot going on in this weird brain of mine.”

Before he could say anything else, a pair of blue Chucks appeared beside me. My head rose up to the person standing next to me. My eyes met the pair of brown eyes that smiled without even trying, and I got lost.

Deer Boy.

His lips loosened into a small grin, matching his eyes.

I smiled back. At least I thought I did. I couldn’t tell. His grin widened, making my stomach swarm with butterflies.

You’re beautiful.

He was so beautiful that it was almost offensive. He looked like a whisper sounds. Sweet, gentle, and romantic. It was making me dizzy.

I shouldn’t be looking at him.

Really.

Stop staring.

Maybe one more glance?

Maybe two more glances?

My head dropped again. I stared at our shoes. My hands gripped the straps of my backpack, and I pulled them closer to me, my elbows pushing against my sides.

“Hi,” he said. Swarming butterflies, sweaty palms. I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Simon or me, so I remained quiet. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him still smiling. I’d wished he would stop doing that smiling thing. Except, not really. “Is this where the bus picks us up?”

I bobbed my head once before I started kicking around an invisible rock with my left foot. His blue Chucks started mimicking the movement. We kicked invisible rocks together until the school bus pulled up.

Simon was the first to get on the bus, but not before stepping on and off four times before he slid into the front seat. I stepped backward to let Deer Boy onto the bus before me.

He gestured toward the yellow caged vehicle. “Ladies first.”

“Thanks,” I replied, stepping onto the bus.

A small laugh was heard as he followed behind me. “So she does speak.”

4 Levi

My first class of the day was calculus with Mr. Jones. If I had to pick my worst skill, it would be any math class. Being homeschooled, I pretty much avoided the math sections until the very end of the day. But now, with a premade schedule, I was forced to face it first thing in the morning. It was a special kind of hell.

Mr. Jones stood outside of his classroom, greeting everyone.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice warned me. I’d been about to place my books on a desk in the front row. Turning behind me, I saw a guy with spiky hair, a gold chain around his neck, and something that looked like a wannabe mustache. “Mr. Jones is the Sylvester the Cat of Mayfair Heights.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know.” He rasped up his voice and added a lisp with a ton of spitting. “Sufferin Succotash! He’s more into spraying it than saying it.” He patted the seat next to him in the back row. “You’re free to join me back here.”

I accepted the offer.

“You’re the fresh meat that every chick’s been gawking at, eh?” he asked.

“Nah, I think you got the wrong guy. No one has said one word to me yet.” Except for the girl at the bus stop who said thanks, but even that was like pulling teeth.

“Which is exactly why you are the fresh meat. They are studying their prey before they attack. And with that accent?” He whistled low. “Man. You’re going to get girls pregnant just by looking at them. Toss in a wink and they’ll have twins. Which is why you’re going to need me,” he said, patting my back. “The name’s Connor Lincoln, and I am your saving grace, my friend.”

“Is that so?” I said, pulling out a pencil and notebook from my backpack, even though I wasn’t going to take notes.

“Yes. You see, I am the eyes, the ears, and the voice of the student body. I know everything about everyone who matters, and I can help keep you out of harm’s way.”

“Well, isn’t that nice of you.”

“What can I say? I’m a humanitarian.” He held his hand out toward me for a shake. “You got a name?”

“Levi.”

“Where are ya from, Levi?”

“Alabama.”

“All right, all right, all right,” he said with a southern accent—or more of a Matthew McConaughey accent, which was in a league of its own. “You will forever be known as Alabama.”

Seeing as how Connor had saved me from the spitting teacher, I guessed he could call me Alabama.

The girl from the bus stop walked into the classroom and sat two rows in front of me, her head down the whole time. Half of her auburn hair was shaven, and the other half, dark red. She looked different than most of the Barbie girls in the hallways. Darker. Edgier. Beautiful. She reached into her backpack, pulled out a notebook, and started writing in it. She kept sweeping her bangs behind her ear, but never looked up from whatever she was doing in her notebook.

“What about her?” I asked Connor. “Who’s that?”

Connor’s eyes moved to the seat I was pointing at and his eyebrow rose. “Oh. That’s one of the oddities. Not sure of the name because most of the oddities aren’t worth my mind space. It leaves more room for people like that.” He pointed to another girl who had a face plastered with makeup and was wearing a tight black shirt that pushed up her tits. “Now that’s worthy of my brain. Hi, Tori,” he said, waving.

Tori turned around and flipped Connor off. Her eyes crossed mine, and she gave me a smile before turning back to laugh with the girl sitting next to her. “Ah, man, did you see that?!” Connor exclaimed. “Tori Eisenhower smiled at me!”

I didn’t tell him that she had actually been smiling at me, he seemed too thrilled about it.

“Well, okay, she was smiling at you, but since you’re my new main guy, it counts as a smile for me, too. Dude. Do you see it?” He waved his hands all around the room.

“See what?”

“The sea full of sweet, sweet pussy. It’s ours for the taking, my man.”

I laughed uncomfortably. Most of the time when I first met people I didn’t find the need to talk about using girls and referring to them as sweet pussy. With that one line, I was certain I didn’t like Connor.

Hopefully this would be our only class together.

The first hour bell rang. Mr. Jones walked in and began speaking, spitting on everyone in the front few rows. Connor kept whispering things about ‘banging chicks’ and ‘getting digits’ while tugging on his gold necklace.

I should’ve sat in the front row.

Connor followed me to science class, and at first I debated the idea that he was a stalker, but then realized that the schedule gods really hated my guts. I wished there was a decent way to say, ‘leave me the heck alone and stop talking about sex’ without sounding like an ass.

When he pulled out a comb and started brushing at his nonexistent chin hair, I was determined that school really stood for freaking hell.

I considered calling him Eminem, but talking to him only encouraged his conversations about vaginas.

I zoned out for most of my morning classes—realizing that they were all the same. Syllabus, teacher goals, ice breakers. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Being homeschooled all my life, I was happy to see that high school was exactly the same as all the movies portrayed it to be: scuffed up navy blue lockers, pretty girls giggling by the drinking fountain, student clubs posters hanging up, and a lot of gossiping voices.

Every now and then I saw the Bus Stop Girl in the hallways, but she always kept her head down, or was talking to some guy with red hair.

Is he her boyfriend?

I didn’t know why I cared.

The guy made her smile, which was like a hidden treat. She didn’t do it often—she was more into frowning. It was weird, but her frowns made her more intriguing to me.

She and the guy never touched. She mostly hugged that same notebook I saw her writing in earlier.

God. Now I seem like the stalker.

I shuffled my feet and hurried off to my next class.

By this point it wasn’t a surprise that Connor was waiting inside my world history class.