MAC
2 ½ years later…
I close my eyes and fall back on my bed in the early afternoon. Today is my birthday. Seventeen years old and I will never be the daughter my parents want me to be. Sweet. Well-spoken. Reticent.
My father has enrolled me at Fleur Dreyer Halvorsen and no amount of temper tantrums or fake tears will change his mind. FDH, or Fucking Dick Head school as I like to call it, is a finishing college and a “wonderful opportunity” for me. In two months, my decline into the life of a Stepford daughter will begin. My parents are eager for the transition. Whenever Fucking Dick Head school is mentioned, their eyes light up like Christmas. They want me to make friends with other people of the female persuasion. I don’t have any. Most aren’t willing to suffer my forthright attitude.
FDH is going to teach me how to find them. It will also teach me to smile bright in the face of adversity rather than resort to petty words and violence. Instead, I can seethe on the inside like a winner. Kind words will become my new mantra. I will use them in response to bigotry, bullying, and dishonesty rather than pulling hair or calling out Renae Sanders in science class as a mean, obnoxious twat for spreading the rumour that Fern Jeffries slept with the teacher to get her A in our Theory of Evolution assignment. I might have also super-glued her textbooks to the desk and used the Bunsen burner to singe an irreparable hole in the pink personalised drink bottle she carries everywhere, but that’s merely conjecture. There’s no proof.
But no more. According to Fucking Dick Head school, I will graduate with the knowledge on how to groom myself. I will learn how to artfully arrange my hair and wear makeup, walk straight, exercise, and use a knife and fork. They will bestow me with the tools necessary to radiate positivity and lasting loveliness until the end of time. My new demeanour will attract people (i.e. new friends) and my warm, gentle nature will be remarked upon, as if being a Stepford daughter is something to be admired.
Fuck that.
I’d rather stab my eyeballs out with a rusty fork.
I want to live. I want to make a difference in the world the way my brothers plan to do. Mitch is already in the academy, and Travis and Jared are gone—living on campus at Charles Sturt University and following the family path of law enforcement. My brothers are badass. That should be me too. Instead, I’m stuck here: the youngest Valentine and last to leave the nest.
I will die in my pretty pink room, festering away from boredom. Rats will come and chew at my dull, insipid carcass until nothing remains but my artfully arranged blonde hair.
“Mac?”
Mum’s voice echoes up the staircase and into my room.
“Come down for tea and cake!”
I roll over and give my pillow a solid punch, using the power in my shoulder like Jake had taught me so long ago.
“Mac!”
My pillow suffers through a few more jabs.
“MAC!”
“Arrghh!”
When my brothers’ turned seventeen, they snuck out for late night beers at the local pub in Manly. And when I say snuck out, I mean “snuck out” because my parents knew and turned a blind eye. Boys will be boys, apparently. Meanwhile, I get crusty oolong with a side of Angel Food cake because Mum is on a gluten-free crusade.
With a huff that goes unnoticed, I heave my body off the bed and start downstairs. If I don’t, Mum will only make her way up and drag me down. At least this way I can survive their birthday song with dignity.
Last year all three brothers were here for it, forcing me to suffer through their horrendous singing. Though for a bunch of wankers, they’re surprisingly astute when it comes to choosing gifts. Not that I want to give them too much credit. I am easy to buy for; clothes, shoes, and bags are my Kryptonite. My closet is bursting at the seams with all three, but right now they feel meaningless. Does that make me selfish? Having all these things and not caring about any of it?
They don’t fill the emptiness that gurgles in my belly as I eyeball the gluten-free creation in front of me. My parents begin the birthday song as the requisite seventeen candles blaze bright enough to burn down the house. Red Velvet is my favourite cake but it was banned ever since I made it at home and Mum saw the amount of red food colouring required, which even I admit was a bit gross.
When Dad’s booming voice stops and Mum’s feeble warble fades, I lean over and blow the candles out.
“Make a wish, make a wish!” Mum cries, clapping her hands as though what I wish for might actually come true. I close my eyes and with tears that burn the backs of my lids, I blow out the seventeen birthday candles wishing for Jake. I wish so hard that my throat aches and my jaw clenches tight enough to crack in two.
But wishes are complete bullshit because he never comes.
“You’re going to love it, Mackenzie.” Tomorrow marks the beginning of the end of my life. Dad confirms it as he sits on the side of my bed and looks down at me. He’s taken to calling me by my full name over the past two months. No one uses a nickname at Fucking Dick Head school. It’s not proper. “You just need to give it a chance.”
“Chance schmance,” I mutter.
“All the girls there will be just like you. You’ll make so many new friends you won’t know what to do with them all.”
I glare. I remove my hands from beneath the covers, rest them on top, and I glare hard. “What do you mean just like me?”
Dad’s eyes cut to the side and he shifts slightly on the bed. He looks utterly uncomfortable, as if answering my question is akin to getting a tooth pulled.
My lips pinch. “Dad?”
He offers me a shrug. “Just that they’re ready to be transformed into little ladies, like you are.”
His comment makes me so bitter it burns the lining of my stomach clean away. I’m not the daughter they wanted. But what about what I want? I don’t want to be a lady. I want to be myself. Strong. Independent. Smart. Someone nobody will dare to mess with. And not because she has three beefy, overprotective brothers to do her dirty work but because she’s lethal in her own right. Powerful and formidable. The game changer. The Queen on a chessboard.
“Dad?”
He sighs, his expression resigned. He’s clearly expecting another argument. “Yes, love?”
My eyes fall to the suitcases standing by my bedroom door. Bright white with pink trim, Mum chose them just yesterday. I’d wanted the Samsonite hardcase range. They were like the outer skin of a toffee apple. Shiny. Red. Delicious. Mum had called them harlot bags and after a battle of wills, I ended up with something deemed more appropriate. We left the store on edge with Mum grinding her teeth and me sulking.
At least I know what I want and I’m determined to work for it, or in this case … argue for it. But clearly it doesn’t count for anything. Raising a wilful daughter is hard work. They’re tired of it. Of me.
It leaves me hollow, a state of being which I thought wouldn’t feel much like anything, yet it hurts more than when I came off my skateboard and broke my arm. It’s a throbbing ache of hopelessness. The emotion is foreign and unpleasant. My usual demeanour is titanium, like the song. I’m bullet proof. Shoot me down, but I won’t fall.
But in this case I’m already down. The only way to get back up is to do something bold. Something wonderfully drastic. Something that makes my heart pound incredibly hard with both fear and excitement.
I have to remove myself from the equation.
I have to leave.
Once the realisation swims to the surface, the stifling thick blanket of control is gone and fresh air fills my lungs.
“What is it, Mackenzie?” my father asks again as I draw a deep breath.
I shake my head, my eyes moving from the suitcases and back to him. “I love you, Dad.”
He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, visibly relieved. “I love you too.” Then he pets my head like I’m a good little puppy. “See you in the morning.”
His feet are silent on the thick carpet as he crosses the room. Turning, he offers a brief smile before flicking off my bedroom light. The door is pulled closed and darkness fills my room.
It will be the last time I see my father as the person I am now. When I eventually return, I will never be the same.