-7-
Turning Tables
Sitting in the car, watching as Cyvil tolerates Moon’s random questions, I discover that there is a lot more to this girl than her file gave away. A lot more. It’s not bad, just surprising. And ridiculously entertaining.
“What was your second grade teacher’s name?” Moon asks from the backseat, his hundredth question for her since he sat his butt down in my car.
“Uh,” she thinks it over as she bites her bottom lip, not seeming thrown off by his quirky personality and even more bizarre inquiries. Little does she know this isn’t just his weirdness talking, but one of his tests. Any girl he, Rosy, or I date goes through this process with him. Based on how they react and respond, he gives them a score.
“I think her name was Mrs. Litchin. She was my in-home tutor from age five to ten, then I went to private school.”
This surprises me. “You were homeschooled?”
She nods, looking out the window when we stop at a red light. I don’t know why, but the girl hasn’t looked at me since we left the hotel. She’s fine to deal with Moon and his eccentricities, but not to look at my face. Makes total sense.
“Book heroine you most look up to?” This is one of his favorite questions to ask, and arguably the one he takes the most away from. If you say Bella from “Twilight”, you get a C-. If you say Anastasia from Fifty Shades, you get a D. And heaven forbid, if you say you’re not much of a reader, the man will literally throw you out of the car like a gong show.
“Can I name two?” she asks over her shoulder.
“For you, I’ll make an exception,” he says, and I shake my head. He’s lucky she’s even going along with his madness right now.
“Elizabeth Bennet and Tessa Gray.”
The light turns green.
He pauses before saying, “I agree with the first, but who the hell is the second?”
And just like that, her tired aura turns into that of a horror stricken one. Turning around to face him, eyes wide, she says, “Have you not heard of the Infernal Devices trilogy?”
He seems stunned by her reaction. Can’t say I was expecting it either. “Uh…no?”
For the next twenty minutes Cyvil and Moon talk about their favorite books, series, authors, poets, just about anything literary. It’s like I’m completely forgotten until we arrive at his apartment building, and he begrudgingly gets out of the car.
Leaning his head back in through the open window, he says, pointing a serious finger at her, “We’re swapping. My collection of Stephen King for your Cassandra Clare stash.”
She nods. “Got it. Oh!” She digs in her bag, a second later pulling out a piece of ripped paper from what looks like an expired coupon and a green pen. She scribbles on it and then hands it to him. “My phone number plus my Goodreads name. We can compare libraries sometime.”
He holds it up with an excited smile. “Will do. See you two later.”
And he’s gone.
I pull away from the curb, back into traffic, and the car goes silent.
I think I can actually hear my heartbeat, it’s so quiet.
Her breathing is even and steady, calm and poised. Just like it was when she was helping Susan Edmonds to breathe again. She acted so fast, knew just what to do. She helped her to be calm by being calm herself, saving her life with that pen. I still can’t believe how lucky that was. I overheard her say to the paramedic that she was allergic to bees, and that’s why she had one of her own. Had she tried to find the woman’s emergency pen on her, it probably would have been too late.
As we continue the ride in silence, I try to think of something to say, a topic to discuss other than books, which was already covered, or the whole you-don’t-want-to-marry-me thing. It’s surprisingly hard. Mostly because the longer I know her, the more opposite we become. She likes calm things, like books, Netflix, medical documentaries (another thing she and Moon have in common). I like cars, motorcycles, stuff that gives you an adrenaline rush; things that make your blood pump a little faster.
I’m so lost in all of our differences that I nearly jump out of my skin when she decides to speak.
“How long have you known your friends?” By her tone, I can tell she doesn’t really care about the answer, but she thought it would be polite to ask; to fill the void until we get to her house and she doesn’t have to deal with me anymore.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
My voice is more cutting than I intend it to be when I say, “Since we were kids.”
Silence again.
My side clenches in guilt. I shouldn’t be like that with her. It’s not her fault I represent everything she doesn’t want. But it’s also not mine, either. I just wish I could find some kind of even ground with her, a truce of sorts. Because believe it or not, I really do want to be friends. She seems like an interesting person, and she already gets along with my friends, which is a first for me when it comes to girls. And now that the deal is off the table, the pressure should be off…right?
“I’m sorry,” she says eventually, once we’re only a few minutes from her street.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” I hit my turn signal.
“I tried to find loopholes for your dad’s business after we talked,” she admits, and I turn to look at her, forgetting that I’m supposed to be driving. Eventually a horn blares and I return my attention to the road.
“I don’t understand.”
She clutches her bag a little tighter to her chest, still staring out the window. “I know it was my dad’s fault for lying to yours, but I still feel guilty for how things turned out. So I looked into different options, hoping to find a way to save your company. But I came up empty.” She sighs, eyes back in the car, now closed, as though she’s in pain. I’m about to ask if she is when we enter her driveway, and her body language changes completely. It’s as though stepping onto her parents’ property makes her go stiff, and I can’t say I don’t understand why.
We pass the main house as dusk falls, lights shining in every window, illuminating each room with a warm glow. It looks homey, safe. But Cyvil obviously doesn’t feel that way. When we make it past, she releases a deep sigh.
Looking embarrassed, she says, “Sorry,” and then adds, “You look like you want to ask me something.”
I nod, pulling into the empty spot by the guest house. In contrast, all of its lights are off, giving an abandoned feel to the miniature cottage. Shutting off the engine to my Lexus, I ask finally, “Why do you feel responsible for my dad’s failures?”
Her mouth opens then closes, opens then closes. She makes some kind of noise in the back of her throat, giving up.
“Cyvil, there isn’t any one person to blame for this, least of all you. It’s not like I don’t understand and respect your reasons for not wanting to marry me. It’s not your choice, you didn’t choose me, and honestly, I didn’t choose you, either. Do you really think I envisioned myself marrying someone my father picked out for me?”
“I know. It’s just –” Her hands ball in her lap. I can’t see their details in the growing dark. “I’ve wanted to help people since I can remember. When I see a problem, I want to fix it. But this,” she motions a hand between the two of us, “I can’t fix this. Or I guess I should say I don’t want to.” Finally, finally she looks at me, and her eyes are bright and golden, sad and sure. There are a hundred lifetimes of knowledge in there, a kind of wisdom you don’t see in many people anymore, least of all a teenager. But from the moment I met Cyvil Montae, she hasn’t exactly been the picture of normal.
“Thank you,” I say a minute later, once the car becomes too quiet, almost heavy. I clear my throat. “Thank you for trying to help. It means a lot that you would do that. I know my father would appreciate it.”
Cyvil
All I can do is nod, trying not to let my hard swallow be too audible. There’s something about the dark that makes everything quieter, giving you a false sense of security, as though it’s safer to be honest when no can see you. And because I’m afraid of just that happening here, now, in his too small car, I decide to escape.
“Thank you for the ride,” I tell him before he can say anything else, finding the lock on the door and opening it in the same motion. I hop out and shut it without looking back, knowing that if I do, it’ll probably be the last time I see him. And honestly, the thought makes me relieved. At least then this heavy feeling on my shoulders will be lessened without his kind eyes there to add to it.
***
I know I said all I wanted was to go home and pass out on my bed, but once my butt gets me there, my eyes refuse to close, my mind too busy to shut down and rest. Staring at the dark ceiling, I feel a dip in the bed and then a nose nudging my palm. I breathe out a gush of air as I pet Grim’s head.
“Why does life have to be so complicated?” I ask her, and she responds with a baaahhh, laying herself down next to me. I itch behind her ear.
Having nothing else to distract me, my mind wanders to the lady I saved today, and the look in her eyes, the pure panic that she wasn’t going to make it. I’ve seen it before, from other patients in different settings. But all are the same. It doesn’t matter how old you are, whether you’re religious, alone, surrounded by friends or family. Death scares everyone. And even more, not being prepared for it.
No matter how many times I see it, I’m reminded of the fear and pain felt behind it, the white-hot feeling of the unknown. I was seven when I felt it, saw it in myself. It had been in the house where my life was forever changed, modeled after the 1970s. The carpet was burnt orange shag that smelled like moth balls, the walls covered in dark faux wood paneling that was peeling in too many places to count. And the closet doors had mirrors on them, full-length and oddly clean for the otherwise dirt ridden room.
Looking at myself in them, my eyes had been overly large, the whites stained red and panic stricken. Blood had started to trickle into one of them, but at that point, I couldn’t even feel the sting of the cuts anymore. I was too enraptured by the loss of innocence in those childish eyes, the lack of a carefree smile I’d always had, the bubbling laughter. It was all gone, and in its place was the shell of a little girl, realizing in that moment that death was waiting for her.
I shake myself out of the memory, knowing that if I get lost in it I’m going to be there for days, reliving it all over again. It was the event that changed the course of my life, made me see the world for what it is: greedy and heartless. But instead of jading me, it inspired me to help others, to put some good back in the world where it was lost. I wanted, and still want, to help people, save lives – just like I did today. That’s why it infuriates and also devastates me that I now have no way to do it without bending to the will of my parents.
Why do you feel responsible for my father’s failures? I hear Jagger’s voice in my head as I close my eyes, picturing him saying it. He really didn’t have any ill will in his voice or eyes when he said it. He doesn’t hold me accountable, which means I shouldn’t either. And he’s right. His father put himself in this position. I didn’t make him fail in his business ventures. Just like my dad selfishly put his wants for me before my own. It’s our parents that orchestrated this whole thing, and yet we’re the ones that feel bad about it failing. How the heck is that fair?
The more I think about it, the angrier I get with the injustice of it all. Jagger is loaded with the responsibility to drag his dad out of the ditch after he put himself there, and I’m given the choice of marrying a man I don’t know so I can make a difference in the world, or else be ostracized by my father for the rest of my life and left penniless. If only I could switch the tables –
I sit up too fast, giving myself a headrush while startling Grim in the process. But it’s totally worth it, because I just came up with an idea. One that could save us both and teach my dad a thing or two about the consequences of blackmailing his daughter.
I smile as the details become clearer, and my hope for an actual future starts to come into focus.
***
The next morning I text Jagger an address, asking him to meet me there at four o’clock, but not saying what I want to talk about or why. It’s too much to explain in a text. After that I call Hanna and ask her how everything went with Lover Boy, also wanting to make sure she got home safe. Rich or not, men are men, and I regretted not having stayed with her like I should have.
“I was fine. And you’re never going to guess what happened,” she squeals, and my mothering instinct kicks in like lightning.
“You didn’t fly to Vegas and get married, did you?”
She snorts. “No, even better…I won my Hello-Kitty basket!”
“I’m happy for you?” I laugh over my cereal bowl, sitting down to watch the local news on the couch. Grim joins me, finding her preferred spot in the corner of the sofa.
“You should be. It was worth over twenty dollars and I paid five. I’m rolling like a baller now thanks to your spontaneous invite.”
“Yeah, okay, Snoop. But what I really want to know is what happened with you and Rosy?”
She pauses, her voice pitching when she says, “Who the hell is Rosy?”
Whoops. “I mean Ambrosio. Was he a gentleman, or do I need to rearrange his colon?”
“Aw,” she gushes, “I’m touched you would rip out a guy’s organs for me.”
I shrug, forgetting she can’t see me. “It’s what best friends are for.”
“Actually, he was great and really sweet, even if he is a player. In fact, he’s taking me out for dinner tonight. Little Dino’s or something I think. I said I love pizza and he said they were the best.” She pauses before asking, “Speaking of which, how was the car ride home?”
“Uneventful,” I garble around my last bite of cereal.
“Somehow I doubt that. And besides, when are you going to tell me what’s really going on with you and Mr. Sexy? Because I know it’s something.”
A ding alerts me that I have a text. And since the only people that text me are my sister, who hasn’t been up before noon since she got pregnant, and Hanna, whom I’m already talking to, that leaves only one person left.
“Okay, Nosy. Gotta go. Talk to you later.”
A huff sounds on her end. “Fine, but you are going to tell me one day what –”
Oops, call got dropped.
By my finger on the End button.
Switching over to my messages as the news anchor babbles on, I scroll down until I find what I’m looking for.
Jagger: Sure. 4 is fine. See you then.
Bingo.
Smiling down at the message, pleased that my evil plan is working, I startle when the phone begins to ring. So bad, in fact, that I drop my cereal bowl full of milk on the floor, the white liquid flying everywhere. Grumbling, I hit Answer while I head to the kitchen for some paper towels, saying to my sister, “Damn you.”
“See, this is why I don’t get up before noon. You morning people are absolute snots to deal with.”
Since I can’t rip the towel off with one hand while the other holds the phone, I take the whole roll with me, placing her on speakerphone while I mop up the mess. When Grim eyes the spilled milk greedily, I say, “Don’t even think about it.”
Going back to what she said last, I grunt, “Then why are you breaking status quo today?”
“Because my good meaning husband made me a doctor’s appointment for ten o’clock, and I want someone to come with me.”
Using more towels than is probably necessary, I throw them down on the wood floor and let it absorb the liquid while I ask my sister, “And said husband can’t go with you?”
“No, because I killed him for making the appointment at ten in the morning. Duh.”
“Of course, I should have guessed you killed your unborn child’s father when I picked up the phone. I apologize for not being more supportive when I answered. And yes, I’ll go. But on one condition.”
“I’m not naming it after you,” she says without asking what it is first.
“Go by yourself then.”
“Whatever.”
Sitting back against the couch after disposing of the towels in the garbage, and my bowl in the sink, I give in. Just this once. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Good, ‘cause I need a ride. Car’s in the shop.”
Of course. “So I’m just a taxi for you, is that it?”
She pauses, then says without remorse, “Yep, pretty much.”
“Just for that, you have to make Cyvil its middle name. Girl or boy.”
“Not a chance.”
Sigh. “Had to try.”