“WHAT?” I GRUMBLE INTO THE phone. My eyes are closed and I'm lying on my back, pretending I am still sleeping like I want to be.
“Delilah?”
I sit up and squint at the name and number on the phone. “Monica?”
“Yes. I'm sorry to call you so early and also on your day off, but...” She pauses and then says the rest in a rush. “Thomas' mother is ill. She has terminal cancer. She's been diagnosed for a while now, but it's rapidly progressing and they don't know if she's going to make it through the week. I have no one else to ask and, well, I would feel more comfortable leaving knowing you're around. I'm sure he'd be okay on his own, but just in case, I mean, with what happened yesterday—it should only be for a day or two and—”
“What is it?” I interrupt.
“Can you stay at the house with Rivers?”
“What?” I tell myself I misheard her, but then she continues and I know I didn't.
“We're trying to catch a plane immediately and Rivers can't travel like he is. I mean, he could, but it would be difficult. I need someone to watch over him, especially with the pool incident yesterday. I would feel better knowing he isn't alone.”
“I'm sure Rivers is all for that.”
“It doesn't matter what he wants,” she says sharply. Apparently they've already had a conversation regarding this. “It's for his best interest that someone be around while we're away and I trust you. All of our family is in California. We have some friends in town, but no one we consider close. I don't have anyone else to ask.” Her voice has taken on a pleading note and I am not immune to it. In fact, I already see myself weakening and saying yes.
“What about his girlfriend?” I ask in a last effort to keep from agreeing to her proposition.
“Rivers and Riley broke up before his accident. I think she was hoping he would want to date again, but...she came by yesterday and...it didn't go well. He finally talked to her. What he said...” She inhales deeply. “I don't think she'll be visiting anymore.”
“Oh.” Not really sure how I feel about this. Sort of sorry for Riley, but sort of indifferent as well.
“I'll pay you.”
The selfish part of me wants to ask how much, but I can't do that without guilt eating at me, so I tell her, “I'll do it. For free. Well, I mean, I'll still be doing my normal job, so count it as part of that.”
“Of course. Help yourself to whatever you want. The fridge is fully stocked. The couch in the sun room pulls out into a bed, if that's comfortable for you. There is a spare bedroom upstairs too, but I would feel better if you were on the same floor as Rivers. Can you come over now?”
“Yeah. How long should I plan on being there?”
She pauses. “I'm not sure. A few days, at least, maybe a week. You can use the washer and dryer while you're here and anything else you want or need. If you need to go home, of course you can. I don't want you to think I expect you to be caged in here while we're gone. I appreciate this so much, Delilah. I know this isn't part of your job description, but I am grateful. Thank you.”
I end the phone call after telling her I'll be over in twenty minutes and flop onto my back to stare at the room enshrouded in the shadows of sunrise. I think I should have made a list of what my job duties were and were not, but I know it wouldn't have mattered. I would still be here, just like I am, saying yes all over again. The sun isn't even fully up yet. It is just wrong to be up before the sun says hello. Sighing, I blink my tired eyes and sit on the edge of the bed. There is no point wasting time grumbling about things. I could have said no. I didn't.
I heave myself from the bed and find my hot pink tote bag in the back of my closet. My bedroom always looks like a tornado has recently been through. I keep the butter-toned room clean with sweeping and dusting, but for whatever reason, I have a hard time keeping my clothes in the dresser drawers and hung up. I have piles of folded clothes on the wood floor, in laundry baskets, and on the foot of my cream and black swirled bedspread. It seems like such a waste of time to put all the many articles of clothing in their proper spots when there are better ways to spend the same amount of time. Or it could be I simply have too many clothes—or I'm lazy. I quickly toss that description away.
As I dig through my dresser drawers, the coolness of the wood seeps into my knees where I kneel. I think about spending multiple days and nights in the same house as Rivers. I'm sure we will talk so much we'll run out of things to say. We can discuss in great detail his total shun of me throughout the history of our association. It'll be fun. And him smiling at me all the time? I'll probably faint from the sheer wattage of it. I toss my lime green two-piece in the bag and grab random articles of clothing to shove in the bag as well. I decide I don't need to bring makeup or jewelry because there will be no reason to get glammed up while babysitting the former football star of Prairie du Chien High.
After a quick stop in the bathroom to take care of necessities and grab what I'll need for the duration of my stay at the Young residence, I follow the scent of coffee into the kitchen. My mom is standing at the counter near the coffee pot with her back to me. I take in her light pink top and white lounge pants and the way her long hair is pulled up in a perfectly symmetrical ponytail.
I'm five and a half feet tall, but my mom is closer to five feet eight inches. I'm naturally a brunette where my mom's hair is blonde—so blonde it seems silver in certain lighting. Her eyes are large and blue while mine are some strange mix between yellow and gold. In the summertime her skin bronzes to an attractive shade of creamy tan—I burn and go back to white. There is an overall kindness to my mother that is harder to find in me. Sure, I have a big heart, but I keep it hidden. Hers is bright enough for all to see.
“Janet,” I greet when she turns in surprise. I started the first name basis bit when I was six. Life happened and I thought I needed to act and think like an adult from that moment on, so in my mind she went from mom to Janet. At first she was upset, but she learned to adapt. I know it bothers her though, and yet, I cannot get that three-lettered—or six-lettered—word to form on my lips.
“You're up early.” Her voice is soft and lyrical, as is everything about her. My mom makes me think of a hummingbird—dainty, beautiful, and fragile. She's taller than me, so that brand doesn't really fit, except she is fine-boned and seems smaller than she really is. I think it's because of her bearing more than her physical appearance. And no one can argue that she is visually breathtaking.
“Yeah. You know me—early to bed, early to rise.” Except I wish I was still in bed.
I swipe hair behind my ear and reach for a mug above her head. She moves out of the way and sits down at the cream-painted table with its mismatched chairs of blue and green. My mother's decorating sense leans toward the antiquated, worn look. Nothing has to match; it just has to have character. My tastes tend to go the same way. I like the serene, vintage feel of it, almost like we are in another era where life was simpler and less hectic.
I pour steaming black coffee into the white mug with red lips on it. “Monica asked me to stay at the house for a few days or so. They have a family emergency and she doesn't want to leave Rivers alone.”
Her coffee cup thumps against the table. “You aren't trained to take care of an invalid.”
“He's not an invalid. He's just...semi-restricted.” I sit down at the table and blow on the coffee.
“Still. Why don't they hire a nurse? And how well do you know him?”
“He doesn't need a nurse. He just needs someone to keep an eye on him—a babysitter.” Two pale eyebrows lift at this. “I went to school with him. It isn't like we were friends or anything, but there's nothing to worry about. He's harmless.”
“Bring your can of mace.”
“No.”
“Then carry Raid around with you. It's just as effective.”
I take a sip of strong coffee, feeling my brainwaves accelerate. I don't particularly like coffee, but on my tired days, I give in to the pull of its caffeine. Otherwise, I'm more of a juice and water kind of girl. “I would look pretty dumb with a can of Raid clipped to my waist on a hip holster.”
She blinks. “That's a great idea! Easy access.”
“No,” I repeat.
The sigh that leaves her is the sound of her giving in. “You're an adult. I can't tell you what to do. But please be safe. And please call me every day, okay?”
She probably could tell me what to do, adult or not. This is her house, her rules. I am grateful to her for not pushing the issue. I grab an orange from the chipped white bowl in the middle of the table and toss it from hand to hand, not sure if I should ask the question foremost on my mind. I do anyway, because I have to prepare her. She has to be ready.
A chill goes through me at the thought of the future, but I keep my tone merely curious as I ask, “What are you going to do when I'm not here?”
"What do you mean?"
I shrug, keeping my gaze averted. "You know, move out...pretend to be an adult, stuff like that."
She stiffens, her knuckles turning white around the mug she clutches within her calloused hands. True, wrinkles don't even think of marring her skin, but callouses do not have the same view. I think the rough patches of skin only make her more beautiful, really. “You don't have to move out.”
“Right. I get that.” I knew she was going to say that. I set the orange down and stand up, dumping the remainder of the coffee down the sink and setting the mug on the counter. I turn to face her with my hands on the edge of the counter top behind me. “But I am, hopefully by this fall.”
“There's no hurry, Del. Really. I like having you here. I mean, do you have any plans once summer's over? I know you aren't interested in college right now. Are you going to keep cleaning the Young family's house indefinitely?”
“It's just a summer job. They have a full-time cleaning lady, but she stays with her family in North Carolina for the summer. She'll be back in a few months. After that...” I shrug. “I don't know yet.”
“You can stay here for as long as you like. This is your home. It wouldn't feel the same with you gone. I realize you're eighteen and impatient to start life on your own, but you don't have to rush it. Life, adulthood, and responsibilities will still be waiting for you in a few months.” She doesn't know that, not for a fact. No one knows that.
I study my mom's pinched features and the strain around her mouth. I'm trying to help her here, but of course she doesn't see it that way. She sees it as her last child abandoning her. The thought of me not being in the same home as her really upsets her, but I am me, not the ghost of someone, and because of that, I need to not be in this house for any longer than is necessary. But on the other hand, how can I leave her, knowing what I now know? My insides twist up thinking about it all. I face the sink and quickly wash the cup, setting it in the strainer to dry.
“I'll be in touch.” I grab the orange, hoist the tote bag to my shoulder, and offer a weak smile. Hers is just as listless. With a small wave, I head outside.
My mood brightens considerably when the sun and warm June air greet me. I watch tree limbs and leaves move with the force of the wind, hear the chirping of birds, and smell the sweet fragrance of blossoms around me. I smile. Even nature is saying good morning and that today will be a good day, no matter what. I tip my head back at the cloudless sky and close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The sun tries to burn my eyelids and I cover them with sunglasses, striding toward the small garage with chipping white paint and an uneven door. I unchain my orange and cream-colored Huffy from a pole in the cool interior of the building and swing a leg over the bicycle.
It's time to ride.
PRAIRIE DU CHIEN IS THE second oldest city in Wisconsin. Its name is French and means "Prairie of the Dog”. I'm really not sure why it was called that, but I suppose the settlers who deemed it as such had their reasons for it. Maybe they brought a lot of dogs with them and let them run loose? When it was first settled in the late seventeenth century, it was known to be a trading post for fur trades. The city didn't become fully American until after the War of 1812.
The population is presently around six thousand, but the city is constantly expanding and growing as new businesses come in—something that saddens me but is necessary for it to survive. Without change, there is no advancement. The city is also well-known for the Mississippi River that hugs it and the fishing and hunting that comes along with the wooded areas surrounding it.
In 2001, Prairie du Chien gained brief national attention for its first annual New Year's Eve celebration, during which a carp from the Mississippi River was dropped from a crane over the downtown area at midnight. The "Droppin' of the Carp" celebration has been held every New Year's Eve since. I think all of the citizens have been to it at least once. My mother and I haven't missed a single year, no matter how cold it was or how much snow was on the ground at the time. Pain sweeps through me as I wonder if we will have the chance to watch it together this year, so I pedal my feet faster, trying to outrun what I cannot change.
I love this city. I love the large body of water that lines one side of it, the trains that blast through it and startle those unprepared for its booming horn, the beauty in the trees and flowers throughout it, and the history of it. I cut across the street that leads to the Young residence, the wind flitting over me like the brush of a warm hand. I hop off my bicycle and pull it up to the garage, kicking the stand down.
I hear Rivers' raised voice as I enter the house after knocking once on the screen door. It noisily swings shut behind me, effectively cutting him off. He and his mother are standing in the foyer, their stances stiff and the tension in the room overpowering. His head swings toward me, eyes dark with intense dislike. I smile brightly in return until he looks away. Monica looks flustered, her hands outstretched and entreating toward her unreachable son.
“Hello!” I set my tote bag down and walk farther into the room. I pretend I didn't hear Rivers saying he didn't need a babysitter, especially not me, just before I walked inside. I pretend I don't feel their discord in the air like a trap of negativity. I pretend I want to be here and am happy that I get to watch over a spoiled brat who can't even be glad he is taking oxygen into his lungs even now. “All set for the trip?”
Monica's hands drop to her sides. Her hair is pull backed in a messy bun and she is wearing jeans and a thin purple jacket. The expression on her face is a mixture of frustration and sorrow. “Yes. We need to leave in ten minutes in order to make the flight. Thomas is finishing packing.” Her voice is weary.
“Awesome! Just keep us updated on everything.” My voice is falsely bright and grating even to me, but I have to keep upbeat so I don't walk right back out the door.
Monica gives me a strange look I ignore and takes a deep breath. “I'm going to check on Thomas.” Her eyes flicker to Rivers and away as she trudges up the stairs.
His hair is sticking up in black spikes only a restless sleep could create. One hand balances against the wall to relieve pressure on the worst of his two legs, though he is trying to be nonchalant about it. A white tee with the arms cut out frames his muscular upper body and black lounge pants cover his legs. The strength of his arms is evident in the way they bulge and contract as he shifts his stance, the detestation he has for his legs is evident in the way he keeps them hidden. I'm surprised his vanity doesn't insist he wear a mask as well, or at least a baseball cap, to try to cloak the scars of his face.
“I don't need someone watching over me,” he growls, his face forward so that I can see the clenching of his jaw.
“I heard that. Don't worry, I agree. What you really is need a psychiatrist, maybe some meds—no, definitely some meds. But you got me instead.” I raise my hands apologetically. Then I smile sweetly as I say, “I'll take good care of you. Promise.” Well, I'll keep him alive anyway.
His eyes land on me and quickly lose interest in what they see. Nothing new there with Rivers. “You're so weird, Bana.”
I laugh. “You say that like I should be offended. I'd rather be weird than a clone of everyone else.”
It was a jab and he recognized it as such. He doesn't respond, but I notice the stiffening in his perfectly proportioned body. It's still a remarkable creation. His body may be filled with imperfect fissures, but all I see is something made more beautiful by tragedy. Like an ocean formed from a meteor. Something remarkable can always be the result of something devastating, if you choose to find that one positive in a nest of negatives.
And what is your positive? a little voice whispers in my head.
Shut it, I tell myself, not really inclined to examine all my positives and negatives at the moment.
I remove the orange I brought from my tote bag and raise it to my face, inhaling its sweetly citrus scent as I walk from the room. I'll eat it in a cheerier atmosphere. I used to wonder about names. Like, why is an orange called an orange? And why is the color orange called that? Of course I never got any answers, but it didn't stop me from wondering. Why is anything named what it is? When I was nine, I asked my mom why she chose the name she did for me and she said because she thought it sounded pretty.
I looked up the meaning of my name once and I wasn't really impressed. I was either some jezebel who did horrible things to the man who loved her, or I was something gentle. The two definitions completely contradict one another. Out of the two, I prefer the latter, although neither are particularly complimentary. I don't want my name to mean gentle. I want my name to mean something cool, like driven by fire, or something to that effect. Who was that first person, or people, who chose the names to mean what they did and why did they think they were appropriate?
I guess I think a lot about unimportant things.
I just popped the last of the juicy citrus fruit into my mouth when Monica appears in the kitchen. I straighten from the counter as she approaches. Without speaking, she hugs me. Too stunned to pull away, I awkwardly pat her back. She smells like lavender, which makes me think of my mom with all of her flowers, herbs, and vegetables. There is a tremble to her body that causes a pang in me.
Pulling away, she offers a wan smile. “Thank you. I know he's going to be difficult. Just...you can handle him. I know you can. If anything happens, call me, no matter the time. I'll have my cell phone. Maybe...” She hesitates. “Maybe you could try to get him to open up about some things? No one else has been able to, not even me.”
"If you can't get him to respond, why do you think I would be able to?"
She tilts her head as she studies me. "I don't know," she answers slowly. "I just think you might be able to think up some method I haven't been able to. Call it intuition." She smiles, brushing bangs from my eyes. "I'm really grateful to have you here this summer, Delilah."
I move back, shifting my eyes from hers. Those words warm me at the same time they cause me to go cold. Apparently my body is conflicted. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don't know. Even if he worked on walking more, it would help him. Anything. Or talking. You're so easy to talk to. I bet he would talk to you more than he is willing to with anyone else.” She pauses, chagrin flushing her features. “I'm sorry. I'm asking a lot of you and I feel like I'm being extremely demanding.”
“A little bit.” I smile.
“I'll make it up to you,” she promises, squeezing my arm. “I'll be in touch once we're settled in California. There's a credit card in a dish on top of the refrigerator. Use it for whatever you need or want. And thank you. You truly are a blessing.”
I salute her, following her from the room and into the foyer. Rivers and his dad are in the room, the span of it between them. I don't think that's all that stands between them, from what I've seen. I wouldn't call it animosity, but there is certainly discord among them. It's in the way they stand when next to each other, the way they avoid one another's eyes. The way they don't talk to each other unless they have to.
Mr. Young's lips lift and lower in what I'm assuming he thinks is a smile. I give a flash of my own. He looks at his son. “Stay away from the pool while we're gone—since you've apparently forgotten how to swim.”
Rivers' mouth tightens, but he says nothing as he looks down. Two things hit me. The first being that his dad must know his endeavor into the pool yesterday wasn't an accident. A glance at his mom's face shows she believes it as well, though she looks saddened by it instead of revolted like his dad. The second thing is, why would his dad say such a jackass thing to him? He was in a terrible accident while on the river—was that in reference to that and not the pool? My unease where Thomas Young is concerned turns to immense dislike.
The enmity in the room lessens astronomically once they are gone, but it is still here. I exhale slowly and look at him. “I know you don't want me here, but I am. This will go a lot smoother if I don't have to watch you every second of the day.” I pause. “Do I need to be worried about anything?” What I really mean is, is he going to be stupid again and put his life in danger.
His stoic silence is the only response I get, which isn't a response at all, but I think we understand each other. I'll leave him alone if he doesn't give me any reason not to. I decide to ignore Rivers like he normally ignores me and go about my usual stuff.
“Shout if you need me,” is all I say and start up the stairs.
It hasn't escaped me that being a maid for one of the most popular boys in my grade should be beneath me. It really is too. Only I didn't take the job for him, although, in a way, I guess I did. That and my post-summer trip. The reasoning for why I do the things I do is something I cannot fully explain, so most days I try not to. My subconscious knows, and that will have to be enough.
The young man I left below is a mystery. He in no way resembles the laughing, smiling jock from school. All I can associate with the Rivers from school and the Rivers downstairs is the obvious disdain he has for those not as physically and athletically gifted as he—meaning me. Other than my bright, and sometimes clashing, clothes and hair, I am pretty plain in appearance and I didn't play sports in school—I hated them, actually. They are too competitive. People get fanatical about them. Come on, they're games. I mean, playing sports for fun is one thing—that I get—but when people go nuts because you miss a shot or are not perfect in your pitch, well, that is ridiculous.
And why do there have to be winners and losers? Why can't everyone be winners, or at least tied? Why must the game go on until one team outscores the other? Telling someone they have to win is putting a lot of pressure on them, and then when they don't win, they feel bad about themselves. Losing is apparently supposed to make you feel so terrible about yourself that you won't give up until you win. It is an obsession. Anything less than first place isn't acceptable. What does thinking that way do to your self-esteem? I mean, it's good to strive to do well at something and we all need goals, but to think you're worthless because you aren't perfect is wrong, and to teach children to think that way is wrong as well.
I guess it's a good thing I never went out for any sports because it really doesn't make sense to me. I would have spent the whole time trying to get everyone to believe we can all be winners. I can just see myself; a lone figure on my campaign for equality in sports. I imagine I would have been sent to the dugout indefinitely for thinking like that. It probably was never even an issue for Rivers. I've seen him in action. I never understood all the plays that go along with football, but I could see the ease with which he moved, the fluidity of his limbs, the speed he ran with. Watching him was like watching art come to life.
Even I can mourn the loss of his graceful limbs, though I do not share the view that he is less than he used to be.
A small voice asks, What if that was Rivers' life? What if nothing he ever did was good enough? What if winning was the only way he knew how to get approval? I don't think Monica would ever put that kind of pressure on him growing up, but I could so see Thomas doing it. Again, an emotion I'd rather not feel scorches my insides, telling me the detachment I pretend to have toward him is a lie.
I'm wiping the master bedroom windows with a Windex-doused cloth when I hear a crash. I freeze, listening but hearing only the thumping of my heart, and then I scramble into motion. My first thought is that Rivers decided to break our silent agreement and tried to harm himself again. Anger and fear war within me. I sprint down the stairs, stubbing my left big toe in the process, and follow the sound of rushing water. I stop in the doorway of the white and cream bathroom and stare. Rivers is on the floor beside the tub, clad only in red boxer briefs. A mix of pain and shame has captured his features.
I give myself a shake and enter the room, careful to keep my eyes averted from his body as I say, “What exactly were you attempting to do? Take a nap? I suppose the bathroom floor is as good a place as any. The sound of the water is soothing too, if you like that sort of thing.” I lean over him, groping for the knob in the garden tub, and turn the water off while trying not to think about my chest being inappropriately close to his face.
He doesn't answer and I sigh, turning to look at him, struggling to keep my eyes on his and above his neck. My face has to be red because it abruptly feels like it is sunburned. “Well, let's get you up, shall we? Nap time is over.” I don't know why I'm acting like I don't know that he fell. I guess to spare him the embarrassment of me stating the obvious. Although, I don't think he appreciates my attempts, which is glaringly blatant when he talks.
“I can get up on my own,” he snaps as I reach for him, jerking his arm away.
“Yeah?” I step back and put my hands on my hips. “Be my guest.”
Something happens to me as the seconds tick by, turning into minutes as I watch him try again and again to maneuver his body into a standing position. He struggles to get up, but every time either his hand slips or his legs won't cooperate or he loses his balance. Over and over it goes. It isn't pity I feel, although I know he wouldn't want me feeling anything toward him—it's more like respect. He isn't getting anywhere. Sweat lines his face and he's panting, but he won't give up. I wonder how long he'll do this before admitting defeat. I almost think he won't give up until he is on his feet. Then I notice the trickle of blood starting to run down his forehead and I know it's time to end this. He can prove he isn't helpless another day.
I move for him, stating, “You're bleeding.”
“I don't need your help!”
“And I don't need your shit!” He blinks at the heat in my voice. I sit back on my heels and take a ragged breath. “Look, it's obvious you're struggling to get up, and your head is bleeding. You might have reopened a wound. Just let me help you up and look at your head, and then I'll leave you alone again, all right?”
“Fine,” he grinds out.
I put my hands under his armpits and haul him up with difficulty, his hands reaching for the wall behind him to help get him to his feet. He's heavy, especially when most of his weight is leaning on me. It is awkward and takes a prolonged amount of attempts, but between the two of us, we finally get him standing.
“Did you hit your head when you fell?” When he doesn't answer, I pull back to glare at him.
“I don't know. I guess,” he mumbles.
"How did you fall?"
"Moved too fast, leg spasmed."
He's against the wall, one hand on the top of the toilet, the other on my shoulder. Tired, we momentarily rest this way with my head lowered between us. My muscles are shaking from effort and a sheen of perspiration covers my skin. I wonder if this is going to turn into a routine thing—me, rescuing him. The longer we stand this way, the more I begin to notice things. He smells like sunshine and vanilla, which is sort of different for a guy to smell like, but I like it on him. It reminds me of a beach—sunscreen, the sun, waves. His skin warms my hands where they touch him and I can hear his heart pounding near my ear. When I realize I'm staring at his defined abdomen, I jerk my head up and clip his chin. He curses.
“I'm sorry!” I cry, feeling bad for further injuring him.
“You can let go of me now.” Annoyance forms crinkles in the corners of his eyes. I wonder if creases ever form there anymore from smiling.
I drop my hands and move back. “What were you trying to do?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
My back bristles. “What? That you're rude and belligerent? Yep. That's pretty obvious.” I cross my arms.
“I was trying to take a bath.”
“Do you normally do that on your own?”
“Take a bath? Yeah. I usually manage that on my own. Are you offering to join me?”
I press my lips together as heat whooshes through me. “I meant get it ready on your own. You know, I think I liked it better when you didn't talk to me.”
“I aim to please.”
“Next time you fall, don't call for me,” I declare, stomping out of the room.
“I didn't call for you this time!” he hollers after me.
“Maybe you should have!”
Grumbling to myself as I finish making the upstairs squeaky clean, it occurs to me that I am seriously irritated. That doesn't happen very often. I take slow, deep breaths as I work, finding my happy place once again as I focus on the sun streaming through the windows, the calming colors of gray, cream, white, and pale yellow that make up the upstairs decor, and the lingering scent of lavender. It takes a while, but my heartbeat returns to normal and the glaze of anger melts away.
When I get back downstairs, it's after one o'clock in the afternoon and my stomach is growling for food. On my way to the kitchen, I realize I forgot to check his head injury. How could I have let that slip my mind? I blame his belligerent behavior for my brain malfunction and yet, that doesn't relieve the guilt I feel. I'm supposed to be looking out for him and he's already injured himself within hours of my presence. Maybe Monica will fire me.
Shoulders slumping, I backtrack to his bedroom. The door is closed and low music sounds from within. I knock on the door and the volume of the music escalates. Glaring at the door, I contemplate whether or not I recall ever meeting such a childish person. I don't think so. I check the doorknob and when it turns I shove the door open. Rivers is lying on the top of his made bed—the bed I made—with his hands behind his head and his eyes on the ceiling.
Without looking at me, he mutes the music with a remote control long enough to say, “Go away.”
I note the closed curtains and stomp over to them, grabbing an end in each hand and throwing my arms open wide. Sunlight filters into the room and lands directly on him—light and darkness colliding to form a beautiful monster.
“Close the curtains.”
His tone is extremely arrogant and I want to punch him. Instead I put a hand to my ear and look at him with my eyebrows raised. “What? Can't hear you above the music. Too loud.” I shrug.
His jaw bunches as he sits up. He turns the music off. “Close the curtains.”
“Get up and close them yourself.”
"Isn't that part of your job?"
"To be your slave? No. I don't think so." Although, technically, has it ever really been discussed? Either way, he doesn't need to know.
“I didn't realize you were such a pain in the ass in school.”
The fact that he even knows we went to school together stumps me for a second. I figured I was one in a mass of insignificant people not noteworthy enough to matter to him. “That's the difference between you and me—I did realize you were.”
He clamps his lips together.
“Silent treatment time again? I'm cool with that. It'll make checking your head easier without you being a loudmouthed brat the whole time.” I walk toward the bed, watching him stiffen as I get closer. “Did you take a bath then?” I don't wait for him to not answer me, continuing with, “You must have. You don't stink anymore.” Not that he ever did. I can tell he bathed, though, because his hair isn't sticking up everywhere like it was this morning and the vanilla sunshine scent is intensified.
Surprisingly enough, he doesn't pull away or complain when I hover over him. I pause, staring down at his lowered head. Maybe he is finally resigned to me. Good. It'll make life easier for the next few days if he just accepts the situation. Once again, I am aware of the closeness of my body to his face, and my pulse picks up because of it. I gently touch the gash on the top of his head, his hair thick and soft against my fingers. The wound is scabbed over with freshly dried blood evident only in a small area of it.
Without thinking about what I am doing, I brush my fingers across the silken locks of short black hair, an unconscious part of me wanting to comfort him like I would anyone hurting. He is torn into a million different parts; none of them resembling who he used to be, and I do understand that, even if he is a pretty unlikable person. I've been lost before. I've lost myself, I've lost those I love. I think we all have. Tingles start at my fingertips and move up my arm as time freezes and spins by at the same time. I glance down and notice how still he is—only his chest moves in time to his breathing.
Snatching my hand away, I hurry to put space between us. I refuse to look in his direction because I don't want to know the expression on his face. “It, uh, it looks fine. Are you hungry? I'm going to make food. I'll be...in the kitchen.”
I turn my mind toward filling my stomach with something, because that is something I do understand, and grab random things out of the fridge. I take in my stash—an onion, deli sliced turkey, garlic and herb-flavored wraps, spinach, and cranberries. One thing is missing. I open the freezer and search in vain.
I am about to give up hope when a voice says from behind, “She puts it behind a wall of frozen vegetables. She figures if she doesn't see it all the time, she'll be less likely to eat it.”
Without glancing over my shoulder, I ask, “Does it work?”
“Not really.”
I demolish the barricade made out of bags of frozen vegetables, uncovering a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I swear I hear the heavens rejoicing. Mint chocolate chip wouldn't be my first choice, but I'll take what I can get. I pull it out, the container cold and covered in a layer of frost, and set it on the counter. Finally looking up, I meet Rivers' gaze. It isn't exactly unfriendly, but it isn't open either—it's more of a guarded, wary look. He's lingering by the doorway like he isn't sure if he's welcome in his own kitchen.
I look down, finding it hard to swallow. “Want some?”
I make a sound of exasperation when he doesn't say anything and go about making us each a wrap.
His gait is methodical as he makes his way over, getting bowls, spoons, and an ice cream scoop out. The time it takes him to do this is drawn out to the point of being difficult to watch. I have two wraps made and two glasses of lemon iced tea ready by the time he procures the ice cream necessities. When that is done, he leans against the counter with his hands clenching it, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered.
I turn away, it is paining my heart to witness him struggling to make the broken pieces of his body work as a whole. “Why don't you sit down and eat?” I suggest, focusing on keeping my voice even.
“I'm...fine,” he answers slowly.
“You look it,” I say with a nod.
A scowl is his response, but it's better than nothing.
I don't really want to torture him further, but the thought of the two of us sitting on bar stools side by side is a little too farfetched, so I take the plates and glasses over to the table near the sliding glass doors. I scoop ice cream into the melon-colored bowls as I wait for him to make his way to the table, careful to keep my eyes down so he doesn't think I'm staring if he happens to look my way. When he is seated, I head over, sitting across from him.
The silence is awkward as we eat, neither of us looking at each other for long. I search my mind for conversation topics, deciding on the future. It's either that or the weather and that seems a little too overused. Everyone talks about the weather when there is nothing else easily thought of to talk about. I do it all the time when I'm at the shop and customers approach me. It's safe, non-invasive.
“Are you going to college in the fall?” It hits me that this was a poorly chosen question at the same time his shoulders tense. Should have went with the weather.
“No.”
It's my turn to not reply for once, swirling my melting ice cream around with my spoon. I know why he isn't going, though his reasons are illogical to me. Just because he can't go to college on a football scholarship doesn't mean he shouldn't go at all. He could use his brain or something to get through it. He's smart. Even if the plaques in his room weren't evidence of that, I remember from school.
“I didn't graduate, not that I would have been able to use my football scholarship even if I had. I suppose I'll have to use my good looks to get by in life now,” he says, sarcasm lacing his words.
“You didn't get your diploma?”
“I was in the hospital or at the doctor most of the last month and a half of school.”
I frown. “Why aren't you in summer school then or working on getting your GED?”
He drops his spoon, it clattering against the side of the bowl. “What's the point?”
Anger builds inside my core. “Meaning?”
Leaning back in his chair, he replies, “Meaning I'm deformed. I can barely walk. I'm ugly to look at. What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Sit at some desk job and talk to people over a phone?”
I jump to my feet and begin to clean off the table.
“I'm not done,” he tells me.
“I think you need to go practice up for your future career as a nobody. Go sit in your room and hold a phone in your hand or something.”
I take his bowl and plate away, dumping the food and tossing the dishes into the sink hard enough to cause a burst of noise, but not break anything. I put the stopper in the sink and begin to fill it with hot, soapy water that smells like synthetic lemons. I count to thirty before I turn around, not surprised to see his back as he makes his way out of the room. Probably going back to his bedroom so he can mope some more and feel bad about his poor, pathetic, worthless life.
I grab a dishrag and take my frustration out on the dishes. “Deformed,” I scoff. “Ugly. Stupid. He acts like his whole life is over just because he has a few scars and a limp.” I toss the rag into the water and suds fly up to coat my face. I absently wipe them away with my arm, staring out the window at the fence and yellow house beyond it. It seems far away, a different world from where I stand. “Fine. Whatever. That's his prerogative, I guess. It's none of my business.” I talk myself into a better mood and finish the dishes with less animosity.