Dancing on the Edge of Darkness

The Beginning Ch. 1



I took a nice, hard, and long -- I mean really long -- look around me. From my left to my right people sat and stood, gossiping. Their voices grew louder. They acted as if what each person had to say was super important and needed to be heard.
Girls walked by tables, taking double looks at the students they felt didn't belong. Some of the students acquiring the looks responded in an affirmative manner, delighted at the attention. Others merely said that they didn't care.
Everyone at this school, I figured, lived a false lie. They fed students life stories that they would eat up and come back for more. That or they had an interesting story that I was always trying to beat out of them.
I sighed. Something I learned freshmen through sophomore year at Lincoln High School was how 90% of the student population was filled with phony kids. Their tall tales were amusing at times, only because I knew it wasn't real – not even close. Either there were lies in their "interesting" gossip or the kids listening would pretend to be interested in the gossip. Sometimes the topic of their discussion was such a waste of time and life that when I heard it, I'd shake my head, lost for words. As for boy discussions, I'd rather not even go there.
Dumping my tray, I went about sulking to my 5th hour class: Woods Shop. After 50 minutes of shaping chunks of wood, I walked mechanically to my 6th hour: Algebra II.
Today was one of those days; the kind where the day is so casual, so routine, you began to think of just screaming or throwing something at the teacher.
I loved to fantasize scenery like having a gorgeous guy walk in, tell me I have an appointment or something, and walk out holding my hand. I would love to show him off to all of those girls who dated guys just to be in the in-crowd.
So I replayed that scene multiple times until we were free of listening to a boring math teacher and slayed into doing a worksheet. Of course I was the first one done; I always was. When you have a life that is vicarious in hopes of bettering others, you often find yourself as a hollow piece of nothing. So why not study and be smart instead of rot in life?
Sitting down at my desk, a girl – Jasmine – leaned over to me and asked if I wanted to buy some cookies.
I felt like saying, "The entire sophomore class is selling cookies. Don't you think I'd buy some from myself for my benefit rather than yours and have you win the prize for selling the most cookies?" Instead I pretended to be busy and mumbled, "I don't have any money."
It was true, my family had no money; as some would say, broke as a joke. Even if I had it, like I said – or thought – it would be mine. I knew it sounded selfish, but I never just up and about receive money. That's reason enough to savor it if I did happen to stumble upon it.
She rolled her eyes and sat back.
Jeesh, brat alert, I thought. The news that sounded from some far off TV filled my ears for a brief moment.
“– His body was found yesterday night on 73rd and Independence St. Investigators are still –”
There were always people dying nowadays. I wondered why newscast bothered casting killings, diseases, and deaths anymore; they were far too common to point attention to. I understood the concept of families wanting justice and notice, but still, what about the effect it had on the people watching it?
Mr. Donald -- our math teacher -- stared intently at the miniature TV. sitting on the near left of his desk.
I waited for this day to end.
What for though? To start all over again tomorrow?
Thanksgiving was tomorrow, therefore we were off for Thursday and Friday. So really, it wouldn't technically start over again tomorrow, rather than Monday. I rubbed my eyes; time wouldn't past fast enough for me. I began to get twitchy. Who favored going crazy in class? Did the teachers not know this stuff was boring? No, they knew alright; they didn't care.
They "cared" about the students’ education as all teachers say. I'd imagine they cared more for their pay check and tortured kids with work just to shut them up.
Someone had given me a ball point pen – or threw it at me. I looked at it as if they gave it to me, because I loved pens.
I packed up five minutes early. The assignment was due tomorrow. Mr. Donald probably accepted this when the class started talking and being loud. If I were him, I would have said the assignment was due at the end of the hour; everyone would be quiet and working anxiously.
The girl behind me pulled a strand of my hair and giggled. For her fun, I played her game and we laughed in the end. Her name was Summer. The name toyed with the way she was, because it was nowhere close to matching her personality and appearance. She dressed in all black and had snake bites on her lips. She also had other piercings below the belt. (The only reason I knew that was because I begged her to tell me where her other piercings were. I didn't think about the location the time I was a begging.) I always made fun of her for having a name like Summer when she, as a person, totally contradicted it.
That was how I worked; I'd make jokes about people. Mainly people who weren't in the popular crowd. If I made a joke of them in a friendly way, they'd laugh and oppose whatever I said just for attention, or to feel a higher sense of dumb, clandestine belonging.
"Yeah!" I exclaimed when the bell finally rang. I almost punched the air and danced.
"Calm down, Lila," said a big girl who seemed to be friends with everyone. She smiled while saying it. Her name was Shelby.
Though I could see right through her forced smile, I smiled and said, "This day lasted forever." Sighing, I perked up and said, "Is Brandy really pregnant?" If she was, I wondered how she felt about it. how did her parents feel?
Shelby wavered in the in between. She talked to anyone. Though the Gothic group wouldn't talk to her, she'd talk to them. I assumed it was because of her weight that she tried to befriend everyone. I understood that, but I was still irritated to the max when she went silent and acted as if suddenly Brandy's secret meant everything and couldn't be told to anyone.
"Whatever," I said. "You always act like you can't tell me anything just because I'm not important enough to share something with."
I forced my feet to go faster to the school's exit; Shelby wouldn't be able to catch up with me. The irritation left me as soon as I was out of distance with her, because that's how it was with me and her. We weren't best of friends, but when we argued, we were over it in a millisecond. That's how I was in general, never capable of holding a grudge.
I slung my handbag over my shoulder. Plugging my headphones into my mp3, kids socialized and hung around lockers. I had no time to comment negatively about what kids were talking about. Something I liked to do was have a certain seat on the bus. So I was fast walking, slipping between people. Outside, the air was chilly and it was bright today. Everyone was going to their bus – of course. I was about to be one of those people until I dropped my precious ball point pen as kids rushed out the school with no care for others. By the time I had the pen in my hand, all the kids were clearing out of the building gradually. That was different. A fight had to be happening. Should I go, or should I go to my bus before it left me?
If it wasn't for some of the kids jokingly screaming, "Apocalypse! Hurricane! Jesus!" I would have continued my assumption of a fight and wouldn't have looked up at the sky to find unworldly black clouds all coming together over the town and leaving one halo of light to shine down. The clouds stretched further than the eye could see. It was suddenly dark outside.
Air sort of wheezed out of my mouth and I closed my eyes. I didn't know when to expect it in life (I expected it often for the record) but when the end of the world did occur, I wanted to be ready. I prayed silently, aware of the kids around me. If I prayed aloud and it wasn't the end of the world, I'd be looking idiotic and made fun of until the end of time.
The end of the world was, in fact, my worst fear. Here and there I'd worry over whether I was going to Heaven or Hell – thus being my reason for faking every positive, nice, and caring aspect I forced upon others at times. I wanted to be one who was going up to Heaven, not down to Hell primarily because it did not appeal to me.
Time and time again it seemed relying on wrong doings was exactly what kept me stable; meaning I've done bad things in life only for the good outcome.
With that admitted to myself I prayed fast that He would forgive me for those mistakes. I knew the drill, I had my lines straight. I've thought it was the end of the world too many times.
It was said that when Jesus returned every saved soul would be gone in the blink of an eye. I opened my eyes and – impaired from arms to legs – began to wonder if I was one of many who were left behind. Everyone around me headed for the bus. Maybe I was wrong -- again. Maybe there was no revelation coming.
I guess the fact that that huge, black columbus clouds were closing in creating one small opening in the fray didn't faze them.
It fazed me enough to where my feet stayed in place as I watched in anger and disappointment as my bus pulled off without me.
My mouth stayed agape. The thing about being everyone's canvas was when it came to getting a ride, you might as well erase the idea.
"You missed your bus too?" asked Brandon, an overly hyper freshmen.
My eyelids drooped and I said, "Yes Brandon, I did." I could talk to guys however I felt, because boys didn't need a true friend who was always positive and good at giving advice. No, because girls here were so desperate that guys could live their high school life at Lincoln care free of popularity.
Maybe the black clouds were an omen. Or maybe they just wanted to make me miss my bus and somehow got me stuck with Brandon. I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes again, and waited for calm to come to me.
"Can I see your phone?" I asked Brandon. My parents never bothered to get me a phone. Like I said, we were basically poor.
He shifted his weight onto the school's gates and handed me the phone.
After my mom, Angel, answered the phone, she launched into what first came to her mind. "Whose phone is this?" It was expected from her. She was what one would call a mom. I mean a real mom. Though I've never had bad grades, never had a boyfriend, and almost never left the house on free will, she acted as if I did.
"How did you know it was me?" I asked.
"A mother knows," she said, which was a very lame, uneducated answer. Then again, she may have been on to something; it was creepy how she knew it was me.
"Yeah," I sighed. "I missed my bus."
She complained. "You know there's that tour at the community college. Now I have to waste gas . . ."
I swore myself stupid, though I could care less about that dumb tour. My mom knew this, so me letting her know I forgot all about it would have been stupid.
The clouds were clearing up.
"Well," I began. "There's like this weird thing in the sky and it caught me off guard. I'm not --"
Brandon tapped me on the shoulder. “I have minutes”
“Alright Ma, I have to go.” After constantly telling her Brandon had minutes she hung up her phone.
Brandon plucked the phone out of my hand. “Your mom is crazy.” He looked up from his phone – a text I guess. “You got a ride home?”
I shoved my hands into my hoodie’s pockets. “Yeah, she’s coming to get me.”
The clouds were beginning to clear out. My eyes were lost in the black clouds. I hadn’t noticed he left until the gloom crept inside of me. The cool wind brushed my face and I squinted.
It was darkish blue outside. I could barely see off into the distance. The clouds separated gradually, allowing peeks of sunlight to shine down and hit the edges of the big building behind me. Fear left my mind and body; I'd been shaken from the event exactly when the words clicked together in my mind, forming: end. No one else cared much of these strange clouds, but what if it was a sign? What if something bad was going to happen?
Life sucks when you've thought so much so many times that nothing was exciting. For example, I've read enough books to automatically know that if information is repeated twice, it plays some sort of foreshadowing role. That's one flaw in analytical people – one of many.
As for this little sign here, it meant – if it were truly a sign – if something was about to happen, I would semi expect it.
I sat against the gates and waited for the sky to clear, brighten. Questions tend to spark into my mind. At this time, nothing sparked. I was too caught up in irrational thoughts and fear. It seemed the dark clouds were lowering and forming a cocoon around me; except these clouds shifted into depression. What if the world was about to end?
Sadly, when the clouds cleared, the brightness did not return, it stayed a gloomy blue.
My mom pulled up in her gray minivan moments later. In the car my mom exaggerated her pursed lips. I laughed and she did the same.
"This isn't funny," she said, her smile lingering. "Sarah and Jessie already left. They said they would meet us there."
Sarah and Jessie were both girls. Sarah had black hair and blue eyes. Jessie had black hair and brown eyes. They lived with us every since their mom passed away and their dad made it clear he didn't want them. So now I put up with them.
"Why couldn't they just ride with us? That is a waste of gas money." I climbed into the car.
She turned the radio up and I sank low in my seat, plugging the ear buds into my ears. I turned the mp3's volume up to block out my mom's music.
My mom was an overweight woman; say maybe 290lbs. Her eyes were the usual brown as were mine, but hers were darker. She stood at 5'6 while I 5'4. All of her admirable features were tainted by her motherly annoyance in my perspective. For example, her turning the music up when I made a reasonable, negative remark.
Turned out this college university was maybe thirteen minutes away from my home, which wasn't good. This would be one extra involvement thrown into the education vale for me. My mom wanted me to attend one of the good colleges, though she had no idea what college she wanted me to attend. So, she figured loading my records with good behavior and lots of learning experiences was good.
I sighed heavily, loudly, as I drowned in sorrow. I knew how a college looked; why did I have to tour it? To see how future college life would be? To prepare me for the future? I slammed the van's door and immediately received a glare from my mom.
I hurried to the lady with the super curly hair. We'd met her a week before now. She was nice enough for me to get along with and look at her weirdly behind her back. She was our chauffeur.
As we began the 'exciting' tour, anger flowed freely through me. Not only did my cousins not show up, but my mom didn't give a crap it either. No, she'd rather watch me -- her own daughter -- suffer from boredom.
I knew she really just wanted me to have a better future than she had growing up.
We reached the best part of the day. Lunch time. Eating was a favorite of mine. Not only did it calm my raging thoughts, but the taste and the way it felt to chew it always excited me. I loved food. Eating was a priority I could never ignore. I weighed 121lbs, I could eat as much as I wanted for now.
"Just keep the metabolism up," I said to myself.
"Lila, go fix my food." My mom said, eyes roaming quickly around the room.
We laughed, and then I sighed. Now I would look greedy going up for two plates.
"They're still setting up," I said as we sat in one of the booths away from the food. The people setting up the food raised their voice; others responding with curious eyes. I was one of them. I think it was a student they were arguing with. I wanted to eat just as much as my mom. I wanted to march over there and demand what the problem was.
Ma was already laughing up a storm with one of the bypassers. I watched the argument rage on. Then -- as usual -- I had to dim the unbearable need to eavesdrop.
"I'll go see when we can eat." My mom wouldn't care that I left; if she did, I'd have an excuse for leaving.
Up at the food stand women wore frustrated faces. I stared dumbly for a moment. Voices immersed from all directions.
I don't know what it was (I never do) that caused me to slightly turn my head, but I did. Something churned inside of me and my heart fluttered. Hope? I'm sure I was overreacting -- jumping to conclusions; I always was. The first thing that ignited the flame inside of me was the black leather jacket, then it was the maroon jeans -- completed with the earth shaking way he walked -- blurred down the hall.
The guy had his back to me. That was a good thing. I was caught in a trance, staring at the back of him.
If there was anything that screamed supernatural in my mind, it was the tall guy rounding a far corner.
“Should I follow or should I not?” I whispered under my breath. Like every modern day teen, I longed for the beyond real life aspects that I knew would never be in reach. Vampires, werewolves, dragons; that’s what teens want, right? Something that could only fantasize about.
I stood contemplating. Even if he wasn’t and of those myths – which I’m sure he wasn’t – he was a guy who was appealing from behind, stimulating every cell in my body, (if that’s possible) and there were no girls desperately trailing alongside him enlightening their voice.
But there was an eerie feel left in the path he made. Then again, I knew it was simply my mind trying to take on a higher meaning of the situation.
I straighten up -- but the guy wasn't there. Immediately the disturbed feeling evaporated and walked down the hall with confidence. What would I say if I did see him? I couldn't go about telling him my name and saying I wanted to get to know him. Maybe I should just turn around and go back to the calling food.
That action would proclaim me a quitter. No one was around though, they wouldn't know I quit. People prejudge people; that I feared. I was all about what other people thought of me. But this was a freebee.
As I was turning around -- rather eagerly -- my foot clunked something mushy sending me head first to the floor. I lay idle for a moment; deciphering the lumpy object under me that definitely wasn't the floor's tiles. With confounded thoughts I looked beneath me.
A silent squeal escaped me. First thing I thought was that the man laying here, under me, had fainted. But people who fainted . . . they still breathed, right? My head went to the guy's chest, but the sound of my own heart pumping fast eliminated any sound that would have illuminated.
I looked at his stomach, and once I was certain this guy was dead, I automatically sniffed the atmosphere for a foul smell. Instead a faint scent of alcohol and cheese entered my nostrils. I wanted to gag. The atmosphere darkened purposely; the darkness wanted to fill my mind with gloom and make the situation worse.
I froze, no thoughts coming to me; I wouldn't allow them. They would haunt me and the walls would start closing in on me. There would be no place to go because thoughts of zombies and evil creatures would creep slowly into my head. My body would start to close in on itself, in a coma of shock and terror.
No, I couldn't let a thought enter my mind.
The thing about jumping to conclusions and thinking through all the obstacles of an event is, it happened quickly and there was no mystery to build suspense. There only lies a dull sense of waiting. I had a feeling the mysterious guy had something to do with this.
Maybe screaming would be the best way out, because as soon as I moved all dark concepts would rush into my mind and I'd have to run fast, just to be sure there was no such thing as any of the monsters that were planted in out minds as kids. I would have to run just for assurance. What if there were a such thing and you let your guard down? Then what? Die?
"That does not look right from this angle."
I jerked so hard I ended up stiff as a rock. Things became vivid and my head whipped around to find the source of the voice.
The guy with the leather jacket hovered over me, his hands twitching slightly, making cuts in the air – he himself seemed to cut the atmosphere and repair it with an ice cold feeling that pierced my skin. The space that he occupied seemed to make the scene more real, more exhilarating than it should have been.
“I-I – You think I did this. I didn't do it.” I plunged away from the body, eyes staying locked on the boy who could possibly make anyone believe it was me.
“Stop hyperventilating.” He knelt next to the body and a sickening smell formed. The smell of alcohol cheese and something utterly sweet mixed caused me to restrain myself from vomiting on the spot.
Out the corner of his eyes, he watched me. His solid cheek bone twitched and so quickly my only response was to blink he had the body in his hand – just one hand.
Where was everyone when you needed them?
I tried to come to my feet, but the edging nearness of the guy gave my legs a weak feeling – too weak to stand. I was too weak and stunned to do anything.
Distracted by the way the scene moved in slow motion, I paid little attention to the guy – boy/man. He stood, and though the body was at least the same towering height as him, he slung the weight over his shoulder headed to the exit.
When I was finally the one body in this hallway, I released a breath that had been held too long.
Sound filled the halls; I was sucked out of my reverie. Ignoring the instinct to think of outcomes, I bypassed the biased fact that he did indeed kill that guy, and trusted myself to stand on weak legs.
Now the question was, what was I to do? It would be morally wrong for me to take no action and go eat. I wasn't sure I could eat anything for another week after what happened. I wasn't sure I could sleep knowing what happened – I didn't know exactly what happened. I knew the guy killed him; that was enough. But he was too . . . He was mysterious.
I couldn't prevent the inevitable thought that came around sooner rather than later. He looked like every girl's, woman's, bisexual's, and gay guy's dream date. I couldn't turn him in and have him go to jail – it would be a waist of gorgeous guys.
Then another thought taunted me. I didn't really think if the cops or anyone were to go after him . . . they wouldn't be able to stop him.
This would be another case to air on the news, I thought at as I walked in shock to the lunch room. What if I was a suspect? This place had cameras surely. That meant, even if I didn't tell, they would know he did it and see my innocence, right?
That question comforted me all the way to the lunch room. When I saw my mom with a plate of food and laughing with someone sitting in our booth, I grew calmer.
I took a seat. My mom introduced me to the woman she was speaking to and I launched right into interest, thankful for the distraction. I was an expert at containing my emotions and showing nonchalance. But with every moment the event suffocated me.
The fact that I actually saw a dead body and knew (or suspected) who killed him caused the entire thing to be unreal. I wrapped myself around that prospect and attempted to eat to show causality.
All the way home the guy blemished my mind. Fantasizing about him was a far cry from me; the thought of him returning to murder me blotted out fantasizing. So, instead of fantasizing, I went through the many ways that the guy could kill me. Then fantasized about him being something supernatural. I believed he was, there was no other explanation for his speed. Werewolf or vampire maybe.
But those ideas were absurd, impossible, delusional, etc.
"Why are you so quiet?" Ma asked as we pulled into the lot. We lived in a decent sized apartment. I was extremely lucky I had a room to myself.
Before this apartment, my mom had tried away with stuffing all three of us – Jessie, Sarah and I – into the same room, which was maybe made for one person and a one person bed, while she, dad, and Mason – my one month old brother – slept in the same room.
I hadn't complied.
I'd slept on the couch for four years . . .
I glanced at my mom. Then, to push the nausea forming away, I said words that were sure to strike conversation. “I was forced to tour a boring college while my mom talked to everyone in sight.”
I had a tendency to speak my mind. I've heard the saying think before you speak a kazillion times, and with all the thinking I did, I surely thought before I spoke – I still needed it to be spoken aloud though.
The dead body still closed into my vision. What if I did tell her about it? Would it arouse suspicion of me in the end? I blew out as much air as possible -- I did not want to risk blurting out what happened.
Upstairs, I unlocked the door. My mom was making it up the stairs. She was talking on the cell phone. She was able to get a cell phone because she apparently not only went by her not having any money, but also stood grounds on the idea that a teenager shouldn't have a cell phone, yet an adult should. I pointed out if something bad happened to me one day when I'm outside it would be all her fault. She gave me a dubious look and ignored me.
In my room I took in the familiar smell of winter frost. The wooden bunk bed was positioned horizontal against the open window.
I had a bunk bed -- all to myself -- because when Ma had bought it, a major deal was happening at the furniture store. They were advertising a sale on bunk beds, trying to rid of them. Therefore, it was buy one get one free. Sarah and Jessie got one bunk bed. I supposed I would share mine with Mason once he was older.
Other than the bed and the lamp posted lopsided against the corner, I had a dresser next to the door. I leaned on that dresser weakly.
I liked big excitement, the gossip kind of excitement. It gave me a sense of toughness when I was able to act neutral towards it and hold my ground. People looked to others who are a higher appeal; I could be that higher appeal. I could be the one who allowed others to lean on them, because -- like some fail to see -- everyone needs someone who truly, really understands.
Handling death was something that indeed gave me a sense of toughness -- that is . . . if I wouldn't tell anyone. I had to tell someone though. If I didn't, it would have been like off the movies; it would haunt my memories. Already it was happening -- I could barely stop thinking about it.
I took in the room. It helped calm my raging thoughts. It was normal, the apartment was normal. It was safe, like the apartment. This was home. The rules in the movies were, the antagonist never dared disturb one's home, it wouldn't make a scene right. It would be an easy kill. It would be too real and not enough movie. So, it couldn't . . .
I closed my eyes. How long would it be before I went mad and told someone?
Eh, I'd give it a day.
"I really hope you don't think you're going to sleep," my mother called to me from . . . I believe it was the kitchen. "If so, you'll be eating sad faces for dinner tomorrow."
I smirked, imagining myself really eating sad faces. Maybe they'd be like the happy face fries . . . But regardless, I needed a distraction.
When you've built yourself up and restrained yourself from not biting your nails for so long, you know there's something wrong when you're tempted to bite you nails. I was only tempted because they stood there idiotically, nicely filed and perky. Unlike me. I sighed and hurried out the room.
Cooking was a good way to keep your mind off of things, especially when you do it with my mom, one of the many laughable, though irritating people I could find. I didn't have to bare this dumb dread, I could march in there and laugh at stupid stuff that more than likely would have been making fun of someone who needed making fun of or making fun ourselves.
After the spaghetti, cakes, sweet potato pie, hamburgers, vegetable soup, and cheese cakes were done, staring at the food was all that was left to do for today. The cherry cheese cake was so appealing. I wanted a slice now, but Ma would murder me like that guy . . .
Nothing could stop kill the thoughts of that guy. One had to come to that conclusion. The foul smell in the college's hallway returned in my mind as the guy's dark eyes suddenly seemed tangible through thought. The cheese cake just smelled that much better. I took a seat at the small kitchen table and stared at the creamy surface. I did a pretty dang good job on the cheese cake.
Wouldn't it be cool if I had telekinesis? Somehow, maybe, I could have been derailed from the situation all in one if I was busy moving objects with my mind instead of dully looking around the lunch room.
I'd been happily distracted while cooking with my mom, but now she was in her room, laughing on the phone. I sat here scared to the bone.
What if I was next? What if the guy killed my family one by one before coming to finish me off?
I . . . never . . . wanted that to happen. I always got emotional when it came to my family, the people I loved too much. Anger blinded me and I thought through all the ways I could possibly save them. None of them resulted in me living, but still . . .

The next morning I felt better. There's nothing like going to sleep angry and waking up half dead. I had to get up early to fulfill my role of sticking my tongue out at Jessie and Sarah because they had to finalize the Thanksgiving dinner. They had to do much more work than I did. They were in the kitchen cooking the main course.
After that, I locked my door and lay in the middle of the room's floor. The window was open, welcoming November wind in to disturb my relaxation.
I threw on my favorite black hoodie. I had an obsession with hoodies and any other snuggy clothes. Tired, I slumped to the floor and lay there. I wasn't intending to fall asleep. Maybe I was seeking answers from God. Maybe I was asking him why was it that around Christmas time that I began to feel isolated. Maybe I was asking if he was real. Maybe I was asking him about the strange guy. Was he real or was . . . Of course he was real.
Maybe I just wanted him to talk to me; give me answers.
He didn't. I just dozed off, hoping the snow might fall this Thanksgiving.
Hours later . . .
"Lila, time to eat."
"Mhm," I grumbled.
Sure enough there was silence and I rested satisfied. Though I now had to get up due to the constant reminders.
The food was ready.

In the kitchen I stood wordless. My dad was sitting grimly in front of the turkey. He didn't acknowledge me. Jessie had keys in her hand. She was rushing Sarah out of the door. Ma had on a black fluttery dress and makeup smeared on her face (which my dad should have said something about). The dress hugged her, the color misusing of the weight.
"Have you seen my purse?" she asked me, standing in the doorway, oblivious to my dubious look.
My brows knitted together and I clinched my teeth.
Jessie pushed Sarah urgently out the door and handed Ma her purse. Ma thanked them and they left. She told Dad she was going out with her friend to some restaurant. My dad, irritated, said okay and my mom was gone.
"What?" my dad asked when I stood there extra minutes, dumbly staring at the door.
"Oh, I don't know. My toe hurts." I made sure to coat my voice in sarcasm.
Cramming the world whatever into my subconscious, I went about loading my plate with macaroni and turkey. Lots of turkey. On another plate, I forced three medium slices of cheese cake onto a smaller plate that could fit on the big platter and got out a can of ravioli. After struggling with the can opener, I heated it in the microwave along with a bottle of milk.
I opened my window to its full length. I rocked Mason in his carrier. I handed the bottle to him, held it to his mouth for maybe five minutes, and began my quest of eating all of this fattening food, stuffing my mouth, enjoying the sodium from each dish, enjoying the seasoned food, in hopes of getting drowsy and going to sleep -- calming the anger that had eloped when no one but my dad (who might as well be gone) and Mason were here on Thanksgiving.
Yeah, I'm very thankful for solitude.