Isolation From Seclusion

  CHAPTER 1

         

      The witnessing of daybreak has a special meaning for me.  Long ago, during my teenage years, I was close to my finality.  The brilliance in the sky might have been the last image burned into my retinas as I leapt toward it, attempting to grab it, before falling to a momentous death.

         

        Now, surrounded by darkness on the peak of the hill, the smell of fresh dew lingers below my nose.  As if on cue, the sun erupts before me like a glorious ball of fire from a fantastical movie explosion that had too much fuel, the director simply allowing the boyish enthusiasm to get out of control.  MY GUY loved such things as we would snuggle on the bed, hidden from the prying stare of our parents – absorbing the excitement on the screen.  Eventually it would lead to a different type of excitement – virginity lost.

         

      On the hillside, I can feel the heat licking my face, the wind teasing my graying hair, my daughter firmly gripping my hand.  This is a place I visit every year, even when I had the flu, was pregnant with my first and last child, and once with a bullet lodged in my back.  My life is complicated.

         

        The headstone:

                                                      To my beloved Vincent, the man I will never forget . . .

                                  The daughter you never met will cherish the memories that I promise to provide . . .

                                                                      Your true love, Serenity

                                                                                        -----

         

      Twenty-six years ago . . .

         

        As I hovered over the sink, the note written in lipstick on the reflective surface of my bathroom wall was quite noticeable in the way that a pair of black eyes steals attention from even the most apathetic soul.  A sleepless gaze stared back while I followed the artistic, swooping letters in bright red as they ran the full width:

Good luck!  No one will vote for you.  Love, P.

         

      That heartfelt message was my younger sister’s attempt to cheer me up on a frightful day.  I feigned a smile, but my face muscles rejected such a sordid notion, causing a scowl of despair.  She was such an optimistic girl; unfortunately it would not be enough to stop the horrific events that were going to unfold, changing lives forever.

         

      As warned by my older peers, the terror moved like a cat burglar through my window, across my room, and attacked my short limbs in a crazed motion that resembled a fan with a warped blade at high speed.  Then out of nowhere, a cheetah raced my heart in a venue of wild spectators with their life savings foolishly bet on ME.  The taxed muscle’s palpitations were definitely unprecedented.  I thought I was going to pop right there, producing a hole in my chest the size of a cannonball, little girl bits everywhere.  What a freakin mess I would have made.

         

      With the black marker between my fingers, I scribbled the names as best as I could.  Ten in each palm.  While the names were etched into my memory, the ink was TRADITION – dating back countless decades.  I was sure at that exact moment, “Serenity” was also being written on various hands throughout my community.  Only the wealthy were immune to the pen.

         

      After my morning shower, the red sweater appeared from nowhere, rocketing into the back of my wet noggin with a thud like it had been blasted from one of those T-shirt cannons so prevalent at sporting events.  The sleeves clung to the strap of my woeful, unnecessary bra while the heavy outer garment dangled like a terrified baby.  After several intense seconds, it realized I wasn’t its normal home, didn’t want a part of ME, so it dropped to the floor – almost laughing.

         

      I stood in front of my pitiful reflection, pulled up my jeans, and tousled my fiery hair in a hopeful dream to magically find the right style that screamed, “Boys, look at me!”  Like with most teenage girls, I desired, craved, wanted attention from the opposite sex.  Was it too much to ask for one set of eyes to ogle me when I strutted past the lockers?

         

      I had decided there was no way in hell I could’ve achieved such a lofty goal; I had tried just about everything to acquire such fascination – just short of walking into school in my B-day suit.  Quite frankly, my nakedness would’ve caused the boys to toss me THIER clothes, covering up the undesirable – lest they go blind.  That could have worked well in my favor.

         

        “Thanks,” I said.  I picked up my friend’s sweater-dress, slipping it over my head.  My hands were devoured by the man-sized sleeves, causing me to look like some teenage anomaly that never shopped for clothes before.  Proudly, I returned home with this ludicrous garment of epic proportions.  Yet, it was the most AWESOME piece of designer clothing a girl could own – only second to my favorite jeans.

         

        “I’m guessing you’re scared shitless,” Daniella said.  “If so, I know the best way to alleviate such an ailment.  We can make a detour on the way to the Voting Auditorium, doesn’t take long – just ten minutes.  He’s never done it either; strangely, he’s reasonably cute.  I know you’re going to say ‘NO.’  But you have to lose it sometime.  You’ll feel better once you slay this hideous monster over your head; I know it’s just helicoptering there, snarling at you, causing all sorts of anguish and embarrassment.  Then the world is yours to pick from.”

         

      “After receiving your drawn-out text, I find it quite disturbing how cavalier you are with my dismal situation.  While you may believe this is something a person should equate to an empty bottle, a snot-filled tissue, or the wrapper to a burger, I fail to see your misguided understanding of such eloquent beauty.  I’m somewhat rare, after all.  Maybe I cherish my pureness.  To simply wonder about the unknown.”

         

      “That’s bullshit, Serenity.”

         

      “No, I’m just very insightful.  I have no desire to be treated like a piece of expiring meat.  While I’m not the prettiest girl at the never-done-it counter, I do believe it’s quite unfriend-like of you to assume this might be the only opportunity for someone of my stature to be pulled out from behind the glass so I can be taken home.  I do have much to offer in other areas.  So get a grip on reality.  I’m NOT doing it today with a STRANGE boy!”

         

      “Like a professor that never got any, you overthink everything.  I have one of those.  She’s almost thirty – really sad.”



         My eighteen-year-old friend, wrapped with a skirt, shirt, and shoes that would be at home on prostitute, plopped her ass on the edge of my tub.  I’m guessing by her outfit, she danced the night away at some club, flaunting every last bit of sexuality she could muster from her generous curves attached to her mannish height.  Her brunette locks had been traded for what matched a mop dipped in smashed – blueberries?  Sometimes, I thought college didn’t agree with her.



        “Not happening.  No sex for Serenity.”



         “He’s seventeen.  He’s smart, taking college courses.  I gave you a stellar review; he seemed excited about a three-star girl wanting him.”



         “I’m assuming you mean three out of ten.”



         “Since you’re my friend, I talked you up.  Regardless of what YOU believe, I think very highly of you.  Your only downfall is the lack of self-confidence when it comes to boys; this will boost it tremendously, so I’ll take you by his house.  You’ll have plenty of privacy.  If it helps, neither one of you knows what the hell you’re doing – more fun that way.”



         “When I do it for the first time, I want to plan it right.”



         “This is planning.”



         “Not what I meant.”  I ran the brush through my hair; still trembling fingers lost hold as the purple plastic hit the sink.  It must have had suicidal intentions, leaping out, splashing to its finality in the porcelain bowl that I forgot to flush.  SERIOUSLY!  My favorite one.



         “Aren’t those your nothing-bad-can-happen jeans?”



         After allowing the sweater some freedom, I gave my friend an obscene gesture.  With extreme humility, I did what no girl wants to admit doing.  Yuk!  Then I tossed the brush in the trash where the marker was banished after its only use.  Scouring my hands like I was a surgeon about to operate on a family member, I provided whatever bacteria that might have dared to live in that spa for germs, at that moment adhering to my skin, two options – either run in fear, or die a painful, shameful death.



         “It takes about three days before it will come off,” Daniella said.



         She showed me her palms.  I simply ignored her, not wishing to discuss it.  The ink was still staring at me – reminding me of the souls I might be sending away.



         “Get dressed.  If we get there late, he’ll be on his way to vote,” she said while beaming.



         Because I had recently hit driving age, my tactless friend thought I was obligated to lose the one thing I had that she no longer possessed or could ever possess again.



         Cars and sex, two married words that really have nothing to do with one another – somehow they did.  It was general belief that a car could provide freedom and privacy from prying eyes of the adult nature – a mobile bedroom of debauchery.



         While I admit, I was tired of being the good little Catholic girl in the group; I was not so rattled by it that I wished to allow some random loser to hop on top of me.  Once finished, he would possibly brag to his friends that he nailed some ugly chick that was anxious and in dire need of some rambunctious guy action.  High fives would abound.  Yes, that sounded like a winner.



         I should have put THAT at the top of my “To do List.”



         One: Get a dull/romance novel/contrite humping from strange boy.



         Two: Become a mom/catch disease/parents find out/ lose moral compass.



         Three: Parents kill me dead.



         I was an idealist, I think.  While that might not matter much to some, it mattered to me – at least a little.  Was it unrealistic to ask for a human connection before stripping, then showing the opposite sex everything about myself?  Actually, the notion of such vulnerability terrified me.



         “Serenity Elizabeth Kane!”  Mom occupied my open doorway.  Her arms were folded across her chest, her left foot drummed the floor to a phantom beat, her lips were pursed, and the vein on her brow was pulsing – that was SO new.



         “WHAT?” I said.  My arms appeared like tea kettle handles.  My foot catching her beat.



         “Young lady!”  She twirled her fingers.



         I sighed.  Fearing the paddle, I did as told.  Daniella simply warmed the top of my desk.



         Mom crossed the room with the gait of a basketball player, her finger pointing.  “I can see your butt.”



         I grabbed the sweater-dress from the floor, slipping it back on.  “No, you can see the black boxers; it’s a tiny hole – like the size of a pinky.  The sweater-dress hides it.”  I must explain: The jeans – my favorite jeans – resembled the love child belonging to a slice of Swiss cheese that hooked up with some very horny denim.  The result of such bizarre interspecies hanky-panky was then doused with a magic elixir that made anything softer than the silkiest silk.  Pajama jeans: By Serenity Kane.



         “You can’t wear these anymore.”



         “I have to.  These are my LUCKY jeans.  I NEED luck today.”



         She retreated as her fingers cinched her nose tight.



         I bent down, absorbing the odor; my nostrils cursed me, eyes watering.



         “Why are you holding your breath?” she asked.



         A whoosh of air escaped my mouth.  “I’m not.”



         “I thought that sickening displacement of atmosphere was originating from your bathroom.  You’ll definitely not get laid if you wear jeans that smell like shit,” Daniella said. “Even what’s-his-name won’t go near THAT.”



         Mom suddenly looked as if she morphed into a cartoon.  Stepping out of the TV behind her, a diabolical villain had his oversized fists clamped around her frame, sending every ounce of tissue, blood, and spongy matter into her eyes as if she was a tube of toothpaste.  The once placid balls of pretty hazel were the size of watermelons as they swelled angrily from her pointed face.  All the while, she’d wonder what Daniella meant when she so poetically said the most dumbass phrase a person can say in front of a teenager’s mom.



         Once the melons reduced back to human size, with a bright glow on her cheeks, mom simply pointed to the door – leaving no witnesses to my upcoming murder.



         “When was the last time you washed them?”



         “I can’t . . .”



         “Because they will melt.”



         “Or they’ll kill everything else in the washing machine.”



         She shook her finger.  “You can’t wear jeans that stink like a used diaper.”



         “So I can wear jeans with holes?  It’s either one or the other.  I don’t think they smell like sh . . .”



         My face tingled from the impact.



         “You can’t be mad at me, not TODAY!” I exclaimed.  “I’m not trying to do what Daniella said.  I’ve never done that.  I’m NOT doing that UNTIL I’m married.”



         That, my dear reader, is a BIG untruth if you didn’t already realize that.



         She ignored the slap-in-the-face stink, buried my face in her chest, rested her chin on my head, and pressed her hands against my back.  The salty sadness hit my hair in saucer-sized splats that brought a sense of comfort in a strange sort of way.  With her blonde tresses hanging down, the smell of a beach washed over me as her substantial body heat attacked me like butter on toast.  “This is the last day you can wear such clothes, then your lovely denim will die a brave death in the trash compactor.  Daniella’s clothes should follow.  When she comes back in here, tell her to put on an outfit that’s becoming of a proper young woman when she visits.  I love her to death, but I don’t need Francis seeing her half naked.”



         “Okay.”



         “I’m not finished.  As your mother with a big paddle, I do trust that you will not become the village bicycle.”



         Before I go any further, I must convey the first official definition of many from my loquacious mouth of excellence.  These are definitions you, the magnificent reader, will need to know.



         Obligation Day: A horrible day that occurred every first Monday of February in my city of Seclusion.  That day of the near heart explosion was such a day.  I had to vote for twenty of my fellow borough members between the ages of sixteen and eighteen; they could have been forced to leave their families, their lives – everything they loved.  All things teenager would be erased from their future.  I was worried that some might vote for me.



         The Borough Split: The understanding of this significant meaning will come later.



         “I love you,” mom said; the repugnant sound of vacuuming snot saturated my ears.



         I put some distance between us.  All manner of girlie peculiarities got tossed on the floor as I made a spot on my bed.  The crash of fur and fluff was a massive pile that resembled the spillage of Noah’s Ark.



         Mom joined me on the mattress; her bounces electrified the early-warning radar that made adolescent shenanigans VERY distinguishable.  “I know you’re scared, but you’ll get through this,” she said, brushing my cheekbone-length bob from my face.  Her makeup reminded me of undead movie humans.



         “I know.  I have my lucky jeans.”



         “Even if you get picked, you’ll be okay.”



         “If I get picked, I won’t see you guys for a year.”



         “These are the names you’re choosing?” she asked.  She studied the fate of twenty souls that I literally held in the palm of my hands.  I simply nodded.  She’d been there before, two decades earlier.



         She touched my shoulder, her free hand on my leg that was also pursuing that phantom beat with ferocity.  If I was wearing makeup, I’d have looked like the undead as well.  “I’m your mother, so I know you’re a bit depressed about not having a boyfriend; you shouldn’t let it consume you.  I guarantee a nice Catholic boy will fall into your life when you least expect it.”



         “It doesn’t matter.”



         “I know it truly does.  Breakfast is in the kitchen, if you want it.”  Her lips warmed my cheek.



         As much as I loved to eat, I simply couldn’t risk it returning; my stomach was already doing summersaults.



         My family:



         Mom: Totally awesome, but a little too protective when it came to my losing something that all parents do not wish their daughter to lose.  She was also a phenomenal cook that kept me SO un-skinny.  A trick to keep the above ideology locked in a vault?



         Dad: A dork, with an EXTRA emphasis on protective, not so much on the cooking.  He could, when the mood struck him, make a mean plate of nachos.  Hmm . . . more food for a belly.  It was a possible conspiracy from the “Devious Parenting of Virgins” . . . written by Nuns for Life.  A compilation of stories that might cause amorous activities to come to halt for fear of babies shooting out like gum from a machine, keeping the parents up to their elbows in diapers and a life of no more fun.  An exaggeration?



         Paytyn: My adorable, mirror-writing, fourteen-year-old sister.  We had separate rooms, but quite often I woke up to discover stiff breathing on the back of my neck, an arm or leg noodled around my frame, with a glow in my chest.



         Francis: My sister’s twin brother.  As a boy, I guess he was okay.  Important advice: Do not inadvertently walk into a boy’s room unannounced, especially at that age – AWKWARD.  With him being blood, I would do anything to protect him – explanation to come.



         Serenity: Paytyn’s big sister, otherwise me.  I’m the narrator of this terrible, sad, clever, and sometimes funny story that’s full of teenager complications.  I had such mucked up problems.  I couldn’t get a date, or a kiss, or a boy to stare at me, or JUST TALK TO ME.  I was a lonely human girl that desired a connection in the sincerest fashion with any teenager of the opposite sex.  Was it so unrealistic that one might find me appealing in any way other than for just purely physical pleasure?  But as mom said, a boy WOULD fall into my life – a hint at my upcoming climb in the teenager experience status.  Unfortunately, it was a hell of a long ladder to reach the desired plateau.  So sit back, enjoy, it’s quite the ride.