One

I suppose there comes a time in every human being’s life where an event so traumatic and unforgettable occurs that not only does it change that human being but completely alters their perspective in which they view that life. For me, it happened in early September of 2019, just before my senior year of high school. However, it wasn’t just one event, but a multitude of horrific and gruesome trials that crept into my last few years of childhood and made me into the woman that I am today; a woman that I cannot say I am entirely satisfied in being.

            But before all of that happened, my morning had begun like any other. I was taking in the last sweet moments of being able to sleep in before my days would be regimented by a 5am school alarm. Having grown up in a military family, I had learned to live by a strict agenda. My parents were kind, but my father enforced order in the house and where he had grown up with a regulated bathroom visitation schedule, so did we. The three months of summer was our free period. My sister and I embraced that freedom the most, while our three brothers still found themselves the early birds catching the worm.

            This morning in particular I was eager to remain hidden under my covers. I had spent all night writing in my diary, my bedtime being when the sun was waking. So when my alarm suddenly went off in what seemed like a few short minutes later, I let out a muffled grown and my hand came flying down on the cornflower blue clock’s snooze button. I had been in the middle of a dream, one that seemed to start as soon as my eyelids had closed after immediately entering into that REM stage of slumber. I know that it normally takes about ninety minutes before that stage hits, but it is the kind of sleep that begins even before the head hits the pillow. Nevertheless, it had been a dream staring Channing Tatum, and I had unfortunately been awoken in the middle of it.

            The six minutes of snooze went by fast and I rigidly pushed myself from the nice poufy comforter. My room was small, but vibrant. It looked like it housed a cheerleader, something that I definitely was not. While my closet was full of dark colored clothing, my room was a vivacious array of magenta, purple, and teal, with glittered netting looming over the single daybed, a plush butterfly chair, and beads across the windows. It wasn’t that I was bubbly, or even that I was dark, I had just grown up with no stability, so “finding myself” had always been a difficult discovery that I had yet to make.

            I had been born in Oklahoma on a military base called Ft. Sill. I was the oldest biological child of Joseph and Lynn Hamilton. Since my birth, I had moved ten times. My sister, Lainey, was born two years later in Indiana. Tony was born six years after that in Kansas and Aaron three years later in Illinois. Brian was a few months older than me. We had adopted him in Oklahoma just over three years ago when he was fourteen-years-old. My relationship with my mother and sister has always been strained, but countless counselors had assured me that that was only because of my age and the hormones that come along with being a teenager. I was eager to become an adult, a young woman free to do what she pleases and make her own decisions in life. My parents had told me that I had always been their most difficult child to raise, but my retort had always been that my stubbornness had to have been passed down from somewhere…

            A door shutting pulled me from my thoughts. I knew it was my dad leaving for work. He was a Lieutenant Colonel in the US Army. He spent every day working hard in preparation of a new school year. He taught cadets at the West Point Military Academy on the New York base in which we had moved to last summer. He was eagerly awaiting a promotion to Colonel. I had always been such a daddy’s girl. We shared the same sense of inappropriate and awkward humor. It irked my mother to no end.

            I crossed into the tiny bathroom that all of the kids shared. With every relocation assignment, my mother found the time to change up the decorations in the house and in this one our bathroom was adorned with little bears. Navy blue, hunter green, and maroon were the colors that my mother had chosen this time around. On the shelf where our towels hung, there were porcelain bears with a baby picture for their heads that marked where each of our towels hung. I had always found my picture to be embarrassing, and also the fact that baby heads of my siblings were staring at me when I went to the toilet or got out of the shower was very unnerving. But between the bear carpet, bear hand towels, bear soap dispenser, bear toilet seat cover, and bear shower curtain, it was safe to say that my mother had found her favorite bathroom theme. She even took to calling my father “Pooh Bear.” It was a gross display of parent love.

            My showers were never quick. I always needed a solid thirty minutes to successfully complete my routine. First, I would shampoo my hair. While it was sitting, I put on face wash. As the face wash was doing its magic, I would rinse my hair and then start the conditioner. Then the face wash would be rinsed clean, the pink grapefruit beads making my skin smooth and fresh. After I rinsed the conditioner form my hair, I would scrub up with my pomegranate mango body wash and shave what needed to be shaved. Then I would turn the water at hot as I could tolerate and spend the last ten to fifteen minutes of the shower laying in the tub with the droplets of water splashing across my skin. It did nothing to help wake me up, actually having quite the opposite affect, but it was relaxing and I loved feeling the steam float across my skin. Most of my siblings were like this, although my two youngest brothers would often curl up like a turtle after getting out of the shower and would wrap their towels around them like shells. We all had our odd little quirks. I think that every military child does.

            I had first started wearing makeup when I was thirteen. No one taught me how to apply it. My mother and I had never been close, so she had never taught me how to do much as I grew up. For the longest time, I wore just blue eye shadow and blue eyeliner. I was so excited when I discovered the wonders of the blackest black version of those. I longed to master the perfect smoky eye. My irises where a bright emerald green. Sometimes they would look blue depending on what I was wearing. All of the boys in my family got my father’s brown eyes, while my sister and I had got my mom’s ever-changing blue/green ones.

            After applying my make up, I put some mousse into my brown hair. It quickly fell into waves around my face. I used hairspray to keep the curls in place. It wasn’t terribly humid in New York around this time of year, but one moment of sticky heat and my hair would frizz out in all sorts of unbecoming directions. I envied my sister’s blonde waves. Her hair always seemed to fall in perfection, the blonde strands tangled with bleached highlights. There was so much hatred and conflict between us that it made growing up with her extremely stressful. While she was a perfect double zero, I was more hefty and curvaceous. She was popular because of her looks and social status as a cheerleader. I was popular because I was one of the smartest in my grade and because I was also the kindest. One thing that I had learned successfully from my mother was how to treat others. Nevertheless, I still wished to be called beautiful. Every girl does; especially in high school.

            I slid on a pair of dark skinny jeans and a purple fitted sweater with a drooped neckline. I found that shirts that covered my chest fully actually made my b***s look bigger, and with a 36DD rack at age seventeen, it was both a gift and a curse. I remember waking up at the age of twelve to having b***s. Even my mother struggles to remember me wearing anything less than a D cup. That was one area where I outdid my sister. She would be fifteen next month, and had a sizably smaller build than me. I completed my outfit with some black sequined moccasins. It was a dreary Autumn day, but I loved the clothes that came with the weather. I hated my body, and always felt more comfortable during the Autumn and Winter seasons when I had an excuse to cover it up without being called Emo or Goth.

            I made it downstairs around noon. Brian was sitting in the living room at the family computer on Facebook. I saw him checking his fan page. He was an aspiring rapper, and a fairly good one at that. He had been abandoned at the age of three in the Bronx. He grew up in foster homes and when we had been put into the same class freshman year in Oklahoma, we instantly hit it off. My parents adopted him a few months later. It was a struggle at first, considering the fact that he was African American and my family was Caucasian. His foster mother had put up a fight, saying that at his age he should be put with a family his own skin color. It hurt, but we eventually got custody and he has been so happy ever since. He had the type of smile that could light up a room and the type of humor to make the coldest person smile. Most of his music was about getting through pain and how he longed to find his birth mother. He was only six months away from turning eighteen, and I know he was eager to begin the journey to find her.

            “Just uploaded a new song. It’s called “No One Laughs At God,” Brian said from across the living room.

            “Cool. I’ll check it out,” I said as I opened the refrigerator. I set a gallon of pulp free orange juice on the island before grabbing a glass. As I poured the juice, Tony and Aaron came barreling into the kitchen. “Hey!” I yelled. “Calm down.”

            They looked up from where Tony had Aaron doubled over in a headlock. Their current interest was in watching Monday Night RAW, a show that my mother totally frowned upon but my dad would sneak in on occasion. For the longest time, my family had lived without cable. We were raised to find pleasure in the outdoors, reading, writing, and just spending time with each other. It wasn’t until last year that my parents brought television back into the house. I think that was a decision they both now regretted, as it was starting to have a terrible affect on not only my younger brothers, but also my sister, who was still upstairs trying to get her “beauty sleep,” a term I scoffed at because no matter how long she would sleep her nose still looked like a black diamond ski slope for a Dr. Seuss Who.

            “Do you know where mom is?” I asked.

            Tony let Aaron go. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably out shopping or making returns.”

            “Or both,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

            My father worked so hard to provide for a family of seven and it was frustrating sometimes to see my mother turn right around and waste his money on what I considered to be stupid stuff. My mother, who was only forty-three, somehow managed to look like she could be my sister, which was creepy when others would point that out. She had taught elementary education for four years before I was born, and yet she had never been able to help any of us with our homework. She was very giving and loving, but it sometimes felt as though she would ignore the needs of her own family to help complete strangers.  She claimed to cope with her pain by throwing herself into charities. I saw it as more of a distraction from what the real issue was. Our family was far from perfect. We had many flaws.

            I had never been a breakfast person. A glass of orange juice was really all that I could handle. Then again, it was noon so I guess I couldn’t use that as an excuse not to eat. I was thankful for the knock that came from the front door. It was a reason to put off eating.

            “You expecting anyone?” I asked Brian as I walked under the rounded arch from the kitchen to the living room.

            “Nope,” was my older brother’s response as his brown eyes bore into the computer screen.

            I walked into the foyer where I saw two profiles through the stained glass window. My jaw dropped when I opened the door. Before me stood a beaming petite girl. Her brown eyes were wide, void of make up as I knew how much she appreciated the natural look of beauty. Her brown hair was wiry and wavy, cut short just below her earlobes. Her freckles were much lighter than what they had been when we were children. In fact, her clear completion looked almost void of them completely.

            “Brittany,” I gasped, shell shocked.

            She smiled, her thin pink lips parting to reveal a perfect row of teeth. “Audrey!” she screamed, throwing her boney arms around me. I hugged her back.

            “What…I don’t…mom?” I managed to get out.

            The second figure had been my mother. She stood back a bit, a smile on her face and her arms folded in front of her. “Surprise,” she said.

            “Remember right before your freshman year of high school you flew down to Texas to visit me? Well, our parents worked it out that before I start my freshman year of college, I got to fly up to New York to visit you for a week,” informed Brittany.

            I was still flabbergasted. Brittany and I had met in Illinois. She was a year older than me. Our mothers had been pregnant at the same time and both had decided to homeschool their children that year. I had experienced my fair share of private, public, and home school, and it was when I was eleven that I had met Brittany. I remember thinking how mousey and odd she was. It took us a while before we actually become friends, our love for Orlando Bloom and Josh Groban bonding us entirely. We only had a year together before it was time for my family to move again. Many friends had come and gone with each move, yet our friendship had yet to be shaken.

            “Oh my God…I’m just,” I muttered.

            “I just want my girl to be happy,” my mother said.

            For a moment I felt sick to my stomach, all those moments of anger and bitter fights between us coming back to me. My mother tried buying our love with gifts. She had learned that method from her own mother. It didn’t work that way she wanted it to, though, because then she became more like a money bag to us kids as opposed to a mother. But now as she stood before me with a genuine smile and gleam in her blue eyes, I felt horrible for every mean word I had ever said to her.

            “Thank you,” I grinned.

            My mother nodded. I moved from the doorway so that she could enter into the house. I helped Brittany drag all of her luggage up the stairs and to my room. It seemed even smaller now with her hot pink cheetah luggage crowding the corner next to my dresser.

            “Well, I think I found Harry Potter’s first bedroom!” my best friend teased in her southern accent.

            “Yeah, I even have the spiders and everything!” I grinned, balling my fists up like an excited infant.

            “Eww!” she grimaced.

            Brittany and I jumped onto my bed. She sat with her back against the wooden side board, a teal pillow pulled into her chest. I rested my head on my own silky purple pillow and folded my hands over my stomach. “There’s a bonfire tonight to kick off the new school year. Brian, Lainey, and I are going. Wanna go?” I asked.

            “Of course!” Brittany said. She had always been the type to be so happy and enthusiastic to do just about anything.

            “It’s right here on base, so it won’t be too exciting. They let us have some of our Youth Night events down by the railroad tracks along the Hudson River.”

            “Youth Night?”

            “Oh, sorry. It’s kind of like a nondenominational youth group for the military kids who go to O’Neill, the high school. It’s a place for us to hang out and have fun without getting in trouble. They normally have it every Monday night, but they are having it today since they are planning on it being a big event,” I explained.

            “Oh, that sounds cool,” she said.

            “A lot of the people who help our youth leader out are cadets. Most of them are really sexy,” I giggled.

            “Get it!” my best friend laughed along with me.

            “Naw,” I said. “Still never been kissed.”

            “Really? That’s shocking,” she said.

            “Have you been kissed?” I wondered.

            A light shade of pink started to stir across her cheeks. “Yes,” she said. “And other stuff…”

            “Other stuff?” I cried, sitting up hurriedly. “Brittany Ann Adams! Explain yourself!”

            Brittany had been raised Catholic and I Protestant. Our parents had always told us the importance in not only saving sex for marriage, but also being careful who we give our first kiss to. My curiosity in such things had been growing every since last year. I had stumbled across a literotica site and my interest has been ignited ever since.

            “Well, you know, I met this guy last year and we really hit it off. His name is Junior. He’s a musician, the old soul type,” Brittany said. “I never slept over, but sometimes things would happen when we were hanging out.”

            “You make me feel like a baby,” I pouted.

            Brittany laughed. “You’ll find that special someone some day and experience it. I never thought I would, but I found Junior and a love grew that I didn’t think could ever exist.”

            “I want to fall in love,” I sighed. I had never had a boyfriend. My father had drilled it in my head that grades where all that mattered right now, which was evident by my 3.97 GPA and ranking in the National Honor’s Society. Still, sometimes it felt as though part of my high school experience was missing.

            “You will, Audrey, promise,” Brittany encouraged. She ran her hand over my back. She was so motherly. “Probably more than once.”

            “Lainey has like ten lovers. She’s even drank and been to parties and I haven’t.”

            “And look at where she is in life compared to you: struggling through school and being turned on by every girl there.”

            “How do you know that?” I frowned.

            “It’s a two hour drive from the airport. Your mother talks a lot,” Brittany answered.

            This was true. My mother could never keep anything to herself. A majority of her phone calls to my grandmother and aunt were just about what some scandal a family member had fallen into. It was one of many things that made it hard for me to trust my mom enough to talk to her about my life.

            We carried on for hours, catching up on the last three years that we had spent since we last saw each other. Most of the conversation consisted of her boyfriend and all of my crushes. By the time my mother had called us down for dinner, the sun was on the brink of starting to set. The blue sky had turned a golden yellow.

            “She’s alive!” I cried when my sister trudged into the kitchen. She shot me the middle finger behind my mother’s back. I rolled my eyes.

            We had meatloaf for dinner. My mom made this special brown sugar and ketchup sauce for the top. It was by far my favorite thing that she cooked. Often times it was my father’s cooking that I preferred, but he hadn’t come home for dinner yet. I hated when he worked late. Most of the time he was just sitting in his office playing Solitaire on his computer because his office was quieter.

             Still, dinner was fun that night. Brian challenged everyone to a rap battle, and to my surprise, my mother even joined in. I always knew when a dinner was good with my family not by how tasty the food was but by how long it took us to eat it because of the many laughs that we shared. It was moments like these that I sometimes wished I could bottle up and play on the nights that were so bad. My parents fought a war of words. Despite these military houses being over one hundred years old, the walls were not thick enough to keep their voices from slithering into our rooms at night. It was always unimportant stuff, too, like who forgot to buy lettuce at the grocery store or who forgot to return a phone call.

            Brian and I helped to clear the table. My mother then called for all of us to get into the car. My mother, Brian, Lainey, Tony, Aaron, Brittany and I all climbed into the blue Honda minivan, which I swear every family in New York owns. I counted three just as we drove down the street. I smiled, knowing that only one of them was named Corbin. I had a tendency to name our cars. My dad’s silver GMC truck was called Jack and our old minivan before that was Victoria. Before that, our brown Buick was Charlie and our midnight blue Buick was Kix. He was crushed in a car accident in which I was given a cuddly teddy bear at the age of nine by a cute EMT.

            “Your mom still drives you?” Brittany whispered to me.

            “Both Brian and I only have our permits. Neither one of us have much of an interest in driving, besides, we get cheaper insurance through the military if we wait. My dad is incredibly frugal,” I informed.

            Brittany seemed satisfied by my answer and returned to looking out the window. West Point was beautiful with so much history and old relics decorating the land. The stone walls that slinked across the base where some of the originals from the base established by Thomas Jefferson in 1802. Sometimes, old bullet shells and cannon balls could be found buried deep within the forests.

            We could already see the orange glow of the bonfire and smell the crisp water of the Hudson River before turning down the curvy road. I saw many of my friends running along the railroad tracks and grabbing sticks to roast marshmallows. I slid open the side door of the van so that Brittany, Lainey, and I could get out while my brother exited from the passenger’s seat.

            “This gets over at ten, right?” my mother asked through the rolled down window.

            “It actually might go later since it’s on a Friday night and it’s a special event; I’m not sure. I’ll text you and let you know, though,” I said.

            “Alright, sounds good. You kids have fun,” waved my mother.

            “Oh yeah, it’s party time,” my brother grinned as he rubbed his hands together. He shared a disturbing look with my sister before the two took off into the crowd of teenagers. I looked towards Brittany. This was going to be fun.