Two

More on Ellie's home life.

Two

            The first thing I did once I escaped to the safety of my room was open my small basement window and light a Marlboro. The familiar spicy taste was soothing as smoke crawled into my lungs. I closed my eyes and exhaled, long and shaky. Tears welled, threatening to spill over.

            For the first time that night, I let go. I allowed myself to sob until I had to fight to keep my breath. As the tears formed rivers down my face, I leaned back against the cool wall, taking another hit.

            The first quarter of senior year was ending in a week, and the past couple of months had been nothing but nonstop work. Exams would take place during the third quarter, and everyone was intent on being 100 percent prepared. Of course, my parents had other ideas.

            “Graduate after first semester ends,” they insisted, “Take exams early, then spend the rest of the year touring campuses. Think over your options: Yale, Harvard, maybe Dartmouth…” It was as if they believed this was easy. How could they possibly know what they were talking about? Mom had never even made it to college, due to the arrival of her bundle of joy: me. Mike had gone to Michigan State University. Yet, somehow, they expected their child to be a genius and attend an Ivy League college. How could I possibly live up to their standards?

            My mother is the worst of the two. She not only expects perfect grades, she also expects me to be Little Miss Perfect, in all aspects of my life. She expects flawless social skills, perfect manners, and top-of-the-food-chain status. Acne and other imperfections are unacceptable, because she’s afraid it will offend others. I must not use foul language, and I must have the posture of someone who’s been in ballet their entire life. I’m expected to attend every party, dance, and social event in Kalamazoo. She claims she’s worried that if I don’t have the perfect life, I’ll blame her for it in the future. She wants me to have a better life than she had, before and after I came into the picture.

            My birth father has never really been part of my life. Like my mom, he didn’t attend college, choosing the alternative of joining the army. His job was to build prosthetic arms and legs for soldiers, post- amputation, and he was good at it. Sure, he sounded like a hero, but what hero comes home from the army only to knock up an 18-year-old girl when she was drunk at a party, propose, and then cheat on her after the baby was born? Mom had finally divorced my father when I was nine, and I only visited him off and on for a few years before deciding that if he wasn’t there for my piano recitals and my first day of school, he didn’t need to be there at all. I hated him for what he did to my mom, and I was thirteen years old the day I told him that I no longer wanted him to be part of my life. Now a junior, I hadn’t seen my father in seven years, and neither of us had a problem with it. As far as I knew, he lived in California with his fifth wife, gambling and drinking his days away. I didn’t care what he did with his life; I wanted nothing to do with him.

            Anyway, it wasn’t as if Mike or Mom cared what I wanted to do with my own life. Why should they? It was only my entire future. No big deal.

            What my parents didn’t realize was that I had no intention of ever being a rich lawyer or highly recognized doctor. All I wanted to do was write. I didn’t care how much money I made. I would have been just as happy working as a local reporter as I would have been as a bestselling author. I wanted to go to Michigan State, study literature and writing, maybe journalism, graduate, get married, have three kids, and work from home as an accomplished writer. Of course, if I tried to explain this to my parents, they would likely have simultaneous strokes. Mom and Mike expected me to be the best, 100 percent of the time. They expected me to have an unfaltering 4.0 GPA, valedictorian status, straight A+ papers, to be president of student council, head cheerleader, Mathlete captain, first place in every talent show, and to graduate early and go Ivy-League. Then, I was supposed to graduate and become a doctor or lawyer, nothing remotely enjoyable or having to do with a hobby of mine. To make sure this all happened just so, they pressured me constantly, took away non-academic privileges if I lost focus, nagged me, tutored me, and fought tooth and nail to make sure I was perfect.

            What could I do? I was seventeen; it would be months before my life was my own to live. I simply did as my parents said, helpless, and lived the life that they had planned for me. Sure, I had tried to fight back, to rebel. Had it worked? Of course not! Mom and Mike always had to be right. Sometimes, I wished I could run away, play by my own rules. Sometimes, I wished I hadn’t been born at all. All I had gotten out of life was over-bearing parents, a roller coaster social life, and stress.

            I wiped the residue the tears had left on my face away and lit another cigarette. When I had smoked it down to a nub, I coated myself and the basement with Febreeze, brushed my teeth, showered, closed the window, and sat at my desk to do my homework.

            An hour later, I tucked my things all away into their proper places, and climbed under the pink and green comforter, falling asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

 

            When my eyes reopened, I stood in the living room of a former house, in Detroit. I looked around, taking in my surroundings. It was a nice little farm house, with an ancient barn settled in the three acres of land, seen outside the south window. I was dreaming.

            This was the house we lived in when my parents split up. As I continued assessing the distant memories, I caught a glance of the hallway mirror, but the girl facing me wasn’t me at all. She had short, chestnut hair, braced, powdered-cinnamon freckles, and was just over four feet tall. She wasn’t Ellie. She was Elizabeth, a fourth-grade dork who spent her time playing with Pokemon cards and reading books much too advanced for a normal fourth grader. Clutched tightly in her small hand was a manila envelope that I recognized all too well. It was a report card envelope.

            Suddenly, the front door creaked open, and an overworked Alice Reid walked in, followed by her ranting husband. They were arguing, as always.

            “…just don’t see why she can’t loan us money. What’s she gonna do with it? She’s in a retirement home, she has everything she needs. What would she need all that money for?” This was my dad’s voice, tinged with a Southern drawl, acquired from our previous home in Alabama.

            My mom pinched the bridge of her nose, something she always did when she was frustrated. Despite her negative mood, she looked beautiful as always. The few gray hairs and thin wrinkles she wore in my current life had vanished. “She’s my grandmother, Dave. She spent thousands of dollars on me and my sister when we were kids, she spoiled us to death. I can’t possibly ask her for so much money, it just wouldn’t be right. Do we really have to move again?”

            My father’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed in a way that made him look dangerous, in a psychotic sort of way. “Whatever. Don’t ask her for money. We’ll live in the goddamned streets.” With that, he walked off toward the kitchen, probably to crack open a fresh bottle of Budweiser.

            My mom’s eyes were teary when she turned and saw me standing there, alone, in the middle of the living room. She nearly jumped out of her shoes in surprise. “God, Ellie, don’t do that.”

            Had I done something?

            My mom assessed my stance, and I realized I suddenly felt nervous, although I didn’t know why. Her gaze fell on my hand. “Oh. You got your report card?”

I didn’t answer, and she gently took the envelope from my hand, pulling out the white sheet of paper that would decide my fate for the rest of the semester. She looked satisfied as she read, and then her expression fell. Her eyes widened. “Ellie, you got a C in social studies?” She gaped at me in disbelief, as if shocked that I could possibly be capable of committing such a terrible crime. Her tears returned, and her face reddened with hurt and anger. “Ellie, you can’t do this. You have to work harder than this, I’ve seen what you can do, I know that this is not your best effort. Don’t you understand? We can’t afford for you to be getting these grades.” She rambled on about high school and scholarships and finances, nothing that my fourth-grade mind, no matter how advanced, could comprehend.  I only knew that she was upset with my mediocre grade. I became angry at her, humiliated for being so stupid, blaming it on her.

            “Other kids got Cs, and they don’t get in trouble. Why do you hafta be so mean?”

            Mom was crying now. “Ellie, please, just try to understand. You can’t get a C. Ever.” Her jaw clenched, and she searched my face for any sign of understanding, any hint of remorse in my expression. She found nothing, and her eyes narrowed. “Go to your room,” she said, shaking her head and wiping underneath her eyes, “You’re grounded. I expect you to be studying.”

            It was my turn to clench my jaw. “I hate you!” I screeched through my braced teeth, and then I called her a word that I thought I would never, in a million years, call anyone.

            I didn’t even see her hand coming, but the fresh sting on my face was enough evidence to know that I had pushed my mother over the edge. My gaze returned to the hallway mirror, and an angry red handprint was beginning to materialize on my cheek.

            “Do not. Ever. Talk to me like that. Ever.”

            My eyes were wide with disbelief that she dared raise her hand to me, and her expression showed regret, but she cleared her throat, composing herself. “Now. Go upstairs.”

            My lower lip trembled, and I nodded slowly, watching her hand, terrified. Then, quickly, I scampered up the stairs to my room.

 

            I sat bolt upright, eyes flying open, and I was suddenly in my current bedroom again. A new sting flashed through the skin on my cheek. I timidly reached a hand to confirm the sting, but it had vanished.

            Tears flowed steadily, dripping new stains onto my blanket, and I was shaking violently. It was cold in the basement, but my quivering had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. The ice that gripped my heart was nothing more than fear, not because the dream had rattled me, but because I knew that the dream hadn’t been a dream at all.

            It was a flashback.

            It seemed that only minutes had passed when my alarm shrieked, startling me right out of bed. I punched the “Off” button violently as I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but my heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. I sat back on my bed, staring at the wall. What was the point of waking up? I would only be forced to sit and watch as the routine day played out around me, everyone else oblivious to the way I saw it all.    

            What I really wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and dissolve, impervious and invisible to the idiotic, clueless people in my life, but when did things ever go my way?

            I dressed in skinny jeans and a navy blue sweater, belting it at the waist. I applied new makeup and combed through my curls until they shone. After adding silver, dangly earrings and my favorite heels, I took a look at the reflection in the full-length mirror across the room.

            The girl staring back at me appeared to be classy, elegant, sophisticated. She was tall and graceful, a classic beauty with a posture of confidence, just short of arrogance. She was flawless, mature, and bold. Who was this girl?

            I turned away from the stranger in the mirror, mortified by how unfamiliar the person was to me, how little I knew about her. She was me… wasn’t she? After a moment’s thought, I decided to file the conflict away for later, and trotted up the short flight of stairs to get coffee.

            My mother sat at the table, tip-tapping away on her laptop. She was the Community Relations Manager at Kalamazoo’s newest retirement home. The way her job went, she not only sold apartments, but also did the work that all of the RNs were seemingly incapable of�"or too lazy to be�"doing. Because of this, she was forever working hard to make sure everyone was content, especially her boss. She had made major time sacrifices upon accepting this job, giving up any spare time she had used for hobbies, and the stress had silvered bits of her hair and carved shallow lines around her eyes. At age 37, she had worked more than the average man worked in his entire life�"simply because I had been born, and she hadn’t earned a degree. I felt guilty at times, but she seemed to handle her job well, and enjoyed it most of the time. She didn’t look up as I walked in.

            “Good morning.”

            I filled the coffee pot and hit “Start,” swaying in the intoxicating scent of coffee grinds, my mouth watering. “Morning,” I replied at last. So many things I could have said trickled to the forefront of my mind, but I instead took the high road and chose not to share the words with my mother.

            After a few moments, mom sighed. “Look, Ellie, you and I both know that we have to talk sometime.”

            Have to? No we don’t. Last time I checked, no one was holding a gun to our heads and forcing us to. I remained silent.

            Finally, Mom shut her laptop and looked at me. “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. I may have overreacted a bit…”

            Ha! ‘May have.’ Good one!

“…but I want to make it up to you. Why don’t you go out with Sean and your little friends this weekend? Surely you have plans for Halloween.”

            Friends? What friends? “Wow, Mom, thanks! I’m sorry too. I should have respected your rules, and I really should have done my homework right away. I promise I won’t let you down again.” I sounded so stupid; it was all I could do not to burst out laughing right on the spot. She took no notice of the snide tone in my voice, and she was completely oblivious to the fact that I was glaring daggers at the back of her head. She seemed content, and went upstairs to finish getting ready.

            I exhaled, poured the finished coffee into my mug, grabbed my keys, and slid into my coat. “Bye!” I called over my shoulder with false enthusiasm as I slipped out the front door, purse and schoolwork in hand.

            A fine October frost coated the emerald grass, and the trees were almost completely barren of life. Winter was approaching quickly, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the first day of November brought snow.

            My car slithered into the school lot, and as I made my way to the front door, finishing my coffee, I was immediately flocked by Marissa and Holly. “Way to ignore all my texts last night,” Rissa complained.

            I gave her a look. “I was at Sean’s.” It was true, although I was well aware she would take it completely the wrong way, but I wasn’t in the mood to vent about my mom.

            Rissa raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth turning up. “Ooh la la. I want to hear all the details later, but first, let’s talk Halloween. Evan Lucas is having a huge Halloween Bash. Everyone who matters will be there, which means we have to show up. Got any costume ideas?”

            I hesitated to answer, looking my companions over. Marissa was like a python, lurking in the shadows and waiting to strike when you least expected her. Her eyes screamed danger, and something told me that she would stab me in the back the moment I turned the wrong way. Holly, on the other hand, was the perfect image of innocence, and acted the part. They were both gorgeous, but in a fake, plastic sort of way.

            “I’ll think about it,” I replied finally. The first bell rang, and I waved goodbye, rushing off to AP English.

            I was thrilled to be in the Advanced Placement English class, and it was the perfect way to start off my day. I could have spent every spare moment I had writing, and that was exactly what the teacher, Mr. Saltz, usually had us doing. I was all smiles as I walked briskly though the classroom, taking a seat toward the front. The class was working on practice essays four our future college applications and I immediately sat down and got to work.

            English, along with the rest of the morning classes, passed quickly. I didn’t have to say much throughout the day, which was fine by me, until I arrived at lunch. Marissa dutifully took her seat on one side of me, while Holly flanked the other, and we all sat, gossiping and eating our salads, which Marissa and Holly would most likely be puking up later. The extremes to which these girls went in order to make themselves feel pretty went far beyond insane, but I chose not to try and figure out their reasoning. I didn’t understand it one bit, but I guess I shouldn’t have put it down until I tried it, which I did not plan on doing. Ever. 

            It seemed that the halls were filled with chat of Evan’s party upon my exit of the cafeteria. Guys talked about which girls they would hook up with and what drugs they would be doing, while girls talked about what they would wear. The party was to be the following night, and I still didn’t even know if I wanted to go, but I knew I had to. If I told my mom�"or Rissa, for that matter�"that I had no intentions of attending the apparently prestigious event, they would personally diagnose me with insanity and admit me to the nearest hospital.

            Sometimes, I didn’t understand my mother. She insisted on perfect grades, but then insisted that I attend every elite event in the area. It was as if her dream in life was to have a Barbie doll for a daughter�"next thing I knew, she would be forcing me to dye my hair blonde. She somehow expected me to act like I was having fun at parties, whether I liked it or not, and then return home completely prepared to turn in A+ homework the next day and spend the rest of the night studying for exams.

            The rest of the day breezed by, as well as cheer practice. The cheer routines were complex, sure, but I, towering at 5’8”, was always at the bottom, supporting the petite, flexible girls on top, regardless of being captain. My job was to formulate the most intricate and original routines possible.

            It was dark by the time I reached my home, and the frost had melted, and was replaced by an arctic cold breeze that seeped beneath my wool coat and raised goose bumps on my arms. The moment I was inside, I switched the heat on, poured a cup of coffee, and began my homework. It was finished quickly, along with two more cups of coffee, so I was left with nothing to do. On a Friday night, of course, that was just perfect. After a half hour of wandering aimlessly around the empty house, I decided to go look for a costume for Evan’s party. I left a voicemail to let my mom know where I was going, and headed out the front door.

            Through the window, I noticed dark clouds swirling in the already black night sky, threatening to rain for the second night in a row, maybe even storm.

            As I was leaving, my foot landed on a lump, and made a faint crinkling sound. I bent down to investigate, squinting in the dark to see I had stepped on the daily newspaper. I tucked it under my arm and got into my car, switching on the heat to full-blast, and looked at the front page of the Kalamazoo Gazette. What I saw made my mouth hang open.

            “Galesburg Cheerleader Commits Suicide.”

            The headline seemed so harsh and it was typed in huge, bold font, proclaiming to the world that this poor girl had become fed up with her life. I read through the article, stunned at the way things had gone for her. Non of her friends had ever noticed any signals, she was always so happy, and one day, her mother found her hanging by a scarf in her own closet. No note was found, no evidence of a motivation, nothing to tell what possibly could have prompted this girl to do such a thing. Her suicide was a complete mystery, and had apparently sparked controversy around the nation. I couldn’t believe the media was advertising the girl’s death like this, and I couldn’t imagine how humiliated her family must have been.

            I shook my head, tossing the paper into the passenger seat, and took off toward downtown Kalamazoo. While driving, my phone rang. Sean. “What’s up?”

            “Baaaaaaabe.”

            Okay, seriously? “Is this important? I’m kind of busy.”

            He scoffed, and I heard him curse under his breath. “Well, I’m soooo sorry that yer too busy ta talk ta yer boyfriend.” His words were so slurred that I could almost smell the alcohol through the phone.

            I chose not to mention the fact that I knew he had been drinking. “Isn’t there a game tonight?”

            “Nope, it was cancelled on a count of lightning.”

            “Oh. So, um, what are you doing if you’re not playing football?”  I tried to be soft, while still getting an answer out of him. My voice was strained, and I had to force my eyes to stay focused on the road as I talked.

            “I’m just havin’ a couple o’ pre-game drinks with Evan. No harm in a few beers.”

            “Well, that’s great Sean. Uhm, I really need to go.” I couldn’t stand talking to him when he was like this.

            He began to get angry. “You stupid !@#$%. Don’t you love me anymore? What the hell happened? I mean, !@#$. C’mon, babe, wadya say ya come over here, have a drink? Maybe it’ll lighten you up a little.”

            He had called me when he was drunk a million times before, but the name-calling happened on rare occasions. “Sorry, Sean, you’re breaking up,” I mumbled, “I’m going downtown to pick up some things. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” I snapped my phone shut, jaw clenched in anger and an attempt to not cry.

            I located a costume boutique, and was immediately surrounded by salesgirls who tried to talk me into skimpy mini dresses and five-inch heels. After what seemed like ages or searching through wigs, makeup, and accessories, I settled on a shredded prom dress, fake blood, and makeup to create fake wounds. The shopping definitely aided me in pushing Sean from my thoughts, and I bought a few prom-like accessories and jewelry for the heck of it, paid more than I should have, and headed out to my car. After my new costume was safely stowed in the trunk, I sent a text to Marissa, confirming that I was attending the party, and headed home.

            By the time I entered the front door of my house, shopping bags in tow, my parents were settled into their nightly routines. Mom was on her laptop, and Mike was watching TV. I wondered if they were capable of ever mixing things up, thinking outside of the box. I doubted it.

            I flashed a grin to my mother as I crossed the kitchen, on the way to my room. “I decided to go with Sean and the girls to this big Halloween party, and I got my costume. I promise, nothing is revealed that shouldn’t be.”

            She looked at me carefully, hesitating. “Will there be alcohol at this party?:

            Lying wouldn’t get me anywhere. “My guess is, yes, but you know I hate the stuff.”

            She pursed her lips, considering. “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do if I were standing right in front of you. Got it?”

            I sighed, resisting the eye-rolling reflex that was screaming to be expressed. “Yes, ma’am.”

            With that, Mom went back to typing. My day was nice, Mom, how was yours? I sighed and trudges downstairs, only to get an evil eye from Mike. I looked at him expectantly, and he replied with silence. “Yes?”

            He formed his words carefully, his eyes narrowed. “What are you wearing to that party?”

            Ohmigod, seriously? “A prom dress, I’m going as a dead prom queen.”

            He was still determined. “Does the dress come above the knee or below?”

            I groaned. “It meets the knee, Mike.”

            Mike returned his gaze to the television. Sighing in relief, I took it as a dismissal and went down into my room, wrote in my journal for a few minutes, and then got ready for bed.

            I was sitting in bed, showered and freshened, when my mom walked down, sitting at the foot of my bed, picking at a stray string on the corner. “Ellie, you’re going to be eighteen soon and… and I just want you to remember that just because you will have adult privileges doesn’t exactly mean that you have to go crazy about them .I know being an adult sounds exciting, but you need to be smart. You’re a big girl, and I don’t want you doing…” Oh, jeez, where was she going with this? “… anything that you’d… regret, later in life. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

            “Loud and clear, Mom,” I said quickly. I wanted to tell her about Sean, to beg her for help. I also wanted this conversation to be over, right then. I chose the latter. She seemed like she wanted to say something else, but snapped her mouth shut. “Goodnight, Ellie.” She left.

            “Night, Mom,” I called, but she was