Secrets, Lies and Dragonflies

Chapter 8

Pouring over the list of possible fall class options like we're making fantasy football picks, all I can think of is how I'm about to ruin Lindsey's excellent idea.

"Okay. The way I see it, we could end up with at least three classes together if we all rank our choices in the same exact order," she says. "We just have to decide which goes first, second and third."

"Agreed," Abigail says.

"I don't know anything about Ms. Marshal's drama class. What about Art History? Seems harmless. I think some guy named Mr. Jordan teaches it," Lindsey says, brushing her long, perfectly straight, golden locks out of her eyes with the sweep of her little finger; a compulsive habit she's had since I've known her.

Ethan narrows his dark eyes. "Seriously? That would be brutal."

Now Ethan I would qualify as cute. Rich, brown hair, fair skinned and really sweet. Not my type, but definitely has captured the of attention the Landry High ladies. Sitting together, it's easy to see why people mistaken Abigail for his sister. Girls have actually ask her if her "brother" is dating anyone. She plays along; no one's getting to him without her approval. Unfortunately for him, he only has his heart set on one person and she isn't remotely interested.

"I'm with Ethan," Abigail says. "Heard Mr. Jordan has a list and checks it twice, but he's no Santa. Knowing poor Vincent, he'd be on his naughty list the moment he walked into the classroom."

Ethan shakes his head. "Yeah, my brother had him last year and said he was voted the strictest teacher in the entire school."

Vincent shrugs. "I don't care. I've had worse so I'll do whatever."

"What about keyboarding?" Lindsey suggests.

"I'm sorry, but typing sounds so lame," moans Abigail. "I can text faster than my dad's secretary can type, so I can't see spending an entire period pecking at some giant keys."

"Good point. How about....oh, I hate the idea of it, but maybe even Chorus?" Lindsey asks, scanning the list.

"Wow. I'm surprised you're not forcing us to pick drama. That's right up your alley, Linds," says Vincent, grinning.

"Hey!" Shoving him off the bench they share, she huffs, "I'm not that bad."

Ethan offers a hand and pulls his best friend off the ground.

Abigail nudges me. "Mackenzie, you're awfully quiet. Com' on. I'm sure you can figure this out for us."

Last November, before everything happened, I applied to an exclusive writing program at the insistence of my English instructor. She made it clear that only kids with recommendations from their teachers were invited to apply, but there were limited spots.

I completely forgot about it until a few days ago when Principal Lewis pulled me out of class to take me to a panel interview because I somehow made it to the finalist round.

"Ms. Temple, why don't you tell us what inspires you to write?" panelist number two asked.

I paused, like a cell phone searching for a tower. I had no bars. My throat turned into the Sahara Desert. The question was simple enough, but I couldn't think of anything. I definitely couldn't talk about my writings these days. That would send me right back into the velvet blue chair with Counselor Cassie.

While my brain still searched for a signal, I tried to recall what it was I wrote about when I submitted my application. Rob and mom were just coming off of their newlywed high and I was always trying to avoid cringe-worthy moments. I'm ashamed to admit it now, but it made my skin crawl seeing how much she changed when they were first married.

Every night entailed endless discussions about shades of paint cards, swatches of carpet samples and cabinet door styles. She was as giddy as a first grader at an ice cream shop toiling over which flavors to pick when they were making plans for the new house. It was an all-consuming project. And when the house was finally finished, our freshly formed family quickly filled the weekends with neighborhood parties.  Living just a few streets away, Lindsey became a regular fixture in our home. But those enchanted days were short lived.

When Lindsey wasn't available, the Carolina Mountains became my hiding place. I couldn't pedal fast enough to break from the stifling subdivision's community pools and pre-authorized facades of stone, brick and wood siding. As soon as I would reach the wood line, my lungs would double in size, freedom filling every cavity like roots of a tree in drought.

Soothing shades of green and layers of rugged terrain helped transport me. Plus, the idea of all the elusive creatures living in a parallel world allowed me to indulge in my most unhealthy addiction to all things Disney. I'd spend hours creating prequels and sequels to my favorite animated films. My notebooks were always full by the time I ventured back home, unmissed. That Walt guy was pretty morbid, mind you. Most of the characters in his films were homeless or orphaned or bullied by the most evil people.

"Ms. Temple?" panelist number three prompted. "What inspires you to write was the question."

Before December 26, I remember being curious and hopeful and frustrated about so many things. My pen never stopped. But now? What inspires me now? My thoughts focus on one word: Fear.

Fear of losing Spencer.

Fear of losing my friends.

Fear of secrets exposed.

Fear that I wouldn't keep the promise I made to mom to protect my brother.

Fear stirs me to get up every morning and give Aunt Amy not a single reason to second guess her decision to take us in.

Suddenly fear overwhelmed me at that very moment. I was going to blow the chance I had right in front of me. Virtually everyone is guaranteed a scholarship once they complete the two year writing program. This could be my way to secure a future for Spencer and me. We can't burden Aunt Amy forever. I had to impress the panelists.

My blank stare began to wane. I had an answer. "What inspires me?" I echoed back. Be concise. Don't ramble. Deep breath. "I'd have to say the people in my life, like my loyal friends who never waver. And my devoted family, who sacrifice too much for me." As the words spilled out, they sounded so lame. You can imagine my shock when Principal Lewis informed me that I made the cut. Even said the panel had "glowing reviews" of the work I submitted last fall.

My gut tells me I got the orphaned-girl sympathy vote. In this small town, I'm still gawked at often enough to know another more gripping headline hasn't trumped my personal story yet. 

Lindsey and Abigail are both staring me down, waiting for me to cast my vote. Art History? Typing? Drama? Chorus? Writing Program? Loyalty and devotion, how they seem to be sparring against one another, yet are equally essential to my survival.

"Yeah, what do you think, Mackenzie?" Lindsey asks.