Airwaves: Escaping Static

Chapter 1: Alexia 

I rub my eraser over the smudge on the page once more. The paper finally gives way, leaving a useless hole where five different words used to be. I absently press at the fringes as though I might be able to repair it or maybe I'm just curious to see the stages the fragments went through before this irreparable damage was done.  

My eraser. Red, unevenly worn, marred with strings of grayish erasures. Grayish. If it was mixed with a little orange, it might be what the light was like, glowing faintly through the front window of that one-bedroom apartment all those years ago. Where pitiful pink and white balloons drooped like crippled limbs from the corners of the doorframe between the living room slash kitchenette and hallway. And the woman, standing alone at the window, with the hazy light fading, taking away the day that should have been celebrated as her baby's first birthday. But the husband, the father of the one-year old, had gone on a 'quick-stop-to-the-market' run where he was going to pick up a couple of cupcakes for the occasion. That had been hours ago. He never returned. 

The authorities never found out what had happened to him - no body, no witnesses, no clues-and neither did we. He simply vanished off the face of the earth. Clich\u00e9, I know, but there really is no other way to say it. Even after twelve years, the images remain the same. By the time I was seven, I finally stopped asking Mom to repeat the story, because by then, I simply hit rewind whenever the question snuck up on me - What happened to my daddy?  

"Alexia!" This screech rips through me like nails on a chalkboard sending my hand whipping out from under my jaw. Wh-wh... my mind volleys. A torrent of snickering from all around me rises up like a swarm of angry bees and my stomach drops straight to the floor. Crap. This is my cue to dig a deep hole and bury myself forever, I think, melting into my seat.  

"Oh, uh..." I can't believe it. I try to speak-try to cover up for myself. I know I should just shut up, but my reflexes have a will all their own at the most inopportune times. Then my fingers start doing that dumb thing, dragging along my hairline, raking sweat-clumped stragglers behind my ears-more for comfort than purpose, obviously, but drawing more unwanted attention. Like always, my wounded act provokes even more snickering, and my face goes from deathly pale to a nice, ripe crimson.  

I aim careful glances around the room, avoiding eye contact with any of my fellow eighth-graders. I need this moment to remind myself that I am still sitting in English class - Mrs. Dunham's class - and that it's only Tuesday on this horribly muggy, September afternoon. Lucky me. I've been sucked back here to Hawaii-Maui to be exact. Paradise? Sure. But not for me. Some might think Oh, gorgeous Hawaii...how fortunate. But not if your name is Alexia Bantam. 

"Alexia Bantam," snarls Mrs. Dunham, her wheezy voice parched with age and fury. "I do not appreciate your less than attentive behavior. Maybe a visit to the administration office will assist in enlightening you to the fact that you are in an institution of learning from seven-forty..."  

But Dunham's words become garbled noise at this point just like a hissing tire losing precious air through one large puncture. Standing there, front and center, all four-and-a-half feet of her, she looks like a shriveled dwarf that was soaking in water way too long. Besides, she'd already lost me at "institution" because for once I absolutely agree with the 'ole hag. This school is a total mental institution. Still, when her voice stops, I smile sheepishly. "No ma'am, I mean, yes ma'am, uh, sorry Mrs. Dunham," I say, hanging my head sincere-like, almost convincingly apologetic. What choice do I have? I need to keep playing the brown-noser so she'll back off  

and leave me alone. Truth is, I hate it when I have to kiss up to her, the old witch.  

"You are treading very dangerous waters, missy. I am warning you," she says, aiming a gnarled finger at me. I squeeze my eyes tight so she won't see them rolling up to my brain. No one has to tell me twice that this old hag hates the very air that I breathe.