Talis Man

2| Where's Your Talisman, Tula?

What in the hell makes my mom so strange and why does she care so much about my talisman?

"Take your Talisman, Tula."

Mom enjoys alliteration. Keeps you grounded, she says. Dressed in a yellow floral print dress and twirling around the kitchen munching on a strawberry, its clear mom needs it. Though today, I'm not going to be grounded. She's flying me to my grandparent's house or cabin or something mildly dilapidated, if my memory serves me correctly.

"Our deal is written right here." I shake my notebook. Our last meal together is bacon. Hot and crunchy bacon. "One year at the g-rents place then you'll pay for college, right?"

"Mhm," she nods, "yes. That's what'll happen my little sugar bun." She runs her hand through my hair, catching a knot.

"Ew," I say. "Stop that."

"Oh my, oh my," she says, pulling her fingers from the knot then shaking her favorite bracelet down her arm to look at her watch. "You turn eighteen tonight. And what do you say when the clock strikes eleven in the evening missy?"

I shake my head and push my plate towards her.

"I am worthy." She takes our dishes and prances to the sink. "Say it with me..."

I mumble along with her, "I am worthy of the great task, though it's t'gether we protect life," as I finish stuffing my fishbowl paper pieces into a plastic baggy. I would dwell and tell you all about what nonsense mom is talking about again, grounded is what she never is. Not worth the consideration but my task right now? It's to pack these little scraps of paper away to take with me. The bowl is full of Latin phrases for college entrance exams I wanted to memorize in case they asked about it and about one-hundred upper-level words commonly found on the law school entrance exam. I'm not going to law school next year, just yet. First, it's pre-law studies, then the LSAT to get into law school afterwards.

The waft of old aquarium water finds my nose since I didn't clean it that well after Jonas died. The fishbowl used to have a green beta fish who barely swam around and who I named after my favorite tween idol band. Jonas lived in the one-gallon bowl for about three months until he died and now the bowl serves as my keeping place for little bits of words I write on scrap paper and stuff in here to read when I need to study for college.

But mom likes to pretend she gets messages from it. Like messages. Like Ghosthunters or those television shows. She's wise I assure you, but a bit mad.

I stuff my bags to the car. It's a strange arrangement but then again, my mom is a strange bird. So what's the deal you ask? I promise to take a gap year and hang out with my grandparents and brother whose gap year has lasted at least three years now and in return, she'll pay for college. Anywhere I want. In reason, I guess. But still a good deal.

It'll be nice to see my brother too. I haven't seen him since the day he boarded the plane to Jamestown, California. Well, the plane went to Monterey first and then we stayed in the little town for a few days, sight-seeing and what not, then we drove west to the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the small and eclectic Jamestown.

We went once as kids. The drive is terrifying. I wanted to puke as the car weaved against the mountain road, no guardrails. Death just a six-inch shoulder's width away.

The sun is bright overhead today, floating in the blue sky. The heat of the outside of the car, warms my back as I wait for mom. My housing division is lined with trees along the street. Our yard has just one. The shadow casted on it moves on the ground, ebbing and flowing, as if the tree is swaying in the wind. But it's a perfect summer day with absolutely no wind. My attention heads to mom as she pauses on the stoop, brows furrowed. Then she shuts her eyes and inhales, wafting her hands under her nose. And before she even opens her eyes, she skips off the stoop and hurries to my side of the door.