Edited.
O N E : SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY PARTY OF ONE, PLEASE.
- Taylor -
Sunlight filtered through the open window, bathing the room in the afternoon warmth, marking new freckles on my already lightly spotted nose. I raised a hand up above my face, examining my normally pale skin for any signs of the summer tan I'd seen on so many girls throughout the months. But as usual, there wasn't much improvement in that department, but I was satisfied to see that they had become at least a shade darker than before. Laying on the floor of the living room, with one shoulder pressed against the wall underneath the enormous arched window so no one could see me from outside, seemed to be paying off thus far.
"Taylor," I jumped at the soft but strict voice, immediately sitting up to snap the curtains shut, shrouding the once beautifully yellow room in still darkness. Across from me, her posture straight as a pole, her thin arms folded across her chest, was Janelle, in all of her glamorous and vicious glory. "What are you doing out in plain sight?"
I flinched at her tone, clambering onto my feet so that I was at eye level with her. Even in her four-inch Jimmy Choo heels, the top of Janelle's head barely scraped average height. She was a fairly short woman, but powerful for her small frame. I chose to ignore her question, stalking to the red leather couch instead. I chewed at the inside of my cheek as I felt her inquisitive glare follow after me, silently prompting me to respond before she had to speak again.
"Can't I go in the backyard, at least?" I murmured.
"No," Janelle chuckled lightly, but with an undertone that implied she meant business. "The neighbors are home, and I am not in the mood to explain the appearance of a strange girl around our house today. I'm sorry, Taylor, but you'll have to stay in. Besides," she paused, her lips settling into a satisfied grin. "Andrew will be by later. Have your books ready."
"Where are you going, then?" I asked, shifting into a more comfortable position on the sofa.
"Press conference," Janelle clipped a dangling diamond earring into her lobe as she answered. "Paul's new movie's release date is being announced, and the producers wanted him to give off a very... family-man type impression. So Is and I are both going."
A family-man type impression. What kind of family man ignored one of his daughters to the best of his ability? To the public, Paul was a glowing beacon of goodness; a great actor, an organ donor, an owner of three charities, a husband of a beautiful retired model, and a father of an even more beautiful working one. But to me, he was just an individual who was biologically my father, but who wanted nothing to do with me.
I pushed these thoughts out of my head with force, as I reached for the TV remote.
"Listen to me, Taylor," Janelle instructed, and I snapped my gaze up to meet her careful glare. "You will not leave this house under any circumstances whatsoever. Do you understand?"
I wracked my brain for an appropriate response, but before I could scramble one together, I blurted, "What if it's on fire?"
Groaning in resignation, Janelle spun on her toes, and stalked back toward the hall from which she'd come. Smirking slightly at my spontaneous victory, I turned to the television, which was currently set to a channel that played endless reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Great. Nothing like watching a badass girl fall in love with a blood-sucking leech to get you into a better mood.
"Ugh, not again," I lowered the volume as another voice complained from the entryway.
Grinning up at my sister, I motioned to the empty space beside me on the sofa. Rolling her eyes, she gestured down to the outfit she was wearing; leather pants that looked tighter than duct tape on her skin, and an incredibly flattering pink top, complete with a strapless sweetheart neckline and peplum waist. Even her hair was flat ironed to perfection, falling to the middle of her back in a straight line.
"Oh, come on, Is," I whined, batting my lashes at her in an attempt to appear innocent.
Isabella grimaced, but her lips twitched at the corners. "Don't call me that, you twit."
I flashed her a small smile. Is and I were fairly close, and always had been. Well, when I was little, I was more like a doll to her; she was intrigued to have a secret younger sister, like a toy she could hide from the world and keep to herself. Now, she was always wrapped up in convincing my parents to let me go out and be independent.
"I'm sorry, Taylor," she whispered suddenly, crossing the carpet so she was towering over me. "That they're so terrible to you, that is. I really am."
I shrugged, desperate to be freed from the intensity of this conversation. Leaning back against the cushions, I snorted bitterly. "Well, when you've been stuck inside four walls for almost seventeen years, you get used to it. But, thanks." Peering at her again, I muttered, "You're not to blame, Is. You shouldn't feel sorry or bad, or anything like that."
She sighed, apparently forgetting about her immaculate, wrinkle-less outfit, because she slumped down onto the couch next to me. "I know. It's just, when you see someone be confined to a house like it's a jail cell for almost seventeen years, you start to feel like you're partly responsible for it. I mean, I could've spoken up before, or—"
"No, you couldn't have," I cut her off abruptly. "I'm done talking about this, alright?" Searching for another topic, I said, "You're going to the press conference."
"I have to," Is grumbled. "Dad's whole family thing, or whatever. But it won't be so awful... Kane will be there."
As she uttered his name, Isabella's face brightened. Kane Bellamy was her boyfriend of fifteen months and counting. He was a stunning French model and actor, and was conveniently in town for a few weeks—just to see Is. I didn't know how he'd gotten roped into coming to this stupid press conference, but I suspected Paul had something to do with it. After all, how impressive would it be to not only have his gorgeous wife and daughter there, but to also have the critically-acclaimed Kane Bellamy make an appearance?
"Will I ever get to meet him?" I questioned, nudging Is with my elbow gently.
Before she could reply, Paul's urgent shout echoed down the hallway, "Isabella! We have to leave!"
. . .
A knock on the door interrupted my laughter. I was on the fourth episode of a twelve-hour How I Met Your Mother marathon, and I was more than reluctant to miss even a second of it.
Crossing to the front door, I glanced through the peephole out of habit. If someone was here at five in the evening on a Wednesday, when no one else was home, I knew who it was already. Andrew, my twenty-year-old tutor. He winked when I stared at him through the tiny circle, like he could tell I was there, and I laughed.
Unlocking the knob from the inside, I knocked once, signaling that he could come in on his own. He did, letting himself in without hesitation. This was a regular routine for us. Andrew was a sophomore at the University of Washington, and also some sort of super genius. In just two years of college, he'd managed to land himself a spot in one of the most prestigious labs in the state, and interned there between classes. He removed time from his busy schedule to come teach me the necessary subjects for my current grade level (eleventh), and also had long-term girlfriend. I didn't know how he handled it all, but I wasn't going to ask, because I knew he would just brush it off as being good at time management.
Yeah, he thought it was weird, too, to have to be hired to help me with stuff that I should've been in public school to learn, but he'd grown accustomed to it over the years. Andrew had been my tutor since I was fourteen. Granted, he got a hefty paycheck at the end of every week to keep quiet about the O'Donnell's second daughter, but he was also like a friend to me.
"How do you feel about watching the rest of this episode, and then starting?" I offered, beaming at him in a feeble attempt to delay the learning as much as possible.
Shaking his head at me, Andrew drawled, "Nice try. We're going to start with calculus."
. . .
"Taylor!"
I frowned as I heard Janelle call for me from somewhere downstairs. This was abnormal. Usually when Janelle and Paul got back from their publicity events, they went straight to bed—something about how "being role models to the world got to be incredibly tiring."
I navigated through the hall, finding my way to the stairs without turning on the lights. I was fairly practiced at sneaking around; night was the only time I could go anywhere I wanted without having to worry about my parents. There wasn't a single summer midnight when I wasn't either up on the roof or lounging out in the backyard. I had even taken one of Paul's cars out to drive once or twice.
"Hurry up, Taylor," Janelle commanded, and I picked up the pace as I approached her. She was still standing in the foyer, arm-in-arm with Paul, a radiant expression plastered across her face. "Honey—" I stared at her, taken aback. Something seriously wonderful had to have happened if she was calling me honey. "—I have some great news! The conference went really, really well, and now the producers are flying us out to New York for a huge, promotion gala!" She paused after her announcement, her eyes wide as she waited for me to react.
"Um," I stammered. "That's... good."
Janelle scoffed. "Good? It's absolutely exciting! Well, anyway, the three of us are leaving in two days' time. We'll be gone Friday morning, and be back Sunday afternoon."
"Hold on," I said, weighing my words carefully as reality slammed against me with the force of a wrecking ball. "This Friday? That's the twentieth. That's my birthday."
"Oh," Janelle looked thoughtful for a second, and I watched as she glanced over at Paul for support. But he was too engrossed in a text message on his cellphone to help her out. So she turned back to me, a weak grin lifting her lips. "I'm sorry, Taylor. But, uh, we'll get you something. There are so many designer stores in New York; I'll find you a pretty necklace or a purse." She offered, beaming at me like she'd just fixed everything.
I nodded, too internally furious to verbally agree or disagree with her. Instead, I mumbled, "Who's babysitting me this time? Andrew? Or another foreign, eighty-year-old woman who knows so little about social media, that she's acceptable to stay with me?"
"Watch your tone, young lady," Paul suddenly growled. I felt my anger spark as he glowered at me, but as usual, I bit my tongue. "We've decided that you're responsible enough to stay on your own. Personally, I think Janelle is being a bit thick at the moment, I don't trust you for an inch. But she's made your case."
I shifted my gaze from Paul to Janelle. She flashed me a bright, enthusiastic smile. "Yes. So, you'll be home alone for the weekend. Remember, you are to stay inside at all times, unless we phone and tell you otherwise—which we won't, so don't step a toe outside that door."
I nodded again, and spun on my heels, intent on returning to the refuge of my own room. Tears blurred my vision, but my feet led me there on auto pilot. Once I was in the comfort of my bedroom, the door shut and locked behind me, I threw myself down onto my bed, burying my face into my pillow.
And I screamed.
It felt invigorating, the ability to just scream and scream until nothing was left. I didn't know if I still had a voice, or if I would ever be able to speak again, but in that minute, I didn't care. I screamed until my throat was sore, until my vocal chords were strained, until even my teeth hurt from having so much noise pushed between them.
Hot tears slid out of my eyes as I thought of the joy that had been evident on Janelle's face. It had faltered for only a millisecond when I'd reminded her of my birthday, but even that had been miniscule enough to be virtually nonexistent. I had thought, foolishly apparently, that this year would be different somehow. That instead of jetting off on luxury vacations or attending Hollywood parties, my parents would spend the day with me.
I had let hope get the best of me yet again. They hadn't even batted an eyelash when I'd told them I was turning sixteen last year, why would seventeen cause them to abruptly change?
Yeah, most girls my age would probably be ecstatic to receive an expensive piece of jewelry or a branded handbag as a present, but I literally couldn't care less. I didn't want any lavish gifts that only served the purpose of levying their grievous lack of presence in my life.
I wanted a chocolate cake with the words happy birthday, Taylor printed haphazardly on it in thick icing. I wanted my mother and father to stand on either side of me with big, happy smiles on their faces, snapping pictures of me as I cut a huge slice out. That's it.
I sobbed again as images of the perfect birthday flitted through my mind, and the realization that I'd never have that engulfed me. I stopped only when a single thought emerged from the mess of disappointment.
We've decided that you're responsible enough to stay on your own.
So you'll be home alone for the weekend.
They were going to leave me here, without a babysitter. There were ten cars in the garage, and there was a long, open road that started from right outside the house.
Leaping up from the bed, I crossed to the chest of drawers propped against the opposite wall. In the bottom most drawer, buried underneath a pile of old socks, was a single rectangular card. Curling my fingers around it, I felt a smirk unfold on my lips; it was my driver's license, something that I never got to use.
Finally, taking secret lessons with Isabella, and sneaking out twice to give the exam—because of course, having learned from Isabella O'Donnell, who could barely handle a bike, let alone a car, had its setbacks—had paid off.
Maybe this birthday wouldn't be so bad, after all.
a/n:
> I am currently editing/slightly rewriting Running Away. (Edited chapters will say so at the beginning of the chapter: Edited.)