8
A vigorous bout of shaking wakes me up.
"You have to leave!" Anastasia whispers sharply. Her breath tingles my ears.
She would not let me drive back home last night in my "drunken stupor" and I could not find the gall to argue about it after her little story-time.
And so it was established, I was spending the night over.
I knew my parents would not give a shit. This wasn't the first time I had spent the night out, although in comparably grim situations. The only challenge was to keep the noise at a minimum and whatever happened, never cross her father's path. Even if that means getting up at the crack of dawn's newborn blue hue.
I never want to, even by accident, find myself staring into the frightful eyes of a disabled girl's father knowing he assumes the worst of people.
Anastasia takes care of the breadcrumbs as I collect my possessions quite surprisingly spread all about her room in the limited time I spent there.
At the door, Anastasia goes over the items once more.
"Car keys?"
"Check."
"Phone?"
"Check."
"Jacket, socks, and shit?"
"Seriously?"
"I am just making sure." She puts her hands up in surrender.
A second guess makes my hand crawl into the pocket of my jacket to check if my car keys are indisputably there. As I feel the cold metal dig between my fingers, relief floods me.
"Okay then. Leave a text when you get home with your..." - She gestures with her hands - "...mortal vessel intact?"
I roll my eyes, inviting a little chuckle from her.
The cold morning instantaneously envelops me as I step out into her porch.
"Bye, Ana." I give her a little wave.
Her tired and droopy eyes make one final effort to focus on my face.
"Bye, Brooklyn." She smiles.
She knows I called her Ana, something I have never called her before.
I step out onto the little path leading to her driveway and before she could close the door between us, I turn back. "Good morning, by the way."
I walk away, smiling from ear to ear with the image of her biting down her cheek to keep from laughing etched in memory.
The giddy peace of the day is broken with the sound of thunderous laughing erupting in the living room.
I crack my door open by an inch.
"Been a long time, John!"
A rough voice, the kind when you grind full chalk against a blackboard, says loudly.
"You didn't tell me earlier you were coming," Dad says. "And is this our little Charlotte?"
The mere mention of the name awakens in me a different panic I had stowed away and kept concealed for so long.
Please, don't be that Charlotte.
Who am I kidding? Which other Charlotte is my family close to?
"Brooklyn is going to be thrilled to see you all." Will he?
"Brooklyn." Exactly on cue. "Son, would you come on down for a minute? There is someone for you."
His tone of allurement would have made me marvel. If only.
If only.
I step out into the corridor and there it is.
The same porcelain skin I had memorized every crevice, every freckle and every wrinkle of. Dirty blonde hair. And ocean blue eyes.
"Hello, Brook."
"Charlotte."
I let the resentment cloud my vision for a moment.
"Come on down, boy! They came all the way from France to meet you!" Dad's voice bellows between our silence and her ignorant smile.
Like she did not just one day vanish into thin air from between my arms when we fell asleep in the same room I sleep alone now.
Like she never had me worried sick only to discover she had moved to Paris with her French wine mogul boyfriend. Without ever dropping a hint.
I begrudgingly climb down the stairs, and straight into an iron-grip handshake with Harold.
"You look so grown up, young man. How are you?" Harold asks.
"I'm great. What have you been up to?"
"Just the same. Shuttling all around the world."
Albeit in your private jet, but you still have to complain.
They all laugh like that is the funniest jest ever told.
Harold Nelson has been a family friend for as long as I can remember. Dad and he had shared partnership in the past before Harold went on to test new waters and made his own venture into commercial jetliners.
Charlotte is his only daughter.
"What brings you here, Harold?" My mother asks. I doubt anyone had noticed her there prior to that.
"Just missed the hometown. Also, Charlotte's moving back in." Harold looks over to Charlotte.
What? "That's lovely!" Dad says.
"I want to be attending school here. I got into Juilliard." Charlotte gushes.
My father's lips part in awe.
"That is absolutely brilliant. Juilliard."
My mother walks into the scene. "We need to have a drink to that. I'll get the champagne."
I mindlessly walk into the dining room following the herd. A glass gets pushed towards me with a stern look, the bubbles rising up to the surface and disappearing.
My dad raises his glass first, a natural leader. "To Charlotte, to Juilliard. To homecoming."
I drink the champagne down in one gulp.
They are to stay until dinner. Mom's persistence.
I retire to my room, sore about my mother's instruction to 'be civil and not shut myself in'.
"Hey." The same sweet voice that made me swoon back in the days, now quite unfortunately at my door, almost makes me gag.
"Hi," I say, coldly.
She comes and stands beside me, our arms touching. I stiffen.
"How have you been? Your dad told me you go to a new school now."
Of course, he did. "Yeah. I got into a fight."
She sighs. "Why do you do this to yourself?"
My head cocks up. "And what do you care about it?"
"Don't say that! You know how much I care about you. You know I love you."
She reaches out for my hand. I pull away in a flash.
"Get out, Charlotte."
"What-"
"Get- the fuck out of my room."
She takes a step back. Then two.
She leans for a moment at the doorframe, my eyes never leaving her for a second.
She smiles.
"I am here now, Brook. I am not going anywhere."
And with that, she leaves, rousing a well known dormant dread in me.
Dinner is spent with words tossed back and forth between Mom, Dad, Harold, and Charlotte, and until they finally get up, thank us and leave.
My guts coil and recoil inside until the taillights disappear beyond our periphery.
Before bed, Dad calls me into his office and chucks a letter at me.
"Here, you owe me one more," he says, taking a swig of his dark oily drink.
I take out the letter, addressed to me.
This letter is to notify you that upon further investigation, deliberation, and acknowledging your promising background, the school has decided to end your suspension on Monday, cut short by two weeks.
Signed, Miranda Davies. Principal. Eastwood Oak High School.
Okay. Time to go to school. *existential crisis intensifies*
Hope you enjoyed this! Thanks for reading. :)