For as long as I could remember, music has been a way for me to escape reality.
With my headphones in, I strum the strings of my bass to the tune of a Green Day song. Each time my fingertips pluck them, the vibrations tingle my hands, and I become one with the crash melody. My dominant hand moves along the frets as quickly as possible. I hum the lyrics, making sure every strum is precisely on beat.
I've played many instruments throughout my short lifetime, but none of them makes me feel as free as the bass does. By itself, it doesn't produce enough rhythm to be its own song, yet somehow it's the foundation of many famous pieces.
Nodding my head, I completely immerse myself in the sounds coming out of the speaker. The world around me moves in slow motion, and the room is blurred.
When the song finally ends, I pull out the speaker cord from the outlet, when I notice something strange. There's someone lingering in the doorway, watching me. The frail figure finally emerges from their hiding spot, and instantly, I can recognize who it is based on the choppy bangs and celestial ankle boots.
Was she watching me?
Without so much a glance in my direction, Faye walks in sheet music in hand, slipping the paper in between the clip of the podium stand, turning to leave when she's finished. Her heels click against the checkered floor.
"You're not even gonna say hello?" I mutter, zipping up the case around my bass. Glancing up, I realize she's lingering beside the open exit, pondering whether or not to stay. A glimmer of hope blinds me as I watch her back concave, then convex when she takes a deep breath.
"Greetings are reserved for my friends," she replies bluntly, gaze so venomous and malicious that it felt like a dagger to the heart. God, even the way she said those words echo in my head. There's not an ounce of pity or sympathy for someone she once considered a best friend. I'm only met with the pure intention to hurt me.
Ouch. After everything that's happened between us, I still do consider her to be my best friend, so there's not going to be any ill intent on my end. I'm looking for answers. Besides, why can't we be mature about it? First, she's petty enough to rat me out, now she's dishing out insults as if I have done awful things to her since lying.
A rare glimpse into her vulnerability gives me enough courage to speak. "You know, I get it, you don't like me, and like I said before, I'm sorry. I was in the wrong for lying. But what you did was fucked up. That was none of your business, and it was my privacy—"
Spinning on her heel to face me, her nostrils flare in anger. During the years I've known her, I don't think I've ever seen her so livid. She has never once lost her temper like this. It's not in her nature to be angry, let alone be angry with me of all people. "That's your mother, Leigha. She has every right to know. Besides, I was looking out for you."
Not Lee or Leighanna, but Leigha. She must be really pissed off. If I'd known everything was going to blow up in my face like this, I wouldn't have lied to her. After everything, I've deluded myself into thinking that somewhere deep down inside, she still cared about me. Guess I was wrong.
Frustrated, I shift my weight, letting the wooden stool creak. "How is this supposed to help me at all?"
Any lingering remnants of the once amicable energy between us has been replaced with sheer animosity. With a bitter laugh, she puts a hand on her hip, fingers digging so hard into her bone, her knuckles turn white. "I don't even know who you are anymore."
Huh? Prior to this encounter, I'd consider her the person that knows me best. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"What am I talking about?" she repeats slowly, as if she was trying to make sure that's what I actually said. Bringing her hands to claw at her head for a second, she scoffs. "This is about you always seeking white validation. This is about you using money as a measure of success because you have such a romanticized idea of this country. This is about how you're being manipulated—"
Woah woah woah. She is blowing things way out of proportion. I haven't done anything that would suggest what she's saying is true. In my eyes, all this nonsense is make-believe. "Faye, with all due respect, you don't know anything. About me or my situation."
Because she didn't. She is wrong about me, or at the very least, she is taking everything I've done out of context.
"Oh, I know exactly what I'm talking about. Do you really think they give a shit about you? Huh? No matter how hard you try, you will never be one of them, and you know it. I'm the one that stuck with you for four fucking years. I care about you, not them."
A plastic glass barrier is the only tangible thing separating us, though it's clear that she stands against me metaphorically. Just shoot me, it'll hurt less. "That's what this is? Jealousy?"
"Did you not listen to anything else I just said? You know what, I don't need to take this," she declares, stretching her arms outward, "fuck you."
***
"Hey, it's me. Can you open the door?" I ask, phone pressed to my ear. Tapping my foot on the concrete, I wait for his response, anxiously basking in the chilly night air. Tightening my grip on the strap of my bass case, I narrow my eyes at the shadowy figure on the reflection of a window that's on the 3rd story, where I think Hunter's bedroom is. At night, the D'Medici residence is hauntingly bigger than I remember it to be. Decorated in the front are two robust rose bushes I must've never noticed the other times I've been here. The only source of brightness is pouring from a singular streetlight directly above me.
A groan sounds from the other side of the line, followed by the rustling of sheets and blankets. "Leighanna, it's 3 AM."
No fucking shit. Coming here is my last resort because I don't think anywhere else is open at this hour. Trust me, I've been wandering around aimlessly, trying to avoid coming here upon my own will. And truthfully, I don't have anyone else to go to. Tara, Faye, my mom—they're all upset with me now, and rightfully so. "So you're just gonna leave me out here?"
He sighs. "That's not what I said."
"I know, but I didn't know where else to go, and I didn't wanna be alone, and—"
"Fine, give me a sec," he grits out, hanging up to leave me listening to the static, both from my phone and in my head.
Moments later, he arrives, creaking open the door and large steel gate, sleepy eyes half-squinted. Awkwardly, I follow him inside, tentatively making sure not to touch any of the expensive furniture.
"Thanks," I say, leaning against the doorway to kick off my shoes and set them on a golden rack. He gestures to the leftmost seat on the couch, and I make my way towards him. The cushion dips from my weight, but the leather texture is oddly relaxing to sink into.
"Don't mention it. You want something to eat?" he asks, raising his voice so I can hear him through the ajar door to the kitchen, where he left.
I frown. "Why are you always eating?"
"Because I'm hungry?" he offers, returning with a diet Cola and a bag of cool ranch Doritos in hand.
"That's going to give you diabetes," I tell him pointing at what he's holding, and he simply shrugs, taking the seat next to me.
Setting his food down on the glass table, he plucks my bass from my hands, zipping it open, and laying it on the ground. The black of the body is starkly contrasted by the deep brown of the hardwood floors. For a moment, he examines the instrument, taking in the sight of the strings and glossy shine.
"That's a weird looking guitar," he comments, running two fingers along the body of the instrument.
"You are such an idiot," I hiss at him, snatching the case and beckoning him to hand my prized possession back to me. Begrudgingly, he obliges, letting me return the bass to its home. "It's a bass."
He purses his lips. "Oh you play?"
I swear, he says dumb shit like this to grate my nerves on purpose. "No, I just carry it around for decoration."
From the corner of my eye, I watch as he glares at me.
"You sure you don't want one?" he asks, licking the crumbs that have collected on his top lip, sticking out the bag of chips for me to inspect. Half of the snack is gone already.
I wrinkle my nose. "Nacho cheese is better. Besides, like I said, I don't want anything with your DNA on it within a 5 mile radius."
"Really?" he challenges, swallowing. "Because you didn't seem to mind the other day when my tongue was down your throat. Or the time—"
"Shut up," I groan, sinking into the back of the couch and bringing my hands to cover my ears, mortified, "or else I'm going to bite you again, little boy."
Silence ensues, and I take it as an opportunity to admire him. Arms cloaked with darkness, peeking out of a loose muscle shirt. Floppy hair blocking his line of vision. The boy next to me has finished eating, and the bag of chips is folded neatly into quarters on the table. If you told me a month ago that I'd learn to enjoy his company, I'd laugh at you, but admittedly, I have warmed up to him.
"So are you gonna tell me why you're here?" he mutters, resting his chin in his palms.
I shake my head, averting eye contact. I don't owe him an explanation. "No."
"Okay," he nods, seemingly understanding.
"Since you keep insisting, I guess I'll tell you," I give in with a sigh.
"But I didn't—"
"My mom and Faye are mad at me," I confess before I can reconsider spilling my guts out.
He arches up a dark brow. "Why?"
Oh boy. "Well...because of you."
"Because of me?" He repeats in disbelief, scoffing like he's dismissing their valid concerns. "That sounds like a dumb reason."
I can't help but grimace. Such a tone deaf statement.
There it is again. Another reminder of why whatever "this" is, it's never, ever gonna work. This is something Americans would never understand unless they are a child of immigrants—the deep-rooted familial obligation, the collectivistic culture, the hereditary intergenerational trauma. He didn't understand that I owe my mom everything for her sacrifices and that I relied on her as much as she relied on me. I mean, how could he? He was born into a life of glitz and glamour. He never had to wonder where his next meal would come from, or if his water would shut off because he couldn't pay the bill, or worry about being blatantly discriminated against. And I knew that this isn't something that could be taught, it had to be learned through experience.
To them, my family came here so I could have a choice in what I wanted to do with my life because they believed in freedom and liberty and democracy.
To me, my parent's struggle and journey was my motivation to work harder. To work to please them. And it is so hard to strike a proper balance between these two strong beliefs.
This is another reason why I always felt foreign in a land I was born in.
"It's not a dumb reason," is all I could find myself saying. Goddamn it, Lee. That's the best you can say to defend the people you love most and yourself? Really?
He shrugs nonchalantly. "All I'm saying is that you really didn't do anything wrong."
His inability to accept that I might be right and his general emotional indifference to the situation earns a tense exhale from me. "I disobeyed my mother. That is doing something wrong. In fact, it's probably one of the worst things I've ever done."
Taking a minute to consider me, he realizes that I'm being serious, so he swallows whatever he was going to say next. Sighing loudly, he stands up, pulling my wrist. "You should sleep."
Weakly, I nod. Needless to say, I didn't get much rest last night, and I've been fatigued from constantly fighting with people.
Following him down the dimly lit hallway, he opens the door for what I'm assuming is a guest bedroom. It's pretty minimal—the only things filling the space are a completely white bed, a dark wooden nightstand, and a lava lamp. The walls and everything else is bare compared to the other heavily decorated rooms in this house. With a small smile, he exits the room, leaving me to go to bed.
***
Sunlight drips through the half-open blinds, waking me up. Rolling onto my side, I feel around the nightstand for my glasses. Unable to find them, I squint until the world isn't a complete blurry mess. Through my pixelated vision, I check the clock. 7:43 AM, if I'm not mistaken. Groaning, I turn onto my other side, when I notice something different. A baby blue sticky note is left stuck on my phone. With hair that resembles a rat's nest and a drool stain on my cheek, I pick the adhesive off my screen.
Went out with my family. Should be back shortly. Didn't want to wake you.
- H. D'M.
Great. So he left me alone in this big ass house. What am I supposed to do? It's Saturday, meaning I can't go to school, and I can't go home. Should I entertain myself by finding a book to read? Or should I go for a nice, long stroll?
Since I'm hungry, I decide it's best if I make myself some breakfast. Still very much in yesterday's clothes, I head towards the kitchen, fumbling open all the room doors in the hallway blocking my destination. I don't remember this building being a labyrinth, but in my half-asleep state, it's vast enough for me to get lost. Fortunately, my sense of direction isn't entirely tainted like my ability to absorb my hazy surroundings, and I find the door to the actual kitchen which is situated right before the living room. There's only one problem: the door is locked. Frantically, I continue to turn the knob, as if that'll magically open it. Just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse.
From what I can tell, there aren't any spare keys in the living room or in the guest room I was staying in, but there has to be a set in one of these rooms.
Making a detour, I trudge past all the Renaissance-inspired paintings, the lavish silk pillows, and antique dressers with vases full of roses to Hunter's room, which is at the very end of the side hallway, right of a beach themed bathroom. He definitely has a key. Peering my head into the ajar space, I realize his bed is empty and unmade. Where else would he put it?
Stumbling to his desk, I notice a file covered by a manila folder sitting right on top, next to a container full of various stationery. Halle's name is written on the tabs. Carefully and without much thought, I open it. It's a doctor's statement dated a week before she left. Most of it is standard procedural information: her symptoms, the suggested treatment, and her medical background. Skimming through the bottom passages, I stumble across a sentence that makes my jaw drop.
Hunter's mom can't be the organ donor.
Which means that Halle and Hunter's mom aren't related.
Absolutely not. This can't be. I have to be seeing things. In retrospect, this could explain why Halle had left. If I found out this life-altering information, I'd be in a state of shock as well. But that leaves me with one nagging question: if she's not her mother, then who the fuck is?
Breathing erratically, I try to calm myself down by counting my steps so I can process this newfound information. I have a gut feeling, a hunch that there are more secrets lying around here, waiting to be uncovered. If I don't look for them now, I won't be given another perfect opportunity to piece together this mystery.
What else is this fucking family hiding?
Storming back to Kass' room, I look around the room, desperately searching for a clue—some sort of insight as to why she left. Then, I remembered the safe that was tucked away in her closet. Sure enough, it's still there, tucked away behind walls of blouses and jackets so it's hidden enough from plain sight. Opening the door to the area, I remove the extra shoeboxes from the top shelf, making sure not to knock one over this time.
A 4 digit lock is revealed. Why is this so familiar?
Could it be...?
Willing my hands not to shake, I twist the number 5584 because that's the number she texted Drew before she disappeared. There's no way that's a coincidence.
"Please," I whisper to myself, closing my eyes to mentally prepare myself for the mess I'm about to reveal.
Luckily, it clicks open, and a bunch of documents fall onto the floor. Two police statements. One of them was written on Lulu's behalf, and it's a statement of rape against Wes D'Medici. Oh wow. I was expecting something serious, but not done to her of all people. This could explain why she was so weary the night Halle disappeared.
Looking at the right corner, I notice the date is about 9 months before Kass' birthday. Flipping through the rest of the photos, I realize there are so many pictures of Lulu pregnant around the time Kass would've been a fetus. I freeze, paralyzed by the realization.
Could it be that Kass and Halle are Lulu's kids and not Hunter's mom?
It would explain why Halle and Kass didn't really look like Hunter's mom, and why Halle had such a strange attachment to Lulu but does it also explain why the both of them left?
But why didn't the statement of rape get tried in court?
Reading on, I realize that a month after the statement was made, Lulu had said she had fabricated it. None of this is adding up. Either someone is lying or this is a complete setup. I know she wouldn't willingly sleep with that man, let alone get pregnant with his kids twice.
I knew deep down that was for show. They must've pressure her in some way to back out of the charge.
Mind reeling into a flurry of questions without answers, I head back into Hunter's room to steal the manila folder. Like Kass, his room is on the neater side, but something's bothering me about the layout. Someone as orderly as Hunter or Kass wouldn't put their bed against a wall and directly across from the door. Not only was there no way he could have a second nightstand on the other side, but it was bad feng shui. He could put another nightstand on the other side so it's symmetrical like everything else in the room is. Upon closer inspection, I realize his bed is hiding a slot against the wall. Sticking my fingers through the crack, I fumble open a small hole. Left inside the little cave he's made are pictures.
Not just any photos. Photos of me when I had long hair. Photos of me with Faye, smiling in the cafeteria. Photos of the front of my house. Photos of me with my mom in the grocery store, scanning the shelves. Photos taken way before both of us started talking.
Has he been stalking me?
What have I done?