Chapter Four

There's dancing in a mirror, a cool big brother and the drunk woman asleep on the recliner.

I turn the key in the hole, fidgeting with the rickety old door before finally forcing it open and stepping inside my house. My feet step onto a once maroon carpet that has now faded into a much lighter color. I look up the steps immediately to my right before continuing into the house once I hear the television playing in the living room. I step through a short archway and turn left into the kitchen.

                Tossing my backpack carelessly onto the counter, I yank the refrigerator door open, shoving aside beer can after beer can until I finally spot a can of cola. Just what I need to calm my stomach. I crack it open, delighted to hear that loud noise and sizzling sound that immediately follows as the aluminum is dented in just enough to allow the contents out whenever I tip it to my thirsty lips.

                With the can in hand, I walk into the living room. I can see a short arm dangling over the edge of an old brown recliner, a bottle of the cheapest beer available barely being held in the calloused hand that’s around it. The nails on that hand are chipped, hardly cared for anymore.

                This is the picture definition of a lazy human. But I love this human. I smile faintly as I walk over, taking the bottle from her hand and setting it on the TV tray beside her before placing my hands on my hips. All I want is to jump up and down and tell her that her baby girl is going to homecoming. With a boy. Not a group of friends, not alone, but with a boy. Who asked her.

                But I guess it has to wait. I sigh and reluctantly turn away from the tired looking woman before heading towards the staircase I passed on the way into my home. They’re steep and carpeted, but the carpeting is so thin it might as well just be the wood underneath. My thighs burn with each step, but I finally make it to the top. I flick on the light switch to the room on the left, my hand and body having to cross through long purple beads that are dangling down from the top of the door frame.

                I’ve just barely gotten past the beads before I walk over to my stereo system. I press the button and hear the gears turning as the ‘Genie in a Bottle’ tape begins to play. Crossing one foot in front of the other, the familiar tune finally begins to play as I reach the center of my room. I hum along with my newfound idol, my hips swaying to the beat.

                “I feel like I’ve been locked up tight! For a century of lonely nights. Waiting for someone…” I smirk at my reflection in the mirror and it’s a matter of milliseconds before I’m dragging the zipper of my white hoody down and it’s being peeled off by my eager hands. “To release me.” I launch the balled up material at the mirror, licking my lips as the lyrics reflect that same action, blowing a kiss to my reflection before strutting across the carpeted floor in a move of confidence never expressed outside of this room.

                “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. My body’s saying ‘let’s go!’” With my legs completely together, my hips roll upward one side at a time as if I’m playing a genie in a sixties sitcom.

                I repeat the ‘oh’s once more, my legs now spread apart as I shift my weight back and forth between both feet. “But my heart is saying ‘no!’” My legs snap back together, my posture completely upright with my right hand over my chest, my left hand extended out so I can see my palm in the mirror.

                Allowing the professional to sing the chorus, I take a note from her book as I opt out of the dancer poses I’ve been doing to squat down and bend over ever so slightly, forcing out loud chest belts in the form of excessive and elaborate riffs and runs. I’ve never heard a recording and I’m clearly not the most positive person, but I don’t think I sound awful.

                The sudden applause seemingly out of nowhere serves to reinforce that opinion. A gasp escapes my lips as I leap backward, my hand slamming down harshly onto the stop button of my stereo. There’s a tall, slender male figure standing on the other side of the beads, hands still clapping together in an obnoxious form of approval.

                “Jesus, Connor. Can’t you knock?” I swipe my hand across my forehead, pushing stray hairs away and collecting a nice amount of sweat at the same time.

                “Well, maybe if you had a real door,” my brother laughs out as he bows his head forward and pushes through the beads like a bull.

                “Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice?” I give my brother a laugh as I trudge over to my bed, collapsing at the foot of it with my legs still dangling off.

                I feel the mattress sink beside me, my eyes lazily looking up to see Connor sitting there in his white shirt and blue tie. He’s the best dressed person I’ve seen all day, but the expression on his face tells me that comes with a price. “Rough day?”

                It’s not exactly a scoff, but it’s close enough. “Yeah, you could say that.”

                “What happened?” Half of my lips are obstructed by the mattress, but he’s used to me mumbling by now. He speaks my language.

                “Same s**t, different day. Apparently I cued the theme music for the ten o-clock news a half a second too early.” He laughs, although I’m sure he doesn’t actually find that funny at all, as he shakes his head. “If you ask me, I think the graphics guy was just half a second late but whatever. Water under the bridge.”

                “Oh. You’re so forgiving…” I laugh, grimacing as he punches my shoulder. “Hey!”

                “Enough about my exciting life,” Connor says as he collapses back onto the bed, his head now parallel to mine with his head facing the ceiling rather than the bed. “How was your day?”  

                That’s normally a simple question but right now it’s loaded. How was my day? Where to begin? “Same old same old… Got yelled at for zoning out, threw up at the pep rally, got asked to homecoming..”

                The skin on his forehead practically cracks as his eyebrows raise and he springs up to a seated position. “Wait, what?!”

                A smug grin appears on my face as I roll over and look up at him. “I threw up at the pep rally.”

                Just as quickly as his eyebrows raised, they now furrow downward and inward as his eyelids form narrow slits. “Candy.”

                “I got asked to homecoming?” It’s very much a fact, but I just can’t get myself to make it a big, bold statement. It’s almost like if I say it, then I’ll wake up and it will have all been a dream. I’d be okay with me running away from the pep rally and throwing up just because Adam looked at me be a dream. Please, God, tell me that wasn’t real…

                “My little sister is going to homecoming!” He places his palm above my hand, and I lazily bring mine up to slap his. “So who’s the dude?”

                “Just some senior-”

                “An older man? Sounds like trouble.”

                “Would you let me finish!”

                “Right, sorry.” He bows his head as he extends both arms out wide. “Please, continue with your gushing.”

                “I am not gushing!” I bring my leg up and kick his chest, not with the intention of hurting him but I’m not at all regretting the fact that it makes him fall back off the bed. He clambers back up on top of the comforter as both of us laugh. “As I was saying. He’s a senior, not awful looking, really smart and he’s obviously not just after sex.”

                “How do you know that?”

                “Seriously?” I nod down to my poor taste in fashion and run a hand up my face. “I’m the only girl who doesn’t try. Trust me, no one is trying to bed me.”

                “You’re beautiful, Candice.” He sighs as he stands up off the bed, turning towards the door as he mumbles “Just like Mom used to be.”

                I hate it when he does that. “She’s not dead, Connor.” I purse my lips, fighting the urge to start swearing as I sit up, pointing down towards the floor. “She’s right downstairs sleeping.”

                “That’s all she does anymore. It’s like she’s dead.” He doesn’t say it to cause a fight or to hurt me, but it’s said so matter-of-factly that it’s like a harsh realization slapping me in the face. This is the only mother I’ve ever known but he knew her when she was different, before I came along.

                Before I can even respond, he’s outside of my room and the strands of beads are smacking against each other, creating the only sound that I can hear. Then there’s short lived silence before I can hear pots and pans banging downstairs. It’s not on purpose, just those quiet clanks as one pot and its lid are extracted from a cabinet full of other cookware.

                “I got it,” I can faintly hear Connor say. Then he repeats himself, sounding a little more flustered. “I said I’ve got it! Just go back to your chair,” he sounds sad when he says it, sad and disappointed. I feel for him and I feel for my mother he just snapped at. I can just picture her pale, chapped lips forming into that pitiful little frown.

                Granted I’m not witnessing any of this, I’ve endured enough of their disputes to be confident enough in my visualization abilities.

                Fortunately dinnertime is always relatively quiet, but if my mom doesn’t react to my big Homecoming news in a way Connor approves of, may God help us all… 

Reviews

[Cyndy Robinson]

Okay now I get to see why she doesn't like to be home. A teen age girl and no door. Wow. Mine teenagers complained because they had no locks, wonder what they would have done with just beads? Well written.