Monday

My paper slipped to the desk lightly. Ms. Redd smiled as if she anticipated reading it, and it seemed slightly more real than the smiles she’d given the others. As I made my way back to my seat, a breath of wind exhaled into the classroom and ruffled my curls.

The simple smile of content that donned my face was matched by no other student. This Monday morning, they all wanted to be asleep in their beds. A bird scrawed in the window as the warm breath of spring settled comfortably around me.

At the end of the procession of children, I noticed a boy that I’d never seen before. A simple stud gleamed in his right ear and another flicker of something silver flashed as he turned his head slightly. When he reached Ms. Redd’s desk, he mumbled a few words, and she stood.

“Class,” she called out, “can I get your attention please?” This turned out to be unnecessary, as even the most inattentive students already had their heads turned in her direction. It seemed to fluster her for a second.

“This is,” Ms. Redd cleared her throat, and it sounded nervous, almost, and then continued, “Connor Shields. He’s transferred here from Hampton; why don’t you sit next to Ashton?”

Everyone mumbled an unhappy welcome and watched him as he took the seat next to me. “Ashton, eh?” he asked quietly as he sat down. When I nodded, he continued.  “Well, stay the hell away from me.” Then he flipped his longish black hair out of his eyes, and I saw that they were blue right before he cut off eye contact.

Ash screamed for me to hit him, to do something at least, but I squashed her. Just then, the teacher began speaking again, and the lesson started. Not even a glance was exchanged by Connor and me for the rest of the period.

An electric bell buzzed over our head, and we shot up from our seats to hurry off to the next plastic chair we’d be sitting in. Kayleigh was waiting at the door of my math class. As my best friend, she wasn’t and obvious match. She was frivolous and overly theatrical, but she wasn’t any more delicate than a baby cottonmouth would be.

Her natural daffodil shaded hair, intense green eyes, and perfect figure were the envy of every sensible girl in town and the makings of many boys’ lustful dreams as well. She was passionate about anything she took the time to make an opinion on, and she had a hardhead to go along with it.

“New kid,” I told her vaguely. “He sits by me in English.”

“Oh, come on! Give me some details! Hair color? Eyes? Muscles? Don’t leave me absolutely clueless! You’re supposed to be my best friend. Best friends are supposed to dish about guys!” She stared at me, assuming that her you’re-Supposed-To-Be-My-Best-Friend speech had worked.

“Sounds like trouble to me,” I told her truthfully. “He’s got a nose stud, and an earring. Black hair, silver-blue eyes. Didn’t really notice if he had muscles or not.”

“Come on! Ugh! You have got to be kidding me. Sometimes I hate my parents. They’ll never approve of him.” I waited patiently for the sigh I knew would follow, and she didn’t disappoint me a few seconds later.

“It’s not the end of the world, Kay,” I promised her. “He’s not that cool, really.” I rolled my eyes at her appalled look, and then turned my attention to the front of the class before she could drag the conversation on any longer.

The rest of the day was spent dodging the not-so-secret whispers about Connor, and when I finally got off the bus, I was relieved to be away from the gossip.

At the table sat a half empty bottle of booze and a woman who dared call herself my mother. I took a chance and asked, “Mom, is Dad up in his studio?” As if he ever left, I thought to myself.

The woman-thing stared at me and then, all of a sudden, she was crying her eyes out. I was beyond knowing why anymore. Anti-depression pills taken with alcohol made people weird, I supposed.

Trudging up the stairs, I could almost believe that I was in some other world. Dad wrote in his studio nearly 24/7, but when he’d hit a block, he’d clean the whole second floor. He hadn’t yet dared to venture beyond there.

The miscarriage had changed everything… the only thing left untouched was my bedroom.

I crept into the studio without knocking, knowing that if Dad was working, he’d only resent the interruption. As it turned out, though, he was just flipping through an old book abstractedly.

The pages looked worn and brittle; browning from what I assumed was age. The leather cover had definitely seen better days. “Hey, Dad, are you stuck on your story?” I asked carefully, and he looked up with an empty smile.

“Yeah, I don’t know what the main character’s conflict should be.” He looked back down into the book, and I knew I’d lost him.

I slid my gaze over the shelves, scanning for a book to grab. What ended up in my hand was a set of some of Robert Frost’s work. I tickled the pages as I flipped them through my fingers, walking out the door and down the hall.

I quickly pulled down the steps that led to the attic so I could get into my room. This was where Ash came out. An unmade bed hunkered in the far corner, and clothes posed in disheveled piles all over the floor.

My vanity must have fought with the little makeup I owned because it was stained with blush and a little eye shadow. The makeup, exhausted as it was, now slept under a blanket of necklaces I never really wore.

On my dresser, my radio stood proudly out from the piles of junk that even I wasn’t sure I would go through. I flicked it on and listened to the music sooth my aching muscles. For the first time today, I let out a sigh of relief and felt the tension drain out of my muscles.

Every now and again, I’d flip the station, searching for a more interesting song or something softer. Then, I settled down to read the book I’d grabbed from Dad’s studio.

 

At the sound of my name, I started and flicked my eyes toward the doorway. There, standing with tear tracks through her half-done makeup and the lines of pain that etched deeper every day, was my mother.

“Mom?” I asked, startled to see her. I stood up to go to her, but she stepped back a bit. I stopped and waited for her to say something…anything. Still she just stared, so I tried again. “Mom? Is everything ok? Are you ok?”

“Your dad won’t come out of his studio. Tell him he needs to come out and help me with the baby.” Her face was empty and her movements were disjointed. There must be a bigger reaction from taking pills with alcohol than I thought… Mom never came to the second floor; even the suggestion sent her into hysterics.

“Mom, let’s go downstairs. We’ll get you into bed, and everything will be ok.”

“NO!” she screamed. “No, make your dad come help me with Adam. Make him!” Then she collapsed, sobbing into my carpet. I shot out to her immediately.

“DAD!” I shouted, kneeling beside her. It would take a few minutes before my shouts would register, and if he was too deep into his writing, I might even be on my own.

It seemed I was in luck, though because five minutes later, he barreled into my room and saw me crouched next to Mom, trying to pry her from my floor. When he saw me struggling, he pulled me away gently and took my place. He started to murmur in her ear.

“Come on, Sarah; come on, and I’ll help you with Adam. We have to go downstairs first, though, okay?” They stood together, her movements still jerky and unfinished, but he held steady as a rock. He glanced behind at me a last time before they started down the steps.

After that, I was so on edge that no amount of reading or music could settle my frayed nerves. For a few moments, I’d putter around picking things up and setting them back down, but I never stayed doing a     single thing for too long. Before Mom had come in, I hadn’t realized the time passing, but now I was painfully aware of every second that ticked by as I stood helplessly.

Finally, I gave up and just plucked my mp3 player from the vanity, slid the small book of poetry in my back pocket, and tripped down the stairs. Muffled sobs came from Mom and Dad’s room, and I could tell that Dad was doing his best to make it a little better.

I stepped out the door and just started walking. My feet must have known where we were going because about two blocks into what seemed to be the bad part of the neighborhood, I sped up and kept going. Somehow, I ended up in front of an old park that had definitely seen better days.

The swings looked about ready to snap at the chains; the slide was metal and rusted a deep red. A little wooden playhouse stood sturdy save the broken steps. A short way from the solid wooden structure a small basketball court squatted. The nets were ripped, and the cement was slightly cracked, but it didn’t look too worse for wear. Directly in the middle, orange ball in hand stood a boy that I recognized immediately.

My feet pushed me toward the swings, and I tested one before I sat myself down on it. Out slid my book of poetry, so I bent and opened it. My headphones were in and I started reading. Occasionally, my eyes would stray to where Connor stood.

Even from this distance, you could see the sweat glistening on his bare torso. His basketball shorts hung low but seemed to be secure around his waist. He kept trying for shots from the three point line, but the ball had decided to taunt him. It would swing itself around the rim and then decide that it wanted back out. Each miss seemed to make him get tenser. I assumed it was anger.

With every shot he made, I wondered if he knew I was watching him. I was nearly positive that he didn’t know. Surely he’d acknowledge me if he did. Then I recalled English. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t.

Suddenly, the next time I looked up, it was dark and Connor was gone. The lights had flicked on and now lit the park with an eerie flickering glow. I knew I should get home, but some part of me begged to stay. It, that part, got squashed under my normal authority, though, and I headed home.

Somehow, I found my way back easily, but the whole way I was bracing myself for the punishment I always got for staying out late without permission. When I got home, though, it sank in again that this was After; no one ever noticed I was gone now that Mom was drinking herself stupid, and Dad was staying in his studio constantly.

Reviews

[0_o Abbie]

Okay this is definitely better than the 1st chapter. A little more info.

Criticism: When you mention Connor near the end of the chapter it's a bit abrupt. She came in and sat down before the reader even knows he's there. A little foreshadowing is good with that kind of thing.

Other than that I have nothing to say. I'm gonna read more. :D