“I’m sorry,” I groan, rubbing my forehead.
“I’m calling Charles to come get you. I’m sure that’s what you wanted anyway though, isn’t it? Anything to get out of your social obligations.” Her top lip curls in disgust and my chest aches. I finger the string of pearls around my neck and wedge myself into the corner. I just want to stay out of her path.
My ears are on fire, listening to her call Dad. After a few moments of her telling him what happened, she ends the call and turns her unforgiving glare toward me. “He’s on his way.” Mom is steeped in disapproval. It radiates from her in thick waves that suffocate me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again. “It was an accident.” She holds up her hand, effectively silencing me, then she turns on her heel and leaves me alone in the bathroom.
Ten minutes pass before Dad texts my phone, telling me he’s outside. When I check his message, I see the initial text that caused me to drop my water. It was from Sophia.
Sophia: There’s no way your awkward ass is the offspring of Charles and Eleanor Emerson. You must be adopted LOL.
Embarrassment burns my cheeks and ears. It feels like I’m standing on the face of the sun. I rush from the bathroom and fly by the table of chatting women without lifting my gaze.
When I get outside, the chilly October air hits me and my teeth start chattering again. Dad is my knight in shining armor. He already has the passenger side door open and waiting for me. I slide in and click my seat belt on without a word.
“Hey, you okay, kiddo?” His voice is soft and comforting.
“Not really. Mom got so pissed over a spilled glass of water,” I say in shock.
“Yeah, not her proudest moment.” He shakes his head and gives my knee a gentle pat as he drives. “She’s stressing herself out. Ever since she’s taken a more prominent role in the women’s group, she’s been a little high-strung.”
“A little?” I grumble and fold my arms tight against my chest. My blouse is starting to dry but it’s still damp to the touch.
“Hey, why don’t I take you by The Grind House and you can grab your cookies ‘n cream latte? I know it’s your favorite.” He looks over at me when we stop at a red light and something takes over my stomach.
Butterflies.
Mars is working tonight. It’s Wednesday.
The thought of seeing Mars has a smile fighting its way onto my lips. I bounce my knuckle against my mouth and say, “Yeah. That sounds perfect.” The more Mars swarms my mind, the more my hands tingle and my ears heat. “Can you wait in the car?” I ask him.
He smiles at me a little and I know what he’s going to say before the words leave his mouth. “So the barista is a boy. I was right.”
“Just stay in the car, Dad. Please.” I’m smiling like an idiot now and the realization smacks me in the face…I have a crush on Mars.
When Dad pulls into the parking lot, I hop out. I steer my anxious feet toward the front door and a tingle twists up my spine when the brass bell jingles.
I can see the top of Mars’s head. His dark hair is casting a shadow over his face while he works on something I can’t see. I take another step closer then another and another until I’m at the counter.
He looks up and I see he’s been working on a sketch. I can’t make out what it is before he sweeps it from my view.
He’s an artist.
He’s like me.
Mars
Sometimes, when I’m feeling incredibly low, I try to sketch my mother. Sure, I’ve seen pictures, but I never knew her. I was just an infant when she died. In my head, she’s this beautiful, innocent woman who stares at me as though I’m her entire world.
Unfortunately, meth was her entire world.
Not me. Not Dad.
Drugs.
My drawings start out the same. Big, wide eyes. Pert, freckled nose. Full lips curving into a smile. Her hair is wispy and messy from the humid, Duncan, late summer air. She sits on the top of a hill with the starry night behind her.
I can never leave well enough alone.
Because as I draw her, my thoughts grow dark. I wonder why I was so bad she turned to drugs. It was especially hard when I was sixteen—the same age my mom would have gotten pregnant with me. If someone had handed me a baby, I’d have loved it with everything I had. But she didn’t.
So my portraits of my mother turn sinister. The darkness shadows her face, especially under her eyes. Her teeth narrow, the darkness growing wider between them until some spots on her teeth are missing altogether. I end up shading the freckles until they become sores from her scratching, deep and pitted. The darkness from the night wipes away all the stars and all her flyaway hairs until her hair is limp against her head, the backdrop solid black.