FriENDs: Chapter Seven

By Aliciana Brooks

FriENDs is a serialized novel Witherly Heights started publishing in the fall of 2017.  Here is its latest installment.

Chapter Seven

“What the hell?” I whisper.

Slowly backing away from my mother, I feel my back hit the wall with a soft, hollow thud.

“Miss . . . Miss Ivy?” I stammer. I can feel bile rise up in my throat. Miss Ivy, our teacher, who couldn’t have been in her late twenties. Dad? It feels so strange to call him that. I don’t want to call him that. The man who abandoned me and my mother has come back after all this time.

“I never wanted her to come to your school, Sasha,” my mom whispers, tears welling up in her grey eyes. “I wish this never happened.”

“I don’t either, Mom, I–” I can feel my throat clogging with words I want to say, all about to burst through and explode into a chorus of wails and shouts. Miss Ivy, who was supposed to be alive. Dead. Kiran, who was supposed to never come back. Alive.

To a certain degree, your life taking a 180 can be a good thing–an exciting thing. Like that moment your harsh parents decide to get you your first car. But this . . . I never could have imagined this. Slowly, I feel moisture sliding down my cheek, and I don’t brush it away. Instead, I begin reaching out for a hug, that envelops me in fuzzy warmth. And soon, I can feel my mother’s warm hands stroke my head, brushing away stray hairs from my eyes, which are puffy with tears.

All of a sudden, I was back at Miss Ivy’s funeral:

“God of us all. Your love never ends . . . pray . . . need . . . all you have given us . . . is yours . . . at first, you gave Ivy Van Buren to us . . . and now . . . we give her back to you.” I can feel my head start to pound as a jumble of words fill my head in an echoing chorus. Heat rushes to my cheeks and ears as my eyes start to water uncontrollably, my throat closing up as my body panics, gasping for air. Hands on my shoulder push me away, my back hitting the ground as my fingers reach towards my throat. Help. Please. I’m begging you. And then I see them. Two emerald eyes, glossy with tears, panic, fear, guilt and a mash of emotions all collected into one glisten in their strikingly green irises.

The green of the eyes like the green of the grass. And the red of my burning cheeks like the red of her hair. And then darkness, like her wild pupils that stare down into my soul. Darkness. Just darkness.

Going to a funeral is an interesting thing. It is supposed to offer closure, but really, few ever receive closure. A death isn’t something that one can simply move on from. It’s like a little whisper that we often try to talk over or muffle, but we can never ignore. After experiencing the death of a loved one, our only purpose in life becomes finding new distractions to try to swathe that whisper. Eventually, it consumes us.

I’m jerked out of my thoughts by the obnoxious blaring of my alarm. 5:30 AM. It’s time for school. I pull my tangled hair up and grimace as my feet leave the warm covers to make contact with our cold wood floor. Today, however, the familiar creak of the floorboards as I race down the stairs is comforting. After the explosion of realisation that occured yesterday, any constant in my life helps me feel secure.

“Good morning, Sasha,” my mom looks up from a pile of paperwork, and by the expression on her face, I can tell that it’s time to pay rent.

“Mom,” I mutter in my groggy morning voice, “You know that I can get a job, right? It might take some stress off of your plate, and–” I start up the same argument I’ve made since I could talk, but this time I really mean it.

“Sasha. Listen, I–” she starts.

“Look, Mom, just hear me out this time. If you need–”

“Sasha. What I need is for you to go to school. I need you to get good grades. I need you to work hard, but also maintain good health. I don’t need my daughter to be wasting her prime years working some minimum wage job, when she can study hard to someday become a successful, financially secure, independent young lady. Okay?”

“Okay, Mom.” I nod. “But, maybe,” I start off cautiously, “…Mom, maybe since you’re under so much pressure you can talk to Kiran, and he can offer some–”

“This conversation ends right now, Sasha! Do you seriously think that I cannot manage my own life? I refuse to ask anyone for money.” I can’t help but smile at her determination. My mother is probably the most hardworking woman I know.

“Mom, I know and love how proud you are, but think of it this way. Kiran isn’t just anyone.  He’s my father, and he owes you for sixteen years of child support. This can’t be legal, Mom! You can’t just abandon someone and then not financially support your own child.”

“I refuse to have this conversation with my daughter.” her eyes narrow. “I will work late night shifts, I will work all weekend long, I’ll sell everything I have before I ask for money from that man. I can raise you alone.”

“But you aren’t raising me!” I yell. “I know that you’re doing what you can, but can you just suck up your pride for the sake of our relationship at least? I see you for maybe one hour daily. I’m not looking for Kiran to be my father, but don’t forget that you’re my mother. I need this. We need this.”

“Honey, I’ll figure it out. I’m trying.” She smiles.

“That’s the thing, you shouldn’t have to try that hard when that cheating idiot does nothing all day but sit on his–”

“Stop. Don’t try to pretend to know your father, and don’t deny yourself a relationship with him. I was the one who took him away from you.”

“No. No, he abandoned us by cheating with–with her.” I cringe at my own cowardliness. I can’t even bring myself to say the woman’s name. No, not the “woman.” The woman who was second to only my mom. “It’s his fault,” I shout, “not yours! If you blame yourself in any way, you’re only justifying what he did.” I can feel my hands start to shake with anger and nervousness, like a can of soda about to burst. “I can’t watch you do that anymore.”

For a second, it seems as though my mother tenses up, her shoulder rising, slightly matching the widening of the grey eyes. And slowly, they begin to soften, her own expression molding into one of shame and sorrow.

“I know . . . I know Sash, and I’m sorry, Honey. I’m sorry, I–”

“Mom. Calm down,” I command. “I’m late to school and tonight I’ll see if I can get a job downtown.”

“No.”

“Mom, we need this, it’ll be part time and I’ll confirm with you first.   See you later.”

Without a word, I’m slamming the door behind me, my already packed school bag slung over one shoulder. There’s a light skip in my step as I find myself approaching the brick school building, which looks less ominous with its hoards of students crowded around the front doors. As I make my way through the crowds, I spot Drew, who sends me a cheery smile accompanied by a frantic wave.

  “Hey Sash, how you doing?”

 “Okay, I’ve got to make it to homeroom,” I say, checking my watch. “Do you know where I can find Mr. Pariyar? There’s something I need to ask him.”

Alisha, who walks up to us cocks her head and smiles at me like I’m crazy. “Haven’t you heard, Sash? He resigned just yesterday.”

“Aliciana Brooks” is the nom de plume of Nicole Adams and Anusha Sharangpani.