FriENDs: Chapters 1 – 5

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

Chapter One

“God of us all, your love never ends. We pray to you for one another in our need, and for all, anywhere, who mourn with us this day. To those who doubt, give light; those who are weak, strength; those who sorrow, peace. Keep true to us the love with which we hold each other. O God, all you have given us is yours. At first, you gave Ivy Van Buren to us; so now we give her back to you.”

Slowly and gently, the casket lid is closed with a near to silent thud, encasing the body in darkness.

My friend Alisha and I always wondered what it would be like, seeing our teachers outside of school. Especially Miss Ivy, we always wondered. Did she have a boyfriend? Probably . . . she was gorgeous, with her flowing red hair and emerald eyes, it would be impossible for her not to have one. The only time I saw her out of school was in church. I’m not religious or anything, but my mom is. Mom says I get my no-nonsense attitude from my late father, along with my sun-kissed complexion.

Miss Ivy was religious too . . . I just never thought I’d see her in the coffin, all dolled up in her black dress and veil. It’s scary, today I’m standing here, with my flowers and ribbons and mourning gifts, but tomorrow, I could be there. Trapped in that box with hinges latched shut.

Any of us could.

I shift in my black dress, the hem brushing against my sheer tights as I sway back and forth on the balls of my feet, I stare at myself in the glossy surface of the wooden coffin, seeing brown hair and chocolate eyes as they stare right through me, as if they could see through the wood and view the contents of the casket despite all of the forces willing her not to.

Speaking of the coffin, the simple brown box sits on a velvet-lined table, surrounded by dozens of pale pink carnations and blood-red roses. I grimace, Miss Ivy hated roses. She always thought they were a cliche. Then again, I always hated funerals. But some things just can’t be avoided.

Next to me are the rest of my friends, Drew, Jax, and Alisha. Miss Ivy called us inseparable, and I guess that’s true. I moved from Australia, the place my mom grew up, to North Dakota when I was eight. I was actually born here, but my mom took me to Australia when I was three months old after my father passed. I don’t know much about my dad except that he was Nepali, thus my last name— Khatri. Everyone always asks me if I miss having a dad. My answer is the same every time— you can’t miss something you’ve never had.

After the minister is done, Jax plucks a single purple iris from his bouquet and gently places it on top of the box, letting it sit there. We each take our turn, pulling one or two flowers out of the arrangement and placing it on the wood. It still seems impossible that we’re at my teacher’s funeral . . . they said it was suicide. But that didn’t seem right for someone like her. Miss Ivy would stay late after school, counseling, and helping kids deal with their emotions, family problems, and suicidal thoughts . . . for free. Why would she succumb to her troubles herself?

There’s a short procession out of the church and into the cemetery—a flat expanse of ground and grass littered with crumbling tombstones— which was once empty, and nothing but the sound of whistling wind over the noise of shoes on the dry dirt echoes through the strange and eerie meadow. Jax sidles up next to me and purses his lips, clamping his mouth shut as he runs an idle hand through his light brown hair. His normally cheery attitude is muffled, barely accessible through the stone wall he has put around his emotions but I can see the hurt in his also emerald green eyes. I look down, keeping my face blank as I quietly walk forward. The procession comes to an end and I feel my feet slow to a stop, grinding on the tough and cracking dirt. Jax walks up to the coffin and grimaces as a couple men in suits begin to lower it using the strange machine system. I walk up next to him with Alisha and Drew, both dressed in similar black outfits.

An older woman steps up to the coffin, dabbing at her eyes with a silk- looking handkerchief. She wears a black mesh veil, the kind that obscures the face but not entirely overs it. Just enough for you to know a face is there, but not enough for you to see the glint in their eyes. She pulls something out of her purse, a small glass capsule hung on a necklace. She grasps it in her white-gloved hands, pulling it to her chest, then throwing it into the hole after the coffin.

I look up and stare at the headstone to keep myself busy, the new, polished stone is neat, prim, and hasn’t been touched. The coffin hits the bottom of the pit with a small pound, but from where I stand —at the edge of what is to me, an endless abyss of darkness— the sound vibrates and echoes in my head for what seems like a million years.

“Miss Khatri?” The minister asks, his hoarse voice worn out from years and years of speaking out at the church.

“Yes?” I ask back.

“Would you like to say anything?”

I nod my held ever so slightly, acknowledging his request.

Slowly, I walk up to the front of the pit, next to the old woman, who has somehow managed to recover her strength. I inch away from her and picture my speech in my head. Somehow, remembering this was a top priority in comparison to my school assignments.

“Albert Einstein once said: There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

I swallow hard, thinking of Miss Ivy, her cheerful face and bright cheeks smiling at us even when we did something wrong. She had this special way of making any teenager at our school feel like a child again.

“Miss Ivy always told us to live our lives as though there was no

tomorrow,” I whisper, “She knew what it meant to live a full life . . . even if it was short.” I can now hear sniffles rising from the small crowd of people. “But even though she took her life, she taught us everything she knew was good in this world. She was true to us and to herself. She showed us what it was to be loved in a way no parent could ever give their child. She loved us and we loved her . . . that was what really mattered.”

Drew steps up next to me and nods, “She was our teacher, but we never saw her as that. She didn’t either. She was our equal. Yet she was always willing to share what she knew.”

This time, Alisha walk up to us, “She was the one who knew how to make us laugh, who knew what we loved. She could grade our papers and tests and still manage to smile–trust me that’s not always easy.”

A few people from the crowd awkwardly laugh, trying to break the icy hush.

“She would’ve laughed with us,” Jax says, walking up to me, “She wasn’t just our mentor, she was our leader. And she gave us guidance and comfort that no other person in the world will be able to replace.”

Jax squeezes my hand when he sees my forlorn expression, and I smile a little for the first time in a while. I look away as they lower the body, and think back to when I first met my best friends. There are always groups in high school, the cool kids, the nerds, the jocks, the cheer team, the techies. But sometimes there’s just no way for you to fit in unless you make space for yourself. Being a mixed kid didn’t help with making friends or finding a group, not until Miss Ivy brought us four together. Even when I was younger, people used to always think I was with my babysitter, not my mom. She has blonde hair and blue eyes— a classic caucasian mix. My wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes are mistaken for a lot of things— Indian, Caucasian, Mexican . . . but never half Nepalese and half Australian.

“Thank you,” the minister says, walking up to me. He hands me something, but my eyes are blurring with tears and the object before me is nothing more than a short, stubby and paddle-ended stick. I take it from his hands and wipe my eyes, smearing some of the mascara that I always wear. The shovel in my hands is cold and metallic, the smooth blade polished to near perfection. The minister waves his hand towards a medium-sized pile of dirt and rocks to his left and knowingly, I step up to it, scooping the crumbling earth into the shovel. My legs are jelly, hardly keeping me standing as I walk towards the hole where the coffin has been lowered; the woman, the one who was crying is now on the verge of a total breakdown. I stare at a small stick-on name tag taped to her dress—

Mrs. Van Buren.

I bite my lip and stop myself from saying anything as I stand over the edge of the hole, tossing the dirt into the coffin. The flowers that we put on the casket are still there, looking as good as new. Alisha takes the shovel next and one by one, every single person tosses a shovel’s worth of dirt into the grave until the gleaming wood is barely visible through the layers of soil.

“Thank you for coming,” the minister says. “Mrs. Van Buren, you may continue.”

The woman sniffles and nods, “There will be a buffet lunch at the house at one o’clock if you are able to attend please notify me before you leave.”

Drew nods solemnly next to me and I can feel my feet dragging me to the gates of the cemetery and off of the lawn and onto the pavement.

“Sash.” His voice sounds as I’m about to pry the heavy metal gates open “Where are you going?”

“I have homework.” I lie.

“You sure about that?” Drew laughs. “We didn’t have any.”

“I have missing assignments . . . ” I mumble.

“Yeah, right. Sasha Khatri— missing assignments? Please. You’re the top in everything, and all the teachers would die to have you in their class.”

“Don’t play around with that word, Drew,” I whisper.

“Die? Sorry. I know how you feel, I still can’t believe that she . . . ” he starts.

“ . . . committed suicide?” I finish. “I agree. Like seriously, Miss Ivy? The suicide counselor? There has to be something more—”

“—Sash, you’ve been reading too many mysteries. Don’t think about that stuff, it’s only in books. Miss Ivy will always be with us, but at some point, we need to move on too.” Drew places his hand on my shoulder.

“I guess. Anyway, I really need to go now—”

“We’ll let you go,” says Jax walking up to us. “Just don’t run off like that again.”

I bite my lip, stopping myself from blurting out something sarcastic. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Who is? Anyway, just be careful ’kay?” he smiles.

“Sure.” I shrug.

I grab the gate’s handle and slip through it and out into the lawn of the church, leaving Alisha alone with the rest of my friends. I walk to the sidewalk, undoing the bun I made in my hair, letting my dark brown curls tumble down onto my shoulders. I start walking down the street until I come to a small three- way intersection that is my house location. I turn right onto Archer Lane and stop in front of house 6673, my house. I walk up the brick stairs and onto the patio where I collapse onto one of the hanging chairs.

“Sash? Are you home?” My mom’s voice rings in my ears and I sit up to greet her.

“Yeah I’m here,” I sigh.

“Oh, good. How was it?”

“It’s a funeral.” I say matter-of-factly.

“Not too fun, huh?”

My mom sits down next to me on the swinging bench and puts an arm around my shoulder her loose blonde hair sweeping over her left shoulder.

“Mom, what did you expect?”

“I’m just making conversation. Look, Sash, I understand what you’re going through,” She sighs, “But sooner or later . . . You’re going to have to let Miss Ivy go.”

“I know. So did you get your resume done?” I look up. My mom couldn’t come to the funeral because she’s applying to a bunch of jobs right now. She currently works as a waitress at a 11:00-2:00 PM shift in DiMartino’s, a local Italian restaurant. You can probably imagine that it is hard for her to pay bills, especially since she insists on getting me organic food and warm cotton clothes.

“Dinner will be ready at five, alright?” She asks, turning the subject away from our financial problems. I nod, and I begin walking away from her and towards the door.

“Alright.”

Silently, I walk through the entrance and into the foyer, which is humming with the sound of the oven. I walk up the steep staircase to my left and to the second story of the house. I sprint the last bit, hoping to move my legs as fast as I possibly can. I swing open my bedroom door and stare at my room. It’s pretty simple and bare–a dark wooden floor with a fluffy purple rug, a white dresser, a twin-sized bed with a fleece purple blanket and, my favorite, a transom window on top. I know that my room is just an improvised attic, but I love it anyway. I run up to my bed, planting my face in between two pillows.

I scream my heart out out, muffling my shouts and curses with the comforter. After five long minutes of bawling I roll over onto my back, my face tilted towards the ceiling.

I grab my blue fleece and drag it over my face, concealing me in darkness.

“Sasha, dinner!” my mom yells, and I trudge downstairs, staring gloomily at the pesto pasta she made.

“Do you not like it?” My mom whispers, reaching across the table to grab my hand.

“Yeah,” I say, “the pasta’s good.”

My mom puts her hand next to her plate, and sighs, resting her elbow on the placemat.

“You have to let Ivy go,” She whispers, “Please, do it for me?”

“You can’t just forget people, mom,” I snap.

Silently, I pick up my still full plate and bring it to the fridge, sliding my plate onto the shelf. There’s plenty of space: our fridge is empty.

“Good night,” I say grimly and walk upstairs to my bedroom. I strip off my clothes and slip into a pair of sweatpants and a black oversized t-shirt. After brushing my teeth and washing my face free of makeup, I stare at myself in the mirror.

The coffin. Trapped. Could I be in one someday? I could. Any day.

I shake my head, my dark brown, wavy locks brushing against my bare neck. I shiver, and hang my black dress up in my closet alongside colorful and casual apparel.

Sighing, I walk over to my bed, collapsing onto the memory foam. And quietly, I lift up my purple comforter, sliding under the covers and looking for sleep.

————————-

“Sash, you’re going to be late for school!”

“School?” I yell down the stairs, “Today’s Saturday!”

“Oh, right,” my mom says, her shoes click on the kitchen floor and it echoes up to my room, “There is a box of cereal in the cupboard and some milk in the fridge. I have to go for an interview now.”

“Okay mom. Good luck!” I yell.

“Bye, honey.”

I reach out to open the door of my room, my hand extending out ready to grasp the cold metal—

My hand starts to shake, and I grab it with the other, gripping it to my chest as it spasms against me.

I begin to whimper, my words replaying in my head as I hear them– whispering almost, ethereal whispering that makes me want to block out every other sound. The voice is mystical, otherworldly and yet . . . familiar.

Medium voiced and light, breathy, and the slightest bit sarcastic—

Miss Ivy.

Any of us could.

No.

Stop.

Any of us could.

Sash, it wasn’t your fault, I tell myself. Doesn’t help.

Heat rises to my cheeks and I clamp my hands over my eyes. Blood pounds in my ears. My throat closes up and I splutter for air like a fish out of water. My mind races, and it’s like like I’m trapped in my own body. I sit down, press my back against the cold hard wall, and squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to escape my panicked state. My heart won’t quit pounding; it feels like it might tear out of my body. My chest feels like someone’s hands are pressing down on them hard, and I swipe my hands across my torso just to make sure they aren’t. I feel like I’ve been plunged into an ocean of all my insecurities, I slowly sink away from the real world. Drowning in my own fear, my thoughts all seem to stream from my mind, leaving a hollow shell of sheer despair. I can’t scream. I can only open my mouth to find that even my words have deserted me. Increasingly, my breathing stings the back of my throat and my eyes cloud over with untold force. It is like I’ve been stripped of all securities and now I’m left bare with nothing but a primal fear and hopelessness. God, this is pure hell.

Slowly my hand comes to a stop, falling limp at my side as I gasp for cold breaths of air. My head was on full speed, spinning around, and it’s now come to a sudden stop. I’m literally jerked away from the wall, blinded by the image of myself, trapped in that coffin. I try to scream, and my voice pours out like hot lava, burning my throat. My stomach churns with hot acid as I feel the feeling of nausea overcome me. I press my palm against the comfortingly cold ground. My breathing slows, the floor gives me a sense of stability. Slowly I regain control over my limbs. I exhale and lean against the wall, taking in what has happened. A panic attack. That has to be it. Still dizzy, I stand up and clutch my doorknob to regain my balance. Calm down. I tell myself as I walk down the hall.

Still clutching my hand, I walk to the bathroom down the hall where I switch on the faucet and douse my hand in the cold water, letting it relax and loosen up.

Miss Ivy’s bright laugh echoes in my ears, the pounding of my heart magnified in the background as I let the faucet run longer, letting it flow onto my arm and down my bronze skin. I wipe my face clear of my silent tears and walk out of the washroom, my face red and splotchy.

My feet seem to lead me to my mom’s bedroom downstairs, and I follow. I can’t help but smile when I walk into her room–she really knows how to make a small space feel big. The thin covers and peeling paint are overpowered by the vase of fresh flowers and overflowing stack of my photos. I know that the flowers are just weeds from the street, and I know that we can’t afford to frame every single photo, but to me it’s beautiful nonetheless.

I walk to her dresser, staring at the dusty photo frames of me and her: my first day of preschool, me at the Sydney Harbour bridge, both of us in front of our home on the first day in the United States. I pick up a photo I haven’t seen in a while and finger the smooth glass. I gaze at the photo with a sort of bitter nostalgia, wondering how life was so simple back then. That’s when I notice that there is a letter, behind the frames. I pick it up and notice that it’s thick and tattered. But the words— who it’s addressed to . . . that’s what shocks me. Ivy Van Buren.

What would my mom be doing with one of Miss. Ivy’s letters? I bite my lip, and curiosity wins. I slip my hand under the flap and gently tear the letter open, sorry letters. Yep, there are two. One is a messy note, and the other a beautiful watercolor card. I glance at the note:

Julia,

Give this letter to Vivi. Money is enclosed for Sundari. Wish I could be there for her.

                                                                                                                                   -Kiran

Sure enough, a check of $10,000 is enclosed, and addressed to Julia Khatri— my mom. A million questions rush through my head. What is this money for? Why is a check for my mom in a letter for . . . Vivi? Okay, Vivi must be Miss Ivy, but who is Sundari? And who is Kiran? I slide out the other card, hoping for more answers, but at that moment I hear the door open. Mom! I quickly stuff everything back into its original position, and race into the kitchen.

“You okay?” my mom frowns.

“Yeah, sure. How was your interview?”

My mom opens her mouth but says nothing. She doesn’t need to. The look on her face tells me for her.

“Anyway . . .” I mumble and look down, trying desperately to hide my disappointment.

“It will all work out, Sasha.” My mom says firmly.

“Right,” I reply, thinking back to the money I found today. What’s that all about?

“Okay, help me unload.” my mom says, plopping a small plastic grocery bag on the counter.

“Mom.” I mumble.

“Yeah?” she says, not looking up.

 

“Can you miss someone you never knew?”

 

“Sasha.” she sighs, facing me. “Is this about your father?”

 

“I just wish I knew more, Mom.”

 

“Of course you do.” She looks tired, but I catch a grin.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“Nothing.”  Her humorous expression changes to a serious one.  “So what

do you want to know?”

 

“Well dad was Nepali, right?”

 

“Yeah. His dad was Nepali, but his mom was Indian. Though he was born in Nepal. And that’s just most of it, he probably has a bit from everywhere.” My mom looks down quickly, but it’s too late. I manage to catch the look of longing on her face.

 

“I bet you miss him.” I shrug, stepping towards her.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Why?” I look up at my mom, her blonde hair is messy and her blue eyes dulled by the lack of sleep from sending out resumes and working at the restaurant until eleven o’clock.

 

“There just wasn’t much to miss.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I stand up and I’m jerked out of my dreamlike state.

 

“Are you done with your homework?” my mom looks away and busies herself with some papers as she sorts the groceries out.

 

“Mom! What are you talking about?”

 

“Go finish your homework, Sasha.”

 

“Mom.” I grip her arm.

 

“Your father and I didn’t get along great, okay?!” she blurts.

 

“Go on . . .” I plead.

 

“Fine,” she sighs.“I got pregnant with you when I was eighteen, and honestly, my plan was to put you up for adoption. But your father wanted to raise you, so we did. I knew I couldn’t manage a child and college, so I didn’t go to college. I stayed at home, working odd jobs in my little free time to keep us afloat. Your father went to college, and the plan was for him to get a higher paying job after graduation. Unfortunately, he passed when you were four, so that never really happened.”

 

“How did he die?” I whisper the question that has haunted me for years.

 

“To be honest,” my mom sighs, “I don’t know.”

 

“How?” I ask, “How could you not know?”

 

“That’s not your question to ask, Sash. Go finish your homework now.”

 

Reluctantly, I rip myself from her grasp and race myself up the stairs, frustrated. On a normal day, I would think that it’s not fair. It’s not fair that Miss Ivy died, it’s not fair that my mom is hiding secret letters from me, it’s not fair that she works so hard with nothing in return, and most of all it is not fair that I barely know anything about my own father.

 

When I was younger, everyone always told me that life isn’t fair. It’s true, life really is never fair— I’ve seen that with my own eyes. But despite what has happened today, my life seems absolutely perfect in comparison to what happened to Miss Ivy.

 

Because life is always fairer than death.

 

Chapter Two

 

There was always something scary about Miss Ivy’s eyes. They were bright, happy . . . but at the same time . . . cold and chilling. Seeing her in a casket made something in me tick, it just flipped a switch and drove me crazy. I shiver, rubbing my forearms for warmth as I walk out the door, stepping out into the icy breeze as it sweeps my hair across my face in gusts of sharp wind.

 

If I had known the weather, I would have worn something a little more appropriate, but now, I’m stuck in 30-degree weather and in a t-shirt and black leggings.

 

I sling my backpack onto my shoulder, feeling the warmth radiate from my lunch as it sits at the bottom of my backpack along with school supplies, my homework, and of course, the letter from “Kiran.”

 

I start down the road, not caring about the strange glances I get as I walk next to Drew, who comes out of his house to walk with me. Girls like Drew. It’s a fact of life. The sky is blue, grass is green, Miss Ivy is dead. All facts of my sorry, pathetic life.

 

“Hey,” Drew muses, eyeing my forlorn expression, “Sup?”

 

I look at him, one eyebrow raised, “Sup?”

 

“Yeah,” He laughs, “This is the twenty-first century, Sash. Your grandma’s not a teen anymore. I’m not going to say salutations.”

 

I laugh as we near school, a large brick building that looks more like a mental asylum than an education facility. If only school was slightly more interesting . . . with Miss Ivy it might have been. Not empty, gloomy, sad looking. It would have been something to anticipate. But now, I feel like the same shy, sad girl who walked up these steps on her first day of high school, her black curly hair slung over one shoulder as she adjusted her glasses in an attempt to look normal. That was the day I met Miss Ivy, Drew, Alisha,

Jax—

 

I swallow the lump in my throat that forms every time I think of him. Jax. Sometimes I wish I had never met him. I’ve never had a crush before, and this one just took me by surprise. “It’s pathetic,” I whisper to myself every time. But life doesn’t care when something is pathetic. If anything, my existence is proof of that.

 

I think back to the first day of high school. Simple, naive and clueless. That would have been a whole lot easier than knowing all of this. I remember that day like it was yesterday. We were reading Romeo and Juliet for our exercise, and of course, I was traumatized. Romance, tragedy, murder, it was like all of my life wrapped into one twisted tale. I had people begging to be my partner—probably because they knew I’d get them an A. I needed the AP classes and the nearly 5.0 GPA that they gave me. It wasn’t like my mom could afford to send me to a good college, so a scholarship wasn’t just a choice or a dream. It was—is—my only option.

 

I step into the building, blasted by the warmth of the heater as it gushes lukewarm wind in our faces. Drew’s perfectly tousled hair is blown back and he has to ruffle it again for it to regain its “natural” look. Jax follows behind us, but at a close distance. Maybe he’s sad. Probably not. Who knew Jax Capewell was capable of feelings? I grimace as girls gush as we walk in and Drew flashes a smile at the herd of cheeky faced teens as they goggle at him.

 

“Really, Drew?” I roll my eyes.

 

“Oh come on Sash, live a little!” he exclaims.

 

“I can live without being stupid and shallow,” I joke in a matter-of-factly tone.

 

“See you at class, dork,” Drew grins and elbows me playfully.

 

“Don’t inveigle too many girls to like you!” I yell.

 

“I have no clue what ‘inveigle’ means!” he yells back and sprints away before I can give a textbook definition.

 

I laugh, and open the door to English class. As soon as I walk in, I step back in surprise. It feels strange to have someone else in Miss Ivy’s chair.

 

“Hello, please take a seat,” he smiles, his brown eyes glint as they widen. I nod and quickly sit down, glancing at him. The new teacher has jet black hair and dark almond eyes, and a mocha skin tone.

 

“Hello. My name is Prakash Pariyar, but you guys can call me Mr. Pariyar. I will be replacing Miss Van Buren as your teacher. Why don’t we start class by everyone going around and saying their names and where they come from?” He smiles. I grimace. I hate using the word “replace”—nobody could ever replace Miss Ivy. And going around saying our names? This isn’t kindergarten.

 

“I’m Alisha Sinclair, and my parents came from Austria and France.” Alisha starts, and everyone goes on till it’s my turn.

 

“Uh— ” I mumble. “I’m Sasha Khatri and my mom is from Australia.”

 

“Funny, you don’t look very Australian, Miss Khatri.” Mr. Pariyar looks humored.

 

“Well, I am.” I say firmly, and sit down. I already don’t like Mr. Pariyar, and I’ve barely been in his class for a few minutes.

“Okay then. Let’s start class!” He looks excited.

 

I’ll admit, the guy’s a good teacher. Mr. Pariyar was super energetic, and he seems really into the subject. As soon as the bell rings, I clutch my books and head towards the door, but I’m stopped by his arm, blocking the only exit from the windowless classroom.

 

“Please take a seat, Miss Khatri.” Mr. Pariyar gestures towards a chair in front of his desk.

 

“You can call me Sasha,” I mutter as I sit down.

 

“Very well, then, Sasha. I need to talk to you about a scholarship you were applying for.”

 

“Which one?” I smile.

 

“The Scholarship for young Nepali women,” Mr. Pariyar says.

 

“And?” I tap my foot against the floor nervously. I don’t like talking about this side of my ethnicity.

 

“You said you were Australian.”

 

“I am.”

 

“What about Nepali?”

 

“Half,” I say sharply.

 

“I see.” he nods.

 

“May I please leave now, Mr. Pariyar?” I sigh.

 

“Sasha.” he starts. “Have you ever been discriminated against for your Nepalese side?”

 

I open my mouth, but don’t say anything. Yes, I have. I don’t know what’s stopping me from telling Mr. Pariyar that, but something tells me not to.

 

“Uhm, okay. Well, if you haven’t, I realized that may be a problem. You see, the scholarship is meant to give minorities a fair chance, and—”

 

“— I’m getting late for French.” I bite my lip.

 

“Go ahead, Sasha. But I hope you’ve considered your options carefully.” Mr Pariyar nods, the sides of his mouth pull up into a smile and the corners of his eyes wrinkle.

 

“Thanks.” I nod and walk towards the door.

 

There is something strange about teachers — this teacher. There is something strange about the way he smiles at me, the way he talks to me. It’s uncanny. Yet . . . totally familiar. I would be nuts to think that he reminded me of Miss Ivy . . . but . .  he did. In some strange way, he did.

 

—

 

I bite my lip on the way to French, the cold drafts of wind sweeping against my ankles as they waft through the hallway. Empty would be an understatement for the hallway. More like desolate or hollow. The normal bustle of teenagers and the sound of heels on linoleum is not homely or comforting. Scary, in fact. I whistle to myself as I walk into French, which is full of sophomores who are flicking pencils up at the ceiling or playing Paper Toss with their homework. Ms. Blac stares at the classroom, her face contorting with disgust, but smiles when she spots Alisha runnings her eyes through the French dictionary. When I walk in, Ms. Blac looks up, her grey eyes sparkle, “Ah, finally, a student who cares.”

 

I return the smile and slide into my seat next to Alisha, who is frantically jotting down notes as she skims through the book. The ruckus has died down, but the jabbing of someone’s foot as it kicks my chair makes me jump.

 

I whip around and come face to face with a boy my age with effortlessly windblown brown hair and dull turquoise eyes.

 

“Is your hair on fire?” I ask sweetly, leaning on the metal frame of the chair.

 

“What?” He laughs, reclining in his seat.

 

“I asked you if your hair was on fire.”

 

“Well . . . it’s not,” he says.

 

“Well then I don’t see any reason for you to talk to me,” I retort. I reach out to my desk and grab my water bottle, dumping the little remaining contents onto his head.

 

“What —” He starts.

 

“For good measure.”

 

I turn back to Ms. Blanc who is on the verge of laughing. She may be on the stricter side, but she loves a good laugh. It makes for some epic prank wars during her French lectures.

 

After French, I discover that the jerk’s name is Ashton Lynch, not that I don’t know him. Everyone who’s anyone knows of him. It’s like Drew. I roll my eyes and walk into the locker room—oh just my luck. It’s Ashton.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his blue eyes narrowing.

 

“It’s a locker room, what do you think? And it’s the girl’s locker room, Ashton.” I sigh heading over towards my locker. “I should be asking you what you’re doing here.”

 

“This better not get to the teachers.” he breathes running a hand through his hair.

 

“Are you waiting for someone? Because I don’t care enough to report it.”

 

“My parents donate enough money to this school so teachers won’t ever suspend me, so stop being so bratty.”

 

“Again, I don’t care,” I snap. “You’re going to miss your classes.”

 

“I’m waiting for my girlfriend, nerd,” he spits and glares at me.

 

“You say it like it’s an insult.” I smile sweetly and turn on my heel. “Don’t go around complaining when you fail chemistry this afternoon!”

 

Ashton laughs, making me drop my shoes on my feet. P.E. starts in ten minutes and I can’t afford to be anything but early, even though I know Coach Aniyah starts track late.

 

“What was that?” I hiss, pulling my hair up into a bun.

 

“What, laughing?”

 

“Oh? That was a laugh?” I grin, “I thought I heard a dying animal somewhere . . .”

 

Ashton rolls his eyes and leans against a locker, brushing hair out of his eyes as he watches me tie my shoes.

 

“Are you gonna leave?” I ask.

 

“No,” he states, “Not until I’ve come up with a sarcastic comeback that will make you sorry.”

 

“Excuse me if I leave now, because if I have to wait till you think of something good, we’ll be here for an eternity.” I smirk.

 

“I know,” he smiles looking up at the clock, “Now look who’s going to miss their classes?”

 

I bite my lip and roll off of the bench, slamming my locker, heading towards the door.

 

“Damn it,” I whisper under my breath, sprinting towards P.E.

 

—

 

“You’re late Miss Khatri,” Coach Aniyah says as I burst out of the gym doors and onto the lawn.

 

“I got held up by a certain Ashton Lynch,” I grimace.

 

“No excuses!” She rolls her eyes, “No one wants to hear about your janitor closet makeouts!”

 

“I—” I stammer, “What? I didn’t —”

 

“Seriously,” a girl whispers, “he . . . I didn’t think that he would— Never mind. Ashton must be really desperate.”

 

“Not as desperate as you, you’re running track just to impress Drew,” Alisha says off to my right.

 

“Thanks, Alisha.” I smile, looking at the girl. “And no, Cynthia, I did not kiss Ashton Lynch.”

 

“The lipstick you left behind says otherwise.” Ashton grins, casually walking out the gym door and tossing me a matte black lipstick case.

 

“Ew! That isn’t mine.” I stammer at Coach.

 

“This isn’t kindergarten, Miss Khatri!” Coach Aniyah chides. “And since you and Mr. Lynch have so much chemistry, why don’t you both use that energy in the upcoming track tournament this weekend?”

 

“But, Coach Aniyah, I can’t, I to study for an AP test, and—” I start.

 

“—save it, Sasha. You got yourself into this,” she snaps, fluffing her curly black hair.

 

“It’s okay, Sash. You’re an awesome runner,” Drew grins, “Ashton is too, you know.” He winks jokingly.

 

“That’s not the point!” I exclaim. “If I fail this AP test, I won’t get the scholarship, and then I—”

 

“—won’t get into college, you’ll be homeless, and you’ll die. We’ve been over this, Sash. You out of all people are not going to be homeless!” he laughs.

 

“Yeah you can live with me, Sash,” Ashton comes up on my right.

 

“Uh, no, I’d rather be homeless.”

 

“But who will paint my skin with their strawberry lemonade chapstick? I can’t be a blank canvas for the rest of my life,” he smiles.

 

“Then why don’t you go find someone willing to do the work for you? There are plenty of airheads, desperate for another airhead like yourself.”

 

“ENOUGH!” Coach Aniyah snaps. “I’ll make sure that y’all are going to be homeless if you don’t start stretching right away!”

 

Obediently, we all start stretching on the lawn, which is still moist from the morning dew.

 

Fortunately for me, Ashton has taken his place two people off to my right, but that doesn’t stop him from tossing me cheeky grins during laps.

 

“Stop,” I hiss as he catches up to me, “It’s third lap, I can’t lose first place.”

 

“So you do find me interesting. I’m the competition,” he remarks.

 

“Only a jerk can find the interesting in another jerk,” I mutter, sprinting slightly as I pass the finish line.

 

“What if said this jerk is handsome, smart, caring and athletic?”

 

“Aw, he sounds cute! Too bad he doesn’t go to this school.” I smile.

 

“No, I was talking about myself—oh I see what you did there. I didn’t know Miss Khatri was such a meanie.”

 

I wince, I don’t like being formally addressed. Not from Ashton.

 

The last person crosses the finish line and I walk over to the table for some water, which I gulp down gratefully.

 

Ashton walks up to me, snatching a bottle from the table, opens it, and before I can react, dumps the contents onto my head.

 

“What the hell?” I gasp, pulling my hair out of my face, “You slimy, boorish, brainless, son of a—”

 

“Payback for earlier,” he mutters.

 

I pause. But only because Coach Aniyah is looking, and I can’t afford more punishment.

 

Ashton raises an eyebrow and smirks.

 

“Why did you do that?” I gasp, spitting out onto the grass.

 

“You were acting so salty, I thought you need some water to balance out your PH.”

 

I purse my lips, biting them as I lash out, “You idiotic piece of—”

 

“Language,” Alisha coos.

 

Ashton walks off, and I gladly take a towel from Drew, whose presence has attracted a large group of girls, as if Ashton’s hadn’t already. I hug it tight around me to hide my nearly see-through shirt and walk off, not even waiting for dismissal. I shiver, and Coach Aniyah dismisses everyone else for next period. I walk to the lockers with Alisha.

 

Jax is on the football field, as usual, hanging out with Cassandra from cheer. Maybe he needs her now, she has red hair and green eyes . . . it’s as if he needs Miss Ivy as much as we do . . . But then again, he never needed anything.

 

That point was proven a long time ago.

 

I walk up to my gym locker, and I bite my lip again, feeling my cheeks blush red. Ashton was in here . . . not too long ago.

 

This is stupid, I think, pulling all of my clothes out. I take out my chapstick and apply it to my lips, Ashton talking about it made me think about it . . . I guess.

 

I slam the locker door and get changed, slipping in and out of my garments as fast as possible.

 

I walk out and start fast walking towards History when a hand yanks me towards my hallway locker.

 

“Hi again,” I groan.

 

Ashton smiles. “Nice to see you, sunshine.”

 

“I can’t say the same,” I grimace, “Let go of me.”

 

Ashton lets go of my hand and I can see a crowd emerging from behind.

 

“I —” I start, trying to think of something sarcastic.

 

Before I can say something, just like the water incident, Ashton is sudden, he leans down and kisses me.

 

I want to scream, but I’m breathless, more like choking for air, that is.

 

Ashton pulls away. “I knew it was strawberry lemonade,” he laughs.

 

I feel rage boil up in the pit of my stomach and I shove him off of me, wiping my mouth.

 

“What,” I breathe. “What the hell was that, Ashton?!”

 

“A dare,” he chuckles. “Don’t get your hopes up, sunshine, I’m not interested.”

 

I taste the metallic flavor of blood as I bite my cheek in anger, and before I can think things through, my hand is making contact with his face.

 

There’s a sickening crack, and Ashton doesn’t even recoil or stagger. He just stares at me, his piercing blue eyes unwavering as he rubs his face.

 

“Don’t ever do that again,” I hiss, “or next time, it won’t be my hand, it will be a book.”

 

“Miss Khatri you’re late!” A familiar voice sounds behind me. No. I turn around . . . oh god. It’s Mr. Pariyar again. He saw that? All of that?

 

“Mr. Pariyar, it’s not—” I start.

“—you don’t owe me an explanation, Sasha. You do, however owe me an essay. 5000 words on the American Revolution. Tomorrow,” he nods.

 

“Oh, was there an assignment I wasn’t aware of?” I duck, shuffling my feet.

 

“Oh no, Miss Khatri. You see this is an extra credit assignment I’m offering to only you,” he smiles.

 

“Well, thanks, but I don’t need extra credit in this class.” I grip my textbook.

 

“I suppose,” he shrugs. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t want to finish this semester with an F in History.”

 

“But I don’t have an F in History, Mr. Pariyar,” I mumble, looking up.

 

“Oh, you do now, Miss Khatri,” he smiles, gesturing to the clock.

 

“It’s 11:35!” I exclaim. “You can’t fail me for being five minutes late.”

 

“Of course I can’t. But I can fail you for getting a zero on your exam.”

 

“Zero? What, but we didn’t even take the exam yet!” I gasp.

 

“We did. Today. At 12:00— after Lunch.”

 

“But I had P.E. then!”

 

“Your whole class got an excuse note, Sasha. It is your responsibility to remember. I understand if you’ve been preoccupied recently—” he sighs and I blush, “—but that is no excuse for missing the test!”

 

“Coach Aniyah made me run track,” I say, my voice breaking.

 

“Coach Aniyah gave you an excuse, Sasha. You forgot, and it wasn’t her job to remind you.”

 

“Okay.” I swallow hard. “If I get full credit on this essay, what will my grade go up to?”

 

“Hm, I’d say C+ at most,” he says matter of factly.

 

“C+?!” I splutter. “No, no, no, Mr. Pariyar— please! I need this scholarship, I can’t get it with anything less than straight A’s— please, just this once—”

 

“Miss Khatri, I will certainly not make any exceptions for your mistake!” he chides sternly.

 

“I swear I’ll do anything. Extra credit essays. Everyday! I’ll stay after school, I’ll—” my words flow out.

 

“Very well. You’re a bright student, so I’ll give you an opportunity. You can join my morning running club— it’s one hour before school, everyday, for the rest of the month,” he nods. “Follow through, and I’ll give you a chance to retake the exam.”

 

“Of course.” I smile gratefully. “But why running?”

 

“I heard you’re quite the runner yourself. And I was a runner, too, in my past. I’ve been asked to recommend a young lady for the JWAA—the Junior Women’s Athletic Association. I’ll use this month to see if you’re fit, along with other students, of course. They’re offering a scholarship, Miss Khatri.” He smiles slightly.

 

“Thank you,” I smile gratefully, and I really mean it…Maybe Mr. Pariyar wasn’t so bad after all.

 

I practically skip into class and sit down next to Clay, a quiet boy with major arachnophobia. Seriously, this guy isn’t lying when he says he hates spiders. In sixth grade, he pretty much had a panic attack when he saw a daddy longlegs crawl up his desk. I tried to reassure him by saying that the daddy long- legs isn’t even a spider. It didn’t work.

 

Today’s class is simple, we go over the timeline and even have some work time left. I stand up to turn in yesterday’s essay to Mr. Pariyar, but he’s out of the room, so I lay it on his cluttered desk. But somewhere in that mess of forms, essays, and books, I spot a familiar name—written in neat cursive across a piece of crisp white paper. It’s a letter. But who is it addressed to? That’s what makes me shiver: Kiran? Not wanting to waste any time, I sprint out of the classroom and into the hallway, my breaths turn shallow and my heart beats at what seems like a million thumps per second. I shake my head, but I can’t get it out of my head. Kiran. Kiran. Kiran . . . aagh stop!

 

Isn’t that the mysterious person who’s been sending my mom money—for “Vivi”? Why is Mr. Pariyar writing to him? What does this even mean?

 

Who is Vivi?

 

Who is Kiran?

 

But more importantly—

 

Who is Prakash Pariyar?

Chapter Three

Prakash Pariyar. Kiran.  Vivi.

 

I don’t move. Even when my mom calls me from downstairs, I lie on my bed, still, motionless, paralyzed.

 

Ashton.

 

No, not him . . . not now, I think.

 

“I knew it was strawberry lemonade.”

 

Dammit.

 

“Coming, Mom!” I shout, rolling off of the bed.

 

Ashton’s dare was no biggie, but kissing him was.

 

I would do anything for him to take that kiss back.

 

But you can’t take back a first kiss.

 

Dinner is leftover Indo-Chinese food from my mom’s new restaurant. Apparently new waitresses get free food on the first day of work. I’ve never tried Indo-Chinese, and it’s actually pretty good, aside from the dry noodles. I waste no time on dinner, and after I’m done, I pack the rest for my lunch and head up.

 

“Stay, honey,” my mom says behind me. I grimace, she’s using the voice she uses to tell me something is wrong.

 

“Mom, I have to go to bed. I have a test tomorrow.”

 

“Stay,” she smiles. “We never get to talk these days.”

 

“Talk, then.” I sigh.

 

“How was school?” she asks, not looking up from medical paperwork.

 

“Mom, just tell me.” I sigh.

 

“Tell you what?” she looks up, her blue eyes intense.

 

“Whatever you want to tell me. You never call me down like this. Let’s just skip the small talk, okay?” I groan.

 

“Fine.” she says sharply. “I got a notice from school about you.”

 

“What?” I snap, and I’m instantly alert. “From who? Why?”

 

“Mr. Pariyar says you missed an important test.” she starts gently. “Look sweetie, I’m not here to chide you, I just want to know why.”

 

“Stupid mistake,” I grumble.

 

“Does it have anything to do with a boy?” she pries.

 

“Ashton?” my cheeks warm. “No– I–”

 

“Ashton Lynch, huh?” my mom tries to hide her smile. “I want you to enjoy your high school years, Sasha, but if you want to get into a good college, you need a scholarship. You always say that school has to come first.”

 

“I’m not in a relationship, mom!” I exclaim.

 

“Okay.” she nods. “But that’s not what I’m saying. I’m fine with you being in a relationship, but–”

 

“–and anyway, you’re not one to judge, mom,” I mutter.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean, Sasha?” she asks, her tone confrontational for the first time.

 

“Nothing.” I fiddle with my bracelet.

 

“Your father,” she glares, “was a mistake. I’ll admit to that. But don’t you dare compare what I’ve been through, pinching for money, trying to raise you as a single mother, with some silly–”

 

“I know! I’m sorry,” I sigh.

 

“Go to your room. And you know what? Mr. Pariyar was right. You’re losing focus, Sasha. That scholarship isn’t just going to sit around for you. You have to earn it. And making out with some random playboy isn’t how.”

 

“Really, mom?! You let some ‘random playboy’ get you pregnant! And you’re acting like one kiss will determine my whole life! I bet you see me as a mistake, too.”

 

“It wasn’t that simple.” she exhales sharply. “And can I remind you that you were the reason I kept the pregnancy? I wanted to raise you, and I’m so disappointed in your disregard. I fought to have you, Sasha!”  

“Really?” I whisper, my eyes watering. “Well, honestly? You should’ve had an abortion.” I regret the words as soon as they escape my lips.

 

My mom doesn’t have to say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The look of sheer pain and disappointment on her face is enough to break my heart.

—

“Dinner is on the counter. I’ll be out.” I sigh as I stare at the eight words my mom managed to pull together on a recycled sticky note. School today was boring— just the regular test, pop quiz, and the unavoidable teasing. Ashton and I haven’t talked since— you know — and I don’t intend to converse with him anyway. But as much as I try to squash it down, I can’t deny the tiny, microscopic part of me that wishes he sent that cocky, obnoxious but kind of cute grin my way.  

 

I shake my head, and grab my shuffle, a cheap thing that only costed fifty dollars, turning on my favorite pop playlist. I glance over at the counter to find a small box of soup-n-noodles–a cheap instant noodle brand that we frequently buy. My mom actually buys these things in bulk, and she orders directly from the manufacturers, so that we can get a huge discount. Obviously, a huge discount can only come with a huge amount, so that’s pretty much been my breakfast, lunch, and dinner these days, other than the rare home-cooked meals my mom can muster to make after her shifts. The only good thing I can say about this is at least my mom bought different flavours to keep things interesting. Well, as interesting as things can get when you eat the same dish for a month. The flavor of the day is Spicy Tomato.

 

“Delicious,” I mutter under my breath sarcastically, gagging at the artificial smell. I start some water in a small  kettle and sit down at the dining table, starting on my homework.

 

I don’t have my phone or a computer, so when I hear my mom’s notification bell go off on the counter, it startles me.

 

Who would be texting my mom?

 

Especially now?

 

I look at the old clock on the table.  It’s nearly 8:30, her work shift just started, it’s not like she should be here or anything. I bite my lip shyly and exhale. Should I look at the message? It could be something from “Kiran”…or it could just be me being stupid and invading my mom’s privacy. I’ll feel bad if it’s the second thing…but if it’s Kiran? Maybe I could just peek…

 

I cautiously flip the phone over see a short message.

 

Where are you?

 

But to my surprise, the message if followed by around fifteen other ones that have been read, but not responded to.

 

I’m coming there. K?

Please respond.

Damn it, Julia. Respond.

Fine don’t blame me later.

Holy shit–I just saw Sundari.

You didn’t tell me enough.

Julia.

Would you quit being a b*tch and just respond for god’s sake?!

I need to see Sundari.

JULIA.

F*ck this, I don’t even care anymore.

Meet me at The Cracked Mug for coffee. Tuesday at 6PM. Or I’ll tell.

 

I gasp slightly…I never expected my mom to be in this kind of trouble. Looking over the messages again, I frown. Tell what? What does my mom–my hard working, kind mother–have to hide? Except Kiran, maybe. Shoot…Kiran. I scroll down a little more and notice that my mom finally responded to the latest message. “Ok. Cracked Mug, Tuesday @6.”

 

I narrow my eyes. Tuesday. 6:00. That’s today. It’s 6:37 right now…I can make it if I hurry. I grab the phone and some cash from the emergency drawer for the bus fare. This is it.

 

Is it Kiran?

 

The person who sends my mom thousands of dollars.

 

Who threatens her.

 

Haunts her.

 

And knows something about her that she doesn’t want anyone to know.

 

Or is it someone else?

 

I’m about to find out.

—

“Thanks.” I nod at the bus driver and hop out in front of The Cracked Mug. The warm glow from the glass windows is so welcoming, but that’s not what I’m here for. I scan the crowd inside for my mom and see her next to a man. I can only see his back, but I can make out that he is wearing a navy blue coat. God, is this really Kiran? I burst through the doors and slide past the crowd till I reach my mother…but to my dismay, there isn’t anyone next to her.

 

“Sasha? Why–what–is everything okay?” she looks up in surprise.

 

“Who was that?!” I exclaim, exasperated.

 

“How do you–give me my phone!” she snatches it out of my hands.

 

“Who is Kiran, Mom?” I sit down in front of her. “Just tell me now.”

 

“Have you been going through my messages? And my mail? Sasha, seriously?!” my mom glares at me in disbelief.

 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry and everything, but who was that guy next to you? Was that Kiran? And why is Kiran giving you so much money? Oh and who is Sundari? And Vivi? Also–” I start.

 

“Woah. You need to stop right there. I don’t want to tell you anything but this: Kiran is an old friend, and the money wasn’t for me. And you, are grounded for the next three months, Sasha. We are leaving. NOW,” she whispers dangerously.

 

“So who were you with?” I ask.

 

“You have the nerve to ask?” my mom glares at me.

 

“Mom, I’m already grounded. Just tell me who this person is that has some huge secret of yours! Or tell the secret?” I grin.

 

“What makes you think I was with someone?” she raises her eyebrows.

 

“Come on, mom, I saw him!”

 

“Well you must’ve been blinded by your officiousness to notice that I was alone.”

 

“Mom!”

 

“Don’t cause a scene, Sasha. I was alone, ’kay? Let’s go.”

 

“I know there was someone here!” I exclaim in frustration.

 

“No, you don’t,” my mom whispers. “Come on.” She grabs my arm.

 

“You’re scared.” I whisper. “Mom you don’t have to be afraid of this person, I’ll– I’ll–”

 

“You’ll what, Sasha? Fight for me? Save the day? Come to my rescue? This is real life, not a fairytale. We’re leaving,” she shakes her head.

 

“So there was a ‘person’ in there with you?” I ask as we approach the car.

 

“Don’t start this again.”

 

“Mom-”

 

“Listen to me, Sasha,” my mom grips my arm again and stares at me. I hate it when she does this.

 

“What?” I mumble.

 

“There was nobody in there with me. I was alone.”

 

“But I saw someone–” I start.

 

“I was sitting alone the whole time.”

“Please, you can tell me–”

 

“No. Look at me.” she brushes my hair aside and sighs. “I was alone, okay? Alone.”

 

“Alone.” I nod. She wants me to lie for her…but why?

—

I look blankly outside the window as my mom tries to get our battered old car out of the parking lot. We finally manage to get on the road, and as we stop next to the window of The Cracked Mug because of a red light, I see that man in a blue coat–the person my mom was talking to. His back is turned to me–just my luck–but I’m able to notice that he’s having a conversation with the waiter. They even seem to be friends. The scene turns to a blur as we drive away, but the image of the blue coat is plastered in my mind.

 

I’ve seen that coat before…somewhere. I think back to the last few days. It’s scary to think that it could be anyone, the millions of people that I pass in the hallways, the many staff members at school, the people at my track meets, those at the church my mom drags me to every Sunday….

 

I close my eyes and sigh.

 

Suddenly, it hits me. I know where I’ve seen that jacket before, I know why it looks so familiar. My stomach lurches as I come to terms with my realization. It makes sense, and that’s the problem. It all makes complete sense.

 

It’s the last situation I’d expected. I look over at my mom. Her blonde hair is in a high ponytail, her blue scarf causes her bright eyes to pop, and the slight blush on her cheeks gives her a rosy warm glow. I think of how hard she works just to give me a future–or a chance at one, anyway. And now, I think of my theory. I have to tell her.

 

“Mom.” I whisper.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“About that navy coat…”

 

“Oh, Sash. Leave it be,” she sighs.

 

“I just need to tell you this one thing, okay? And then I’ll drop it.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“I don’t know how this is possible, but that coat was Miss Ivy’s.”

 

“So? It’s a gender-neutral coat. Anyone could have taken it from the church donation box. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

 

“It is,” my voice is barely a whisper, “because that is the coat that she was dressed in when she was placed in the coffin.”

 

“Are you saying…” my mom starts slowly.

 

“Yes,” I shiver slightly. “Miss Ivy was buried in that coat.”

Chapter 4

 

That coat, I remember it.

 

The fabric.

 

And strangely, the smell. It smelled like Miss Ivy. Like wildflower perfume and papers.

 

When we get home, my first instinct is to text or call Alisha. She needs to know about everything I’ve been doing behind her back and behind Drew’s. But I hesitate to call Jaxon or even talk to him. Whatever we had fell apart after miss Ivy shot herself with that gun.

 

I walk over to the phone, which is hung on the wall of the kitchen, bolted to the wall of our small building.

 

“What are you doing Sash?” my mom asks.

 

I roll my eyes…I almost forgot she was here.

 

“Can I call Alisha?” I ask, turning towards her. “We have a project.”

 

The feeling of lying right through my teeth hurts me still but I can’t let her know everything I’ve been going through. She can’t know about my F and my running club, she can’t know about everything that lead up to Miss Ivy’s death. She can’t know about that panic attack.

 

“No,” my mom demands. “We have to talk about this.”

 

“Why?” I moan. “It’s just the same brand! The guy probably bought the same one from Target or something! You said it yourself: it’s a coat, anyone could have gotten it.”

 

“If Miss Ivy was buried in that coat then we have to tell someone!” my mom shouts. “You can’t just stay quiet.”

 

I look at my mom, my face red and blotchy with tears. I didn’t even know I had been crying, but tears fall down my face in wet streaks nonetheless.

“Why don’t you tell, Mom? Since you seem so dandy about it? Huh? My teacher is dead. Suicide! If it was suicide don’t you think that the coat is of no significance? It’s not like she was murdered!”

 

I take a deep breath and look my mom in the eye.

 

“It was suicide. So why don’t you give Miss Ivy the break she needs to rest in peace! You and I both know neither of us give a damn about that coat!”

 

I let out an exasperated breath and stomp up the stairs, not caring about the state of the wood, about the dust I’m kicking up. I don’t care about any of the things that my mom had brought me up to care about.

 

Then I open my room and slump onto the bed.

 

Not caring, not thinking, not caring.

 

Not caring.

 

Oh, but I do.

 

I care about Miss Ivy, about my mom, and why and how she’s been meeting this man… Kiran.

 

I care about why she doesn’t want me to know about him. About their meetings. Which there have obviously been many of.

 

I care about my life and how much of it has just been ruined. They say suicide hurts the people around you than yourself, and Miss Ivy’s death hurt us all.

 

But now, that’s not important. I know who Kiran is, but now I need to know. . . why does my mom know Vivi? Assuming “Vivi” is a nickname for Ivy doesn’t even help me anymore…it just confuses me. What connection does my mother have to Miss Ivy?

 

I hear the sound of the front door closing echo through the building and I rush downstairs. Sure enough, my mom is out, driving away to another shift at the restaurant.

 

I walk over to the counter and something vibrates, rattling against the wood.

 

I pick my mom’s phone up. She left it. Oops.

 

The phone buzzes again and I turn it on.

 

Crap, I need a fingerprint.

 

Looking around the room I find some glue, a key ring and some tape. I take the back of the phone and put some glue in the key ring after sticking it to the tape, letting it cool before hovering it over the stove, where it melts and forms the fingerprint.

 

I press it up against the home button and I pray in the short second.

 

Then, I’m in.

 

There are about thirty notifications from a number I know all too well.

 

Kiran: Julia? Are you there?

 

Julia Khatri: Kiran, not now, I’m with Sasha.

 

Read at 11:48

 

Kiran: Julia? God damn it! Julia, stop ignoring me! Julia? How is she? How is Sundari?

I want to see you.

 

Julia Khatri: See her? Cut the crap, Kiran. If you wanted to, you would have come to see me. I am sick and tired of all of this bullsh*t!

 

Read at 11:49

 

Kiran: I’m sorry J

 

Julia Khatri: You can’t just go around pretending to feel emotional! We need you!

 

We?

 

Julia Khatri is typing . . .

 

Typing? My mom? Where is she texting from?

 

Oh, right, her computer.

 

Sh*t. That means she’s not at her work shift.

 

Where is she?

 

Where does my mom go?

And why lie about it?

Julia Khatri: I’m at work.  Don’t drop by the house. Sasha’s still there, I think.

Do u know anything about Vivi’s coat? Sash saw it.

Kiran: I can’t tell you about that J Bye

Kiran has left the conversation

Julia Khatri: You have to stop being an ass Kiran. When you’re ready to man up and TALK to me, call, I can’t guarantee I’ll be happy to see you, but I can guarantee that I’ll listen.

Julia Khatri has left the conversation

Dammit.

I slump against the counter, defeated. I turn towards the fridge, eager to see if there’s any food, but to my disappointment, there’s only an apple and a plastic cup of pomegranate seeds. Suddenly, an idea strikes me. I need to find out who Kiran is…and I can’t keep doing that through my mom. It’s time for me to take control. I grab my mom’s phone, and open up the eMessage app. Please don’t kill me, mom…

Julia Khatri: Kiran?

I bite my lip, silently begging for him to reply.

Kiran: J? I thought you didn’t want to talk.

Julia Khatri: Well, last time we met up we were interrupted, so I think we need to.

Kiran: Last time? Julia, we haven’t met up in years.

Years?? I thought Kiran and my mom met up a few days ago–in the Cracked Mug Cafe. So if my mom didn’t meet Kiran . . . who was the mystery man in Miss Ivy’s coat?

Julia Khatri: Yeah, sorry, I got a bit sidetracked. Anyway, where are you right now?

Kiran: I already told you where I would be if you needed me, Julia. I can’t afford to tell more information on eMessage.

Julia Khatri: Please, Kiran. I need to know where you are.

Kiran: I can’t. Not until I see her.

Julia Khatri: Who? Sundari? Me? For f*cks sake, Kiran, stop being so childish. Is it Vivi?

Kiran: God, when did you become such a b*tch, Julia?!

Julia Khatri: Please, enlighten me Kiran. How exactly am I the one being a b*tch right now?

Kiran: Vivi?!

Julia Khatri: She’s dead.

Kiran: I know that.

Julia Khatri: And?

Kiran: I have to tell Sundari.

Julia Khatri: You’re an assh*le, you know that? She is staying out of this.

But who the heck is “Sundari”? I bite my lip and look around. This “Sundari” person is important to my mom and Kiran. Is it a code name? A nickname? I grab my phone and search it up.

Sundari is a girl’s name meaning beautiful. The origin of the name is Indian, but it is also commonly used in Thailand, Nepal, and Egypt.

Beautiful…Sundari. Is this Kiran’s girlfriend? His wife? His daughter? The phone beeps next to me; I almost forgot about it.

Kiran: Fine, be cocky all you want. But I’m not giving you any of the money.

Julia Khatri: Because of this new job, I haven’t been able to sleep, so the doctor gave me some Benzodiazepine. So forgive me if I’m a little forgetful, but what money are we talking about here?

Kiran: Oh, god Julia. Benzodiazepine again? We both know what that’s all about.

Julia Khatri: What are you saying, Kiran?

Kiran: Don’t forget who paid for rehab.

I practically choke as I read the last text. Rehab? No. Not her. Not my mom . . .

Julia Khatri: Rehab? Kiran, I’m not an addict.

Kiran: Look, J, it’s easy to fall back into old habits. If you need help, you know I’m loaded. And I won’t hesitate to help you again when you helped me out so much.

Julia Khatri: What the f*ck, Kiran?! I didn’t do drugs.

Kiran: It’s going to be fine. With MDMA, relapses are common.

Julia Khatri: I’m not having a relapse! I’m alright!

I type furiously. I really, really want to believe that what Kiran is saying is a total lie . . . but part of me is doubting my mom. MDMA? That’s some serious stuff. How did my mom get caught up in all of this?

Kiran: I need to be sure.

Julia Khatri: Oh shut the f*ck up, Kiran! I have nothing to hide.

Kiran: What about Sasha? Julia, we both know how you get when you crash. She can’t be around you.

Julia Khatri: This conversation is pointless. Just leave me alone.

Kiran: No. I have to make sure that this isn’t a relapse.

Julia Khatri: It isn’t. I’m just tired.

I place the phone on the counter, slinging a bag over my shoulder as I prepare to leave the house. I tie my shoes and near the door but the phone buzzes just as I open it.

Kiran: I don’t believe you. I’m coming over.

Shit.

And that’s when I run.

Chapter 5

 

This chapter contains paranormal and supernatural views.  Please keep in mind that these are not shared by the authors, and are merely part of the fictional portrayal of a character’s state of mind, which, in all honesty, is not the most stable thing in the first place.

I don’t stop running until I know I’m far enough. Wherever that is. I look around at my surroundings but hazy mist surrounds me on all sides. How ironic, the universe gives me fog when I’ve lost my way. The fog clears little by little and I see the coast line, shrouded in the white wisps of moisture. I keep walking, ignoring the voice in the back of my head that nags me endlessly. Why is Kiran contacting mom? Does he know about me texting him? How does he know about the MDMA?

I won’t lie. I’ve seen MDMA in the medicine cabinet. My mom told me it was an antidepressant, and she uses it because of Pa; he really hurt her when he left. But even the thought of her using it and getting high when she’s supposed to be my mom? I can feel myself breaking, and the sudden impulse to run and hide in a hole takes over every little thing in my mind as my feet slow down their pace on the pavement.

My feet drag me forward until my hands are able to reach out and grip something, smooth, cold, and hard. I reach out both of my hands and graze the metal with my fingertips, feeling the pole of a playground structure in my embrace. I hug it and slide down until my knees hit the ground. I see my breath, fading into the fall air. Though gorgeous, the coast isn’t exactly a tourist destination.  It’s always covered in low-hanging clouds and dangerous waves. Two people have died here in the last forty years. One was recently, two years ago, at a senior year bonfire. A boy, seventeen years old, careened off of the side of the cliff while chasing his girlfriend. They say the rock gave way beneath him. Or you can believe the eyes of the girl, who swore to God he was dragged. The first death happened nearly 38 years ago. A woman, by the name of Hedera Lincoln, threw herself off the lighthouse and into the bay. There was no body for the police to collect. Fish had taken what little was left of Hedera’s emaciated flesh.

No one cares for the lighthouse anymore. Not after the witness reports of a ghost haunting the platform, wailing for her baby, before walking to the edge of the balcony, climbing the rail and letting go. When I was in the fourth grade I thought it was hilarious: she was crying for a child she wanted so badly and all of a sudden she tosses her body off of the ledge and into the night air, just waiting to hit the water nearly 200 feet below her. What happened to wanting her baby?

Hanging onto the pole for balance that can’t be given to me by my trembling legs, I slowly walk to the cliff, guarded by a white picket fence, nothing else.

“Hello?” I whisper, resting on the wood. “Is anyone out there? Hedera? James?” I feel stupid calling out to the “ghosts” of those before me, but I do anyway. Anything’s better than silence in this unsettling location. I stand in the shadow of the lighthouse that towers on the hill. Not in use, of course. What ship would come to our harbor? Our rotting docks and buildings are of no use anymore.

“What am I doing?” I whisper to nobody in particular.

The ground moans underneath me at the sound of those words and for a second my heart stops beating out of pure terror. An earthquake? Probably. The rocks begin trembling underneath me and a part of the cliff about one hundred meters left of me cracks and breaks off the cliff and into the ocean where the waves swallow it whole.

My mouth opens, and I freeze in terror. A shadowed figure walks out from behind the lighthouse and my throat drops down to my stomach along with my heart. I begin running despite the tendrils of pain shooting up from my tired feet. I need to get away from here. I run more and more until I see trees and picnic benches, still shrouded in hideous gray mist. Where am I?

Turning around to see if the shadow is following, I trip on a root. How stupid. How could you miss a root?! I shout at myself. And then, I hit a wall as I fall — not a person. What the fu–

I look up at the obstacle in my way and meet baby blue eyes the size of saucers, staring at me intently as I shove away from a man’s chest.

“Ashton.”

“Tell me again, what the hell are you doing here?”

Ashton sighs, running hand through his dirty blonde hair.

“I was out running and then.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I heard your shrieking and being the gentlemen I am I came to save you from the big bad seagull.”

I whip around to see the white bird pecking at the leftovers of an apple core. “Sunshine, I know it’s alright to have rational fears, but I think your problem requires therapy.”

Ashton starts walking back to town and through mist. I don’t say anything. I have better things to do than converse with the likes of Ashton Lynch.

I hear a faint vibrating near my hip–must be my mom calling. I hesitate before picking up, but I do anyway. She has a right to explain herself.

“Mom,” I mutter.

“Hey Sash. Sorry, I forgot my phone at home. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be coming home late tonight, so go ahead and eat without me.”

I frown in concern. My mom is never late. She works late, but when she says she’s going to come home, she does.

…Late? Doing what? MDMA? Kiran?

“Why?” I ask.

“Sweetie, there are bills to pay. I’m working an extra shift, ’kay?” I sense the agitation in her voice, but I press on.

“But DiMartino’s closes at 10:00.”

“It’s that Indo-Chinese place, Sash. Leftovers are in the fridge, and I have to go. Just heat up last night’s takeout.”

“Mom, I need to talk–” I start, but she’s already hung up. Seriously, what restaurant is open at 10? Where the heck is my mom?

There has to be something I’m missing.

———————–

Back home, I turn to the one resource I have: my mom’s phone.

Kiran: J, you there?

Kiran: Julia!

Kiran: I got held up in traffic. Please reply at least.

Kiran: Julia, are you okay?

I sigh in relief. He’s online.

Julia: I’m fine.

Kiran: God, you can’t just do that to me. I thought you were having a relapse.

Julia: Why do you care, anyway?!

Kiran: You can’t just forget about us, our past, Sundari…

I groan. Who the hell is Sundari?

Julia: How is Sundari related to you?

Kiran: Holy sh*t, Julia. She’s my daughter too, don’t you dare forget that.

Daughter? Me? I’m Sundari?! No. It can’t be. He can’t be my father. My dad is dead. Dead. Gone. He left me, he left my mother, he is gone. Nonexistent. The phone feels heavy in my cold hands as I stare in disbelief at the screen.

“He’s gone.” I whisper to myself. Maybe if I say it, I’ll believe it.

My throat tightens when I feel cold tears sink down my cheeks. Mom, she hid this from me. This man must be dangerous…

Kiran: Julia?

Kiran: Stop doing this!

Kiran: Don’t go near the medicine cabinet!

Kiran: J, you can get help.

Kiran: PICK UP THE PHONE!

My thoughts are broken by a furious knock at the door. Mom. Finally, someone to explain this all to me. I run gratefully towards the sound. As my hands clasp around the metal knob, I hear a pounding again. But this time, it’s accompanied by a voice.

“Julia, open up!” A man.

“Jules, its Kiran, OPEN THE DOOR!”

Kiran is at my door. My father is at my door. What have I done?

“OPEN THE DOOR, OTHERWISE I’M CALLING THE POLICE! Do you KNOW what that means? Sasha will be taken from you! Like YOU took her from me! JULIA OPEN THE DOOR!!” his voice goes hoarse from the yelling.

I can’t let this man take me away. I don’t care if my mom is doing drugs, I don’t care if we’re poor–but I can’t be taken away from her. She’s my mother. My mind races furiously, and I desperately think of any possible way out of this mess.

“I’M COMING IN, JULIA!”

Oh no. I press against the door and wince in agony and helplessness as it pushes up against my back. A footstep hits the wooden floor. My father is here. Inside my house.

And he’s very much alive.