Page 50 of Roses, Pearls, and Hot Summer Nights
Somehow, the secret I shared with him weighed even heavier than the fact that I wroteGretchen, The Poor Relation. I confessed what happened to me.
Or almost happened to me, not that I was sure there was much of a difference. That awful night got me shipped out of Chicago so fast, I barely managed to fail all my finals before I left, just for the fun of it.
The excuse didn’t really work for me, not when I knew my actual motivations. It wasn’t that I wanted to fail, or even that I planned it—more like I couldn’t think at all at the time, too lost in my real life worries to care about school. The teachers all gave me well-deserved Ds. No one failed out of private school, not when their rich parents paid for them to succeed. My lips pursed as I shut off the water, remembering how unpleasant my school experience was—hateful, really. It worked out in the end, though, because at least I got to be a junior instead of having to repeat my sophomore year again.
Do they wear a uniform at Motifs?If they did, I would have to get one sooner rather than later, and I doubted my aunt wouldremember or think of it. Mentally, I made a note to remind my aunt, if they weren’t shipping me overseas any time soon.
My heart thudded, my palms going a bit sweaty as I remembered all the conversations with Barrett again.Is it okay that I told Barrett my story?I second guessed it, drying off in frustration.Will it all blow up in my face?I closed my eyes. In the light of day, it wasn’t so clear whether or not I should’ve held my tongue. Our cocoon shattered, unable to hold up to the real world. He might have told me his story, but he mentioned everyone else knew about it already, and that I could literally look it up online. My secrets were, at least, my own.Why did I tell him?
Well, the damage is done either way.I couldn’t turn back time or undo anything I’d told him. Dragging a comb through my hair, I scowled at my reflection. Turning my head side to side, I was struck again by the fact that I didn’t have a single photo of myself. None. As if I could disappear entirely without ever having existed outside of memory.
My Aunt Amelia had taken back my phone after the incident, and with it, anything I’d saved vanished. Maybe she still had it, but it didn’t matter—I couldn’t access it. Not that it held much anyway. I was never a selfie person. Still, once in a while, I’d snap a quick photo in front of a building or something unusual, like I was trying to leave proof I’d been somewhere. That I existed. Just for a second.
I tried to remember my younger face—what I looked like as a kid—but it was already slipping, blurry around the edges. Back in our trailer in North Dakota, photos of me hung on the walls, most taken by my mom. I had no idea what happened to them, or to anything else we owned.
I was pretty sure no one thought twice about me getting anything from that place. In their minds, once they replaced my things with ‘better’ stuff, I wouldn’t want the old stuff anymore.But it mattered. It may not have been much, but it was ours—a permanent home tucked in the middle of nowhere.
My reflection frowned again, my eyes going sad when I remembered how isolated we really were back then. Most people think of trailer parks and community, but that wasn’t where we lived. I had to run down the gravel road from our house for almost an hour before I found help. My throat still clogged remembering my desperation to find someone, anyone to help my mother. I shook my head, since I was too dumb or too stubborn to accept she was far past any kind of assistance, dead for hours already. Then again, I was only eleven so I could cut myself a little slack.I didn’t know.
After they took me away—first, to a temporary home I could hardly remember because of my shock, and then to my uncle—no one seemed to remember I was even mourning. I’d never met him before flying to San Francisco—my first flight, too, not that anyone comforted me.
I bit my lip, wondering what happened to those early pictures of me. I wouldn’t bother taking any photos with the phone Phoenix gave me. Historical evidence implied I wouldn’t hold onto it for long anyway. Still, staring at my reflection in the mirror begged the question, did I change? I ran a hand down my cheek, feeling the texture of my skin. My hands scraped a little, too rough for my lifestyle, and I left a red mark where I touched—being as pale as I was made me easy to bruise or mark up.
Still wrapped in my towel, I headed back to my bedroom and tried to shake off the thoughtful haze that clung to me. I considered myself lucky to have a private bathroom, meaning no need to sneak down the hallway to my room without being fully dressed. I picked up my phone off the bed and swiped a fingertip across it to unlock the screen. Since I’d forgotten to plug it in the night before, the battery was almost dead. Grabbing the charger,I wrapped it around the phone before stuffing it in my bag. I could charge it at their granny’s.
I didn’t know what the Lents did on Sundays, I realized after a glance at the wall hanging calendar. I smiled to myself, just the thought of them enough to bring me a little frisson of pleasure. If I was entirely honest, I wasn’t used to having people I wanted to see or even anything to look forward to in my day. I quickly scanned through the phone, checking notifications. Most of the messages seemed to be about Barrett not going down to Granny’s and instead staying the night with me.
Julian:Seriously, it’s been hours. Are you sleeping there?
He clearly wanted an immediate reply from Barrett, but he didn’t get one. Based on the time stamp, we were both curled together and sleeping when he sent the message.
About ten minutes later, Jeremy answered instead.
Jeremy:Sleeping where?
Julian:Alatheia’s
Jeremy:For real?
Julian:Yes.
Jeremy:I’m so drunk. I’m coming back soon. Phoenix never stops. I can’t keep up with lil bro.
Julian:Did you mean to send that to the full group chat?
Jeremy:Fuck no.
Then there was a text from Phoenix that seemed nonsensical. He might not have meant to send it. It just readghspsskngspei.
I sighed. So Jeremy ended up drunk himself instead of helping Phoenix? He likely would have a hangover today, or at the very least, a smashing headache. I knew fellow classmates who drank a lot. It wasn’t even uncommon, since alcohol and drugs were a huge part of rich people trying to distract themselves from their lives. I chose not to use any kind of mind altering substances myself, not until I knew I was safe. Last night, Phoenix acted like he thought I would be surprised to hearhis brothers partied, but he was wrong there. Very little could shock me anymore.
Actually, so far as I knew, everyone my age usedsomething, even if only energy drinks. Tapping my finger on my chin, I realized I could do an episode ofPoor Relationabout that topic. At the idea, I smiled and rushed over to my computer. Almost as soon as it powered up, I started typing. The plot line appeared crystal clear in my mind. I could write it out later, but I needed to get the core of the idea down or I wouldn’t have any peace all day. The idea would leave my fingers twitching until I wrote it down, so I did quickly and then read over my notes. Satisfied, I closed the computer again.
My stomach tightened as my hand lay on the closed computer.I can’t make that episode. For one, I understood the kind of reasons that would drive someone to make poor choices—a qualification that immediately applied to Phoenix.He needs help.I really didn’t understand his situation well, but it didn’t feel fair to judge him, so Gretchen wasn’t going to either. I opened the computer and deleted the entry. The nextPoor Relationepisode would focus on something else.
Sighing, I bit down on my lip as the cursor blinked at me. Gretchen didn’t have any sympathy for the monsters in her life, but I seemed to be growing an uncomfortable new empathy for mine. Instead of substance abuse, I would write about someone truly deplorable instead—Gretchen’s Aunt Mae. My fingers flew across the keyboard again, my enthusiasm returning. People loved Aunt Mae episodes.
Once I finished typing, I got dressed quickly. It was hot—too humid for my fluffy towel and moist hair—so I tugged on a pair of jean shorts and a cropped t-shirt Granny had bought me. I blinked and caught by breath, surprised at my own mental slip. Again.Their granny. Not my granny.
