Page 3 of Beyond The Maples
"Why must you two always scare me? How long have you been..." I pause. "Wait, why aren’t you in school, isn’t it late?" I eye her suspiciously.
Willow is pale and thin. I suppress a grimace at the dark circles under her wide eyes, a result of her poor oxygen intake. I’ve seen her paler and thinner, so I try to be thankful she’s not in worse shape.?
"It’s not my fault you sleep like the dead. I'm just taking a little break from school, for like a week…. as requested.... by my teachers?"?
I take an exhausted breath and huff out through my nose. "Explain," I demand.
"Maple, honestly, it's not a big deal. It’s just a week off. I’m not saying I got suspended, but um... I did get suspended... again."
Willow peers at me like she’s unsure of how I’m going to react, and honestly, it's fair. The line between sibling and parental figure is forever swaying, and it confuses even me sometimes. I know it's not consistent, and that Willow will probably become some sort of criminal because of it, but we’re all just making this up as we go. Sometimes my instinct is to come down on her like a regular parent would, and then other times, I want to high-five her. It is confusing.?
"More details," I demand again, as Linden comes around the corner with my cup of tea. I scowl at him despite the nice gesture. He scurries away, avoiding the conflict we all know is coming. Big baby.
Willow jumps over the couch and becomes the version of herself we all love the most; passionate, animated and bright.?
"Ok, well we got assigned history papers and of course I get assigned to do the very oversold ridiculous story about the old king and queen and how their boring-as-fuck love story was basically the downfall of our society."
I interrupt her, "Language, Willow,come on."?
She ignores me completely and continues.
"We’ve all heard it a million times: the fall of the kingdom, how the king pushes magic and technology to their limits and the Gods take away their gifts, abandoning us as punishment, the war, how the Council saved the day so on and so forth blah blah blah…" She's rolling her eyes like she’s even bored relaying this part. "But you know what? This was a research project, and I refuse to leave out parts of the story! I did a little more of a thorough job than maybe I needed to. And while I was reading it, that snot nose Sica from my class started arguing with me..."
My body tenses at her open dismissal of our government's history. It's dangerous. But I let her continue.
"Anyway, long story short, I put a lot of effort into this assignment. I mean historians could probably use this report––and then the teacher tries to correct me!"?
She lets out a slow breath now, her long rant taking it out of her. Her momentary breathlessness distracts me for a second. Worry calcifies in my chest as I watch my little sister take hard breaths from simply talking too much. I wait, counting in my head between breaths until they turn even, and then I finally register what she’s said.?
Suddenly I know exactly where this story is going and my stomach sinks. Honestly, I would have just preferred she had punched someone.?
"Willow… tell me you didn’t argue about history in class again. Tell me you were not spewing dad’s old fables in front of people who could report you." I glare at my sister, anger and fear mixing together as tears prick the backs of my eyes.
Willow shrinks, gaping at me. "Umm, well… I did call my teacher an empty-headed git for arguing a fact that is literally common knowledge. We know the king did not steal magic. He didn’t have any, he wasn’t a wielder. I wasn’t, like, arguing any of dad's really far out there ideals or anything, it's just…"?
She stops talking as I hold my hand up to silence her.
I lean forward now, so she has no choice but to meet my eyes.?
"Willow, our lives are hard enough as it is. We are barely hanging on. Do you not get it? If something happens, I can’t afford to bail you out. I can’t even afford to homeschool you. If someone charges our household with something, even something as simple as this, we are done. They could take you away from me, or worse."?
I bark out the last words, and Willow’s once-animated face falls.
I feel instantly guilty. Sometimes I forget that Willow is still very much a kid; a kid with one dead and one missing parent. I soften my next words a little as I move beside her.
"We'll figure this out. But Ineedyou to be more careful. I need you to be smarter about this stuff. It’s not safe... For any of us. I can’t lose you or Linden." My hands cup her face. She looks on the verge of bawling as reality settles in for her. "I wouldn’t survive it. I love you lunatics far too much."?
She smiles a little. "I know, I’m really sorry Mae. It won't happen again. Honestly, I don’t think it's that bad. This teacher is a total meathead. I’m sure everyone just thought it was preteen drama and no one actually reported me." She smiles up at me hopefully, like this should ease all my worries.?
I sigh, leaning back, running my hands through my unruly hair. A headache starts to throb behind my eyes, and I have to get ready for my job––my real one at the diner. Not the illegal one I go to every other month to swindle poor scumbags out of their money.
I mentally add "check-in with Willow’s school" to my list of things to get done this week. I get up, taking a long sip of the tea that tastes like garbage, and drag my tired body to our room to get ready.?
I toss my clothes from the night before into the pile beside my tiny bed. Sharing a room with your preteen sister is not what all twenty-three-year-olds would call a good time. It’s no wonder I’ve never pursued a serious boyfriend. Bringing them in here would be a bit of a nightmare. Not that I have the time, or the desire. There are no eligible men in this town. None that are interested in me, anyway.
I come out of our tiny room dressed in the worn garb I wear every day to the diner. Almost all our clothes have become muted grays, greens and beiges now. From years of reuse and washing, the colours have bled together and dulled. My white-ish blouse is at least somewhat white still, so that is a win. The boxy skirt and smock combo could use replacing, but I need new boots before anything else. My tights have the beginnings of holes, and I'm afraid to look at the damage I did to my only good pants this morning.
Walking out of our room, I finish braiding my hair into a thick, messy plait. The length is hard to deal with, but I know I should be thankful I have so much of it. Many people my age aren't as fortunate; hair is often the first thing to deteriorate. It’s one of the early signs of years of slow-moving malnutrition, so Linden tells me.
