Tripp’s said this enough times that I’m over letting it bother me. And, to be fair, he’s right. If Tripp had been tasked with showing her to class on her first day of school, she’d probably be my best friend’s girlfriend right now. Instead of my ex.
I’m still waiting on Kelsey to break the news to everyone. She wasn’t at school today, and I know she doesn’t want me telling people why we broke up. Keeping quiet about the true state of my relationship, I raise my middle finger at the best friend I’ve had since I was seven. He laughs.
We start on our homework, but just like at practice this afternoon, I’m only partially present.
The same face scatters my thoughts again, her gaze strong and mysterious, daring me to be attracted to her. The memory is so vivid, I can nearly feel the thin fabric of her dress, her body heat seeping through. My fingers curl into fists, the pencil gripped awkwardly in my right hand, until I’ve generated enough warmth to make the memory even more real.
2
Ember
I hate these stairs.
All sixty of them.
And not because there are sixty, but because they’re the narrow kind. With their very presence, they dare a person to fall. I’m embarrassed to admit the number of nightmares I’ve had about them. Realistic ones. With grotesque, limb-cracking endings.
After climbing the obscene number of steps, I stay rooted in front of the door to our small apartment and listen to my mother and sister’s argument seep through. This makes tonight their forty-seventh argument about college and my sister’s refusal to go. I sigh quietly, count to fifteen, and make my grand entrance just in time to hear my mother inform my sister she’s allowing herconditionto stunt her growth. My sister responds by slamming our door. I sayourbecause my sister and I share a room. Not that I’ll be getting in there anytime soon.
My guess is that Sky is now hiding in the dark, trying to breathe through the tightening of her chest. My sister’s panic attacks can occur at any time, but they often happen following a fight with my mother. They also happen in crowded places, and when she thinks people are looking at her.
My sister is named Sky because her eyes are blue. I’m named Ember for the most obvious reason ever.
My mother must have a thing for colors. When Sky laments her name, I remind her she could have been Sapphire or Cerulean. Then again, I could have been Terra cotta or Maroon, so we should really just find peace with where we landed.
“Hi, Mom.” I walk into the kitchen.
Her back is to me, and she’s digging through her collection of plastic cups until she finds the one she wants.Surf City Bar. On it is a picture of a shark in shorts carrying a surfboard. It’s her favorite. I think it’s cute she collects these little souvenir cups from random places.
“Hey, hon,” she says, turning on the tap and filling her glass. “Sorry you had to come home to that.”
I shrug. It’s typical. My mom and Sky don’t get along much these days. Mom has been pushing Sky to work through her anxiety and go to college. Sky doesn’t want to. That’s the gist of it.
My mom is right. It has been two years since Sky graduated high school.
This year, I’m the one graduating. I have only two months left, and there has been almost no talk of my college aspirations. No anxiety, no racing heart, no fear of public situations, and I’m left to figure things out on my own. Which I have. Unbeknownst to everyone, I applied to six high-ranking colleges. I’ve been saving money for years, starting with my first baby-sitting job at twelve. College applications don’t come cheap. I’ve never told my mom, but to be fair, she hasn’t asked. Her focus is on Sky, on getting her well, on helping her create a happy life for herself.
It’s always the squeaky wheel that gets the grease.
Mom turns around, resting her backside against the sink. She sips from her cup and looks at me with defeat. “Do you want to try talking to her?”
“Sure, Mom.” I would rather not, but I feel bad for my mom. Coming home from work and walking in to fight with Sky is probably the last thing she wants.
Together we walk from the kitchen. She goes to the couch and reaches for the remote, while I make the short walk down the hall.
“Sky?” I say with a cautious knock on our bedroom door. Behind me I hear the TV turn on, the sounds of the evening news filtering through our apartment.
The door opens six inches, and Sky peers out. She spends less than a second looking at me, then cranes her neck out to make sure our mom isn't close by, using me as bait to lure her out.
“Why can’t she turn that junk down?” Sky mutters, ushering me in and quickly closing the door.
My mother loves the news. Turning it on is the first thing she does when she walks in from work. Actually, no, that’s not true. First she washes her hands, and when I saywash,I mean she scrubs them. She even uses a little brush to get under her nails. I’m not sure if she’s washing off the germs she has picked up being in other peoples’ homes all day, or if she’s trying to wash off the fact that she’s a cleaning lady.
I don’t think there’s anything disgraceful about her job. But she does.
To me, she’s a contributing member of society.
To her, it’s embarrassing.
