Secrets, Lies and Dragonflies

Chapter 58

Another chill comes over me like a splash of cold water on my face.  I feel around the surface for a blanket with no luck.  Forcing myself to wake up and get me out of this state of discomfort, I finally talk myself into resolving the problem. My feet spill onto the cold floor and I reach down and pull the covers off the ground. After building a cocoon around my frozen toes, I let the weight of the thick comforter try to pacify my restlessness. 3:38AM is too early to do anything but stew in my own thoughts. For almost a whole minute, I forgot about what happened. How the life I ever so carefully created blew up in one night. My friendships are most definitely destroyed. I won't even bother hoping for a different outcome.  

On a positive note, no pain in my arm. The broken one I let Tag take the blame for. The only person innocent in this whole mess and he's "taking it on the chin like a champ," as Abigail's dad would say. A very handsome champ, I might add. His mother's bicycle still sits undisturbed. I'll never actually ride it. It wouldn't be right.  I sink lower, ashamed of myself. This is exactly what I needed. A reminder to shut me up. I'm so sick of listening to the sound of my own whiney voice. Enough is enough.  This pity party I'm throwing is exhausting.  It ends tonight. 

I turn on the light to find my phone. Powering it on, I brace for the lashing. A small vase at the edge of the stand catches my attention. Filled with fresh cut flowers from the very garden mom made me help Aunt Amy plant, an index card leaning against it spells, "Run!!!" It's signed with a big heart shape and "Love, Aunt Lamy." She saw that text. I'm an idiot. In spite of all that I've put her through, why isn't this woman kicking us out? And she even loves us? Maybe that's what helps lessen the sting a little when I see the messages from Lindsey start to populate on my screen.

I realize rereading things like, "you're nothing" or "pathetic" and "ugly" are not good for my mantra to stop feeling sorry for myself, but I can't help it. By the tenth time, I have the messages burned to memory. The name calling isn't the most hurtful part. Those I can absorb and try to get past. It's the part about "never liked you" and "got volunteer hours for all my charity work with you" that cut deeper than all the rest. She made sure her sentences were full and complete with enough exclamation points to drive her sentiment home. And the only message from Abigail, "WE ARE DONE" holds more power than all of the insults combined. I can't tell if the hot tears burning my cheeks are triggered from mourning the loss of two people I cared so much about or the reality that it's all been a sham. Probably both.

I plough through them enough times to dull my senses, to become so numb that I might actually manage to hear their names without immediately falling victim to the associated humiliation. Maybe I'll share the hate mail with Counselor Cassie. Maybe. I pull my notebook out to jot down a few "favorites" and fall to the page that reminds me I still had a message to check from Christina.  The note she left me slides onto my lap. Why she would have taken a picture of this gibberish is a mystery. She actually sent a video. If it's my geometry teacher, these dehydrated eyes of mine wouldn't complain. His lecturing would put me to sleep in seconds. 

Pressing play, it's not at all what I expect. With a guitar around her shoulder, she starts narrating, "Hey Chica. Hope you got my note. Listen. We had this music, but no lyrics. Yours were perfect. I just borrowed them. We won't use them if you don't like. Please don't be mad." She then disappears from the screen. "Billy, follow me," she says off camera. When filmmaker Billy spans around, he finds her in a crowded space. Her cousin Courtnee is sitting behind a decked out electric piano.  Monique and a very familiar looking red headed girl are in the center of the room, microphones in hand. Elizabeth Clark from volleyball is in the back surrounded by drums. A younger blond girl cradling a fiddle is beside her.

"Ready, Ashley?" Christina asks.

The red head next to Monique nods.

Christina spins back around and says to the camera. "We hope you like it." Then she glances over to Elizabeth. "Okay, Lizzy, you can count us off."

"Again?" Elizabeth says. She looks bothered.

The blond tilts her head and says softly, "Lizzy. Come on. Be nice."

"Really, Sissy? Like she was to Fred? Why are we doing this, anyway? Her and her little friends are so toxic."

The blond shrugs. "Maybe she doesn't like her little brother and took it out on ours." 

Courtnee clears her throat, then plays a chord on the keyboard.  "If you're talking about Mackenzie and Spencer, I'm pretty sure she adores him," she says.   

"Let's discuss after we shoot the video. Okay, Lizzy?" Christina asks. 

"Yeah, yeah. Okay." Elizabeth rolls her eyes and slaps the drumsticks together, counting "One, two, three, four..."

A blended tune of country and old pop starts pouring into my room through the tiny holes in my phone. I quickly turn the volume down so not to wake Spencer and Aunt Amy.  As I locate my headphones on the stand, I'm struck by what Elizabeth said about Fred and wonder if she's talking about Fred Clark. Is Stinky her brother? How did I not put that one together?  But why does she think I'm toxic?  

I slide my earbuds on, catching the end of their performance.  It takes me a second to realize what Monique and Ashely are singing. When they're done, I replay the entire set again. This time, I crank up the volume. As the music plays, I forget to breathe.  These words. I know then before they even belt them out. They're my words. My thoughts. I remember every line. I remember where I was when I wrote it. I remember what happened to provoke me into writing them. From longing to make things better for Spencer, to wishing things could have turned out differently.  For all of us.  Regretting the way I treated mom the months before I killed her.  Before Rob made that deal with me.  If I convinced Spencer that we should let him adopt us, he'd lie about what happened. What choice did I have?  If I didn't, he would tell the world and Spencer would truly be alone. Funny. I was closer to mom at that moment, just before I pushed her down the stairs, than we had ever been.  

When Ashley and Monique sing my words, the world feels very different from when I first wrote them. Not better. Not worse. But definitely different.  I replay Christina's video almost twice as much as I reread the 'we hate you' messages from Lindsey and Abigail. I'm not exactly sure if it helped, but it could be neutralizing the poison from the sting.  I never would have thought my ramblings could have amounted to much.  She ended the message saying, "we want to play it for you in person when you're up to it."  Billy spins the camera toward himself and makes a funny face before the video cuts off.   

Turning to a fresh page, instead of documenting Lindsey's most memorable hits, I compose something far more productive: my first song.  Taking the lyrics Christina used, I add another line or two, rearrange the prose and even hum their tune to the new set of refrains.  Gazing at the piece, a polished version of my previous page's work, my restlessness starts to subside.  I play it over in my mind many times, trading out a few more words, testing the beats until the tempo fit.  A big yawn interrupts my trance.  A return to reality, but a less horrible one.   

As tempting as it is to know what's circulating in cyberspace about me, my mental health isn't there yet.  I charge my phone instead of check social media, guessing Lindsey's put her genie powers to work turning half the school against me. Christina and Billy might be the only people at Landry High who don't seem to hate me.  Even Elizabeth can't stand me.  I don't blame her.  I can't stand me either. 

If I'm going to survive the necessary evil of high school, I'll have to salvage what little shred of dignity I have left.  As horrible as life is without mom, the threat of Rob's return is still very real. It's the fuel I need to stay on track:  make straight As, get as many scholarships as possible, never let Aunt Amy down and hope that all these kept secrets will be worth it in the end. Spencer can never feel the pain of losing me, too. And I will never lose sight of my sole purpose ever again.

I close the journal and place it next to the the photo of mom.  Before turning the light off, I catch myself staring at her picture, lingering as if I'm waiting for her to say something. I want to tell her that for the first time since she died, I think my life won't be just a game of smoke and mirrors. I don't have to pretend to be perfect, that I'm fine in spite of all that's happened.  Aunt Amy knows I'm damaged goods, but for some unknown reason, she's keeping me.  So that means Spencer's safe...for now.  And that's all that matters to me.