Family Secrets - Lane Austin
One
Thursday Night, March 23 “Not a Frickin chance, Not — A — Frickin — Chance!” My father, John Cage, yelled. His voice was harsh, raspy. He enjoyed repeating himself during arguments; his tone always low, at ground level, as he made a statement the first time, then he’d throw the words into an elevator and send them straight to the tenth floor to be screeched out the second. He was drunk, obviously. If he was sober he wouldn’t be home. He’d be at the bar, trying to get drunk. Its been like this since I was a little girl. My mother, Misty, was trying to explain to him that, “I am not sleeping with him!” her voice was shaky, very thin. I felt the tears running down her face as my ear was glued to my bedroom door. I wanted to ignore them, to leave. My parents’ fights made me nauseous, but my feet were cemented to the floor anyway — nothings new in the Cage household. “He just wants to help us!” She yelled at my dad, her voice suddenly gaining some strength. My hands were shaking. The probability of his fist making contact with her face was increasing by the second. “Help us?” My dad questioned, “We don’t need his Frickin money, Misty!” A tinking sound came from the kitchen as he removed a beer from one of the several cases which weighed down the refrigerator. I wanted to run in there and smack it out of his hands. I never would though, or do anything at all actually. I’d just act like I didn’t hear any of it. The digital clock beside my bed read 11:30. It was a school night, and there seemed to be no sleep in sight. I wish my parents would just die or something, I mean, because, God forbid that they be normal. Their fighting truly interfered with my health, honestly. Yelling kept my focus away from studying, so I’d have to wait until they got quiet at whatever hour of the night to do any homework. Meaning most nights, I would be up until 2:00ish before finally climbing in bed. That lack of sleep leads to monumental stress, I think, and the dark rings around my eyes, too. If I ever ushered for them to calm down though, so that I could get any work done, the dark circles under my eyes in the morning wouldn’t just be from no sleep. “Oh, we don’t? What bought that Frickin beer you’re drinking?” Mom’s gettin’ wild! I thought, trying to find humor to avoid the worry. I knew she regretted those words as soon as they left her mouth though. From behind my bedroom door, I could feel the hate in my father’s eyes. The disgust. “Get out,” He said at ground level, “GET. OUT!” Ding! Thirty- seventh floor. My eardrums rattled, and instincts pulled me away from the door. His voice boomed through the house, shaking the walls. I swear dust fell from my ceiling fan. Fortunately for my father, we had no neighbors. Every house around ours was abandoned. Cops were never called. No noise complaints, nothing. I pressed my ear back to my bedroom door, waiting for my mother’s response. I knew she wouldn’t leave, this happened all the time. She’d give up the arguing, then check on me before going to her bedroom. My dad however, would feel victorious after she gave up, so he’d check on a few more beers before falling asleep wherever he landed — or maybe, landing asleep wherever he fell. I heard my mother’s sigh. It was calm, like she just — gave up. The front door slammed, rattling the Cage household. Her car started. My dad killed his beer, crushed the can, and tossed it into the trashcan. She would come back in a second, after she cooled off. I knew she would. Rocks shifted in the driveway as her car pulled out. Another beer was removed from the fridge, cracked open. The recliner creaked as my dad laid himself back in it. The television clicked on. Rockets and gunshots exploded through the house. He chuckled encouragingly as he watched. For twenty minutes I waited, yearning to hear her reenter the house. But she never did. She left for the night. I turned my back to the door and slid down it, allowing my shirt to slide up and feel the cold wood brush against my skin. My heart was racing, even still as my clock passed 12:00. They always got into fights, always, but he never told her to get out like that. She never actually left either, even if he did. She left me alone with him, knowing good and well what happened when he got out of control — which he was certainly on the brink of. How could she do that? Now I have to just sit here in silence. If I leave my room, or make any sound at all, he will use whatever anger he has built up from the fight and take it out on me. Not words of anger... Fists of anger, kicks of anger, knees of anger, closest-things-in-reach-that-could-be-swung-or-thrown type anger. In other words, it wasn’t the best time for my bladder to reach its capacity. Is there ever a best time for that, though? My father was certainly still pissed off, so I commanded my bladder to get itself together, to hold it until it was safe. I sat straight and rested my head back against the door, closing my eyes. Abruptly, it had gotten bad. This always happens when I’m on my period. I focused as hard as possible, thinking of anything but liquid, fighting it back with everything in me. I checked the clock again, certain that it’d been about thirty minutes. 12:03, it read. Three minutes? Really? Needless to say, my urine prevailed. I jumped to my feet quickly but silently, and pulled my bedroom door open. The bathroom was directly across the hall, but it was a very small house, so the living room where my dad’s heartless chuckle presided was at the end of that hall — maybe twenty feet away. After glancing to the living room, I ninja-stepped into the cabinet sized (because closet sized would be too generous) bathroom and relinquished. I had been quiet, unable to even hear myself, so I knew there was no way my father heard me. After I didn’t flush — to remain quiet, I’m not a freaking boy! — I sidestepped in front of the mirror. Staring at me was a frail, ghostly girl. Much too frail to be 16 — well, “much too flat to be 16” if we’re being honest. Raven black hair flowed down her shoulders. A small nose that was sharply angled appeared darker than the rest of her skin, clustered with freckles that crept onto her cheeks. Ice blue eyes drooped, obviously exhausted. I knew "she" was actually me, but it didn't look like it. I'd changed in some way, though I couldn't quite place it. She — I — looked... tired, tired of the restless nights. Tired of my father's drinking. Tired of not mattering to him. But it was more than that, some subtle change I couldn’t identify. I hated my body, really. I brought my shirt up above my shoulders, hoping I’d somehow go from A-cup to C-cup when the veil lifted. Kind of like a game my father used to play when I was a kid, and he was sober, and when instead of a reluctant “my father” I’d gladly refer to him as “daddy,” where he’d wave his hand across his face and it’d change from sad to happy, leaving me in awe at such an incredulous change. A sigh left my lips at the memory, and at my still-flat chest which other girls had the luxury of calling “boobs.” I dropped my shirt back down, locking eyes with myself. Staring for maybe ten minutes, my eyes never faltered from my reflection’s. I leaned over the sink, my face merely inches from the mirror. I was trying to appear convincing, for myself. “Harper Cage,” I whispered in my strongest voice, “everything will be okay.” I lied. This was a nightly ritual, because eventually I thought it would become true. Persistence is key, the saying goes. I smiled at my reflection, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes, and then turned to walk out. The old, rusted, silver doorknob was cold as I gripped it and tried to turn. It didn’t budge. Immediately, I felt a dangerous tingle pulse through my body. Something was wrong. My heart began to pound, trying to break its way out of my chest. W e , it wouldn’t have to get through much to break ee! I yelled in my mind, somehow mad at myself for not maturing like other girls my age. It only made me more mad though, so I closed my eyes to push away the thoughts and calm down. After a moment, I twisted again. No luck. Panic flushed through my veins — being confined was my greatest fear. Okay, maybe it wasn’t my greatest fear, but when it’s happening to you it might as well be. My eyes landed on the doorknob again, there had to be an explanation for why I couldn’t get out of my own bathroom. It wasn’t locked, the key was horizontal, but I turned it vertically anyway to give it a try. Didn’t work. Hair clung to the back of my damp neck. My heart rate was so fast that it might as well have just been one constant beat. Chills crawled across every inch of my skin. My throat was closing, air wouldn’t reach my lungs. My dad had to be messing with me, a door doesn’t just not open. I dropped to the floor to peek through the bottom crack of the door. The dirt and dust that molded around my hands and knees made me gag. My body shivered. I have to get out of here. I closed my eyes and pushed out a long, steady breath, trying to calm myself. I wouldn’t escape panicked, I knew that. Acquiescently, I pushed my eye to the crack, ignoring the dust that latched onto the side of my face and that my hair swept into itself. The hall was too dark for my eyes to see anything just yet, so I waited for them to adjust. No feet, no shoes, nothing that indicated my father was holding the door shut. Nothing, that is, until my eyes landed on two legs of a chair. Yes, chairs have four legs on the ground typically, but not when they’re being propped against a door to hold it shut. “Ugh!” My father locked me in here, had to. Why? I don’t know. But that only left me with two choices: knock until he hopefuly let me out without inflicting any pain (unlikely), or sleep in the bathroom until my mother finally came back to save me — which might not be until tomorrow. My eyes scanned the dusty, dirty bathroom that imprisoned me. The bed of the shower collected black marks from — God knows what. My handprints were visible, imbedded in the grossness of the tile floor that was patterned a swirl of green and yellow, the blended color itself was disgusting (no offense to the Green Bay Packers). The vent on the ceiling had mistletoes of dust hanging from it, black — mold? — crusted over it and the surrounding ceiling. How could this place have gotten so unsanitary without me noticing it before? If cleanliness really is next to Godliness, this family sure is going to Heck! Subconsciously trying to escape, I had backed into the corner of the bathroom. Even the splotchy, brown and gray, never-got-around-to-finish- painting-it wall was freshly coated with dust. My skin crawled with insects of, probably my imagination but lets not bank on it. I have to get out. I have to get out right now. Before I knew it, my hand clutched the doorknob once more and twisted with every bit of strength (not much) and fear (a ton) in me. “Let me out!” My voice, still sounding as if it belonged to an 8 year old, yelled without permission as my free hand slammed itself against the door. The room was closing in on me. For no real reason at all, I was more scared than I’d ever been in my life. I created a ruckus, smashing my fist against the door, screaming, and attempting to turn the doorknob for what seemed like years. No sound came from the living room, or anywhere else in the house. If my father was there, he must have really wanted me to suffer, because the noise quickly got on even my own nerves — well, that doesn’t take much. I fell to my knees again and slumped against the wall, shaking, with tears fleeing away as the fear consumed me. I shut my eyes and begged to be free, or to be anywhere but the room. My lungs stopped working. My head began to spin. High pitched ringing confiscated my sense of hearing. I was going to throw up. Two The sound of raindrops coursed beautifully through my ears. A soft melody relaxed my tense muscles, my heart hummed along with the slow rhythm. My veins pulsated with pure tranquility. I could feel my cheeks being pushed to my ears by the goofy grin forming on my face. Where am I? I opened my eyes, with leisure, to see what Heaven I had landed in. Windshield wipers suddenly bounced across the front glass and then screeched back down, creating a dreadful sound one can only describe as “brrrrrrrrrduhduhduhduh - CREEEEEEEEEE” . The wipers had no success, and not just because they were in desperate need of new blades — the rain was falling so abundantly that the car might as well have been sitting under a waterfall. To my left, my mother was driving. She was staring straight ahead, her hands gripped so tightly on the steering wheel that her knuckles had become white. I tried to ask how I had gotten in the car with her, but froze when I noticed the tears flooding down her cheeks. My heart fell to the floor. There is no pain like seeing your mom cry. I know what you’re thinking: “Didn’t you just wish she’d die like 46 paragraphs ago?” Yeah, sorry, Mr(s). Cynic, it was an in-the-moment wish. Makeup splattered disorderly around her face. The wrinkles around her mouth had become more clear, deeper from the red lipstick smeared across them. Mascara filled the crevices around her eyes. She kept trying to turn her lips into a smile, but they shook dramatically before she could reach a straight face. Her sobs were unbearable. Each one shattered my heart even more than the last. “Mom, what’s wrong?” It came out in a shaky whisper and was drowned out by the surrounding uproar. The raindrops, the music, the serene environment — all had twisted into a semblance of agony and terror. The rain pelted the car like rocks, thunder vibrated the ground beneath us. The music was blaring, sure to bust the speakers before the song ended. The atmosphere was a mixture of hatred and fear, but also... love, and freedom. She kept her eyes on the road which was lit only by one car headlight, the other was out. She screamed the lyrics between sobs but I was unable to hear her voice over the radio. I yelled, loudly this time, to ask again what was wrong, but held no success — she didn’t even seem to notice I was beside her. The entire car started vibrating as it toured off to the rumble strips at the side of the road. My hands clenched into the seat beneath me as she tore the steering wheel over, jerking the car back into our lane. I could feel my nails puncture through the worn leather seat. My eyes darted to the speedometer — She was driving at 85 miles per hour. “Slow down!” The words hurt my throat as I pushed them out. My chest pounded, breaths short. The trees flashed by in the window behind her. Lightning splashed all around us. Danger curled up in the core of my stomach. Against all instinct, I ripped one of my hands away from the seat and twisted the volume knob down. The music didn’t fade. Déjà vu washed over me as I remembered the bathroom door. I started to wonder how I’d gotten here, again, but realized I didn’t have time to think about it. I had to slow her down. My mom reached for her pack of cigarettes in the cupholder and removed one, bringing the lighter out as well. She put the cigarette in her mouth to light it, but the lighter was out. It sparked, but wouldn’t catch. I put my eyes back on the road, scared that if neither of us looked forward we’d certainly crash, and tried poking my mom to get her attention. Three times my finger hit her frail shoulder, but when I finally looked back she was still trying to light her cigarette. She was blatantly ignoring me. My eyes shot back to the road as hers fell to the cigarette. She cuffed her free hand around it to cover the flame, and started steering with her knee — now pushing 90. The cigarette finally lit. The front windshield filled with smoke as she exhaled. Before I could continue my attempt at slowing her down, something — someone appeared in the road, through the smoke. They looked like a shadow, completely black but in the shape of a human, standing in the middle of our lane. I tore my eyes over to see if my mom saw the person — she did, and let out a scream that intimidated even the horrifying screech of the windshield wipers. Her hand banged on the steering wheel, blowing the horn in short, rapid intervals. The cigarette fell to her lap. She slapped at it, lurching the car from side to side in the process. The figure had long hair that was unconfined as it fluttered beautifully in the wind. A pair of eyes peered through the strands of hair that blew over her face. The girl didn't flinch, just stared us down, knowing our car was certain to hit her. Her eyes penetrated mine through the rain, pulling goosebumps from my flesh. We were only 10 yards away from her now.Through it all, I thought: Whoever turns first, loses! In the corner of my eye, my mom’s hands jerked the steering wheel over, — Everything went white. Everything, except my mom’s scream. The scream burned into my ears, demanding to be noticed. Demanding to be remembered. Three Friday morning, March 24 I drew in a sharp breath and my body jolted awake. My head slammed into the wall behind me, sending a daggering sensation down my entire spine. I ignored the pain and looked for my mother but didn't see her, didn't see anyone. Everything was a bright flash of whiteness. I wonder if I’ve made it to real Heaven this time. My lungs gasped heavily for oxygen. My mom's face, the girl in the road, the crash I didn't seem to remember fully, all of it flashed in my mind. I still felt the scream in my ears, still heard it, rattling around in my head. My eyes finally adjusted to find I was laying in my bathtub. Relief washed over me to realize it was a dream — well, it probably rightfully earned the title of nightmare. I didn't remember getting into the bathtub to sleep, but I hadn't the time to think about it either — I had school to get ready for, hopefully I hadn’t slept too late. It wasn’t until then, as I stood from the shower, that I realized my clothes were soaking wet, drenched from sweat. “Gross,” I mumbled as I began to strip, throwing the clothes to the floor — each item was so soaked that they hit the tile with a smack. My legs were unbearably sore, and I felt exhausted as I finally slipped off my panties. After a rushed, cold shower, brushing my teeth, and telling myself I should but then not doing my makeup, I faced the enemy — the bathroom door. Silently, I prayed that my father had removed the chair. My hand gripped the knob, and I took in a deep breath before twisting -- — Success. The door popped right open; no chair sat in the hallway either. A wave of relief barreled over me, once again, as I scurried into my room to get dressed — an oversized, black and ripped T-shirt, black skinny jeans, and white high tops would have to do. I glanced at my clock to, again!, be filled with relief. I was perfectly on time! All the waves of relief didn’t last long though, they all slid back into the ocean just before a tsunami of emotion called “pissed-the-frick-off” came and crushed the towns of Happy, Good, and Not Locked In The Bathroom that were inhabiting my body. My legs led me into my parents’ room before allowing my brain to strategize whatsoever. My father was spread out on the bed, fully clothed, boots and all, above the covers. A deep snore indicated he was still alive — how unfortunate, right? “Did you lock me in the bathroom last night.” It wasn’t a question, so no I don’t need that question mark you tried to fault me for. (Reminder: it is that time of the month, sorry) He grunted, “Huh?” as he slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes. I stepped to the side, allowing light to flood in from the hallway. He immediately shut his eyes and buried his face again. I silently applauded myself. “Shut the Frickin door!” He rolled onto his stomach. I hesitated, but then decided to keep it open, and it felt good. Normally I followed his every command to avoid any trouble, but something was different inside me today, I needed him to see that no part of the way he treated me was okay, and I wouldn’t let him get away with it anymore. “Did you lock me in the bathroom last night.” I said again, drawing it out as if he were a little kid. I knew the answer, but I had to hear him say it. I had to hear him te me that he did it. Maybe then, I thought, it will register to him as messed up parenting. His head lifted slightly to look back at me, “What? You Frickin left last night, dumbass. Now close the frickin door.” His voice was hoarse, tired. I looked at the clock by his bed, 7:10. I had ten minutes before I needed to leave for school.Frickin Whatever. He must have just been so drunk he didn’t even remember locking me in there. I didn’t have time to deal with it anyway. But, not going to lie, it hurts that he never, ever, calls me by my name. Never. I went into the kitchen to fix a bowl of cereal for breakfast. We had no milk, of course, but that was no reason to complain. Having any food in the house at all was a blessing. The bowl of off brand “Cinna-Roast Crunches” made my mouth desert dry, so I drank water from the sink before putting on my backpack. I was just about to walk out the front door when — *knock, knock, knock* Odd. Who would ever be knocking on our door, especially this early in the morning. I pulled open the door to see Sheriff C. Johnson, with Deputy N. Layfield (according to their badges) staggered beside him. Each had their hands on their hips, bags under their eyes, and a look of concern on their face. They reminded me of me, in a way. When they saw me, they glanced at each other, then Sheriff Johnson spoke first. “Your dad home?” The smell of wintergreen filled my nose as he spoke. His white beard had a tobacco stain just under his lip. His police uniform fit tightly on his short, chubby body. The collar seemed to strangle the half-a-neck that was leading to his puffy, rosy cheeked face. He kind of reminded me of a gnome, and I had to fight back a giggle that crept up my throat. I nodded, wondering if my father had gotten into any trouble last night while I was locked in the bathroom — which I was locked in, asshole. “Can we... speak to ‘em?” It was worded as a friendly question, but the Gnome’s — I’m sorry, the Sheriff’s demeanor told me that something was wrong. Worried, I only nodded again and spun on my heels to wake my father up. “Police are here, they want to talk to you.” My voice was shaky as I spoke to my father, losing whatever strength I thought I had five minutes ago. He mumbled in response, but didn’t move. Apparently police weren’t a concern of his. “Police are at the door!” I repeated in a strict, whisper-scream, trying to be as calm as possible to avoid any concern from the officers. I felt uncomfortable with their eyes burning into the side of my head from the doorway. My dad rolled over. “Why can’t you handle it?” He asked, running a hand over his balding forehead and through his characteristically messy, faded brown hair. He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for me to respond. I rolled my eyes. “They want to see you.” I finally said, then turned to leave. Whatever it was, it was none of my concern. He could either see what they wanted or ignore them, it didn’t matter to me; I had to get to school. Approaching the officers, they looked at me questioningly. I shrugged. “I think he’s coming.” I turned to look down the empty hallway. Maybe not. I didn’t say. “I have to catch the bus though.” My excuse to get by. I hooked my pin- straight, midnight hair behind my ear, waiting for one of them to step out of the way. They were blocking the doorway and purposefully ignoring eye contact with me. I looked back and forth from each of them, but they didn’t move. The situation was increasingly awkward. “So... um,” I stepped forward a bit, contemplating squeezing between them to get out of the house, but evidently they weren’t planning on letting me through. Finally, Sheriff Gnome Johnson looked into my eyes. “You might want to stay here for this, sweetie.” His tone was soft, obviously trying to calm me, but that only made me start to worry — I was perfectly calm until you had to go and try calming me down! I looked between the two of them warily, but didn’t have time to ask any questions before my father clumsily stumbled behind me in the doorway. He wore a sleeveless shirt, jeans, and a backwards ball cap. The stench of alcohol overran the wintergreen. “Cole Johnson!” My father declared cheerfully, pushing me slightly to the side so he could extend his hand to shake the Gnome’s. “What you doin’ here this early?” The Gnome shook his hand but didn’t exchange the excitement my father had greeted him with. The other deputy introduced himself quietly as Nate Layfield. “Um, John,” The Gnome started, avoiding eye contact from both me and my father now. “I think we need to sit down.” My father looked between the both of them uneasily for a moment before saying anything. “Sure, come on in.” He finally said, his voice slow and unsure, and indicated to the couches as the officers fell into the house cautiously. The Gnome Sheriff took a seat on one couch, my father on the other. They sat closest to each other at the corner of the ‘L’ that the couches formed. I uneasily took a seat at the edge of the couch my father was on. Deputy Layfield stood, facing the three of us, in front of the television with his arms crossed. We all looked around at each other awkwardly. Impatiently, I waited for someone to bring up the obvious question: Why were they here? Apparently I wasn’t the only one thinking the officers were avoiding something other than eye contact. “Look, what’s with all this?” My father asked, slightly twirling his finger around in a circle, becoming serious and agitated. “Why are y'all here?” His jaw was tense, his body was leaned forward as if active in the conversation, but his eyes were unamused. Bored, even. If I could read his mind, I’d probably find that he just wanted them gone so that he could begin another day of drinking that he wouldn’t remember. The Sheriff fidgeted in the couch, wiping his hands down the legs of his pants. The Deputy looked down at his tapping foot. The clock sitting on the coffee table in front of me turned to 7:18. For some reason, my mom has always bought and decorated the house with tons of abstract, weirdo looking clocks. For as long as I can remember. When I was a little girl, she gave me my own — the one still in my room. The clock looks like Harry Potter’s glasses, and the numbers appear on each lens. It was just after I finished reading the third book and asked my mom, “When do I get my letter to Hogwarts?” that she went out and bought it for me. “—Wife got into a car accident.” The Gnome Sheriff’s slow words brought me out of my daze of looking at the clock. I looked between my dad and the Sheriff. Had he been talking about my dad’s wife? My mom? No way, no way no way no way. The dream flashed before my eyes as I tried to push it as far away as the waves of relief had gone. The dream... had it really been one? “She lost control of the car, we think, going about 90 in that damn storm.” The Sheriff continued, shaking his head. My father was silent, calm. The sheriff’s words were too slow, I needed to know what happened, who cares about the details. Get on with it! I wanted to yell. Everyone sat in silence for a moment... a minute... two. “Where’s mom?” I blurted out finally. The sheriff’s face dropped as his eyes finally met mine. Pity in his eyes, denial in my own. There was a short pause as he stared at me, but then he looked away again. “She...” I knew the answer already. I knew she was — But I rejected the thought. I hung to the hope he’d finish the sentence with the name of a hospital. The name of a doctor. Anything but that. Anything but —, “She passed away.” My head shook viciously as her scream pierced my ears. It couldn’t be true. I tugged against my hair to wake myself up. It was only a continuation of the dream. None of this was real. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t leave me with him. My heart was crushed. But it wasn’t over. I remembered something suddenly as I tried to place the blame on my dad for telling her to leave. The blame wasn’t on him, even if he’d made her leave the house. The blame was on me. I’m the one who wished... against the door as they argued... I’m the one who wished they’d — that she’d... And she did. My body shook but I didn’t cry. I wasn’t sad, that feeling had somehow already passed through me in a brief couple of seconds. I was infuriated. Rage coursed through my veins. I could feel my muscles tense, my fists clench. They continued talking but I couldn’t hear their words. Only one thing echoed through my mind, and it wouldn’t be silenced. It should have been him. Why wasn’t it him? Four Tuesday morning, M arch 28 The past few days have been a blur. Even more so for my father, as his drinking has escalated at such a pace that I'm not sure if he even knows North from South. The only times I've left my room have been to eat, which has been rarely, or to use the bathroom — I've been careful to leave the door cracked every time. Today was the funeral. I didn’t want to go. Funerals were pointless to me, a custom that no one liked but everyone had and attended anyway. My father wore an old, black suit that swallowed his body. He’d lost a lot of weight since picking up the bottle. I wore the only clothes I had for occasions such as this: An old black dress that barely touched my knees, and a pair of black heels that were about a size and a half too small for me now, making them near impossible to walk in, not to mention the left heel had to be superglued back on after the last time I wore them. First we went to some church in downtown Dayton. I’d never been to it before, not that I could recall at least. They had my mother’s body in a closed casket at the very front of the church, and a priest stood behind it, using it as a podium to tell us how short life is and how the good always leave us early. All that typical funeral bull. Sobs echoed through the church we were in. I’m not sure who from, and not because I didn’t look to see, but because I had never even met anyone that was there. Neither myself nor my father cried the whole time though, so I don’t know why anyone else did. After the praying and spiritual healing and God-thanking for another day, my father and three other men — who volunteered from the rows — carried my mother out to be placed in the back of a white hearse. It had three rims (or wheels... I don’t know, that’s boy-talk stuff) that used to be silver but were now covered in rust, and one tiny, black rimmed, spare tire. I had to stifle a laugh upon the sight, I mean, could you imagine having a blow out on the way to get buried? My father and I followed behind the hearse in his red, two-door truck. Neither of us said a word, and he didn’t bother to turn on the radio. I just stared out of the window, watching trees slowly roll by. The sky was dark ahead of us, with gray clouds bunching close together to hide the sun, but in the side mirror I could see an endless sea of blue in the sky behind us. My father finished an entire flask of whiskey in the ten minute drive from the church to the grave sight. After the funeral, more people who I’d never seen before kept telling me how great my mother was. How I looked just like her. How strong and kind and intelligent and... Whatever. I didn’t care. These people acted like they knew her, but they didn’t know her. They weren’t around to see the abuse, the two jobs she’d work to support her alcoholic husband, the measures she went to in order to keep me safe from him. They kept saying how sorry they were, but I could tell they weren’t. They’d leave the funeral and go through a fast-food restaurant, chatting up with their family about the basketball game they’d watch later. Unaffected, no concerns. They kept saying I would be okay, that it would turn out great in the end, that it was just “her time”. But they didn’t know who I lived with — what I lived with. They didn’t know she’d protected me from his abuse, his loss of control, but now he’d be free to lash out at me whenever and however he pleased. They didn’t know that every minute of every day, I had to live with that fact that I wished she was dead. I did this. I was responsible for it. They just looked at me with pity as they avoided my stumbling, belligerent father. Oh how I desired to be burying him instead. Just as I thought we were going to leave, so that I could go back to exile in my room, another unknown man approached me and my father. We had been walking to our truck and he stopped us in our tracks. His eyes were red, and he wiped them with the back of his luxurious suit sleeve before extending his hand to my father. His gold ring reflected the dim sun into my eyes. I could tell he was rich, which is why I was extremely curious as to how he knew my mother. Like the others, I’d never seen him before either. He was definitely from the other side of town. He began to apologize for our loss immediately, saying anything we needed he could help, blah blah blah. I tuned him out, and turned to look back at the cemetery as he talked. The grass was beautiful, and I could spot my mothers fresh grave a football field away. The dirt was mounded above the ground, while all the other graves were flat. She had no gravestone yet, my father probably hadn’t cared enough to get her one anyway. He hadn’t cried while receiving the news, hadn’t reacted at all actually. Only ushered the officers out and popped open a can of beer. My eyes scanned the wood-line in the back of the cemetery as I waited for my father and the Rich man to quit talking. I wasn’t really looking for anything, only trying to avoid being drawn into their conversation... until my eyes landed on The Girl. She stood slightly in front of the woods, with her dark hair falling to her sides. She was dressed in all black, her dress looking very similar to mine. I couldn’t make out her face, but somehow, I could feel her eyes on my own. 150 yards between us, and fear still struck my chest as I stared back at her. She was there, she was in my dream. How could she be here now, too? I immediately clung to the hope that this was just one, long, terrible dream. That I’d wake up and my mother would be in her room. Or even yelling at my dad in the living room as I pushed my ear against my door like always. I had to talk to her, whoever the girl was. If she was real then maybe she knew something. Chills rose to my skin as I took a step forward.“How dare you show up here.” My father’s voice was cold, and it cut through my thoughts of The Girl like a sword. I turned just in time to see his fist collide with the Rich man’s jaw. The Rich man didn’t budge. I stared in shock. He stared at my father for a moment, waiting, daring him to swing again. My father didn't look intimidated though. I think he wanted to be beaten up, to feel pain. To feel anything. The Rich man didn't take the bait. He spit blood onto the ground. “You’ll understand soon enough.” He said, wiping his lip and staring at the blood that streaked across the back of his hand, then turned to me. “I’m sorry.” He said calmly, and walked away. I stared at my dad, who appeared unfazed. He didn’t even look at me as he began stumbling to the truck again. I looked back at the wood line to see the girl, but she had disappeared. Of course. “What the heck?” I questioned. My dad had walked to the passenger side of the beat up, red Toyota truck, indicating for me to drive. “What?” He asked as he pulled a cigarette from the center console and lit it. I cranked the truck, looking at him completely bemused. “Why’d you hit him?” I left the car in park, staring at my father as he looked into the graveyard — taking drags from his cigarette. “Who was he?” He didn’t answer me. Just continued staring at nothing. His jaw was tense, but his face was emotionless. He didn’t care about anything. I sighed, and put the car in reverse to leave the cemetery. My eyes wondered the tree line as we pulled out, but she wasn’t there. Maybe I was just going crazy, maybe she’s not even real. The ride back to the house was silent. As I put the car in park in our driveway, and opened my door, my dad just sat there. He was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, face blank. It didn’t appear that he was even aware we were home. As much as I hated the man, I thought he may be secretly hurting. I caved in. “You okay?” I asked him in a quiet, bright tone. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t budge. It hurt me to feel like he was blatantly ignoring me, but I would have rather him done that than hear his answer. The cold words leaving his mouth sliced through my heart. Left me short of breath. “Am I okay?” He chuckled nastily, pulled the handle of the door and pushed it open, putting one foot out before continuing. He still wouldn’t look at me. “Girl... I’m fine. It was your damn wish, wasn't it?” He didn't wait for a response, somehow he already knew the answer. He went inside to find some more alcohol while I sat inside the truck, with the drivers door pushed open, staring at his seat. Waiting to wake up. Waiting for someone to tell me this wasn’t real. How could he know of the wish? And who is that Frickin girl? She has something to do with this. I know she does, and I’m going to find out what it is. Five Thursday morning, March 30 I knew that I wouldn't be expected to, but I decided to go back to school anyway. Sitting in a silent house with my father for one more second was unbearable. He had refused to talk to me, or even look at me. Although being ignored might seem better than being physically abused, it actually hurt me just as much, if not more. Dayton High School is a place where you either drive to school in a Porsche, Mercedes, or whatever $60,000 ride your parents bought you, or you ride to school in the bus. Maybe, if you're a Bus Kid, you'll get lucky and get an old pick-up truck by senior year. But that's just how Dayton is. There's the three-stories, no problems side of town, and then there's the two-jobs, boarded windows side of town. Obviously, I'm not on the rich side. Pretty much, that's how our schools popularity is ranked too. Popularity is something I've never understood. In the second grade, I'd been considered one of the 'coolest' girls — according to a Vote Note that had been passed around the class before the teacher made Sally Davis read it out loud, which Mrs. Dempsey immediately regretted doing. After that, I was friends with everyone there. That led up until middle school, when Vote Notes led to social media, and instead of being passed around the class it was posted and shared that I lived in a bar — because I always smelt like cigarette smoke due to my dad. That is when popularity ranking changed from Fastest-Slowest to Richest-Brokest (yes, I was that girl who could outrun all the boys in PE class back in the day). Vote Notes, which our entire grade usually got ahold of to Vote on opinions and rumors, had become exclusive to only those who got ahold of phones and the internet. That's when Dayton School's Society became two separate society's of Rich and Poor. Somehow, after being booted from the top of everyone, I went to the bottom of the bottom, the Poor Society. The thing is, the person who posted that I lived in a bar had been my best friend all those years. Davis Newman. He posted it a few days after telling me that his mom wouldn't let him come to my house anymore, because "I don't know Harper, she just said something about it wasn't safe to. You can still come over whenever though!" Of course, I was never invited back over. It's not like Davis Newman started hating me or anything though, he was still nice to me around school and such, but we saw our separate paths and just grew more and more apart. My mom had always asked why I stopped hanging out with him, but I couldn't tell her the real reason. She would have been crushed by it. She had been looking forward to me becoming Harper Newman, I think, and turning into a rich housewife like she’d always wanted to be. Instead, I became ‘Marlboro Girl,' or sometimes ‘Barper’ — that’s elementary school humor for you — and Davis Newman wouldn’t have anything to do with me. My mom was the type of person to get drunk, despite hating her husband for being one, and tell me about all her failures, trying to insure that I never let anything like them happen to me. It was rather annoying, honestly, I hated listening to her slurred-"wisdom." She always told me how she was bullied for being poor when she was a child, and how lucky I was to be friends with the rich families in town. There was always this sound of desperation in her voice, and most of what she said didn't really make sense to me. "People don't like honesty, the sooner you learn that the better off you'll be." "You'll never be happy in life if you aren't making money, or at least married to it.” But she still yelled at me for lying to her and swore on her life that she was happy. Maybe she shouldn’t have sworn on her life about such a thing. I knew she wasn’t happy, of course, but those were things I just didn’t protest. Anyway, as I walked through the hallway to first period, thinking about my mother and, unfortunately, Davis Newman, it came as quite a surprise when I ran smack into a brick wall — which was actually a person — which, look at my luck, was Davis Newman. It wasn’t much a surprise that I ran into something — because I had been counting the tiles beneath my feet as I was walking and paying no attention to where I was going — the surprise was that I had just been thinking about Davis Newman, and then he appeared in front of me. Like he sprouted out of my thoughts and calcified right into my path. He looked as if he aged twice that of what I had since we last stood face to face. Meaning, from 7th to 10th grade I’d aged from 12 to 15 and he’d aged from 12 to 18. At 12, Davis Newman was a short-necked, pudgy, spoiled, and feisty little kid, with an awkward bowl cut flopping around his pale face, standing about two inches shorter than I had. Now, his blonde hair flowed over his ears and down his neck under a red Dayton Demon’s baseball cap. Emerald green eyes that held a speck of yellow looked at me through the natural, long lashes that, as a girl, I was envious of. His hand was held out awkwardly to shake mine, and I noticed popping veins coursing just under the dark, rich brown skin of his vast forearm. A golden ring, with a Ruby surrounded by diamonds, was on the ring finger of his right hand — probably the ring he got from winning State in baseball — or football... or maybe soccer? — last year. I, on the other hand, was still the lanky, pale, dark-haired broke girl I’d been all those years ago. My hand was swallowed in his tight grip as I awkwardly shook his hand back, although I’m sure my face showed my reluctance to do so since, well, I didn’t even talk to him anymore and I was suspicious as to why he’d greet me so kindly today. “Harper, I’m—I’m sorry about your mom.” Davis Newman said through a deep, raspy tone, sounding like he just rolled out of bed and landed in front of me. His eyes were darting around behind me and to the side of us in the hallway like he was looking for someone. Probably, he was only trying to spot one of his friends before they spotted him with me, so it made his condolences very unconvincing. Not that I expected any from him anyway — I didn’t very much wish to talk to anyone about it, actually. I decided I would save him the trouble of being shamed by his buddies for talking to me and just walk past him. “It’s okay.” I said, looking past him as I walked around the body of a Hollister Model he had somehow inhabited. He grabbed my elbow and pulled me back to face him. His grip was firm but gentle, it sent a warm pulse through my skin. I stared at him for a moment, lingering in his grip and wondering how he got so hot, but then ripped my arm away as I remembered that he was an asshole. “What?” I snapped, looking at the imaginary watch on my wrist to make him get the idea that I did not want to be talking to him. He may be able to get every stupid girl in the school to drool over him, but not me. Not Marlboro Girl, not a chance. “Um,” Davis started, removing his hat and brushing his long, beautiful — I mean, ugly — locks of blonde hair backwards with his hand. “well, since we both missed school on Monday, we kind of got paired together for a project in science.” Great. So that’s the reason he decided to apologize to me. “Whatever.” I said, “I’ll do it all.” I turned and marched towards first period, knowing that is all he wanted. Obviously he hadn’t changed, he wasn’t really sorry, I shouldn’t have even let it cross my mind for a moment after he apologized. Stupid rich boy. I hate him. “Wait, that’s not—“ He called after me, but I pretended not to hear him and disappeared into the crowded hallway. I was the first to enter my first period class, English 10, and took my unassigned assigned seat in the back corner of the classroom. Mrs. Watley, the teacher, had her head down in some papers and hadn’t even noticed me walk in. She was an old, plump lady, with a round and cheerful face. Her gray hair was always put up in a bun, revealing the many wrinkles which dented every part of her face. She was sweet, probably my favorite teacher, but I was glad she hadn’t noticed me. She probably would have had too much to say about my mother, if she even knew, and that was something I did not want to hear. I slumped into my chair and pulled my sketchbook out of my school bag, doodling more so to act like I was doing something than because I actually enjoyed drawing. People fell into class one by one, and Mrs. Watley put away her papers and began greeting them at the door. Eventually the bell rang and she began teaching, if you could call it that. It was mainly just her telling stories about her fifth period class, which she hated and deemed as the Criminal Class, and passing papers down each of our desk rows for us to complete. When Erin Carter, rich girl, turned around to hand me my paper, she glanced me up and down and hardly held it out to me, making me lean all the way up in my desk to grab it. I snatched for it, but she pulled it away. “Didn’t your mom die?” She asked in nothing close to a whisper. I fell back in my desk and felt the eyes of the entire class turn around and stare at me. The new silence in the room was deafening. I stared into her evil blue eyes without responding as she flipped her pin-straight, blonde hair over her shoulder and looked me up and down once again. “Such a shame, now we have no one to clean our lake house.” My mother was a maid on weekends for some families, often driving out to Bliss Shallows to clean the Rich families’ lake houses. A few people giggled, others gasped, but no one said anything. Erin dropped the paper she was supposed to hand to me and it fluttered to the ground. “Oops,” she said, and turned back to the front of the classroom. My face flushed with anger and embarrassment as I slid the paper to me with my foot and grabbed it off the ground. I set it on my desk and began reading it, my face inches away from the paper as if I was very interested in whatever it was saying; but I wasn’t, I couldn’t even comprehend it through the racing thoughts of my mother. I just wanted to disappear. Unfortunately my all black clothing didn’t hide me like it hid bank robbers in the movies. I could feel people snickering at me and turning to stare throughout the rest of class. The 5o minutes lasted damn near four hours, and there was no way I would make it through six more of them. Fortunately, second period was only study hall, and Elizabeth was in there with me. Elizabeth is the closest thing I have to a friend, although she is more of an associate, I’d say. She is a rich girl, but two years ago, in 8th grade, she ruined her chances of being popular. She went to a high school party, and her mom somehow found out about it and showed up with three police officers. Her mom chewed her out in front of the entire high school, and the police officers called every single one of their parents. I’m sure you can imagine her embarrassment, and see how she was immediately removed from the popular list of Dayton School’s Society. Her only friends now were the popular broke girls in Dayton, but because Study Hall was filled with a bunch of people that we both agreed would become psychopaths one day, we stuck together in there. She bought me a Coca-Cola every day, and in exchange, I would help with her homework — that is why we were more of associates than friends. Nevertheless, I enjoyed her company. “Harper, darling,” Elizabeth said as she laid her Louis Vuitton bag on the round table we had assigned to ourselves. “I cannot, and will not, do this stupid science project with Fred Sanders.” Fred Sanders is of the lowest of the lows in Dayton School’s Society — he is in ROTC, and lets everyone know that by wearing his uniform every day, like, on days that aren’t even required. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him wearing the ROTC uniform on a Saturday afternoon in Wal-Mart, honestly. I fake gasped at Elizabeth’s news. “Well, I am stuck with Davis Newman.” I said, groaning. She lightly slammed her hands onto the desk, revealing her new manicure, and her jaw dropped in awe. “Stuck with? As if having a walking mannequin as a parter is a bad thing?” Of course, I’d forgotten she was just like every other girl in Dayton, and was, for some unknown reason, obsessed with him. “Elizabeth, I hate Davis Newman.” I said, she must have forgotten what he did to me all those years ago. Of course, she was one of the people who used to cover her nose when walking around me because of that post — before she realized what it felt like to have your popularity ruined. “Ohhhh yeaaaa.” Elizabeth said, dropping her head slightly in remembrance of her bullying (me) days. I guess Elizabeth still was kind of a bully, to certain girls, but I mean — she wasn’t near as bad as girls like Erin. “Yeaaa.” I said, smirking. It was funny to me how she had the potential to have it all back then, so she could get away with things like being mean to me, but now we were stuck in the same boat — to an extent. It’s just funny to me how things turn out, you know? “Well, anyway, Coca-Cola?” She asked, removing her Louis Vuitton wallet that matched the purse. I nodded, and she went out of the class to the vending machines while I retrieved my sketchbook out of habit. I laid it in front of me, flipped to a blank page, pencil in hand, but couldn’t begin to draw. My mind was just so far away from it, from everything really. I wasn’t, mentally, in school. I was in the dream, watching my mother light her cigarette just before running off the road. I was in her scream, that petrifying screech which stopped my blood flow. I was at her grave, wondering what her headstone would say. I was staring at the girl with the dark hair, wondering why she had been there in the pouring down rain, standing fearlessly in the path of the car. “Earth — to — Harper? Hello hello hello?” Elizabeth’s hand waved inches in front of my face, snapping me back to reality. She stood beside me, leaning onto the table, backpack on and purse under arm. The coke bottle was sweating on the table in between us. “Wh-what?” I asked, glancing around to see kids leaving the class with their backpacks on. “You okay?” Elizabeth asked cautiously, an eyebrow raised. “Y -yea, of course. Is class over already?” We hadn’t even been in here for like ten minutes? She pushed herself off the desk and took a step away, still eyeing me cautiously. “Yeah girl, see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked away. Proof that Elizabeth and I were still just “associates” and not friends, she only half cared. Which is fine, I don’t need anyone worrying about me 24/7. I do that all by myself. I gathered my things, including the not-so-cold Coke, and went out to break. Well, really I just went into the library and acted busy since I didn’t have a group to sit with in the break room. I sat down at another round table, hoping to actually draw something this time. I began on the first image that came to mind — the girl from my dream. I started with her hair which blew in the wind, making it twist and turn as it flowed effortlessly into the air. I sketched the small outline of her chin and nose (mainly just making them up because I couldn’t see them well in the dream), and those huge eyes which stared me down in the passenger seat. The eyes that had no fear in them, but instead struck only fear into me. I sketched her neck, down to her sharp shoulder blades which were covered in a black t- shirt. “Is that you?” The cool, deep voice could only belong to one person — Davis Newman. He pulled a seat out from the circular table and spun it around, sitting with his legs straddling the backrest and his arms crossed on top of it. His hat was now strapped to his book bag, which he not so gently dropped to the floor, and his face beamed like the sun. One corner of his mouth was curled up into a smile, revealing his beautifully white teeth — well, beautifully white on just the left side as far as I knew. I slammed my sketchbook closed and rolled my eyes. “No, she looks nothing like me.” And she didn’t. If two girls have dark hair and sharp facial features, boys will swear that they are twins. However, if one has a 32b bra-size and the other has a 34b, boys can spot that difference from a mile away. “Mmm, yes she does.” Davis put his hand on my sketchbook and slid it to himself, turning away from me to open it. “Stop it!” I said, and tried reaching over his broad shoulders to pull it back. There were some rea y stupid pictures in there that I did not want him — or anyone — to see. Drawings of flowers, and girls I wanted to be, and picnic dates on the beach, and of my secret crush (don’t tell anyone, but it’s James) and ... you get the point. It’s just personal stuff. Davis stood, and then stuck his tongue out towards me tauntingly, as if to say, “You know I’m faster than you now” and then flipped through the sketchbook with a smile while I glared at him. He was acting the same as he did when we were just little kids, as if nothing had changed, yet everything had. Suddenly I could feel the outcasts who came to the library for break, along with me, staring at our scene. I decided to take the humiliation from Davis rather than from everyone who was watching, and sat still while my privacy was invaded. I tried reading his eyes but I couldn’t tell what he thought about the pictures. He just scanned each drawing for a moment, smiling with one corner of his lips every now and then, with his eyes ... those amazing emerald eyes ... blankly examining my embarrassingly personal sketches. Finally, he pulled the paper close to his face and squinted. I assumed he was back on the picture of the girl from my dream who did not look like me. He studied it for a moment, a moment longer, and then, finally, in that smooth and genuine tone -- “This is definitely a picture of you, Harper Cage.” Six Thursday, March 30 “Oh my god, no it’s not.” I responded, holding out my hand impatiently to get my sketchbook back. Davis smirked and slid it across the table to me, flipped open to the picture of The Girl. “Well, anyway,” Davis began, “earlier in the hallway... I don’t want you to do all of the project. Do you want to come over after school and we can work on it?” He must think I’m like the other girls in school — obsessed with his stupid muscles and ugly perfect skin and messy locks of hair. “No, thanks.” I said, and at that moment, James walked into the library. My real future husband — hopefully. A pitch black tornado of hair swept perfectly around his head, his bangs falling into his eyes more and more with his every step. His eyes glanced in my direction and I felt my face immediately turn to a dark shade of red as I looked away. When I looked back, he was walking in my direction. No. My direction? It couldn’t be. I looked behind me at the shelf of books. Maybe he had a peculiar interest in 1800s Autobiographies? “Davis.” James said as he approached, nodding cooly at him. Davis nodded back. I smiled like an idiot as I prayed I would’t embarrass myself, even though he hadn’t even said anything to me yet. “I’m sorry about your loss, Harper.” He said to me as he stuck his hands inside his black jean’s pockets. “Thanks.” I said, not really knowing how to respond to one of those death euphemisms yet. They didn’t really make sense to me, ‘Hey, sorry your mom died’ can’t be said in a good way. Either way, James FrickinJones was talking to me?! Sorry mom, but... so worth it. “Harper drew some cool pictures of you.” Davis Newman blurted out. I didn’t have time to see James’s reaction, because my hands immediately covered my face as I wished to disappear. He’s never going to talk to me again. “Oh, for real? Let me see!” James’s beautiful voice exclaimed as he slid a chair out from the table — the chair right beside me. I immediately grabbed the sketchbook and locked it against my chest like a seatbelt, catching his eyes as I did so. His smile was beautiful, and a full one, unlike that trying-to-be- sexy-half-smile-half-emotionless thing that Davis had. “He’s lying.” I lied, still blushing but finding it impossible to look away from James. Davis snorted, and I cast him the dirtiest glare I could, not funny! I wanted to tell him. He held his hands up in surrender, a devilish smirk spreading on his face. “Oh,” James said, glancing between Davis and I. The awkwardness that James felt radiated onto me, and I had no idea what to say during the pause. “Well,” James started, “if you ever did draw a picture of me, I bet it’d look great.” Davis laughed. “Self conceited, huh?” Davis was ruining my chance to talk to James. Why was he trying so hard to push James away? I didn’t understand, but whatever the reason, it was making my chances of ever attempting to be friendly with him again fade dramatically. “That’s not what I meant,” James said, his hands slightly curling into fists as he stared at Davis. “I meant that I bet you’re good at drawing.” He looked back at me. “Oh, well, thanks.” I tried to say smoothly, but my voice was shaky and my lips quivered as they went into a smile. James looked back and forth between Davis and I once again, and, sensing that Davis didn’t want him there, stood from his chair. “Well, see you around Harper.” He said, then turned and walked away as I stared longingly. When he was finally out of the library, I glared at Davis. “What the heck was that?” I asked, not at all caring about the outcasts who certainly heard me, and smacked his thigh with my sketchbook before placing it back in my schoolbag. “You don’t need to talk to him.” Davis’s voice was strict. I wonder if that’s how regular father’s sound when they want to get on to their kid? “Oh my god, what do you care?” I asked, not even sure why I was still talking to him anyway. “Do you even know why he seemed so interested in you?” Davis snapped, and I felt my heart drop slightly. Frickin asshole. My bottom lip quivered, and not from being nervous this time. “Wow, because no boy should be interested in Marlboro Girl, right?” I snatched my book bag and walked away. The bell rang as if on cue, but I wasn’t going to third period... or any other period for the rest of the day. I was headed to the park a few blocks away. I marched into the hall, fuming and holding back tears, without looking back. heck you, Davis Newman was all I could think. That, and that I needed something to eat. “So where are we going?” Jesus Christ, getting suspended for slapping Davis Newman in the face felt all too worth it at the moment. I halted, and spun on my heels to face him. “Not we, I. I am going away from you.” I said, and then continued on my way out of the school. Davis had fake frowned, and covered his chest with his hands pretending to be heart broken. “The park?” He asked, catching up to me in two long strides. “Yes, alone — wait, how’d you know that?” “Eh, lucky guess.” Davis said. I walked all the way to the park, despite Davis having insisted that he drive us there for five minutes straight, with Davis a step behind me like a well-trained dog. Why he wanted to skip school with me, scare boys away from me, talk to me, or even look at me was far beyond my knowledge. |
Photo credit:
Kat Tuggle |