Page 1 of True Blue

1

Dread returns to the pit of my stomach as I round the corner. The seven-foot white brick wall surrounding our house looms several hundred feet ahead, making me slow my feet even further as I start to cool down from the run I just finished.

I can’t stay here.

That was my only thought an hour ago when Christopher dropped me off. My last high school final just had to be at eight a.m. The only saving grace was it being history, the subject I pass in my sleep. Always remembering dates and timelines comes as both a blessing and a curse, but for school, it weighs more on the blessing side. Still, my nerves felt like they were foaming up under my skin as I walked into the gym with the other 358 Northridge seniors at five minutes to eight.

Finally walking out two hours later gave me a rush of euphoria. I did it. I finished high school. One of the things I had been counting down to for years was finally over.

Of course, Christopher had to burst my joyous bubble as quickly as possible.

He called me over to his ugly green mustang idling next to the gym and I suppressed my sigh as I walked over. My mom probably sent him. Pushing the passenger side door open from the inside, Christopher bopped to the blaring stereo, flashing me a quick smile as I sank into the cracked leather bucket seat. I tried not to grimace as I attempted to get comfortable. The second my door closed, Christopher took off, the tires squealing a bit as they slid away from the school.

Huffing, I shake my head at the irony of my last exam feeling like a breeze, while a fifteen-minute drive with my boyfriend felt more like a patience test.

One more thing to thank the Senator’s crafty little mind for. Any opportunity to get another foot in the door is worth it, even if her daughter pays the price.

I wanted to run the second I realized she wasn’t home. I haven’t seen her in three days. Today was my last high school final and she probably has no idea. Sandra Davidson 2.0 remembering her own daughter’s schedule? Unheard of.

Cold beads of sweat crawl down my face as I stop outside the dark metal gate set into my mother’s beloved wall and start to input the code. My fingers shake and my blood rushes with the fading adrenaline of my run. It compounds as the anxiety my runs are meant to dispel settles back in. Trimmed magnolia trees create an arched canopy over the street and shield me from the sun, but the moist humidity of the Georgian summer clings to my skin, soaking a few black curls to the back of my neck.

Maine never got this hot in June.

The thought brings all others to an abrupt halt as my heart jolts with the reminder. I close my eyes and just listen to the mechanical sounds of the gate slowly swinging open.

Sixty-eight days. I only need to make it sixty-eight more days.

Another deep breath.

Opening my eyes, I immediately focus on the perfect cream siding and glass paneled double doors of my mom’s dream house. My eyes burn as I remember walls made of big, mismatched stones and a worn cornflower blue door a thousand miles away. The sound of Dad’s voice calling me in from across the street echoes in my ears and I swallow the ball of spikes sitting in my throat.

Jogging up to the white monstrosity, I glower at the mansion and its clean facade mocks me. I stop to stretch more, using my cool down routine as an excuse to spend a few more minutes outside. Tall shrubs line the front lawn, trying to block the view of the brick wall and make the enclosed space seem less like a cage.

Entering the sterile battleground, I get blasted by the chilly air conditioning in the foyer. White walls with abstract black and grey art greet me as I slip my sneakers and sweaty socks off, ripping my hair tie out and letting my mashed curls out of the sloppy bun I threw them in. I lean down and right my shoes, lining them up with the perfect row of the Senator’s pumps and wedges. Standing, I stare down, feeling the absence of the muddy green polyester rug with mismatched work boots and different sized sneakers flung across it in our haste to get inside. Focusing back on the bleached oak panels below my feet, I kick my running shoes out of line, smiling at the small sign of disarray.

Heading past the stairs, I toss my socks into the laundry room on my way to the kitchen.

I startle a bit as I enter, finding Mom sitting on a bar stool at the island, documents and papers scattered around her as she writes something on her iPad with a stylus. Glancing at the clock, I realize it must be one of her randomly free lunch hours. Got to make it seem like you check in on your daughter every now and then when you live in the public eye.

“Went for a run?” she says, pushing her glasses up her alabaster nose without looking at me. She wears her usual black pantsuit and pumps, resting them on the bottom rung of the bar stool she rigidly perches on. Flashes of her old, stained overalls, wide grins, and messy buns hit me like they always do during the random times I’ve found myself alone with her in our mausoleum the last five years.

“Yes, but it’s hot out there,” I say, as I pass her and head for the cabinet beside the fridge, grabbing a glass. I hold it under the spout in the refrigerator's stainless-steel door, waiting for the glass to fill with cold water and repeating my countdown mantra internally so that the words on my tongue stay in place. She doesn’t say anything more. Doesn’t ask about my finals or celebrate me finishing high school. Anger bubbles in the back of my throat, but as mad as I am, there’s no point in starting a fight when she’s letting me leave in two months.

Mom shuffles some papers behind me, and I sip my water, turning to face her and stepping back toward the island. “Hopefully, it’s not as humid on Friday,” I say, unable to hold myself back. I place my glass down and grip the edge of the smooth granite.

Mom glances at a document on her right, her pin straight hair slicked back into a tight bun at the top of her head. It doesn’t move a millimeter out of place as she stares down at the packet of paper. She picks up the stapled pages, starting to flip through as she murmurs, “Friday?”

I frown, taking another sip of water before I answer, needing to douse the mounting fury in my veins. She forgot. Of course, she forgot. “Graduation,” I say once I’ve swallowed. “It’s at one.”

Mom’s head swivels from the document to me, unfocused eyes slowly clearing as she gapes across the island at me. “Fuck, Janette.” She slaps the papers down on a pile in front of her. “And you’re just telling me this now?” She picks up the iPad,angrily swiping and typing across the screen. “I have a charity appearance scheduled. Guess I’ll have to get Pietro to rearrange things.”

I drink more water, watching her type before the sound of an email sending goes off. “The reminder went out a few weeks ago,” I say, gripping the island edge again to stop myself from clinking my nails across the top. The words seem to get lost before reaching her. Stepping back, I add, “You don’t have to cancel, Mom. Christopher will be there, so I won’t be on my own.” The sentiment sours my stomach and I dump the rest of my water out in the sink.

“And miss your graduation?” she says. I turn back, but her head is still bent over the iPad. “What would the press say if they found out?” Her head pops up to give me an incredulous look. She starts typing again on her screen and her phone starts ringing under the piles of papers surrounding her.

I head back out to the hall as she picks up the call. “Pietro? Yeah, Janette just told me about her graduation on Friday, so we need to reschedule...”

Rounding the corner, her voice fades as I climb the dark wood stairs. More modern art passes me as I climb, and then clean white walls lead to my bedroom door at the other end of the floor from Mom’s. Like every time I make this trek, my mind fills with the ocher walls lined in mismatched frames and beaming faces from a different life. My stomach churns as I continue walking and flex my fingers.

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