Page 7 of Off the Rim
I'm about to have my first kiss.With aboy. WithMarcus.The boy I'm supposed to hate as much as my family hates his, but I can't find it in myself to be anything more than curious about him.
We're so close, I'm breathing the air he exhales.
Jesus, can he hear how hard my heart is beating? I can't hear anything else.
Marcus' chin tilts up, his lips almost meeting mine, and?—
"Marcus?! Marcus Vell?!"
I think for a moment we've been busted. Even if they didn't see how close we were to kissing, we're not supposed to roam the grounds without supervision. They’re going to tell my dad, and then I’ll never be allowed to come back. He only lets me come here because his friend from college runs this place. It’s connected to the college, and it’s pretty prestigious. Otherwise he’d make me intern at his office, probably. Ugh, this is going to ruin every summer for the rest of my life until I move out. I step away from Marcus before they can guess we were up to something. Maybe I can convince them we weren’t doing anything wrong, and not to tell my dad?—
But when the camp director finds us, she doesn’t react or say a word. She’s breathless and frantic, running up the path, red faced and puffing. Director Ora doesn’t pay me any mind at all. She only pulls Marcus away, hurrying him back towards the camp offices.
Marcus leaves that night and doesn’t come back.
CHAPTER 6
MARCUS, AGE 15
I wish everyone would go home. Our house is too small to have this many people in it. I haven't even seen most of these people before.
At least my aunt Susan and cousin Sean are here. Sean is probably my favorite relative, and easily the only person I want to be around right now. He lost his father when we were ten, so he understands what I'm going through. Not that I've talked to him much. I haven't been able to do more than stare at the framed picture of my father, surrounded by vases of flowers that make our small living room smell like a funeral home.
It basically is a funeral home right now. I can't bear to have one more person pat me on the shoulder and tell me they're sorry for my loss. Or remind me that I'm an impressionable age to lose my father. Or that my mom is going to need my help and support.
"You're the man of the house now, Marcus."
I head into my dad's old shed in the backyard until the last of the cars pull away. Sean finds me and lets me know the coast is clear, only then do I join them inside.
Somehow, it's worse now that everyone's gone. It's too quiet. The only sounds are my aunt Susan wrapping food in cellophane and packing it into the overfilled refrigerator.
Why do people bring so much food when someone dies? Eating is the last thing I want to do, and I'm not sure my mom has eaten a full meal since I got home from camp last week.
After being told my father collapsed at work, I hastily packed my bag and allowed myself to be shuffled into the camp director's car. She drove me herself, three hours back to Pinecrest, and didn't leave until I was in my mother's arms.
At only forty-eight years old, my father had a heart attack. He was alone in the stockroom of the grocery store he's been working nights at. He'd worked a full day at the chain sporting goods store that opened in the next town over and then clocked in to work a shift stocking the grocery store. He shouldn't have been working there. He said the job kept him fit and young, but I knew he was working himself to the bone to pay off the debt he went into trying to salvage his store. Debt my mother would now be left with to handle on her own.
Dad wasn't conscious when I finally arrived at the hospital. When I was led to his bedside and told he wasn't going to make it, everything inside me froze. I couldn't speak. I couldn't cry. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even say anything to him, not even when they left me alone to give me some privacy to say my goodbyes. I couldn't make the words happen. I just hope he knew how much I loved him, and that I couldn't have asked for a better father. He was everything. My supporter. My rock. My best friend.
And now he's gone. I’ll hear the sound of that flatline in my nightmares for the rest of my life.
Susan's voice is muffled, gushing over how much everyone loved my father as she makes a list of people to send thank you cards to. "Just look at these beautiful flowers. These had to have been expensive."
Seems like a waste of money to me. Of course, I don't say that out loud. I wouldn't want to sound as bitter as I feel or come off as ungrateful for any kindness someone tried to show our family. It's not their fault the sky is falling and nothing will ever be right again.
My mother gives her sister a watery smile and walks over to the extravagant display of flowers. She looks for a card to see who they came from so my aunt can add their name to the list. The moment she finds it, she freezes. Her breaths start coming farther apart, and I worry for a moment that she's about to collapse and I'll be an orphan. Instead, a sound like I've never heard before comes out of her mouth. It starts as a low, guttural, mournful moan and grows into a scream. A loud, primal scream like an animal is trying to escape out of her.
The first vase of flowers shatters against the wall, and all of us flinch.
In all my life, I've never seen my mother like this. She rarely ever gets upset, only cries during sappy commercials and romantic movies. The most aggressive thing I've ever seen her do towards another person is roll her eyes. But right now, she's unhinged, throwing the vases and bits of plants everywhere as she tears the display apart.
"Julia!" My aunt yells for her to stop, and I try to intervene, but she pushes me away.
All we can do is stand back and watch her rage until she gets it out of her system or runs out of things to throw. Eventually, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, her screams become sobs. Pictures have been knocked off the walls, there's water everywhere, and glass and debris litter the carpet. It's like a small tornado blew through half our living room.
Mom stands in the middle of it all, blinking at the wreckage. A low, sorrowful moan pours out of her as her body goes limp. I surge forward, catching her before her knees land in the shards of glass. With my arm around her waist, I lead her away from the mess. She's leaden in my arms, intelligible words coming through her sobs.
"That bastard." "This isn't fair." "It's his fault." "They took… everything." "If that bastard wasn't so power hungry and greedy, Roman wouldn't have lost the store. He wouldn't have worked himself to death." She looks up at my aunt piteously. "He worked himself to death, Susan. He shouldn't have had to do that." Hiccups dot the rest of her words. "They ruined him…. They took him from me."
