Avoidance
Scarlett
I step into Dad’s auto repair shop and get hit with the smell of motor oil and hot metal, it’s pure bliss. These scents, along with the taste of Sour Patch Kids, can instantly cure my anxiety better than deep breathing ever could.
I see my dad, Jake Voss, bent over and elbow deep in the hood of a beat-up Camaro.
“Hey, Kiddo.” He emerges from the front of the car with grease on his cheek and a smile on his face.
I walk across to the old fridge in the corner and pull out a grape Crush.
“Hey, Daddio.”
“I didn’t think I’d see you this early,” he says as he dives back into the car’s engine.
I lean against its fender and watch him pull at the engine’s wiring harness.
Dad is the hardest working man I know. He’s the type of guy that would give you the shirt off his back, a shoulder to cry on, and an ear to listen.
When I was a kid, he never missed any of my dance recitals and he taught me how to ride a bike—that’s always an important one for some reason.
No one ever asks who taught me the real things in life.
Who handled the sex talk? Who was there when you were failing math because you talked too much?
Those are the really important ones… but the answer is still him. It’s always him.
“I always say hi when I get home from school,” I respond.
“Yeah, but I thought you were going to the gym tonight?” He faces me, confused.
“Not tonight, I went this morning instead.”
He scowls, his greying eyebrows almost touch. “You don’t usually go in the morning.”
There’s no point in hiding anything from him because he figures everything out sooner or later.
“I couldn’t sleep, and Ricco is always there in the morning, so I knew he’d be around.”
Dad snorts.
“How is Rocky doing?” God, I can never tell Ricco that Dad still calls him that. He would love it too much.
“Do not call him that.”
“What, it’s funny.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes, shifting my weight off the car. “It was funny when you said it eight years ago, Dad.”
It still is funny, but I don’t tell him that. I walk across the garage and toward the house.
“I’m going inside to start some research for a paper. Anything planned for dinner?” It’s Wednesday, so I’m thinking leftovers.
“Leftovers?” He adjusts a bolt with his wrench.
“Sounds good.” I make my way to the door. “Need anything before I head upstairs?”
He resurfaces. “Yeah, call your mom, Scar.”
I shrug and take a sip of my pop. I don’t answer.
“She just wants to hear your voice.”
Vanessa Voss—the beautiful and chaotic spitfire that is my mother.
“Yeah, okay Dad.” I open the door and make my way through to the kitchen.
Of course, Mom probably told him that I haven’t been over to visit lately.
I’ll never understand how he still loves her after all they’ve been through.
Mom left us for the luxurious life of take-out dinners and a clear schedule.
She picks up shifts at The Yacht Club Steakhouse whenever she wants.
As I’ve transitioned from an angry teen to a mature(ish) adult, I’ve tried to understand why she left, but I still can’t wrap my head around it.
I pull a chair out from under the kitchen table and grab my phone from my back pocket.
I scroll to find my conversation with Mom.
I don’t feel like talking to her right now, but I’ll do it for Dad.
Scarlett: Hey Mom, it’s me. The daughter you are SO proud of but don’t talk to.
Delete.
Scarlett: Hey Mom. What’s up?
Send.
I stand and make my way to my room. Our house is nothing fancy, but it’s home.
Its stone base compliments the natural wood tones that outline the windows.
It doesn't look like the typical big city house, but here in Millhaven, it feels right. Besides the gym, it’s the only place where I truly feel like myself.
While most people resort to journals or therapists, I box and listen to a playlist that could drown out just about anything. Putting my gloves on brings me a sense of calm, followed by a rush of control I don’t feel anywhere else.
I’m never fully angry, just near my limit.
I carry around so many different versions of myself and I’m not sure which one fits best. I’m the quiet girl, daddy’s girl, the girl who doesn’t call her mom back.
I’m the boxer who looks out of place, a star student, a psych major.
There is a saying that people who study psychology want to help others.
Maybe we’re just desperate to understand ourselves? I definitely am.
I step into my room and switch the light on.
Flopping into my desk chair, I pull out my laptop.
I have two papers due next week, so I push down all my distracting feelings and save them for another day.
My brain is sort of like a filing cabinet of emotions—I don’t open it unless I have to.
And if I can’t quiet my mind on my own, I throw some punches at the gym until the noise dies down.
The rest of the evening plays out like a typical Wednesday night. We eat leftovers, Dad tells me about the car in the shop, he asks me about school, then tells me how proud he is of me.
I make my way upstairs to shower and get ready for bed, undecided if I want to go to the gym in the morning to get a few rounds in before class, or if I want to wait until the afternoon. I pack my bag anyways, just in case. As I climb into bed, I check my phone and see that Sophia texted me.
Sophia: Still good to come to the senior party with me at the end of the month?
Scarlett: Yeah!
Sophia: You need to wear those new jeans and that black top that make guys forget how to speak.
Scarlett: You’re insane.
Sophia: And you love me anyways.
Scarlett: Unfortunately <3
Scarlett: Goodnight xoxo
Ever since that night from first year, Sophia always checks in multiple times before a party, in case I change my mind.
I have other friends, but we don’t see each other much, and I’m content with life this way.
Over the last four years, a lot has changed, and I’ve grown apart from many friends that used to feel like home.
While I stayed in Millhaven, most of my other high school friends moved on to universities out of town.
It’s hard to maintain friendships with people when I’ve always got so much on the go.
We’re all busy and don’t stay in touch often, but we know we can rely on each other.
It’s the kind of friendships where we could go months without talking but can pick right up where we left off.
I also don’t make new friends easily and there aren’t many people I can relate to in my program.
I think about Sophia and smile. I’m glad to have a friend like her.
I turn my phone on ‘do not disturb’ and place it on the nightstand.
I lie in the darkness that fills my room.
The world silences around me but my mind never does.
There’s always something just beneath my surface— memories I haven’t dealt with, questions I haven’t asked, or a hope for change that may never come.
A shift is coming. I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel it, just out of reach.