Chapter Three
Water droplets raced down Charlotte’s skin as she emerged from the shower, the plastic curtain swishing behind her.
She snatched up the frayed bath towel, its once vibrant color faded to a dull gray.
It probably had been that horrid purple her mom was so fond of, telling herself it was the color of royalty.
Charlotte wrapped her hair in another old towel as her teeth chattered.
As usual, there wasn’t any hot water; her mother never did bother to get the water heater repaired.
Charlotte didn’t really care. She kind of liked cold showers sometimes.
Plus, today was set to be a scorcher. It was supposed to be in the high nineties.
Sitting on the football field in her cap and gown, she’d be melting, wishing for a cold shower.
Today marked an end and a beginning, the culmination of years spent doing her best so that she might be able to carve out a different life for herself.
A good education was her start, and now that she had thirteen years behind her (if you included kindergarten), it was time to move on.
But it wasn’t the ceremony that set her nerves on edge—it was the prospect of scanning the crowd for a face she knew wouldn’t be there.
Deep inside, she felt a teeny sliver of hope that her mother would attend the ceremony.
Not because she wanted her praise. Charlotte just wanted to see the look on her face when she realized she was never coming back to this dump ever again.
“Other plans,” her mother had said yesterday, her voice devoid of the maternal warmth one might expect on such a milestone occasion.
The words were typical, laced with a venom Charlotte had come to expect; a vengeful undercurrent that always seemed to find its way into their interactions.
Deep down, a rebellious part of Charlotte felt relieved at the thought of her mother not being present; no need for pretenses today, no forced smiles for photographs that would never grace the mantelpiece.
Her mother’s phoniness would be out in full force if she decided to attend.
If Elsie did show up, it would be a virtual slap in her face when Rhonda drove Charlotte to the Greyhound bus station as they’d planned.
She imagined her mother running after the bus, seeing her face in the window, pleading with her to stay.
“Right,” she said out loud. “Like that would ever happen.” The best part of this imagined scenario: she’d be smiling at her mother, flipping her the bird.
Childish, she knew, but the image made her laugh.
Mr. Baker and his wife Sally would be attending the ceremony.
Charlotte was truly thankful for them. They were more like her parents than her mother ever was.
They were always so supportive and encouraging.
And without her job at Photo Mart, Charlotte wouldn’t have had the opportunity to further her skills as a photographer.
It was Mr. Baker who taught her how to develop the pictures she took with her much-treasured Nikon F2 35-millimeter camera.
She’d purchased the camera at a local charity shop when she was only fourteen.
Knowing the quality of the camera, she hadn’t believed it when she saw the five-dollar price tag.
She mentally thanked whomever donated the camera.
She’d added a couple of different lenses once she started working, and spent any free time she had with her camera hanging around her neck.
Charlotte shook herself out of her reverie.
She needed to get ready. She looked at the light blue sundress hanging on the back of her bedroom door.
When choosing what to wear to her graduation, she picked this dress simply because of the heat.
Rhonda and a few others in her graduating class were wearing sundresses, and some were brave enough to wear shorts.
No one cared about stuff like that, at least none of the girls she knew.
She took the dress off its hanger and slipped it over her head.
The soft fabric was cool against her damp skin.
With practiced ease, Charlotte wove her long blond hair into a fishtail braid, each section sliding over another in a rhythmic dance.
It was a skill honed in quieter moments, a small rebellion against the chaos that often filled her home.
She added a touch of mascara to her lashes, a swipe of Vaseline to catch the light on her lips, and she was her reflection in the mirror—a girl ready to step into a future of her own making.
Her book bag lay open, a gaping hole ready to swallow the last vestiges of her life in this town.
She placed inside it her few treasures, the tangible fragments of a life she wished to forget yet felt she needed to remember.
When she was older, she knew she’d be glad to have some mementos of this time in her life.
Sadly, it was telling, perhaps heartbreakingly so, that all she held dear could be contained within that single book bag.
Then she added what clothes she needed, zipping them inside the bag.
A final glance around her room cemented her resolve.
The walls, silent witnesses to her growth, her dreams, her midnight tears, offered no protest as she turned her back on them.
There was nothing here for her—not anymore.
With a breath that tasted of both sorrow and hope, she closed the door behind her, the click of the latch a definitive note in the symphony of her departure.
As far as Charlotte was concerned, that action signified she was moving on.