21. ROXANNE
Chapter twenty-one
“I know exactly how you feel,” Angela says, leaning her elbows on the counter of Primal Vinyl.
It’s been nine days since I spilled my genius plan to seduce a stranger into a no-strings-attached hookup to Stephanie and Tyler. While Tyler seemed supportive about it, Stephanie looked like she sucked on a lemon. I needed a third opinion from someone to even the score, so I turned to Angela.
“After I ended it with Mark, I slowly realized that all I wanted was to be alone and have fun and heal, too,” she continues. “It’s really good for you after you’ve been through a tough relationship.”
My shoulders fall and a small smile graces my lips. I’m so glad I wasn’t alone in the feeling.
“But how?” I ask, fidgeting with the alphabetized cassette tapes. “Do you just walk up to someone and say, hey I’m sorry if this is so forward, but do you wanna knock boots?”
Angela lets out an unladylike snort. “I mean, that level of directness might actually work in your favor. But girl, look at you! You’re hot. Throw on some tight jeans, a tank top to flaunt the goods, and you’ll have the guys falling at your feet.”
Does she realize who she’s talking to? I tug at the sleeves of my oversized blue flannel, the fabric swallowing my body like a security blanket. One day I might be brave enough to wear something more revealing, but for now, this coat stays on.
“Do you have anyone in mind?” she asks, carefully peeling price stickers and adhering them to the glossy new vinyls.
“Nope, no one.” I alphabetize the cassette tapes for the fourth time. “I kind of hate everyone at our school.”
Angela giggles as I push the tapes aside and flop over the front counter, groaning dramatically.
“Hayden Peterson came up to me after school yesterday though, he seemed plenty interested, but I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than be with a wannabe Brad Pitt.”
“Oh, God. What did he want?”
I shiver at the unpleasant memory.
The final bell rang and I was at my locker, focused on shoving my Algebra textbook into it before I lost a finger. I could feel a looming presence slide up next to me, and a whiff of that expensive cologne that lingered all over the Lake Lickrage bonfire started to reach me.
My body seized up. I knew it wasn’t Noah’s because he smelled like fresh pine needles and tangled forest brush—a walk in an enchanted forest instead of the inside of a high school boy’s gym bag. A smell I, unfortunately, became very familiar with after it absorbed into my skin the whole way home after wearing his jacket. Did I sleep in the same clothes in order to keep the smell for a little longer?
Yes, but that’s my business and my business only.
This interloper though, the smell was so strong it was choking me.
“Roxanne,” Hayden greeted, leaning against the locker next to mine, further invading my space. I didn’t even glance in his direction, refusing to indulge him. It also felt weird to hear anyone else call me by my full first name that wasn’t Noah.
“Hi,” I deadpanned, trying to look busy by readjusting my textbooks around.
“Saw you getting pretty cozy with Noah the other night. Didn’t take you for his type.”
I slammed my locker shut, finally turning to face him though I have to crane my neck to meet his hooded gaze.
Still not as tall as Noah though. Which made me smile for some reason.
“I’m not,” I said crisply, a little shocked Hayden had noticed me at all. “I'm also not really interested in what you think about me.”
His mouth hitched up. “Ouch. Just making conversation, princess.”
Princess? I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“You headed home?” he asked, pushing off the locker though still blocking my exit path.
“School’s over, isn’t it?” I said bluntly. His smile only widened.
“I thought you might want a ride. You could roll with the school’s star swim captain instead of that washed up stoner.”
My eyes narrowed. Is he actually trying to make Noah look bad by flaunting his position on me? Aren’t they supposed to be friends?
“Noah Jackson probably has more talent in his left pinky finger than you do in your entire body. So, yeah, I’d probably choose him, the washed up stoner , that happens to also be my guitar player.” I crossed my arms, glaring him down. “And I have my own car, thanks.”
His smile finally dimmed a fraction, and I knew he would keep me here all night to argue.
Not wanting to hear another slimy one-liner, I spun on my heel and started speed-walking out the other side of the school. That was the attention I was afraid of if I joined forces with Noah and I didn’t have time for all of these petty power games.
Unfortunately, his harassment did not end there. This morning, I walked through the double doors to find him lurking by my locker again, blonde hair hidden by his typical black hat, reeking of enough cologne to strip paint.
“So the human cologne bomb starts blathering about winter formal while I plot my escape route...” I turn to Angela, eyes deadly serious. “I swear, if you see me dancing with Hayden at formal, I’ve been body-snatched. Call an exorcist immediately.”
She shakes her head, blonde hair doing that perfect swish as I finish recounting the traumatic tales. “Hayden is no worse than Noah and Chris. Definitely stay away from those guys.”
I knew why I should stay away from them all. Yet something nagged at me that there was more to it because…. Why DID I have to stay away from them?
Wait a second...
I raise my eyebrows curiously. “Did you ever hook up with any of them?”
“Oh no, not really,” she says quickly, more interested in adjusting the sleeves of her Bellpond High sweatshirt. The breath of relief that flew out of me was startling. Why am I relieved? “I may have gotten stuck playing Seven Minutes in Heaven with Chris at one of the Petersons’ parties. That may have also led to some fooling around behind the garden shed.”
My jaw drops open. “Chris Heath?”
“The one and only,” Angela confirms with a sly grin.
“The licorice sucker?”
“He sucks more than just licorice, let me tell you.”
“You’re telling me that Chris Heath, the 5-foot-4 human troll doll, managed to satisfy you?”
Angela’s cheeks bunch up in a smug smile, and with some pep in her step she places a sticker on a vinyl and clicks her tongue. “What can I say? Dynamite comes in small packages.”
We both burst out laughing, me clutching the cash register for balance while she rests her hip into the counter opposite of me. I let out an exhausted sigh once our giggling fit subsides, wiping tears from my eyes.
“I’ll be damned. If Chris is a closet Casanova, maybe there’s hope for me and my plan yet,” I joke, wiping at the corner of my eye with my knuckle. Angela smacks my arm.
“Stop, you could have your pick of the litter. Just focus on having fun for now and the rest will follow.”
I smile at her. Leave it to Angela to build up my non-existent confidence.
“And don’t worry too much about it,” she adds, reaching across the counter to pat at the top of my head. “We’ll find you someone eventually. Preferably someone showered.”
I stick my tongue out at her while she gathers up a stack of records in her arms. As she wanders off to reshelf them, I prop my chin in my palms and rest my elbows on the counter, tilting my head to stare dreamily up at the clock.
8:45 PM. Fifteen more minutes until closing time and freedom. Fifteen more minutes until I get to inhale a large pizza.
I sigh, allowing my mind to wander to thoughts of my meant-to-be mystery match. Whoever you are, please have an affinity for rock ballads and marinara sauce , I plead silently with the universe. My standards aren’t exactly sky high.
My manager emerges from the storage room in the back corner of the store, looking as drained as I feel, his brown hair sticking out like he’d been pulling at it all day. Which makes me feel slightly bad for what I am about to ask.
“Brandon,” I sing out sweetly, batting my eyelashes and pouting my very best pout. “Since there’s only 15 minutes left, can I go ahead and go home pretty, pretty, please?”
He sighs, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah Rox, you’ve been working hard. Get out of here and enjoy your night.”
“Yes! You’re the best!” I squeal, grabbing my backpack from under the counter. I give him a quick fist bump as thanks before waving over my shoulder toward Angela and head for front door.
It was finally a glorious Friday, a day dedicated solely to pampering and rediscovering myself. Between exhausting shifts at the record store, practice, ignoring Harley, and keeping Hayden at bay, my Me Time has been neglected. And I’m ready to get back to it.
Humming under my breath, the cool autumn air bites at my cheeks as I burst out of the glass doors, the red OPEN sign switching off behind me. The door swings shut and I take a deep breath.
Ah yes, the smell of liberation and exhaust fumes.
Downtown always glows under the yellow street lamps, storefronts all shuttered for the evening. Only a few dead leaves skitter along the cracked sidewalks, which are usually busy with all the skateboarders that hang out at the park down the street.
I hurry up the sidewalk to where Kevin is parallel parked, my keys jingling in my hand. Already I can taste the cheese burning the roof of my mouth and tomato sauce that will undoubtedly give me acid reflux later. It’s so worth it. It’s a small price to pay for cheesy bliss—and maybe a potential pimple.
The box of pizza steams up the windows of my car despite the blast of cold air wheezing from the AC. The pothole rattles my change before I’m turning onto Riversedge, the usual rows of worn-out houses with overgrown yards, and sagging porches with bug zappers lining up the dark street.
My stomach growls when I pull into the driveway, parking crookedly behind my mom's car. I don’t give a shit, it’s been a long day.
Killing the engine, my ears ring in the silence and I grab the now slightly soggy pizza box from the passenger seat, the cardboard warming my forearms. After shouldering the stubborn door open, my feet hit the concrete, making my way up the walkway littered with weeds poking through the cracks.
The screen door shrieks on its hinges when I yank it open and jam the slightly bent key into the front door lock. After a bit of jiggling, it finally clicks open.
Stepping inside, I narrowly avoid Jasmine bolting through my legs in her excitement, no doubt smelling the pizza.
“Down girl,” I sigh, nudging her aside as I turn left toward the kitchen.
I set the box onto the cluttered avocado green linoleum counter, shoving aside bills and junk mail. My eyes refuse to look into the other room.
God, I hate coming home.
There is this giant storm cloud that constantly hovers over my house, an icy trickle sliding down my spine as soon as I step through that front door. No matter how many lamps or lights I switch on, it always stays dark, cold, and ugly.
I don’t know why I even asked to come home early, honestly.
Most of the time I don’t think I really have a place to exist. The one place that should be a sanctum where people can be free— and I don’t know, relax? —is anything but that. My time is always spent being too busy at school, too busy with band practice, too busy at work.
Too busy avoiding home .
Avoiding this place has become a part-time job itself.
Some naive part of me hoped that today would be different. That I’d walk through the door and smell something cooking on the stove, hear her laugh from the living room while she’s painting her nails. The only smell is the pizza I bought because I always have to fend for myself. I have to be my own sanctum.
My shoulders slump when the weight of reality presses down, the usual ball of disappointment settling like a rock in my growling stomach. The achy feeling has dulled over time though, only growing smaller and smaller each year. Kind of like the Grinch’s heart, except mine is slowly shrinking by the realization that this is my fucking life.
Solo pizzas forever.
Jasmine dances around my feet, dragging me out of my head, her tail wagging as I finally flip open the lid, releasing all that steam into the air. My stomach gets pissed and shakes in another angry rumble.
I grab a slice, cheese stretching as I take a huge bite. I’m hungry as shit after working all evening and barely finished my sandwich during lunch. But as I chew, I finally let my eyes drift toward the living room and all around me.
The TV is still on, lighting up the otherwise dark living room in a blue glow. The kitchen is a total mess as always—empty whiskey bottles sitting inside the sink, empty cereal boxes spilled across the floor, and drops of mysterious liquids on the white tile. Jasmine’s bag of dog food lays ripped open against the pantry door, kibble strewn everywhere as if she’s been helping herself.
I glance over to the couch, expecting to see my mom passed out in the same stained pajamas she’s been wearing all week, booze in her bony hand. But the couch is empty. The TV remote and ashtray sit untouched on the armrest. No booze in sight for once.
I’m tempted to shake my head, grab another slice, and escape to my bedroom with my paperback. Anne Rice is sounding pretty good right about now.
In contrast to what I want, my eyebrows furrow in confusion as I look down at Jasmine, her white tail sweeping the floor as she pants up at me with her tongue out. Happily oblivious.
“Did you finally eat her?” I ask, and Jasmine barks in response.
I shove the rest of my slice into my mouth and set my backpack down on the rickety folding table wedged in the corner, the closest thing we have to a dining table these days. Though I can’t remember the last time we actually ate a meal together here. Maybe four months ago?
Rubbing at the ache already forming in the back of my neck, I walk through the living room. It isn’t abnormal for my mom to be asleep anywhere else when she’s drunk, but something inside me still always has to check on her if she isn’t found on the couch. I think I’m scared that one day she won’t be in the house at all, and I’ll have to send a search party out to find her.
Even worse, that I’ll find her here, but really gone.
Down the hall, the bathroom light is on, shining out of the crack in the door slightly ajar and my heart starts to beat fast. Could she finally be waking up from her two month long coma?
Cautious hope rising, I slowly push open the door with my foot.
“Mom?”
My heart sinks down with my knees at the sight. She’s there alright, hunched over the toilet, hair matted, one side of her face swollen and bloody. The toilet seat is smeared with red like she’d fallen and cracked her head.
I suppress a gag at the acrid stench wafting up—alcohol, bile, vomit. It’s all in the toilet bowl, pure liquid the color of whiskey. Tears spring in my eyes and I'm starting to wish I had the smell and feel of Noah’s jacket, something warm and heavy to ground me down.
Empty pill bottles litter her bathroom counter too, and I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest to make sure she’s still breathing.
Her breaths jostle a strand of hair in front of her face, and I gingerly crawl over and reach out with a shaky hand, squeezing her bony shoulder. No reaction.
“Mom?” My voice breaks. “Can you hear me?”
My chest tightens, breaths coming shorter. “Mom, wake up,” I yell, and she mumbles incoherently, head lolling and keeping her eyes sealed shut. There’s some blood trickling from her hairline but she seems oblivious, meaning she’s too fucking drunk to care.
I swallow hard against the knot in my throat, willing myself not to panic. This has happened before but never this bad.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper, though I’m not sure I believe it myself. Grabbing a towel, I press it to her head wound, fighting back helpless tears. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Right.
I spring off the floor, twisting my ankle wrong as I book it back to the kitchen and yank the phone off the hook next to our fridge. My fingers tremble as I dial 911. I should be used to this by now honestly, this isn’t the first time I’ve found her unconscious, but the panic still hits like an anvil dropping on my head every time I find her down like this.
The operator answers and I keep my voice steady, words tumbling out too fast as I explain the situation. Jasmine barks and whines, dancing around my feet thinking I’m trying to play.
“Shush!” I hiss, stroking her fur to calm myself as much as her.
As soon as I can, I lock her in my mom's room and rush back, sinking beside the toilet, and start to stroke back my mom's hair while we wait for the ambulance. The skin on her forehead is sweaty and warm—which is good, at least. If she felt cold and empty, there'd be no hope left.
Sometimes I wonder if Death pauses to admire its handiwork before the final curtain falls. Last time they pumped her stomach, kept her overnight for monitoring. She’ll be okay. I think. I hope.
“It’s going to be okay. Just hang on.” I wish I could believe my own words, but the hollow reassurance rings false, echoing off the cold bathroom tiles.
Any minute now I’ll hear the wail of sirens outside, the flash of red and blue through the curtains. They’ll load her up and take her away, tend to her wounds, clean out the toxins. Then she’ll be sent back here in a day or so, looking small and pale in her t-shirt and jeans. Right back to this house filled with nothing but bad memories and temptation, already cracking open her next bottle.
It’s a cycle, one I know will never really change. But this time it has to be the last of it, I know it. It’s never been this bad where she’s cracked her head open before. This going to be the turning point I've been waiting for, because if it’s not...
My fingers tap out a frantic SOS on my knee.
In ten hours she'll be waking up in the hospital. Disoriented. Afraid. The fluorescent lights will buzz overhead, too bright, too harsh. Will she finally see what she's doing to herself? To us?
One-two-three, one-two-three . If I get the rhythm right, it’ll be my sign from the world it’ll be okay in the end. But what happens if I mess up? What if I lose count? My heart pounds.
One-two-three .
What if they can't help her? What if this time isn't different? Too many what-ifs. Can't focus. Can't breathe. Need to do something. Anything.
God, I need to clean this room. I can't think straight with all this disorder surrounding me.
She groans, jostling to my side.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, the words catching in my tight throat.
I wish I could go back to when “okay” meant laughter in the kitchen, followed by romantic comedies where we swooned over every little ‘I love you’, not cold dinners and colder silences in my bedroom alone. When mom’s eyes were bright and clear, not glazed and vacant. Before whiskey replaced her affection and each day blurred into the next.
She would have loved Pretty Woman .
I keep stroking her hair, greasy and unwashed, while we wait. And wait.
Her skin pebbles under my trembling fingers, and the knot in my throat gets tighter and tighter while I stare at the shower curtain to my right, counting all of the petals on the red flowers.
One, two, three —shit, I lost count.
I’m touching a stranger. Though I search her emotionless face, dabbing at the blood with a wet tissue, I know it’s my mom because we share the same nose.
“You’ll be okay,” I mumble, dropping the tissue into the bowl of vomit.
My words aren’t really for her. They’re for the scared little girl still inside me, still believing in fairy tales. I'm lying, of course. Nothing will ever be truly okay as long as she keeps crucifying herself on the cross of addiction.
I keep tapping on my knee and hope that one day “okay” will mean something real again.
The ambulance attendants lift my mom onto a stretcher once they arrive, probing her eyes with a flashlight as they roll her out the front door and down the porch steps. The blaring siren fades into the distance as they pull away, red lights painting all of the houses in a swirling pattern, and all of my neighbors who can’t get enough gossip make their way out in their front lawns in their robes and judgmental eyes.
They always say things about my mom and speculate about me. I can taste their thoughts on the air tonight.
The pity. The predictions. They've already written my story in their minds—another addict in the making, ready to solve all of her problems with a liquor store run. I'll follow my dad's footsteps, his "mysterious" exit from this world suddenly making perfect sense to their simple minds.
Nosy assholes. I feel their judgments when I’m looked at everywhere, everyone thinking they know everything. Bet Roger next door’s whipping up another sympathy casserole that I’ll find on my porch tomorrow.
I’m a statue in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself like I might fall apart if I let go. The paramedics told me she’ll be fine, but they don’t even know the half of it.
This nightmare is far from over.
“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” One of the policemen asks me from the porch, scratching something down on his little pad of paper.
“I’m eighteen.”
He looks up, eyebrows turning into a caterpillar on his forehead. “Oh. Well, even so, you probably shouldn’t be home alone tonight.”
I’m already shaking my head before he finishes. “I’ll be fine.”
The officer seems to want to push the issue but then sighs, clicking his pen and heading for the flashing patrol car. He gives me an awkward, pitiful smile before he slides in the driver’s seat, and I shut the door, forcing myself back inside the too-quiet house.
I don’t need him or anyone else feeling bad for the poor little motherless girl. I learned a long time ago how to take care of myself.
In the kitchen, I mechanically grab a slice of pizza, now cold and congealed in the crushing quiet. It crawls up my spine, settles in my ears as I take a few robotic chews before tossing it aside, appetite long gone.
Now I’m pissed off. This was supposed to be my night and she ruined it, which she seems to do for everything lately. It fucking boggles my mind that she doesn’t possess even the most basic maternal instincts anymore. How can you keep pouring alcohol down your throat without concern if your kid is even fucking alive? Does she realize or care that I raise myself?
My lips tighten and I stare down at the pizza. Does she even want me here? Why am I still here?
Because you’re saving your money to get the hell out of this house to save yourself from more trauma , the nonexistent angel whispers from my shoulder.
Even that doesn’t stop the urge to do something dumb, like punch a wall, smash those liquor bottles, or walk out and never look back. Leave her to drown without me fishing her out time and again.
If only I had the guts or heart to do that. Beneath my piss-offery and the pent-up hurt, I still love her. Too damn much.
She’s broken, but she’s my mom. And I’m too fucking loyal, too worried, that we both know I won’t leave. Not yet. I’ll be right here to scrape her off the floor the next time she falls.
I’ll keep playing the loyal daughter, keep giving her chance after undeserved chance. I’ll be right here next time with dinner cooked and the coffee stocked in the pantry, never learning my lesson. Unable to harden my heart completely no matter how often she breaks it because my stubborn, stupid love runs too deep to let go. If I stop believing she can change, what hope do either of us have?
Exhaustion seeps into my bones, but I already know sleep won’t come easily. Not with my mom’s blood still staining the bathroom.
I instantly grab a rag and scrub at the edge of the toilet, the red fading easily, letting my pain out freely and crying until there’s nothing fucking left and my eyelids feel so hot and heavy. If I let myself cry hard enough, then whenever I shut them, sleep will take me far, far away.
It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. And things always end up fine.
Tonight, I want to surrender to all the pain that’s been going on for the last two months. It seems I’m cursed to endure a terrible senior year. I haven’t been able to catch a single break and the first quarter isn’t even over. Now cleaning is the only thing I can control in my life.
I allow it to all flood through me and ebb away, leaving me empty but still breathing.
I’ll survive this. I’ve survived everything else.
The silence of the house presses down on me as I wipe away the last of the blood, suffocating in its emptiness. I need to get the hell out of here. I need noise, people, distraction. Anything to quiet what’s inside me.
Wiping my face roughly, I leave the bathroom and toss the rag in the washer, bolt to my backpack to grab my Walkman and clip it onto my shorts. The feel of it stabilizes me as I slip on my headphones and hit play. Down On Me by Heart fills my head, drum beats, and guitar riffs dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts, and the lyrics feel too goddamn real that I soak myself in them.
The night air hits blows up my shorts as soon as I step outside, crisp and cool as it was an hour ago when I was delusional and thought I was about to get my happy-fun-time Friday nights back. I pause to take a deep, steadying breath—then fucking laugh at myself.
Then I start walking, no direction in mind. I put one foot in front of the other, walking past the snake bush, past Kevin, past everyone still outside gawking at me while my footsteps fall into rhythm with the song. The sidewalk glistens under the streetlights, empty and peaceful in the late hour, and I realize I'm even more alone in the world.
More suffocated.
In the day, this neighborhood is filled with noise—kids playing, lawnmowers buzzing. But now I’m the only one left awake. At least out here, I can pretend everything is normal. No hospitals or social workers, only me and the music and the simple act of moving forward.
Step by step, block by block, I put distance between myself and the pain.
I keep marching forward, focused only on my headphones and the shake of my calves when my feet hit the sidewalk. The first glimpses of the Pond appear through the trees, black water glinting under the moonlight.
My legs ache and my lungs burn, but I embrace it—anything to distract my wandering mind. I can't turn around and face going home to the empty house yet.
Tyler’s out of town with his mom, so I can’t storm over to his mom's apartment to have him talk me down. Stephanie is with Daniel at the Drive-Inn, and no way in hell will I show up looking like a maniac with mascara-streaks who walked four miles to crash her date.
Now more frustrated, I sniff and let the hot tears pour over my wind-whipped cheeks, joining the rain that starts pelting down.
Because of course the sky decides to open up and start pounding down rain right now, icy drops hitting my skin. My nails dig into my upper arms, but I trudge forward and pull my flannel tighter against me, hiding my Walkman the best I can.
Lightning crackles off in the distance, making me flinch and stub my toe on a raised bit of sidewalk. Ever since what happened to my dad, thunderstorms have always filled me with a sense of dread, as if they’re a harbinger of something terrible right around the corner.
The wind picks up, and every rustling leaf and creaking branch sounds like a warning. My heart leaps into my throat, pounding so hard it's felt in the middle of my ears, and I grind my teeth together. I’m not about to let the weather or that stupid piece of sidewalk make me unravel. It’s air and water, for crying out loud.
The streets stay empty the further I go, everyone else safely tucked out of the storm inside warm, cozy homes. Unlike me, with mascara running and clothes soaked through, looking half unhinged. The image makes me laugh bitterly.
My throbbing toe carries me down the streets on autopilot, determined to outpace the ghosts nipping at my heels and not caring at all about the soaked shorts grinding against my thighs or where the hell I'll end up. I need to keep moving.
Another rumble of thunder, and I’m back in that moment—seeing my dad as lightning strobed. Each flash has me wanting to squeeze my eyes shut, but I force them to stay open.
I can’t bear to see those images again, not now.
I repeat my mantra: It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. And things always end up fine.
Exhausted and soaked, my feet are pausing at the entrance of Ripple Hills before I even think twice. Alarm bells sound in my head because I shouldn’t be here. I’m out of options right now. And the warm lights glowing through all those rain-streaked windows are luring me in like a damn moth to a flame. A very wet, very confused moth.
I just need an escape. I’ll figure the rest out later.