Chapter Six
Scarlett
Eighteen Years Ago
He was sitting there again.
That lonely boy, always picking out fistfuls of grass by the swing set, playing with something small.
I noticed him about four months ago, right around the time Sinead, Flack and I moved in across the street. Or should I say me.
Just… me.
Did Sinead help me move the boxes into my room?
No.
Did Flack place all the mugs and plates in the kitchen cabinet?
No.
Bailey, a girl from school, says her Mom helps her into jackets while her Dad makes sure the car is warm enough for her to sit in during wintertime.
I wish I had jackets my Mom could help me into.
I wish Dad had a car to warm up for nice drives.
I didn’t even know the meaning of the word parents. I only knew Sinead and Flack.
My muddy white sneakers padded along the cracked cement, leading me right to lonely boy. “Are you homeless?”
That got his attention.
“Am I homeless?”
“Are you?”
He sighed. “I wish.”
“Why would anyone want to be homeless?” I took a seat next to him, reaching for blades of grass and yanking out the weeds. What a boring hobby. Even for a homeless boy.
“You can’t just drop a bomb on me like that and not tell.” I nagged him, it was fun. I couldn’t nag my family.
You can’t nag people who aren’t around.
“Are you new to the neighbourhood?” He asked me so softly, it reminded me of a teacher or a police officer or… I don’t know, someone adult.
I shook my head. “No.”
I lied. Of course I lied. Sometimes you need to lie to live.
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“Ditto.” Lie number two.
He decided to look at me. Pure green eyes, like the grass he was pulling. I never backed down from a staring competition. Never ever.
He looked away and slumped forward. “Mom says we have a roof over our head so I should be happy. She says that I should ignore the way Corban treats her but I can’t. He’s a bad man. He doesn’t deserve my Mom.”
There it was again.
Mom.
What was a mom?
It wasn’t Sinead. It couldn’t have been.
Mom’s care about their kids.
[What did it feel like to be cared for?]
I couldn’t look away from him, even when the competition was over. Of course I’d won, but his reaction wasn’t satisfying.
“Who’s Corban?” I asked, knocking my sneakers against his. Mud flew onto the laces but he didn’t care. Sinead would have had me on dish duty for the next month.
“I don’t know you well enough to say.”
“But you just told me his name so you have to tell me everything now.”
“Why?”
I pinched his wrist. “Because I know too much. I could be dangerous. I could hunt this Corban guy down and poof… gone.”
He sighed. He sighed a lot. “I wish you’d do just that.”
That’s when I noticed the object in his hands. The one he’d been playing with every single time I’d seen him near this playground, alone.
Always alone.
Maybe we had more in common than I thought.
“Can I see that?” I softened my voice now that I decided I liked him.
“Sure.”
He handed me a purple triangle, slim and slender with a white bird in the centre. “Why do you have a guitar pick? Do you play?”
A nod. “I will play. And when I play, I will be the best guitarist on this planet. Like Hendrix, or Van Halen. Yeah,” he smiled. I couldn’t stop staring. “Yeah, I’ll be like them.”
Oooo-kay. “So you have a guitar pick but no guitar?”
“I have a guitar… Mom just bought me one for my birthday.”
My eyes lit up as I reached over and peeled back his fingers, placing the guitar pick in his palm.
I hated birthdays, ever since I was born.
I couldn’t forgive Sinead and Flack for bringing me into this miserable life, unloved and useless.
But this lonely boy… he could be something new. Something different.
He’d have a reason. And I’d have a purpose.
“Let’s make you a rock star.” I nudged him, absorbing the shock of warm contact against his shoulder. [I wasn’t so cold anymore.]
“What a weird way of saying happy birthday.” He laughed, shaking his shaggy hair.
I stared at him. The cheekbones that jutted out of his face, the smile lines around his mouth. He had a nice laugh. I liked his laugh. I couldn’t help but laugh with him.
“Do you have any friends?” I poked, scooting in closer. He didn’t mind. At least I hoped not.
“My mom.”
“Any friends your actual age?”
He shrugged. “How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Close enough, do you want to be my friend?”
[The cold was back.] I placed a hand over my red face and turned away. Sinead, Flack and I moved around so much that I couldn’t settle and breathe, let alone make friends.
“I’ll be your friend if you tell me your name.” I demanded, pinching his skin once more. I couldn’t help it. Touching someone else comforted me, made me feel less alone.
He wiped his stained fingers across faded blue jeans, extending a hand. “Ryden Spectre.”
Ryden Spectre.
Ryden Spectre.
“That’s a cool name, Ryden Spectre.”
His hand was still out but I didn’t grab it. I don’t know why. He was offering me his friendship, it was within reach. But I was hesitant.
“Why won’t you shake my hand?”
“I don’t want to touch you.” I admitted.
“But you keep pinching me.”
“I want to touch you when I pinch you.”
“You’re confusing,” he groaned as he stood, blocking the sun from my view.
My eyes roamed over his black tee - a beach in a circle, the words Hotel California written across.
“Did you visit California, Ryden Spectre?”
Spectreeee. Spec-tree. Specterrr. So many ways to say his last name.
“No, why?”
“Your shirt,” I pointed. “Hotel California.”
He crossed his arms almost as if he were embarrassed that I was looking at it. I liked the colour, I liked the design. It looked new.
Sinead and Flack never bought me anything new.
“It’s a song by the Eagles. Do you know the Eagles?”
I squinted up at him, the way the sun looked like a squiggly halo around his dark hair. He was taller than me, but everyone was. Two thick strands stuck out in front of his forehead, casting a shadow against his cheeks. He looked angular, big and mighty. Like an…
“Eagle…” I poked the rip in his knee. “You look like an eagle. You could be in the band.”
“Eagles are cool.”
“Your name is cool.” I rebutted, and he smiled.
In four months, I’d seen lonely Ryden Spectre sad and solemn, all by himself. But today he smiled, and laughed. He smiled at me.
[I made someone smile.]
“I’d say your name is cool too if I knew what it was…”
Should I tell him my name? What was the point? If Ryden Spectre ended up being my friend, I’d wind up leaving again. I never stayed anywhere for more than one year; I’ve been down this road before.
There were so many kids I wanted to play with growing up, so many chances I almost had. Countless times I’d ask Sinead to stay, beg her to, but got used to the disappointment when she’d say, “Flack’s got a new gig. Up and at ‘em Violet.”
She said she named me after my favourite colour, but I hated it. I realized that when I was seven and melted purple crayons in the microwave. My parents never wanted to do anything fun, so I took fun into my own hands.
I dunked my hair into the bowl of chunky wax and massaged it into my scalp until light brown turned into purple.
Excitement filled my bones until I looked in the mirror and rinsed it out immediately. Mom and Dad loved it, though. They loved anything after taking their medication.
A week later I did the same experiment with red crayons. I liked red. Flack used to have bonfires by the trailer sometimes and have me light the match. It burned, but I was mesmerized.
Fire, red hot fire.
It could heat.
It could hurt.
“Cherry Blake,” I tried, posing in the mirror. “Nooo…”
I stepped down from the stool, standing crooked. “Ruby Blake?” Ugh. “No…”
A tear escaped my eye. Then another. I forced myself to face my reflection, flushed cheeks stained by tears. Raw. Real. Red.
Fire. Fire. [FIRE.]
“Scarlett,” I whispered, staring into the deep depths of my eyes. “Scarlett Blake.”
Looking in the mirror was the first time I smiled since I took some of the blueberry pills Sinead left out on the kitchen counter. I was curious. She always left those around the house. Maybe they tasted good.
I remember they tasted funny, but not much after that.
I smiled, though. I would’ve had to. A funny feeling always make me smiley.
From that day forward, I decided to change my name. Not legally of course, I would do that when I got older. But every person I would come to meet would know me as…
“Scarlett Blake. I’m Scarlett Blake.”
Born a mistake, I had to assign my own purpose. I wasn’t made for this world, and yet, here I was – like a freak accident, created for something greater than I’d ever understand.
But looking at Ryden Spectre, maybe I’d come around to the reason for my existence. Maybe this was my golden ticket.
Maybe he was my golden ticket.
“Scarlett Blake,” he smiled.
That’s right. That’s me.
No one could touch Scarlett Blake, no one. She belonged entirely to me.
A stranger now to the people who claimed to love her.