It’s Monday afternoon, and we’ve just finished our last class, freshman PE. And thank goodness for that! If I had PE earlier in the day, my mother just might show up to ensure that I showered, and then she’d bring me a freshly pressed set of clothes. At least this way, I can just come straight home, shower, and never have my friends find out what a spaz my mom is.
“It’s hard to think of you as Juliet,” Tate teases. I’d only just told her about my dad and the deal with my name a week ago.
“Just stick with K.C.,” I tell her. “It’s what I’m used to.”
“Out of the way!” someone growls, and we both jump, huddling together, as Jared Trent zooms past on his dirt bike. He stands up, pedaling and scowling back at Tate. His deep brown hair blows in his eyes, but you can still see the hatred blazing out of them.
“Jared Trent!” I belt out. “You’re so dumb you’d trip over a cordless phone!”
I hear Tate snort, but then she chides, “Don’t piss him off. He takes it out on me.” But then her eyes dart up. “Oh, crap.”
I look up the street to see Jared swerving his bike in a circle and coming back at us.
My eyes go round. “Run,” I order.
And Tate and I shoot off, up the sidewalk and into the grass, as my backpack bounces against my tailbone and Tate grabs my hand, squealing.
I start laughing as we scurry, and I don’t even look back to see where Jared is. Vaulting up the steps, we crash through my front door and slam it shut, gasping for breath and laughing.
“Stop antagonizing him,” Tate commands, but her face glows with amusement.
I drop my backpack to the floor, my chest rising and falling hard. “He’s an asshole, and you’re awesome.”
“K.C.!”
I jerk to the stairs, straightening my back immediately.
“Yes, Mother.” I look up and then to the floor. My mother descends the stairs, and I can already smell her perfume.
She doesn’t have to say anything. I used vulgar language, and it was unacceptable.
“Tatum, honey,” my mother greets as she comes up in front of us. “Nice to see you. What a darling little tank top.”
And I turn my head away from them, cringing as my eyes fill with tears. My mother hates her tank top, and Tate knows it. Embarrassment heats my face, and I clench my fists, wanting to shove my mother away.
But I grit my teeth and turn back. Tate wears a tight white cami underneath a loose black tank top. The top features a white skull with a Native American headdress of beads and feathers.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “I like the skull on it. I was hoping I could borrow it.”
Tate’s uncomfortable eyes shift to me, and my mother arches an eyebrow. If we were alone, I would’ve been hit.
When we are alone, I will be hit.
“Tatum?” my mother starts, her voice dripping with sweetness. “K.C. has a doctor’s appointment. Are you okay to make it home on your own?”
Doctor’s appointment?
Tate glances at me, looking as if she’s holding her breath, and then smiles, nodding. “Of course.” She leans in for a hug. “See you tomorrow, K.C.” And then whispers in my ear, “Love you.”
“You, too,” I mumble, because my mom is watching.
Tate walks out the door, and my mother steps in front of me, cocking her head. “Upstairs,” she orders.
I’m not sure what she wants, but my stomach rolls anyway. I’m tired of being afraid of her.
I still remember my dad being home and cuddling on the couch with him, watching Barney. He hated the show, but he’d sit with me for hours, because he knew it was the only way I was allowed to watch TV.
My mother never takes me anywhere unless it’s to pretty me up shopping or to the salon, or to smarten me up at a museum. She rarely laughs with me, and I don’t remember ever being squeeze-hugged, tickled, or gushed over.
I wish she loved me. Like K.C. I hear her cry sometimes in her room, but I don’t dare tell her. She’d get mad.
I walk upstairs, glancing back out of the corner of my eye every so often to see her behind me. I’m afraid to turn my back on her.
Opening the door to my bedroom, I stop.
Our family doctor is standing by the window in his suit minus the jacket.
“No,” I choke out, and turn for the door again.
But my mother grabs me, yanks me into the room, and slams the door.
“No!” I cry.
The tears that pooled at the memory didn’t spill over. I wouldn’t allow it. This twisted house wasn’t mine anymore, and I didn’t have to stay once I got my journals. I would forget the slaps. I would forget the harsh words. I would forget the doctor’s visits.
I wouldn’t spend another day giving any of it more attention than I already had done.
I rang the doorbell.
Moments later, a light came on inside and then the front porch light. I shifted, immediately wondering how I looked, but then I stilled again. I was still dressed in my pajama shorts and Jax’s T-shirt, looking completely out of sorts, and it didn’t fucking matter.
My mother opened the door slowly, eyes narrowed as she took us in. “K.C.?” She looked between me and Shane and Fallon. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I need my journals.”
Her confused and annoyed expression turned to a scowl. “You will most certainly not get your journals right now. How dare—”
I pushed past her, barging through the front door, and spun around.
“Fallon? Shane?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “My journals are tucked in a secret compartment at the bottom of my hope chest. Would you mind?” I asked, and then looked to my mother. “My mother has things to say to me in private.”
I knew the word “private” would buy me some time. My mother’s back straightened, and her gaze barely flickered to them as they darted past her and up the stairs.
My mother closed the door and walked toward me. “How dare you? It is the middle of the night, and I told you you could have your journals when you came home.”
“I’m not coming home.” I hoped I sounded defiant.
“K.C.—”
“My name is Juliet.”
And I sucked in air as she grabbed my upper arm. “You will do as you’re told,” she growled, jerking me closer.
My skin burned where she buried her nails, and I clamped my mouth shut and held her eyes. I wouldn’t let her see me falter.
I got in her face. “No,” I countered.
Her eyes flickered upstairs, and I knew she was gauging whether or not to hit me.
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You can’t hurt me anymore.”
Her mouth twisted up, and she went for it. She dropped the hand from my arm and whipped it across my face, sending me stumbling back into the wall.
But I shot back up. “Again,” I demanded, holding out my arms, inviting her.
Her eyebrows dug deep, and she looked at me, searching my eyes for what—I don’t know.
Her hand came down again, this time her fingernails catching my lip, and I squeezed my eyes shut, wincing.
My breath poured out of me shakily, but I pulled myself up straight. “Come on. You can do better,” I challenged, my eyes pooling with tears, but I wasn’t sad or angry or even hurt. The more she hit me, the more powerful I felt. This was all she had.
“Juliet, what—” I heard Shane at the top of the stairs, and I darted out my hand, signaling her to stop.
I sucked in breath after breath, shaking my head at my mother as I cried. “You can’t hurt me.”
The hardness in her face was like steel, but her voice shook. “I’m calling the police,” she warned, and turned to walk to the living room.
“And tell them what?” I taunted.
I cocked my head and continued. “Sandra Carter. Vice president of the Rotary Club, president of the Shelburne Falls Garden Association, and School Board chairperson?” I listed the many forums on which she could potentially be embarrassed. “What will you tell them that I can’t?”
And she stopped. I knew I had her.
The woman didn’t like unsavory attention, and even though I would never talk about her, my sister, or my father, she thought that I might. And that was enough.
She kept her back to me. “Get out.”
“So you can be alone?” I asked quietly.
She didn’t turn around.
She didn’t look at me.
She just stood there, waiting for me to disappear, so she could sink back into her delusions as if none of this ever happened.
I looked to Fallon and Shane, their arms loaded down with my black-and-white composition books, staring at me wide-eyed.
“Let’s go,” I urged.
As we left the house and walked to the car, Shane sped up next to me. “Are you okay?”
“No.” But I smiled. “Not in the least.”
CHAPTER 11
JAXON
“Dad?” I call, coming into the living room. “Do you want to go to the park?” I hold in my breath and hope I sound nice and quiet. Please, please, please, I pray. I want to go to the park and play someplace pretty.
“No,” he grumbles, not even looking at me. “Not today.”
I stand in the doorway, watching him and a girl play with sugar on the table. They slice it with something sharp, and then they laugh right before they suck it into their noses. They don’t see me, and I don’t know what they’re doing, but I know that I don’t like it. There’s something wrong.