Barbie World (Baby Doll Series) Page 8

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  I say good-bye to Kai who kisses me again and I let him. Even though I don’t feel anything except a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, I know that he feels something. Shit. I slip in the back door to avoid the Knights, but in doing so, I am also avoiding Everett. My stomach tightens at the thought. I will make it up to him. I will take him out tomorrow, just me and him. We’ll go for ice cream and ride the elevators at the new law building on First Street—the tallest building in Phenix is on First. Hell, it is the only building that we have. It sits amongst old, short, brick buildings and looks so out of place in this small town. It is what attracts me to it. The look of not belonging, like it was just waiting for something better to come along. Nothing will, though. Everett loves to ride the glass elevator all the way to the top. At the last floor you can see all of Phenix City and far beyond. I can even see the path I will head when we leave this town.

  I take off my shoes so they don’t make noise across the kitchen floor and bend over to pick them up.

  “You were out late.” Eeep. I drop my shoes and they clatter against the wood floor, loud enough to wake the devil himself. So much for that plan.

  “Dylan, you scared me.” I pick my shoes back up, my heart beating hard against my ribs. He flips on the kitchen light and for a moment I am blinded. Geesh. I shield my eyes against the light until they adjust.

  “Sorry, I was just getting a drink.” He points at the fridge. “Want one?” he asks innocently. I am not fooled. I know there is a deeper motive to his actions.

  “No,” I say, even though I am thirsty. He shrugs and walks to the fridge, pulling out a jug of apple juice while I eye him warily. He pours a glass and then downs it in one giant gulp before then pouring himself another, this time nursing it.

  “So… where have you been?”

  I bristle at his tone. “Who do you think you are, my father?”

  He looks at me over the rim of his glass with his two warm pots of melted chocolate eyes. “No. I am your friend and I was just concerned.” Great now I feel like a complete bitch.

  “Sorry.”

  He puts the glass down on the counter. “You know, if we are going to be friends, you need to be a little more trusting of me. I am not out to get you.”

  I sigh and walk over to the counter. There is a huge island that separates us, yet, my body is still pulled to him like a magnet. He has to feel this magnetic pull, too. I can see it in his posture. He grips the edge of the counter, holding on and he is slightly leaning forward, just like me. We stare at each other; our eyes saying it all, but our mouths pressed firmly shut.

  “I miss you,” he says so quietly that I question if I even heard him or if it was all in my head. I miss him, too. I want to tell him that I wish things where not so complicated. He licks his lips and I pray he kisses me. Oh, please God, let him kiss me. One time and I promise it will be the last. If I can have him one more time. “Can we please just try and see what happens?” He is gripping onto the counter so tightly that his knuckles are turning blue. I fight the sensation to pull his finger away from their death grip and kiss each one of his knuckles.

  “Dylan, you know I—” I start.

  “Don’t say you can’t because you can. No matter how much you push me away, I am here. Doesn’t that count for something?” My eyes blur and I turn. I can’t deal with this. I can’t keep hurting myself or him. He has to let me go. It is what is best for everyone.

  Dylan is faster than me and once again I find myself wrapped in his arms. “You can keep trying to push me away, but I will be right here. I will always be right here, waiting for you.” He is breathless.

  “What is going on?” I jump out of Dylan’s arms so fast that I am clean across the kitchen, backing up into the table. Dylan looks at his mom and then at me, his eyes immediately filling back up with sadness.

  “She tripped.” He looks at the ground.

  “She tripped?” Mrs. Knight turns, suspicious of his excuse. I hold up my pink heels for good measure and shake my head yes, my throat swollen with fear. She looks back at Dylan one more time before clearing her throat. “Your dad has a hankering for Chicken Korma. I told him I would make him a ham sandwich. You want one? Dylan? Barbie?” We both shake our heads no. “No. No one?” She has suspicions, but does not say anything.

  I hurry up the stairs, rush to my bedroom and close the door, leaning against it panting; I feel like heaving. That was close, too close. I tried to avoid him, but failed. Did I really try to avoid him, though? I could have left that kitchen, but my body refused to listen to my brain, wanting to feel him. I pack a bag and go back to Roxie’s house. I miss Everett, but it is better than risking things with Dylan.

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  Roxie drops me of in front of the tall office buildings. Here goes another long and brutal session with Mrs. White, but I am bound and determined to get the hell out of them so I have been going along with complying with her demands. One more month, that is all I have left.

  When I walk into her office, Mrs. White is in her typical hippie attire, a long tie-dye dress and tan chunky sandals. “What’s your source of torture today?” I flop down in the chair.

  She chuckles. “I like to think of it as me helping you, but if you’d rather think of it as torture then be my guest.”

  I glare at her, not really in the mood for this shit, but here goes nothing. “Let’s just get this over with.” I feel like kicking my feet and throwing a fit like a little kid.

  “Okay, I see you are in no joking mood. Why don’t you tell me what is bothering you?” I bite down on the side of my mouth, debating on if I should tell her what is bothering me or not. Shit. What the hell. She probably will find out anyway, the lady seems to know everything.

  I sigh. “There was an incident.” I grimace at the way I make it sound. “It really was not even an incident, more of an accident,” I clarify.

  “An Incident?” Her voice holds that quizzical tone to it.

  “Well… um.” I hesitate. Now that I opened this can-o’-shit up I am not sure how much I am willing to share. I want to take my words back and hide them safely away where no one will ever hear. She looks at me with great interest through the dirty lenses of her glasses, so I sigh and continue, “Between Dylan and I.” Her thin lips forms an “o” on them, but she remains silent. I roll my eyes at her dramatics and continue my walk down ahhh shit road. “He sort of found me at my old house and I was sort of freaking out.” I look down at my feet and dig the toe of my boot into the tile. I wish I could dig a hole through them, splintering the wood and escaping through it.

  “And what happened when he found you?” she asks, her elbows now propped up on her desk.

  I shrug. “I broke a window, he gave me a rag for my hand and we fell asleep in his truck. The end.” I am not about to tell her what happened before we fell asleep. Some things, I will keep to myself.

  She sits on that for a moment before she asks. “Out of curiosity. What made you go back to that place? A place that holds so much hurt for you.”

  I find a lose string that tickles at my leg and pull on it until it splits the seam that holds one of the ruffles to the cotton skirt I wear. I feel like this seam is ready to come undone, holding on by a thin string, just waiting for someone to come along and pull. I will then be exposed to the world, no secrets. I am so afraid that when I do come undone, I will not be fixable. That I will always be a rip in this world. Damaged.

  “At first, it was just out of habit that I started walking there, but then… I don’t know. I tried to justify it; that I was going to check on Mrs. Sophie.”

  She nods. “The neighbor that used to take you in at times?” Damn, she knows a lot.

  “Yes, but that is not why I was going that way. Deep down, I knew that I was going that way for one reason and it was not to check on poor, old Mrs. Sophie. I wanted to see the house; to see if it was really as bad as I remembered.” I poke at the new hole in my skirt until I find skin, then I make small x’s w
ith my finger nail in the soft, fleshy meat. One after the other.

  “Was it as bad as you remember?”

  Much worse. “Yes,” I say softly.

  Mrs. White is silent for a moment, thinking. “You understand that the house itself is only a representation of what happened there that night? ‘Freaking out’ on it does not change or help you deal with the deeper issues. Do you want to know why I think you went there?” I look up at her. I can feel the salty burn form in the back of my throat. “I think you went there for an explanation. You wanted to know why. Why the things that happened to you were allowed to happen. Why the one person who was supposed to protect you chose not to.” She is right. Her words are right and I hate her for being right. I am filled with so much hate; slowly filling up until I will be cold as stone, unable to feel anything ever again. “You know there is only one person that can answer those questions and bring the closure you want. Don’t you?” I do know that. I know that beating up on a house will not answer any of the questions I have. I know that there is only one person that can, and it has been that person I have refused to see. My mother.

  My mother was apprehended a few days after that night while I was still in the hospital. She was found a few miles north at a truck stop and was arrested on several charges, including child abuse, child abandonment and possession. Yes. Her daughter was left dying in a puddle from her boyfriend and she still managed to score drugs. As much as I want to hate her for it, I can’t.

  Her addiction is a disease. You can hate the sickness in someone, but you cannot hate the person for having it. I don’t know what scares me more; seeing my mother in jail, knowing she is so fragile and weak and in a place like that because I know it will eat her alive and spit her out. Or knowing when I look into her eyes that I will not see the love for me that I desperately want to see there. Even though the memories of my mother are not filled with warm, fuzzy moments, I would rather remember her the way she was, cold and mean. It is better than pathetic and broken.

  “You say the word and I can arrange for you to see her.” I look up at her, blinking. How long was I lost in my own world? I shake my head no. It is easier to live in denial than the truth. “Okay, but if you change your mind, you let me know and I will put in the call.”

  I leave the office building, shaking from the cold and the new realization that came to light in my visit. Mrs. Knight sits out front with the car running. I want to turn and run as fast as I can, but I see Everett in the back seat and I know I cannot be a coward. I am not my mother. I open the car door and slide in. The air is up and a today’s top hits play on the radio.

  “Hi.” She gives me a slight smile. It is so pitiful. I know she pities me and I hold animosity towards her for that. Hate me, think of me as a damaged bitch, a complete fuck up, but don’t think of me as someone to feel sorry for. “I am glad that we get to spend some quality time together. I was hoping it would be just us girls, but Allen got called into work and Dylan is with Katie.” She tries to fill the awkwardness with mindless chatter.

  An aggravation starts at her comment, like being with my brother is a burden. I would much rather be with him than shopping so that Mrs. Knight can feel like she is making a difference. My stomach rolls and I look out the window, watching the trees go by. My mind goes back to what Mrs. White said that I can only get answers from my mother. Should I see her? Do I want to see her?

  “I was thinking we will go into Columbus to the mall and then maybe out for some lunch afterwards? What do you think? Do you like Chinese? If you don’t I know of a little Italian restaurant that we—”

  I can no longer hold it in so I blurt out, “I want to see my mother.” It is not until I say it out loud that I know how badly I want to see her. The car is silent and Mrs. Knight stares straight ahead at the road. “I want to see my mother,” I say again, reassuring myself.

  Mrs. Knight swallows hard before choking out a simple, quiet answer. “Okay.” We stay silent for the remainder of the trip. I feel lighter with the knowledge that I am going to see her.

  It is not until we are seated at the Peeking Duck that Mrs. Knight mentions it. “I want to say that I am sorry for my reaction earlier. I was shocked. I understand why you want to see your mother, I am just afraid that you might not get what you are searching for from her.” She takes a sip from her jasmine tea.

  “I appreciate that, but I have been dealing with my mother for a long time. I know not to get my hopes up. This is just something I need to do for myself.”

  She takes another sip from her jasmine tea. “We are here for you. Just know that. I am here for you if you need to talk about anything. I will listen with no judgment.”

  When we get back to the house, I make the call to Mrs. White. She sounded like she was expecting my call and said it would take a few days to set up.

  I am ready for this.

  Chapter 9.

  Dylan

  I blow off work today, trying to clear my head. I need a few moments to myself to get my head on straight. I cannot get Barbie out of my mind. It is like I am a freaking prowler. I watch her like a creeper anytime she is near. I stay up at night, lying in my bed, knowing she is lying right above me. I can’t help wondering who or what is she dreaming about. I obsess over her. I obsess over the thought that she might be avoiding me. She is barely at the house and, when she is here, she is either locked up in her room or hiding out in Everett’s room. I leave her alone for now. I don’t try to pursue her anymore, mostly because I don’t know what to say to her and I don’t want her to become anymore skittish than she is already.

  I never understood those love sick couples in school. I used to think they were ridiculous to think that they could truly be in love, yet I am now just as sick as them.

  I pull the camera out of its brown, leather bag and clean the lens before I try to focus in on a patch of small, white flowers. The natural light is clean and clear, illuminating the world for me to capture in time. Being behind the lens of a camera is calming and helps to bring the world into perspective for me.

  I snap a few pictures and walk towards the playground. It is early morning, but it is already hot and muggy out. There are a few little kids out playing with their mothers who want to get their energy out before they are stuck inside for the day. I try not to seem like a predator as I focus in on the playground as a whole. I take pictures of the mothers who push their little ones in swings. Then one of a little girl that swings across the monkey bars. A little boy lies on the ground, waiting for her to pass over. Little shit. I take a picture of him. I want to go back to when I was a little kid. Innocent, like when my mom could make all that was wrong with the world, right, with only a hug and a cherry ice pop.

  One of the little girls has made it across the monkey bars and the little boy who was trying to look up her dress is now being dragged away by his mother. The little girl reminds me of Barbie. So I take another picture of her. She has on a blue ruffled dress and sliver sandals. It is her eyes that remind me of Barbie. They are large and filled with a wonder; they have an oldness to them like they’ve seen the world. I capture this moment in time. There is a sadness to the girl’s eyes now. I zoom in, capturing only the eyes. I watch them through my lens. I watch them change with a sadness to a light that is lit deep inside. What could have made them change so drastically? I take the camera away from my face to see what caused the change in the girl’s eyes. I look around the park, still not seeing what caused the change until I spot that there is little boy throwing a ball against a tree. Ah, that’s it.

  The girl runs to the boy and I can see the face change from sullen to amusement. The girl must say something to the boy that amuses him, too. Not to get sappy, but this might be the cutest thing I have ever seen. I start taking pictures of them. The girl rocks back and forth on her feet, playing with a strand of hair by her ear. The little boy is staring at the ball in his hand. She says something and the boy’s head picks up. His cheeks turn a bright red. He steps closer to the girl. Come
on, little man you can do it, I send him encouragement. I think he is about to kiss her, but instead he pushes her to the ground and then runs away. Ah, crap. I know the sadness is going to be back in her eyes, but to my surprise, there is no sadness there, instead it’s something else. Love. She gets up and brushes off the dirt before she runs after the boy, who I notice, is not running that fast. I smile to myself. The little boy doesn’t realize it, but like me, he has already been caught.

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  Sweat beads down my back. The sun is relentless and it is pounding down on me in the long line of Twisted Treat. Twisted Treat is a giant, ice cream cone shaped building that offers no shelter from the heat. I feel the bridge of my nose burn as I watch a girl at the front of the line debate on whether to get the cherry dipped chocolate cone or a banana split. Just flipping decide already!

  Katie and her group of friends sit at a picnic table that is chained to a large oak tree—like someone is just going to come by and pick it up or like having a souvenir from this small ass town is what anyone wants.

  “Look at them sitting in the shade, fanning themselves like fuckin’ princesses while we roast to get them a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles. And all for what?” Brett comes up behind me.

  Brett is an all right dude. He adds some sort of testosterone to the constant estrogen party I am at. Katie’s friends always flank her wherever she goes. She basically has to tell her little hoard when to breathe.

  I shrug my shoulders in response to Brett. He claps me on the shoulder, shaking me. “All in hopes that we might get lucky, man, that’s why.” He smiles as we shuffle forward in the line.

  A little chubby kid is wrapped around his mother’s leg, wailing in front of me. His cheeks are bright red with big, fat tears that are streaming down them. He kind of reminds me of a little Third. When Third was little, all he had to do was pucker out his bottom lip and his momma would be a puddle of mush. That bottom lip of his sure got us a few trips to the Twisted Treat.