learn a little bit of Italian to make it easier for you. I don't know much, but I know that."
And then she backs out of the room and finally, after months of being scrutinized and questioned and forced to sleep in institutionalized beds with scratchy covers, I am alone.
If I was strong I'd stick to my plan of liking no one, appreciating nothing, and withdrawing from the world to show all of them just how angry I am. Just how hurt I am. And just how much they've damaged me.
But I'm actually a very weak person and I'm not very good at making decisions, let alone following through on things, so I'm just too tired to put up the pretenses. I shuffle through drawers until I find some soft pajamas, take them into the bathroom, and soak myself in a tub filled with hot water and bubbles. When I'm clean and feeling almost normal again, I slip into the bed covers and even though it's barely seven PM, I listen to the rain fall on the roof and I meet sleep with no tears for the first time since I came back to America.
When I wake it is still dark. I know where I am immediately, like I've been sleeping here forever and didn't just meet this room a few hours ago. The clock on the desk says two AM and I guess that's what happens when you go to bed at seven.
I lie there, trying to figure out what's different than when I fell asleep. The rain has stopped and the moon is shining brightly through the sheer pink curtains. My feet are up and crossing the small room and when I pull back the sheers to look out into the night I am surprised to see that this room comes with a terrace. The floor-to-ceiling windows aren't windows at all. They are French doors. I open one and the night breeze comes rushing in. The sweet smell of clean air after a summer rain fills my nose.
"Shit!" I hear a muffled voice say out past the large tree whose boughs practically hang onto the terrace. "Shit!" the voice says again. It's a deep voice and I can hear him grunting down below.
I walk over to the tree limb and try to see through the leaves, but it's no use.
"Dammit!" he swears again.
This is the back of the house and it faces a small dirt road.
A phone rings.
"Yeah." Silence, then, "No, I'm broken down outside the Sullivan house. Come get me, will ya?"
I strain to see him, but he's totally hidden by the tree. The bough is so big I clamber up and scoot across it, then stand.
"Renn, don't be an asshole, you're already up, you might as well just stay up so you can leave for the airport on time. Just come pick me up, you can sleep on the plane."
All I get a glimpse of is some light hair in the moonlight and a white t-shirt. I climb down and scoot out farther.
"Dude, if you make me walk this bike home I'll kick your ass."
He's talking about a dirt bike. This must be one of those Mason boys who scared Lindsey's horse.
"Fine," he says as he ends the call and turns the phone into a flashlight that he points down at the bike. "Fucking asshole."
I wait to see if he'll start to push his bike, but he goes back to work instead, messing around with whatever it is that boys who ride bikes mess around with when something goes wrong, the phone light clenched between his teeth as he works. He does that for several minutes and I'm ready to go back inside, but not sure if I should risk being seen, when he laughs.
"Gotcha, you piece of shit!"
He stands up and steps back a little, bringing him into full view. He's very tall, probably a little older than me, and is wearing light denim jeans now spotted with grease. He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. "You thought you had me this time, didn't ya, you stupid, worthless, sorry excuse for a bike. I'm gonna sell you next time, you better remember that."
I laugh a little, I can't help it, and he whirls around—looking over the privacy fence into our yard. "Spying on me now, Lindsey?"
Oops. He's in plain sight now, which means so am I. All he has to do is look up. I stay very still and try not to rustle the leaves,
And then she backs out of the room and finally, after months of being scrutinized and questioned and forced to sleep in institutionalized beds with scratchy covers, I am alone.
If I was strong I'd stick to my plan of liking no one, appreciating nothing, and withdrawing from the world to show all of them just how angry I am. Just how hurt I am. And just how much they've damaged me.
But I'm actually a very weak person and I'm not very good at making decisions, let alone following through on things, so I'm just too tired to put up the pretenses. I shuffle through drawers until I find some soft pajamas, take them into the bathroom, and soak myself in a tub filled with hot water and bubbles. When I'm clean and feeling almost normal again, I slip into the bed covers and even though it's barely seven PM, I listen to the rain fall on the roof and I meet sleep with no tears for the first time since I came back to America.
When I wake it is still dark. I know where I am immediately, like I've been sleeping here forever and didn't just meet this room a few hours ago. The clock on the desk says two AM and I guess that's what happens when you go to bed at seven.
I lie there, trying to figure out what's different than when I fell asleep. The rain has stopped and the moon is shining brightly through the sheer pink curtains. My feet are up and crossing the small room and when I pull back the sheers to look out into the night I am surprised to see that this room comes with a terrace. The floor-to-ceiling windows aren't windows at all. They are French doors. I open one and the night breeze comes rushing in. The sweet smell of clean air after a summer rain fills my nose.
"Shit!" I hear a muffled voice say out past the large tree whose boughs practically hang onto the terrace. "Shit!" the voice says again. It's a deep voice and I can hear him grunting down below.
I walk over to the tree limb and try to see through the leaves, but it's no use.
"Dammit!" he swears again.
This is the back of the house and it faces a small dirt road.
A phone rings.
"Yeah." Silence, then, "No, I'm broken down outside the Sullivan house. Come get me, will ya?"
I strain to see him, but he's totally hidden by the tree. The bough is so big I clamber up and scoot across it, then stand.
"Renn, don't be an asshole, you're already up, you might as well just stay up so you can leave for the airport on time. Just come pick me up, you can sleep on the plane."
All I get a glimpse of is some light hair in the moonlight and a white t-shirt. I climb down and scoot out farther.
"Dude, if you make me walk this bike home I'll kick your ass."
He's talking about a dirt bike. This must be one of those Mason boys who scared Lindsey's horse.
"Fine," he says as he ends the call and turns the phone into a flashlight that he points down at the bike. "Fucking asshole."
I wait to see if he'll start to push his bike, but he goes back to work instead, messing around with whatever it is that boys who ride bikes mess around with when something goes wrong, the phone light clenched between his teeth as he works. He does that for several minutes and I'm ready to go back inside, but not sure if I should risk being seen, when he laughs.
"Gotcha, you piece of shit!"
He stands up and steps back a little, bringing him into full view. He's very tall, probably a little older than me, and is wearing light denim jeans now spotted with grease. He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. "You thought you had me this time, didn't ya, you stupid, worthless, sorry excuse for a bike. I'm gonna sell you next time, you better remember that."
I laugh a little, I can't help it, and he whirls around—looking over the privacy fence into our yard. "Spying on me now, Lindsey?"
Oops. He's in plain sight now, which means so am I. All he has to do is look up. I stay very still and try not to rustle the leaves,
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