True Colors

“And I hate you for marrying him. And I hate him for not being here . . .” His voice broke on that and he stood up, moving quickly away from the bed.

She went to him, took him in her arms the way she used to, but he shoved her away. She stared at his back, saw the defeated slope to his shoulders, and knew how wounded he’d been by those ugly words in the schoolyard.

“Believe me, I know how you’re feeling.”

He turned. “Oh, really? You know how it feels to have a murderer for a father?”

“I had one for a husband,” she said quietly.

“Leave me alone.”

Vivi Ann took another deep breath. They’d been down this road before, talking around Dallas. She never knew what to say. “Before I leave, I have to pass along the good news that you’re going to flunk English, which means you won’t go on to high school in September.”

That got his attention. “What?”

“Lucky for you, Mrs. Ivers has agreed to give you a second chance. She’s going to let you write in a journal for her this summer. You’ll meet with her Monday morning before school to discuss the details.”

“I hate writing.”

“Then I hope you enjoy eighth grade better the second time.”

She left him alone to mull that over.

Who Am I?

Only a totally whack old lady like Mrs. Eyesore would give such a stupid assignment. She thinks I care about passing Language Arts. Like I’m going to need THAT after I graduate from high school. Yeah, right. Screw her and her last chance. I’m not gonna do it.

They suspended me.

Fuck.

Who Am I?

Why does Mrs. I. think that’s such an awesome question? I’m nobody. That’s what I’ll tell her. Oh wait, I don’t have to tell her because she’s not going to READ MY PRIVATE STUFF. Like I believe her when she says she’s just going to skim over it to see if I’m not copying other people. Yeah. I so totally believe that.

I should tell her. Blow her mind. I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM.

How could I?

I don’t look like anyone in my family. Everyone says I have my mom’s eyes, but if I ever look that sad I’m gonna blow my brains out.

That’s my answer this week, Mrs. I. I don’t know who I am and I don’t care. Why should I? No one else in this town does. I eat all my lunches alone at the table with the other dorks and losers. No one ever talks to me. They just laugh when I go past and whisper shit about my dad.

Chapter Nineteen

Winona’s life was proof positive that if you got a good education, worked hard, and kept believing in yourself, you could succeed. She gave this inspirational speech—the story of her triumphs—all over the county, to church groups and classrooms and volunteer organizations. They believed her, too, and why not? The measure of her success was visible to the naked eye: she lived in a gorgeous, flawlessly remodeled Victorian mansion, drove a brand-new, totally-paid-for ice-blue Mercedes convertible, and periodically bought and sold local real estate. Her client list was so extensive that in nonemergency situations, people often had to wait two weeks for an appointment. And best of all, her neighbors had grown accustomed to taking her advice. She’d proven, over time, to be right about almost everything, and it was flattering to know that her calm, rational decision-making skills were recognized and admired. In retrospect, even the ugly business with Dallas had bolstered her reputation. Everyone ultimately agreed that she’d been right not to represent Dallas, and Vivi Ann had come back to the family, just as Winona had hoped. Now they were together again; sometimes the ragged seams showed or buried resentments poked through, but they’d learned how to ignore those moments and go on, how to change the subject to something safe. All in all, Winona felt they were as strong a family as most and better than plenty.

Not everything was perfect, of course. She was forty-three years old, unmarried, and childless. The children she’d never had haunted her, came to her sometimes in her dreams, crying to be held in her arms, but as much as she’d wanted that fairy tale, it hadn’t happened for her. She’d dated plenty of nice men over the years (and a few real losers), and she’d often hoped. In the end, though, she’d remained alone.

Now she was tired of waiting for the life she’d once dreamed of, and had decided to try another road. Career had always been her great strength, and so she’d try to find fulfillment there.

With this shiny new goal in mind, she stood on the sidewalk, studying the booth she’d just erected and decorated. It was really just four card tables tied together and draped in red fabric that fell almost to the cement. Behind it was a huge banner, strung between weighted poles, that read: THE CHOICE FOR MAYOR IS CLEAR. VOTE GREY. On the table were hundreds of brochures, complete with photographs of her great-grandfather standing by a handmade OYSTER SHORES POP. 12 sign, as well as a detailed description of Winona’s political position on every issue. Other candidates could blow hot air about their beliefs; not her. She intended to crush the competition with the force of her convictions. Two large glass bowls held hundreds of VOTE GREY buttons.

Everything was ready.

She checked her watch. It was 7:46 in the morning.

No wonder she was out here pretty much all alone. The Founders Day festivities didn’t start until noon and none of the businesses were open yet. She leaned back against the streetlamp and looked up and down the street. From her vantage point in front of the Sport Shack, she could see everything from Ted’s Boatyard to the Canal House Bed and Breakfast. The usual Founders Day signage was in place—banners decorated with covered wagons set against a beautiful ocean-blue backdrop, hand-painted pioneer-themed artwork on the glass storefronts, and blinking lights twined around the streetlamps.