Like Dragonflies

As I slip out of bed and pin it on a semi-free area near the window, I stop to think about her again.

Pretty, shy, perfect Sage.

I wonder if her dad is a good one. I hope so. No one deserves the shit I put up with. Nathan McKinney should have never had me. Sometimes, I really wish he’d have remembered to wear a condom that night. At least Mom would still be alive.

My eyes grow droopy with the need to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll need to study and take a shift or two over at Jimmy’s. After turning out the lights and crawling back into bed, I can’t help but think about Sage’s cute, pouty mouth and the way she’d shyly hidden it behind her knuckle.

A smile plays at my lips as I drift toward sleep.

Until the trailer starts rocking. The moans rumble through the walls. Dirty talk that turns my stomach and nearly makes my ears bleed. Grunts. Screams of pleasure. Laughter.

Nobody wants to hear their wasted father fuck some barfly.

I’ve gotta get the hell out of here.

I don’t know how much more of this place I can take.

Sage

Vibrant purples and blues stare back at me from my dragonfly canvas. I decide it needs red because when I think about Mars, I think about red. And thinking about Mars is literally all I can do lately.

The bristles of my brush swim in muted red tones I’ve mixed together. I add a smudge here and another over there until the dragonfly, with its lacy wings and thin body, looks like it’s floating in an aura of crimson. It’s not an angry crimson though because Mars doesn’t strike me as angry. It’s full of energy. Like him.

My mind buzzes at the thought of figuring out what makes him tick. Most people are so vapid I have no interest in being around them for longer than I have to be.

Mars is different though.

He has depth and mystery and I’m drawn to him like a moth to a fatal flame. I hope thinking about him so much doesn’t drive me insane. I’ve never thought about a boy as much as I do him.

That’s why when I went to The Grind House on Tuesday with my hair actually washed and brushed, wearing a pair of jeans and a cute sweater, I was upset he wasn’t there. Instead of sulking, I told Martina he made my drink perfectly and asked what days he worked. If I weren’t such a spaz, I would have asked him when he stopped to talk to me on Monday. From talking to Martina, I found out Mars worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays in the evening.

“Sage, are you ready?” Mom knocks on my door, poking her head in my room and I jolt with shock.

“Ready?” I ask, setting down my paintbrush. She pushes my door open, totally ignoring the fact it was closed for a reason, and interjects herself into my safe place. My place away from her.

My back stiffens and my shoulders pull back. My body immediately remembers that perfect posture is a must around Mom.

Don’t slouch, Sage. You look like a hobo.

Her voice darts around in my head like an incessant pest. I roll my eyes at it and I know outwardly, I look like a brat. Mom anchors her fists to her hips and sighs as if I’m hopeless. “It’s my turn to host the Ladies of Ashton Hills autumn dinner party. How is it that I print out a social calendar for you to follow every month, and you still manage to forget everything?” I can tell by the tight line she’s pressed her lips into, I’m about to get an earful.

I cringe, but only in my mind because I’m not allowed to have anything other than a spine stiff as a board in front of Mom.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I say, hoping to smooth things over so the grating lecture doesn’t last too long. I’m so close to finishing my painting, and I’d give anything for her to turn and walk out so I can put the final touches on it.

No such luck.

“It’s almost like you don’t want this gorgeous life your father and I are handing you. We offered to send you to Columbia University and you opted to attend Ashton Hills Community College instead. You sneak away from every social gathering I try to involve you in, and now you’re just flat-out forgetting your obligations.” Her words bore into my chest like a drill, and I’m left bouncing my knuckle against my lip to keep in all the words I want to spew out.

I don’t want everything she’s trying to push on me. I never have. Mom has always been a vicarious parent, and I’ve always gone along with what she wanted while quietly dying inside.