Rebel Soul

Shortly after the second course—a dope-ass salad with these little candied walnuts—my parents return to the table, acting as if everything is peachy keen. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were both fucking robots—alas, they’re simply heartless and not mechanical. Hell, I’m fairly certain robots have more authentic feelings than my parents.

I focus on my food, trying my hardest not to listen to any of the mindless garbage my parents are gossiping about. That is, until I hear a very familiar name.

“It’s really a shame about Ken Kellan.” My mother tries her best to sound sympathetic, but if anything, she’s more like a dog with a bone.

I glance up from my food and ask, “What about him?”

She brings her cloth napkin up from her lap to blot her lips. “Oh, that’s right, you know his daughter. What’s her name again…Stacy?”

I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “Stacia. Now, back to her dad.”

“Oh, yes, that’s it.” She takes a dainty sip of her water. “He was arrested.”

I reel back. Arrested…“For what?”

Ever dramatic, Mother leans forward and stage whispers, “Embezzlement.”

“To the tune of over a million, I’ve heard,” my father adds, sounding utterly bored.

Mother brings a hand to her chest as she shakes her head solemnly. “Thank God you didn’t invest with him…”

I tune their chatter back out, my mind racing. I’ve met Mr. Kellan a few times in passing, and he’s always seemed like an honest man. His wife is sweet as hell, and don’t get me started on his daughter—that girl is finer than fine. Shit. I guess I should check on her—indirectly, of course.

While my parents are busy yammering away about the latest trophy wife’s nose job, I discreetly slip my phone out of my pocket and text Brock, my cousin, under the table.

Me: How’s Stacia? Shit…how are you?

Brock: I’m good. She’s…in rough shape.

Me: Meet up tonight?

Brock: Come over tonight. Ab’s is doing taco fries.

Me: Fuck. Yes. I’ll be by around 6.

Chapter Three

Stacia

Back and forth. Back and forth. My silver-glitter Doc Martens wear a trail in the hideous puke green rug as I continue to pace back and forth. The cramped motel room limits my range of motion, which only serves to make me feel even more confined.

I check the clock, trying to ignore the way it hangs crookedly on the wall; it’s a quarter past three. Why haven’t you called yet, Dad? I look over to where my mother sits on the bed, worrying the scratchy polyester coverlet between her slender fingers. Her usually wrinkle-free face is etched with concern as we both wait on his call.

“He’s okay,” I say, though I don’t know which of us I’m trying to reassure. Ever since life as we knew it came crashing down two days ago—God, has it really only been two days?—my mother has become almost a shell of herself. It breaks my cold little heart in a way I never knew possible to see my once-vibrant mother so desolate.

I’ll never forget the way she broke down when the uniformed officers hauled him away…

“You have the right to remain silent.” The officer’s words are muted by my mother’s wailing cries as she collapses to the ground, landing hard on her tailbone.

“Ken.” She howls Dad’s name with a desperation I’ve never heard before—like her entire universe is being ripped away. I crouch beside her, trying my hardest to lend comfort, wrapping her in my arms, holding her close.

“It’s okay, my love,” Dad calls back, as calm as ever. “This is all a misunderstanding.”

I watch on, silently, tears turning my smoky eye to a charcoal mess as my hero is manhandled toward the back seat of an unmarked cruiser. A stocky officer with a menacing buzzcut opens the back door, and I close my eyes, unable to watch any longer.

“Wildflower.” My eyes fly open at the sound of my dad’s nickname for me. His steely gaze meets mine, infusing me with his courage. “Watch after your mom for me. I’ll call.”

After he was hauled away, Mom and I were coolly informed that anything purchased by him in the last five years was hereby considered seized as evidence—including our home and my mother’s car. I’d never been more thankful that my own vehicle was a sweet-sixteen gift from my grandparents—halle-fucking-lujah.

It was almost a full twenty-four hours before we heard from him, and now we’re verging on hour fifty. He should have called by now, dammit! Finally, at the half hour mark, my cell phone rings. I swipe across the screen to answer so quickly I almost decline the call. “Hello?” I whisper, clutching the phone to my ear.

“You have a collect call from Ken Kellan, an inmate at the King County Jail, a Mississippi State Correctional Facility. To accept the charges for this call, press three—”

I yank the phone away from my ear and open the keypad, all but drilling my finger into the screen. The operator continues on with her spiel, explaining the charges and reminding me that the call is being recorded; none of it matters, though, as long as I get to talk to my dad.