This is version two.. i tried to make it less confusing but i think things do become more clear as they go on through the chapters. And you have to read the preface.
Ella XOX
Chapter 1
I faced my opponent with courage. She had beaten me many times before, but at the end of this dispute, it would be I who was victorious. It had to be. Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth twitched into a sly grin. Clutched against her chest was my most prized possession; the one thing I had never, ever wanted her to know about.
”Java…” I whispered slowly, as if taking to a rabid animal, one that might snap at any moment, “Java, please.” I pleaded, taking a cautious step towards her. She mirrored me, taking one backwards into her bedroom.
“You want it back? You’ll have to get dad to get it, wont you?” she jeered
“Java, you know I can’t. I swear, I’ll do anything. Anything! Please, please.”
Her eyebrows flicked upwards, “Anything? Anything at all?”
I nodded, my mouth dry as I watched her consider. She was nine years old after all; there must be something I could do for her. However tiring, however humiliating it may be, it would be worth regaining the possession of what she was now staring at, contemplating.
“Anything.” She repeated. It was not a question.
I wondered what she’d make me do. For now that I was sure she had dreamt up some obscure and demanding task for me, I was positive I would get my notebook back. My notebook: my cache of secrets, my vault of dreams and ideas and obscenities about her and her parents. Of course, Java couldn’t read, but she could tell what was what and when something was wrong… and though Java was illiterate, her parents, my parents, - though one of them anyway, Paulo was my step-dad – were perfectly able to read. As was I. I could write too.
Reading and Writing weren’t important to Mitchie and Paulo; they were travelers, musicians, and if Java could translate from English to Arabic, from Spanish to Urdu, and sang like an angel, she was perfect. But putting “Java” and “Perfect” in the same sentence, was something I would hesitate over.
Though they went touring all over Europe, sometimes with Java, Mitchie and Paulo never went together. One of them was always in the house; usually Paulo. When I took the occasional venture downstairs, it was always Paulo I saw. Sometimes I thought they were guarding me. Making sure I didn’t escape. They sure as hell never let me out of the house. I hadn’t seen had barely left the house in the last six years I’d lived with them.
The first memory I have of living here was when I was five years old. I had been in the garden with Mitchie; back when she was young and pretty and fair. I adored the old Mitchie.
We were sitting on the swing seat; she was talking to me and laughing as if I was an adult too. Mitchie always had a way of making you feel included. Paulo was there as well, pouring cups of ice tea for Mitchie and me, and Pimms for himself. He had a camera, and was taking hilarious shots of us all on the swing seat. Then, Mitchie had been struck with pain. My world swam as she doubled over, causing me to fall off the swing seat, hitting the ground hard. I clutched the grass with tiny pink fists. From the moment my hands caught me on the ground, mine, and not Mitchie, not Paulo’s, I knew I was looking after myself.
That was the day Mitchie went into labor with Java. She and Paulo disappeared off to hospital, leaving me with no one for company, by myself in the house. When they came back, five hours later, she was cradling a screaming red demon-baby, cooing at it like a bird. She didn’t glance at me. That was when I was shunted to the smaller room. Where I lived now.
“Ok, I’ve decided.” Java brought me back to reality.
“Alright.” I straightened out of my aggressive crouch, so that I was at my full height, looking down at her. But only by a few inches.
She looked at me, suddenly aggressive, and said, “You mustn’t tell anyone, ok? If you do, I swear, I’ll show dad.”
In a normal situation I would have contradicted her, but tiny Java looked so serious, so sincere and so… afraid? I couldn’t find the words to say.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Teach me.” She said simply, “Teach me to do it like you.”
I was confused, and surprised, “Teach you what?” I didn’t think Java would have ever wanted me in a superior position to her, least that of a teacher.
“Tess, I’ve seen you do it. I want to as well. I want… I want to write like you do. I never went to school like you did.”
“Mum taught you.” My rational brain continued the conversation, whilst my subconscious screamed warnings at me.
“I forgot how,” she paused, “and you can never, ever tell anyone, Ok?”
“Uh…” I was confused. Java wanted to write? Java Sean, daughter of Mitchie and Paulo Sean, so unopposed to learning that they would lock up their daughters to keep them from “the dangers” of it? I thought they had drummed it into their little star so hard; ‘all you need is your music’ and ‘speaking is the only step’. And Java had lapped it up, enjoying the attention and the spoiling.
“You want to write?” I voiced my opinion through my tone, rather than my words.
“Don’t sneer at me,” she snapped, “If you tell mum and dad I’ll burn this notebook.” Her tone reminded me who I was talking to. She was my master, my suppressor, but suddenly my…sister?
“I’m not sneering…” Too late, I had been, “I just…why? I’m not sure why you want to know how? I mean, what would you want to write for?” I admit, I hadn’t expected Java to be an incredible writer. But then again, she was part-Mitchie. Mitchie had been the fountain of stories. She told exotic tales of her travels, enchanting faerie stories that almost seemed real, keeping my interest alive. I brushed angry tears out of my eyes.
Java suddenly looked sheepish, her cheeks blushing red, and her eyes sparkling with water. I felt, for the first time in my life, compassion for her.
“Why should I tell you?” she was defensive, “You don’t care. You never cared from the start.”
“Why should I have cared?” I was angry now, on the verge of shouting, “You stole my parents! I loved them, and they loved me, and when you came, I was pushed aside! They only wanted you.” My voice crackled to a whisper, and I sank onto the step outside Java’s pastel pink bedroom. “They only wanted you.”
Java paused, my back was to her, I had completely caved, offered her the cusp of my vulnerability. I wondered what she would do. Then, she did the thing I was least expecting. She sat, awkwardly still, beside me on the step.
“I didn’t think you cared.” She admitted, “When I was younger, you used to play by yourself. I thought you hated me. And then, when you were older… I wanted mum to myself, “she bowed her head, “I liked that they favored me. Because I was so jealous of you. But then I missed my chance. I think Mitchie loved you, deep down, but you were so isolated. You developed into very different people and it was easy for Mitchie to forget.”
I turned to faced her, only one word had caught my attention, “Why were you jealous of me? I would give anything to have just one day back with my mum. My real mum, Mitchie. When you came, she changed. She loves you so much more than she could ever love me. Why do you think I stay up here so much? Hell if I went down there now she wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Tess…” Java looked uncomfortable. Java looked uncomfortable. I was discovering a whole new, human side to her, “Tess, when was the last time you saw mum?” I thought. That one took a lot of considering.
“December, three years ago. At Christmas.” I decided, remembering the tale with delight.
“Oh.” Java turned away, her birds-nest hair hiding her face, “I think… I think there’s something you ought to see, Tess.”
Mitchie swam into my memory. “Java, is mum ok?”
She didn’t answer, disappearing into her room. It only took her a minute to find what she was looking for.
At first, I didn’t quite understand; in her hand she held a newspaper clipping. The date on the reverse read February. And it was dated two years ago. She handed me the paper.
“I’m sorry…”
I looked at the paper. The section Java had saved was the obituaries page. I scanned it, a sense of dread growing inside me. Then I saw her name. It was so obvious, that I hadn’t quite realized it yet. I was still in a daze of confusion.
“But – but this is Mitchie’s obituary.” Hell, why did I still call her that? She was my mother.
“I know.” replied Java, one of her warm hands entwining with mine, “It was six years ago, February. She had Tuberculosis. I never knew until the day she died,”
She died? My subconscious had abandoned screaming at me and short-circuited ages ago.
Java continued, her voice was harsh and saddened with grief, more like her old self, but she seemed determined that I should know the whole story; “I was downstairs with her. It was New Years; Paulo was in the kitchen, getting more beer.”
Her voice was tinged with sadness, and I felt a rush of sympathy as I remembered that Paulo was her real dad, she had watched him go through the phases of losing his mind.
“And then, she -” I tuned Java’s voice out, she didn’t need to explain to me the symptoms of tuberculosis. I felt numb. It couldn’t really sink in properly, Mitchie, mum, dead?
“Java.” She stopped talking, and I felt her hand pull away from mine.
“Sorry, Tess.” In a flash of birds nest black hair, she retreated into her room. I stared at the picture on the obituary. Mum’s face was beaming out of it, and you could just see a tiny pink arm around her shoulder, my arm. It was the picture of the day she went into labor. The day she left my life.
I think you should go over your work and edit it just to make sure it all makes sense considering their ages.
