This was sorta a slow chapter to write, sorry :/ But the next one's gonna have a serious twist that I know you're going to love. 
Okay. First off. This is not a love story. Kay? Kay. Just because a teenage girl meets a teenage guy does not mean they're going to fall in love. Sorry.
lol Anways, now that that little rant is done... here it is!
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Chapter Three
When I was twelve, my mom went on this streak where she had a whole week of consecutive good days. I woke up the first morning to the smell of pancakes and bacon wafting beneath my door, and for a few blissful seconds I forgot where I was. For a moment my mind jumped back to years ago and I believed that I would walk out my door and find not only mom frying breakfast on the stove, but also my dad sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, and Rachel sitting across from him picking at her food as well. They would greet me with a ‘good morning’ as I walked in, and Mom would hand me a pile of piping-hot pancakes, and I would sit down next to Rachel. Dad would peer at me over his glasses and we would discuss politics, the weather, everything and nothing all at once. When Rachel wasn’t looking, I would hide her fork and we’d argue good naturedly about it.
And then reality hit me like a freight train. Dad is gone and Rachel is dead.
I finally forced myself out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen to investigate the source of the smell. What I found there was nothing short of a surprise; I was tempted to walk out and then back in again just to make sure what I was seeing there was real.
My mom stood at the stove flipping pancakes, just like my fantasy; Dad and Rachel were still gone, but that was beside the point. For several seconds, I remained frozen; I felt just like I had that time when I was outside and a butterfly landed on my hand. Like this moment was fragile. I was afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to shatter this moment, as though by simply being I could make it all go up in smoke.
“Hi, honey,” Mom greeted me in a chipper tone of voice.
“Uh,” I said blankly, completely unsure of how to react.
“Do you want some pancakes?”
“What... what are you doing?”
“Making breakfast,” she said simply, wrinkling her eyebrows at me as though cooking was something she did every day.
“But... why? What...?” I just let my voice trail off because I had no idea what I was even trying to ask.
“We,” she announced, “are going to Columbus.”
“Columbus?” I asked stupidly, sitting down at the table and trying to figure out what in Columbus was so important that it would warrant this kind of attitude change.
“Joseph Beck,” she said simply, sliding a face-up newspaper at me across the table. I picked it up and stared critically at the front page article, which proclaimed, “World-Famous Magician Joseph Beck to Perform Show at Columbus Expo Center!” Supposedly, he could teleport, make cars disappear and then reappear, and stab swords through boxes and never hit the person inside.
I have to admit, I was intrigued. A real live magician?
“Hurry up and get dressed,” Mom said. “We’re leaving in an hour.” I found this entire situation to be quite odd, but I was too smart to say anything. I would just appreciate it while it lasted.
I shoveled several forkfuls of pancakes in my mouth and then scurried to my room to change my clothes. When I walked back out into the hallway, my mom was already waiting, carrying her purse and wearing a lovely coat I hadn’t seen since before Rachel’s death.
I did a double take. There she was, standing before me, and she looked like a real mom. Her hair was curled, and she was wearing makeup and lovely scented perfume.
“You look nice,” I manage to choke out, and she smiled.
The whole way to Columbus, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. I expected her to have a breakdown in the middle of the car ride, and we would drive back home and pretend that none of this had ever happened. But she never did.
We arrived at the Expo Center in record time, but already the parking lots were crowded past capacity. We ended up having to park a block over in front of a tiny Chinese restaurant. My mom window-shopped at every single store we walked past on the way to the Expo Center - to the point where I literally had to drag her away. She was like a little kid in a candy store, and I was so overwhelmed by her new attitude that I sort of wished she’d go back to her old turtle-like self just so I’d know how to react.
When my mom had a bad day, that’s what she reminded me of - a turtle. Whenever something would set her off, she’d go lay on the couch and curl up in her shell. Have her own little meltdown and pretend the world stopped just as her life had.
On Rachel’s headstone, there is only one name. But really my mom died along with her.
At the door we purchased our tickets - I pretended not to hear the total cost; that was money that we did not have, but it was cheering my mom up, for just a little bit - and were ushered into a large auditorium. We chose seats exactly in the center and waited for the show to begin.
With every passing moment, my mom was getting more and more outwardly excited. “This,” she says, “is going to be amazing.”
And then I understood. All my mom wanted, by being here, was something to believe in. She wanted to know that sometimes fantastic, unexplainable things happened, but that they were real.
The velvety red curtains onstage slid apart and revealed who I presumed was Joseph Beck. My mom was delighted. Every time Joseph Beck did anything - the old-school rabbit-in-the-hat trick, the disappearing car trick - she would beam, a smile I had not seen in a long time.
My mom was right - it was amazing. Everything that he was doing had no explanation - a bus full of people that disappeared before our eyes, a blanket that was flying and floated through hoops to prove it wasn’t hanging from a string.
“For this next trick,” he announced as a giant white canvas covered by a sheet was rolled onstage, “I need a volunteer.” Instantly almost every single hand in the auditorium shot up, but he just shook his head and chuckled. He spun around and suddenly revealed in his hands a metallic ball. Several people on stage spun around the canvas, showing that there was nothing behind it, nothing on either side beneath the sheet. “Whoever catches this,” he said, “you’re my volunteer.” He turned around and threw it back over his head like brides always do at weddings, and much to my horror I saw it flying straight in my direction.
It landed right in my lap.
My mom was more thrilled about this than I was. She grinned and pushed me to my feet before shoving me towards the stage. Suddenly, there were spotlights on me, and my stomach churned because I have never done well under pressure.
I had to push past several people in my row - all of whom gave me dirty looks - before I got to an aisle, at which point I turned and began to stride towards the stage. Truthfully, I did not want to be in his magic act at all. If anyone should have been in, it was my mom, and the only reason I didn’t hand the ball to her was because she seemed delighted that I’d caught it.
I climbed up the stairs onto the stage carefully - with my luck, I would be the person to fall down them in front of everyone. My feet echoed loudly across the stage, and as I surreptitiously glanced around I noticed many panels on the floor that could not be seen from the house. Storage, I thought.
Joseph Beck was much taller than what I’d originally guessed, and I didn’t know if that was due to physical height or simply the fact that he was larger than life.
“Okay,” he announced, slowly rolling up his right sleeve. “I need you to think of two letters - don’t say them out loud just yet - and write them on my arm. And watch, ladies and gentlemen, for I will read her mind and whatever letters she chooses will be the ones that have already appeared on the canvas.” The sleeve he was rolling up was facing away from the audience, where they could not see it. I noticed with horror that there were already two letters written on his arm.
I suddenly realized that this was not magic after all, but just one giant act of deceit. He did not want a volunteer, he wanted someone to go along with his plan. Those were not storage panels on the floor, but trap doors.
As he handed me that marker, I stared into his eyes. How easy it would be, I realized, to show the entire room that he was a fake. But that would mean revealing the truth to my mom, and what she needed now more than ever was something to believe in. He was staring me down - green eyes that looked more suited to a snake than a human being, and I pursed my lips.
If I was going to go along with it, I’d at least make him feel guilty. “You,” I whisper, “are a fake.”
And he smiled. “What letters are you choosing?” Suddenly I hated him. I hated him with a passion that burned like hot coals, for making my mom believe in something that was not real. A sick joke this all was.
To the crowd, I said T and M, the letters already written on his arm. But to him, I whispered F and U.
My mom spent the entire ride home gushing about how amazing that magic show was, how maybe all she needed was a little bit of magic. I did not have the heart to tell her that it was not magic at all, but rather exceptional planning.
My stomach churned. As I was announcing the letters T and M to the crowd, the sheet over the giant canvas had been removed to reveal exactly what I had spoken. Several stage workers spun it around and lifted it up, showing that it was the only one.
Everyone else was amazed that it had read my mind. Me, though, it just made me sick.
* * *
Hortence has locked me in her sauna-like interior.
After Aunt Joanna parked in the driveway, she climbed out without issue. However, Hortence seems to have something against me; my door is completely stuck. I push the lock down - still stuck. I pull it up - still stuck.
Beyond that, Aunt Joanna seems to think this is funny. She is standing outside my door pulling on the other handle, but she isn't helping much. Every five seconds she has to stop because she is laughing.
Finally, I give up trying to get out that door and I climb awkwardly over the center console instead. As soon as I have my hand on the driver's side door handle, the passenger door flies open and Aunt Joanna falls backward onto the driveway still laughing.
Hortence, I think, you and I are going to have it out yet.
I grit my teeth and go to step out of the truck, but as I do I trip over the running board and manage to catch myself on my elbow before landing face down on the driveway.
You’ve got to be kidding me. My first day here, and I’m already being made a fool out of, by a car?
I mutter an un-lady-like curse word and roll over, slowly shaking all of my limbs to make sure that they’re all intact. Thankfully, they are, although I have to admit that I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t; that car hates me.
I look straight up and see Aunt Joanna staring at me, her hair hanging down and framing her face. She is trying not to laugh. “Oh my, God. Are you okay?”
“Uh.. yes?” I say, but it comes out like a question.
“We should probably get you inside before you hurt yourself.”
As I stand up, she walks around to Hortence’s trunk and pulls out my suitcases. There are three of them and she manages to hold every single one. I hold out my arms as she breezes past but either she does not notice or does not want me to carry my own luggage.
I glare over my shoulder at Hortence before following Aunt Joanna - the truck has one headlight out and looks like she is winking at me. Aunt Joanna tosses down my suitcases in front of the step and rummages around in her pocket for the key. She pulls out a credit card, a pack of gum, and a penny before finally finding an over-crowded keyring. It takes her four tries to find the right key. She pushes open the door and leaves my suitcases sitting right where she left them. I stare at them, and then at her as she makes her way into the living room. With quite a bit of effort, I lug them inside and dump them just inside the door. I am unsure of whether or not I should close the front door behind me, so I just leave it standing open.
Aunt Joanna disappears down a hallway off the living room. “Boone?” she calls. “Boone!” There is no reaction, from whoever or whatever Boone is. She reappears in the living room and turns towards the kitchen, which I can see off to the left. “Boone!”
She comes back into the living room rolling her eyes and muttering something about dogs. She looks surprised to see me standing by the door. “Oh! I was going to help you with those. I was just going to introduce you to someone first.”
“Where...are they?” I ask blankly.
“Well, Boone...you know dogs. He probably went outside and found a mud puddle to frolic in. I just wanted you to meet him so you’re not shocked later. He looks ferocious, but trust me, he won’t hurt a fly. Well, that’s not true. He will hurt flies. Just not you.”
“Oh,” I say.
Before I can even ask what she’s doing, Aunt Joanna again picks up all of my luggage and begins carrying it down the far hallway. “Can you shut that door?” she calls over her shoulder.
I do, and then follow her. She leads me all the way to the end of the hall - past at least four closed doors - and stops at a door on the right side. Somehow even with her hands full she manages to swing open the door.
I follow her inside and my first thought is that it looks like a rainbow has come in this room and thrown up. Each wall is a different color - red, purple, blue, pink - the bed is green, the curtains are yellow, and a desk in the corner is obnoxious orange.
“This is your room,” she announces, dumping my suitcases on the bed.
Once I have recovered from color overload enough to speak, I say, “It’s...nice.” It suddenly occurs to me that this is exactly what I said about Hortence and she seemed to take it as an insult. “Lovely,” I correct, clearing my throat.
“It’s a bit, umm.. out of style,” Aunt Joanna says. “We can do some decorating, sometime, if you want. Anyways, I can help you unpack in a few minutes. But first, I wanted to show you some of the Orchids!”
She wants to show me the orchids? I shouldn’t be surprised; after all, this is the same woman who named her car.
Instead of heading outside, as I thought we would, she instead leans over and points out my window. Over her shoulder, I can see the rows of strawberries extending near to far. People work amongst them, kneeling to pick the fruits and set them in woven baskets.
She begins pointing out workers. "That's Amaia, Jose, Juanita, Rosa..." After just a few, my eyes glaze over and the names all run together. Is she seriously expecting me to remember all of them?
Right then, a door slams so hard at the other end of the house that it jars the window we are looking out of.
Aunt Joanna sighs and turns to walk out of the room. I have nothing better to do right now, so I follow her. We go down the hallway, through the living room, and into the kitchen, where a dark haired boy is standing at the counter chopping peppers.
“What was that for?” Aunt Joanna asks, walking up and flipping him in the back of the head. He shrugs and glances at me briefly, as though I am something mundane, something he sees everyday, rather than a new person. I am a bit offended.
“What are you talking about?” he asks flatly, slicing one of the peppers so violently that a piece falls to the ground.
She whirls him to face her. “Why did you slam the door? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he growls in that ‘whatever’ tone of voice that only teenagers can pull off, turning back to the peppers.
She spins him around again and just stares, waiting for a response.
“It happened again,” he finally hisses through clenched teeth. He doesn’t even seem aware that with each syllable he points the knife like a weapon. “I swear to God,” he says, spearing a pepper, and just leaving the knife sticking out of it like that. “Someday.”
She pinches his cheek. “Forget about it. It’s only a matter of time, you know that.”
I clear my throat and they both turn to look at me, shocked, like they’ve forgotten I’m there.
“Right,” Aunt Joanna says, the first to break this awkward silence. “This is-"
Suddenly there is a deep howling from just outside the house, and I wonder if it's this chaotic all the time. Aunt Joanna stops talking and her eyes grow wide. She cusses under her breath before jogging out of the room. "I'll be right back!" she calls over her shoulder, leaving me to stand here with angry pepper chopper.
I sit down at a table against the wall and press my hands against the cool glossy wood.
"So you're Riley, right?" he says flatly, not looking at me.
"Um, yeah," I say, wondering how he knows my name. "What's your name?"
"Alex."
"Oh my, God," I say without thinking. "I can't tell you how nice it is to hear another American name. Aunt Joanna must have pointed out, like, twelve Juanita's and six Jose's." This is supposed to be sort of humorous, but he does not find it funny.
He stops chopping and even though he is facing away from me, I can tell he is clenching his jaw. "Alex," he says, "as in short for Alejandro." He goes back to mutilating the peppers.
"But you're not Mexican," I blurt, and instantly regret it. I'm going to make this kid hate me before he even knows me.
But still, he isn't Mexican. He has dark eyes and dark hair, but there is something about him that is distinctly... white.
He glances at me like I'm an annoying mosquito that won't leave him alone but that he can't find to swat. "And neither are you."
Touche.
I open my mouth and then close it again with the realization that I have nothing to say; or at least, nothing that will make me sound any less like an idiot than I already do.
"So what's wrong with Hispanic names?" he asks, slicing another pepper.
"Well, nothing... I just... I... I have to go."
He smirks at me as I walk out of the room. As I make my way to the rainbow room, I am horrified to discover that a tear has wound its way down my cheek.
I do not belong here. I do not belong anywhere at all.
* * *
Sometimes I wondered - was I supposed to be the peacemaker, or the referee? They screamed at each other, insults flying like ammunition and cutting just as violently.
It was occasionally about stupid things: trash day, dinner, once even toast. But mostly it was about me.
Dad would scream at her; how he was gone ten hours a day and all she had to do was take care of me, but she couldn't even do that. How all she had to do was get her ass off that couch and feed me.
We had been without Rachel for a couple years by then. My mom had already begun her descent into turtle-dom.
She used to just sit on the couch, stare blankly at the television screen but see nothing. The pictures played across her face like emotions. Once I even turned off the TV to get her attention, but she just kept staring at the blank screen. It seemed like she had forgotten I was still alive, like she thought she lost both Rachel and I.
Whenever my parents would fight, I would just get out of the way. Busy myself with an unnecessary task, re-fold clothes that had already been put away, wash dishes I had already washed. But sometimes, it was unavoidable. They'd draw me in, force me to take a side.
And then they'd both be watching me, waiting for me to pick who was right.
That is why to this day I panic when my testimony is the one that everything hinges on.
* * *
My pillow is soaked and my face is streaked with makeup I am not a crier, never have been. I like to think this is because I used more than my quota of tears after Rachel's death and did not have any left for anything else. But now, the waterworks flow.
I cry and cry and cry, muffling my sobs into the pillow and praying no one will come in and find me like this; my door has no lock. I cry because I'm not living with my mom anymore. I cry because everyone thinks she's crazy. I cry because Alex, the only person around here my age, who could have potentially been my confidante, is a jerk. I cry because I have never felt so alone. I cry because I cannot paint, which is what I usually do to get my emotions out.
I roll onto my back, hugging my pillow to my chest, and let myself be hypnotized by the ceiling fan.
I discover for the first time that someone has crudely painted a sky on the ceiling, complete with too-perfect clouds and a smiling sun.
It is hideous. I could re-do it so much better.
Then I know what I am going to do.
I take a deep breath and wipe my nose on my sleeve like a little kid. After calming my breathing more I slowly exit my room. There has to be a bathroom in this hallway, right?
I try the first door, but it's locked. The second opens to a suffocatingly purple bedroom, which I assume to be Aunt Joanna's. The third, finally, leads to a rather large bathroom.
I go to the mirror and stand for nearly five minutes attempting to clean myself up. As soon as I look presentable, I give myself a brief pep talk - don't want to break down crying again - and make my way back into the hallway.
There, I nearly collide with Aunt Joanna, who is scurrying down the hallway like she is on a mission.
"Riley!" she cries when she sees me. "I've been looking for you!"
She is silent, so I assume she wants an explanation. "I was just... in the bathroom." Never mind the fact that this should have been obvious, seeing as how that is where I was walking out of.
"Oh. Right. Well I was wondering, do you like casserole?"
"What kind?" I ask suspiciously.
"Good kind," she assures me with a wink.
"Oh... then, yes?"
"Alright," she says and begins walking away.
"Wait!" I call after her. "Umm... would you mind if I... I mean... could I maybe borrow your car?"
She scrunches her eyebrows. "Hortence?"
"Umm... well, yeah. I guess the airport lost my bag of art stuff and I want to go buy some more, if that's okay."
"Art supplies? How cool!" And this is why I do not tell people that I paint. "I suppose that would be alright. Let me go get the keys for you. Oh, and just a warning, sometimes the accelerator sticks. But it's okay, just jam 'er in reverse and she'll stop." Great, I think sarcastically. "Oh! And let me give you my phone number. I doubt you'll need it. But just in case. And if you can't get ahold of me, I'll give you Alex's too."
She seems far too thrilled that I'm getting out of the house. She probably thinks I'm already starting to adjust and settle in. All I really want, though, is some art supplies so I can paint out all my emotions, like, ironically, how I don't want to be here.
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Critiques please?
