Dark Secrets (11 page)

“
Hey,
Ara.”

I looked up, squinting
in the sun. “Hi?”

“
Do you live around
here, or are you lost?” asked a boy who looked remarkably like my
brother.

“
Uh, yeah—I live just
over there.” I pointed across the road.

“
The house with the
blue door?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Hm.” He nodded,
thoughtful. “That’s pretty cool. Ours is brown.”

I chuckled. “Yeah,
it’s only blue because it’s supposed to be good luck.”

His lips tightened.
“Didn’t know that.”

“
Yeah.” I nodded.
“Well, red’s actually good luck. But, I didn’t have the heart to
tell my mom. She’s old—she gets confused,” I joked.

“
Should just paint it
red, then tell her it’s blue. She probably won’t even notice.” He
smiled down at me and extended his hand. “I’m Spencer, by the
way.”

“
Hi.” I shook
it.

“
Well, I better go.
Later.” He flipped his chin before walking across the road,
disappearing into the shade of dancing maple leaves.

Dad was right. I
nodded to myself. The kids here weren’t so bad.

“
You can go in,”
someone muttered sarcastically from behind.

“
Hey,
Sam.”

“
Hey. What’ya starin’
at?”

“
Cat’s up on the roof
again.”

He chuckled. “So go
get him down.”

“
No way. I already
fell off that roof. Not planning to do it again.”

“
Ha! Yeah, I remember
that. What were you, like, seven, then?”

“
Six, actually.” I
looked at the second storey of the house. “And you shouldn’t laugh.
It was a big fall. I could’ve been killed.”

“
Mom thought you
were, remember?”

“
No.”

“
Don't you remember her running down the stairs behind Dad,
screaming
She’s dead—oh, my God,
Greg—she’s dead?
Vivid memory.” He tapped
his temple. I chuckled. He imitated a very good version of Vicki’s
panicky voice. “That was my first traumatic experience, y’know? And
I owe it all to you.”

“
Well. You’re
welcome.” I rolled my eyes.

“
Isn’t that why Dad
bricked up your balcony door—and put a desk there?”

“
Yes. But probably
also ‘cause it’s harder to sneak out a window than a
door.”

Sam smiled, and
somewhere, as the day had gone on, despite what I felt for him this
morning, I kind of felt a pang of a connection then—seeing my dad’s
eyes in his. “Do you smell that?” he asked.

“
Yeah, Vicki’s making
casserole.” I inhaled the scent of gravy and Italian
herb.

Sam took off running.
“I’ll race you?”

“
Hey. No fair.” I
darted after him, catching up as we both jumped the creaky bottom
step of the porch then burst through the front door.

“
Sam? Ara-Rose, is
that you?” Vicki called from the kitchen.

“
Who else would it
be?” Sam muttered to me as we dumped our schoolbags on the
staircase.

“
Come in here and
have a snack before homework please,” she called.

As I walked into the
dining area to the left, Italian herb blended warmly with garlic
and onion, sparking a flashback of cold winters and roast dinners.
But the oak dining table by the window, littered with Vicki’s
scrapbooking mess, and the island counter sitting centre to dark
wood kitchen cabinets, held too much class above the little beach
house I grew up in, obliterating any sense of ‘coming home’ after a
long day.

“
Did you shut the
front door? You’re letting all the cool air out,” Vicki yapped from
her position at the counter.

Sam waltzed past,
grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. “Sorry—I got homework to
do.”

“
What, and I
don’t?”

He shrugged, biting
his apple, and wandered into the forbidden formal rooms through an
archway on the other side of the kitchen.

“
You’re such a pain,
Sam.”

“
Be nice, Ara-Rose,”
Vicki warned.

I groaned and headed
back to the entranceway, slammed the front door, then stomped into
the kitchen again.

“
Tough day?” Vicki
asked.

“
No. Why?”

“
You just seem
moodier than your usual self.”

“
Moody? I’m never
moody.” I grabbed an apple and plonked into a dining chair facing
the window. Outside, across the road, football practice was in
full-swing, with shirtless guys running back and forth across the
grass. I kind of wished David were on the team this year so I could
sit on the tree stump and watch him train. Then again, Vicki would
probably be sitting right here, in the chair, watching me watch
him. I knew she’d been sitting in it just before we came in,
probably watching me talk to that kid Spencer, because the seat was
still warm.

“
So?” Vicki said.
“How was school?”

My eyes narrowed. That
wasn’t just a question formed out of a light attempt at decent
conversation—it was a probe; she wanted me to tell her she was
right—that school wasn't as bad as I thought—and busying herself
washing coriander couldn’t disguise that meddlesome undertone. She
should’ve known better. After all, it was her profession. Okay, so
she hadn’t worked as a psychiatrist since she married my dad, but
she still practiced—on me. “School was fine,” I muttered absently,
fingering through the tablecloth of photos and cardboard
frames.

“
Did you make any
friends?”

“
No one makes friends
on the first day, Vicki.”

“
Oh. I’m sorry to
hear that.”

She wasn't sorry. She
didn't really care.

“
Did you see any cute
guys?” her tone became light, suggestive.

Did she really think I
was that clueless—that I wouldn’t notice her trying to get me to
open up? With a short sigh, I bit into my apple, licking the sweet
juice as it spilled onto my lip.

“
Ara-Rose?” she
prompted.

“
What?”

“
I asked you a
question.”

I sat back, rolling my
eyes. She wasn't going to let this go. She was hell-bent on having
a ‘conversation’ with me this afternoon. If I didn't attempt to
‘play along’, she’d tell my dad I was exhibiting anti-social
behaviour again.

“
Ara-Rose?” she said,
standing right beside me.

“
Cute guys? Uh…yes.”
I grinned widely, keeping my face down. “A guy that’s so cute he
makes Stefan look like a dweeb.”

“
Who’s
Stefan?”

I groaned. “Never
mind. He’s cute, he’s fictional—that’s all that
matters.”

“
Do you…like
him?”

“
Who,
Stefan?”

“
No, this boy you saw
today.”

“
Like
him?”

“
Yeah, do you like
him?” she repeated.

Yes, I
do
. “No. I just met him. But he’s
cute.”

She breathed out, her
shoulders dropping. The movement was small, but so obvious to me; I
was accustomed to the casual displays of indifference she used in
order to psychologically assess or relate to me. She counted on the
fact that I was a docile teen with no clue what went on around me.
Clearly, she’d never been a teenager. I knew all the tricks, and I
never gave anything away about my psychological well-being. I
wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

She walked away again,
and I shifted the photos until the dark wood of the table bared
itself from under them. Not one of those photos was of me. I spent
every summer and at least six winters here since I was a child, but
the absence of my face in these scrapbooks was just another
indicator that I really was just a walk-in—a temporary fixture made
permanent by circumstance. I was like a painting you hung on the
wrong wall using your last nail.

“
Did you sit with
anyone at lunch?” Vicki asked.

I spun around again
and watched her fussing about near the stove. “Yes.”

“
Well, that’s good. I knew you wouldn’t end up sitting
alone—even though you were
so sure
you would.” She laughed
lightly.

“
Guess you were
right.”

She ignored my
disingenuous tone, tipping the chopping block over the pot,
breaking the cloud of steam as she scraped the veggies in. “So, do
you like any of your teachers?”

“
No.”
But my friend likes your
husband.

“
What about Dad?
You’re in his class, right?”

“
Yeah, but he gives boring lectures.”
I assume. Not that I was listening.

“
Well, don’t tell him
that—you’ll hurt his feelings.”

Feelings? Do dads have
feelings? Almost as if his past self heard me, his smiling face
appeared among the pile of photos. He was so much younger then. His
hair was darker and the crinkles around his eyes weren't as deep.
Vicki was younger, too. Her hair was still the same straight
blonde, but her thin, white face had no smile lines. They were
abysmal now, running down from her nose to the outside corners of
her mouth like a V… for Vicki.

“
What did you think
of the cafeteria food?” Vicki asked, tasting her
casserole.

I spun my apple core
between my fingers and watched her rinse the spoon off under the
tap. “It was okay. Pricey, though.”

“
Shall I give you
some extra money tomorrow—did you have enough today?” She looked up
with round eyes of concern.

“
Actually, I didn’t
use my own money.”

“
Well,
how—”

“
Someone offered to spot me.”
Well,
forced me to let them.

“
Oh, that was nice.
Who was it?”

“
A guy named David
Knight.”

“
Hm. David…David,”
she muttered his name under her breath, her brow wrinkles
deepening. “Nope. Never heard of him.”

I shrugged.

“
Well,” she said,
“sounds like you’ve made an impression, Ara-Rose. I told you people
would like you—you’re a very lovely girl.”

I dropped the snotty
teen facade and sat back against my chair. It was hard to be
hostile when she wouldn't take the confrontation bait. “Um, thanks,
I mean, that’s great and all, but I don’t think being a
lovely girl
is an asset
in high school these days, Vicki. Also, I’m just gonna go by Ara
now.”

“
Oh? Really? But you
always loved your name. What does your dad think of
that?”

“
Well, it’s
my
name.”

“
But you were given
the name Rose for a reason, dear. I know it would break your
fathe—”

“
Mike always called
me just Ara, Vicki. It doesn't bother me, so it shouldn't bother my
dad.”

“
Okay.” She nodded
and turned back to the stove. “If you’re sure?”

But I wasn't sure. I
didn't want to drop the Rose. I didn't want to go to a new school,
make new friends—pretend to be something I just wasn't sure I could
be anymore. “I’ll be in my room,” I said, shoving my chair out. “I
have a lot of homework to do.”

“
Okay,
Ara
,”
Vicki called after me with a hint of detest behind my new
name.

Why did she have to
make it worse? She could just be nice about it—supportive, even. I
mean, on what twisted version of this story was I supposed to seek
my dad’s permission to omit my middle name? I felt like kicking
something.

“
Is Mom still
cooking?” Sam asked, coming in through the arch on the
right.

“
Yes,
why?”

He grinned, dropped
his books in his schoolbag, then dumped it back on the stair. “I'm
gonna watch TV. Don't tell, okay?”

“
She’ll hear
it.”

He held up his
wireless headphones.

“
Whatever,” I said,
grabbing my bag, and stomped up the stairs. As I pushed my door
open, it swung back and hit the wall, making my open window rattle.
But the heat in my temper simmered a little at the sight of dancing
prisms on my lemon walls, like rainbow butterflies, as the
afternoon sun reached through the crystals on my windows,
reflecting life around the room.

Back home, my room
faced west, and the setting sun would cast golden rays of blinding
light through my window, igniting the whole room ablaze with a
warm, orange glow. I’d lay on my bed, talking to Mike on the phone,
watching the prancing spectrums perform their final act for the
day. But here, my window faced east, giving me only morning sun.
Dad, somehow, knew how much that daily routine meant to me, so he
bought these
Plane Mirrors
and even let me climb out my window—after I threw
a tantrum about independence—to position them carefully so they’d
catch the light of the retiring sun. It was just a little piece of
magic, from a childhood passed, that he wanted me to hold
onto.