Page 66 of A Dead Man's B-Side
The floor didn’t creak as I approached and pressed myself against the wall next to it, listening to the voices filling the otherwise silent night.
“Do not misunderstand me, Rain Jett, you have built something for yourself here. That, I will acknowledge, however, it is something I expect from you.”
It was silent for a few moments, and I leaned forward to see what was happening inside.
Rain.
Rain, the student body president who made even the most conniving of students want to avoid any run-ins with her, stood to attention with her head bowed. Even from here, I could see her lips pressing together, almost in a struggle to keep the words she wished to speak from coming out.
Out of fear?
The woman standing in front of her had to be her mother. The resemblance was uncanny, but the similarities in body language were even more so–at least when Rain wasn’t holding herself back.
It was almost as if she was reducing herself to fit the persona her mother expected from her, which was ironic considering her mother’s words, to say the least.
“Scarlett would not be so disappointing as you have proven to be. It is such an unfortunate shame that your grandmother insisted on your appointment into the Founder’s Society.”
Her words, the words that made her aging face twist into a malicious scowl, made me freeze despite my already unmoved body. I held my breath at the shock her words rang through me.
Rain pushed further into herself; her hands didn’t dare curl into fists, but I didn’t miss the way they twitched. Or perhaps they were planning on reaching for the letter opener lying on the desk they were standing too close to.
It would be so easy, too.
Rain’s voice came out softer than I’d ever heard it, “My appointment was simply because of my age. Every twenty y–”
Her mother laughed harshly, the sound burning into my ears, unpleasant memories boiling just at the surface of my skin. “If you really believe that, you truly are the failure I tried convincing myself you weren’t.”
Watching this side of Rain reminded me that I really didn’t know anything about her. The person in front of me was too meek to be Rain Atlas Jett. And maybe that's why she hated Marigold so much. Maybe she just saw her own reflection.
“I thought Marlon was the failure. Huh? Matter of fact, where is he? Where is my broth–”
The first time Rain’s voice came out strong, getting louder with each word out of her mouth during that conversation, allowed me to understand why she didn’t do it often. She barely finished her sentence when her mother’s hand, as quick as a viper, cracked down across her cheek. Rain’s head whipped to the side, and I couldn’t see her expression as she remained frozen in that position. She didn’t dare cradle the now red skin.
I cringed at the sound, the image. The skin on my scalp felt too tight, the kind that didn’t go away no matter how hard you scratched.
Though, it wasn’t something that bothered her mother as she spoke, her tone like poison dripping from between her lips, “Mention Marlon again and you can forget coming home for the holidays. Do I make myself clear?”
Rain’s nod was almost hard to catch; the only way I’d caughtit was by the swaying of her hair.
I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t stay after that. In fact, I didn’t remember deciding to leave, or leaving, for that matter.
I blinked, and I was in front of my dorm, unlocking the door and stepping into the dark room almost mechanically.
I blinked again, and I was in the loungewear from my closet, slipping into bed.
I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I did remember that I dreamed. I dreamed and forgot it wasn’t a reality. That I wasn’t back in Chicago under my father’s seedy apartment roof, sitting next to my mother as she lay on the bathroom floor, too high to clean up and take herself to bed.
But as the night continued, the dream changed, and I wasn’t in that small apartment anymore, except I wished that I was. After seeing the messily made bunk beds and the boys' clothes thrown over headboards, I wished to God that I was.
Flashback
Circa 1976
Alexei was proud to say he’d made a friend. He’d like to believe he was too old to care for such mundane things. But he, in fact, was not.
He figured as much at his quick steps up Cassius’ front porch, swinging the unlocked door open and throwing off his shoes by the rack.
“Shoes,” Cassius’ voice sounded from somewhere deep inside, and Alexei barely made it past the entrance before silently groaning, turning back to place them properly on the rack and straighten them the way Cassius and his obsessively organized mind liked.
