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novapsycheSamantha chewed on the paper bag that held her purchase from twenty minutes' prior. She'd traveled to the corner store and procured a Hershey's bar and a quarter-ounce of potato chips, all of which fit in the smallest bag available, one for three ounces. She'd stopped at Charlie's house on the way back, not the way forward, despite the momentous revelation she had for him. She'd planned to keep the purchase surreptitious, but when the words fell out of her mouth, the bag gave her sufficient cover.
"Are you sure?" Charlie asked, his face wan. He'd fallen back from a stance onto the lip of the tub. She hadn't planned on springing such information on him in such a vulnerable place as the bathroom, but here they were, and here she was spilling.
"Yeah," she said. "I took a test; it was positive."
Charlie, with his closely cropped strawberry-blond hair, looked as though he were going to faint. Samantha had never seen a male come close to such a resemblance. True, he already seemed close to such a state, with his mixed heritage and all, but still it was quite a sight. She chewed more on the bag to hide her urge to grin.
"What--what are you going to do?" he asked.
"I plan to keep it," she said, again masticating.
Charlie truly looked about to swoon. He stared at the floor and attempted to reclaim his balance, although he was firmly planted on the edge of his bathtub. Brows knitted, he kept his mouth pressed like two bookends. Samantha retained her air of silence while admiring her handiwork. Charlie stuttered, mentioning something about speaking to her again tomorrow at school. He stumbled out, apparently leaving her to find her her exit from his home.
Samantha indeed found the door, traipsed through and began her walk home, visibly smiling. He'd bought her story in utter entirety. The hilarity lay in the fact that Samantha was notoriously a bad liar. A tic would give her away, or some rhetorical anomaly: an inadvertent pause, a downward look, a revelatory stress in her choice of words. This time she had a prop! An unintentional prop, to be sure--she'd stopped at the store as a matter of circumstance, not in alignment with her proposed deceit--but useful nonetheless.
She suppressed the impulse to skip home. Instead, she maintained her steady, dolorous pace.
* * *
"Samantha!" A familiar, masculine voice made itself unmistakably loud.
Instinctively, Samantha looked at the clock. Only a matter of hours had passed since she'd arrived home and begun painting her nails. She trudged through the hallway toward the living room, where she was being summoned.
Her father was a hulk of a man: six feet and two inches, a veritable giant as far as a thirteen-year-old was concerned. Tricep to tricep he was forty-two inches around--not a bodybuilder but no slouch, either. As she entered the living room, she almost shrank from his height and breadth. What could he possibly want? She'd not been in trouble at school. She was never a trouble at school. Truth be told, she was often called a teacher's pet, as she bonded with her superiors better than with her peers. What could be behind his calling of her name, in such an awful, accusatory tone rarely heard? She skulked into the room, a turtle with her neck. She took a seat on the sofa without being told.
Her mother stood beside and behind her father, an afterthought.
She looked up at her father. He stared back at her, his solid brown eyes never wavering, diverting or blinking. His pupils neither dilated nor contracted: he was as constant as the morning sun, his eyes nearly as fulgent. Samantha peered at him then at the carpet, his gaze so striking as not to be countenanced.
"We got a call from Charlie's mother today," he began. Samantha's mother shifted in the background.
Samantha's breath snagged in her throat.
A moment passed with only glances exchanged.
"If you're pregnant, you're damned well going to have an abortion," her father said, his calm words flecked with steel.
"I'm not pregnant," Samantha stated plainly. "I came down with my period today." She crossed her arms and looked out the picture window. Dusk was setting with its attendant chill and, soon, its precipitous dew. Traffic on the country road had dwindled to bare streaks of headlights, large chapters of darkness in their wake.
Her subjacent mother stirred at this news. Her father, however, huffed, his black and green patterned shirt rippling along with his movements. He stood akimbo and flared his nostrils as though in disbelief. "Because you will have an abortion," he said again.
"I'm not pregnant!" Samantha exclaimed.
Her father's closely cropped black hair appeared to stand on its microscopic end. "Did you enjoy it?" he asked.
Samantha could only stare at him.
"Did you enjoy it?" he reiterated.
Samantha narrowed her focus. "That's none of your business," she said, simultaneously trying to determine why her father would even ask her such a question. When he stepped forward, she said, "Yes! Yes, I did!" Her father scowled, muttering something about how she was too young to even know. Samantha rolled her eyes. When she saw that the fire had fled from his face, she got up and retreated to her room.
Her mother called after her, but even then Samantha could tell that any words from her would be as weak as an echo: the vodka had crept into her voice, an irregularity in her treble. It didn't help that Samantha's mother was smaller than she was: the woman stood at just over five feet, a hundred pounds on a good day. On a straight day, she was as gorgeous as hyacinths, but when she drank to excess she was demonic. That night, she was in-between: enough to be wary of but not enough to fear. Her steps were full, not a stumble; her voice carried true as an arrow.
"What were you doing down there?" her mother nearly spat at her, emphasizing the dental in her speech. Samantha, already seated on her bed, turned her head from the woman with arms crossed along her bent knees.
"You'd better answer me," she said, snakes hidden in her voice. Still Samantha said nothing.
Five seconds later, the silent daughter felt the sting of rubber on her right cheek. What was that? The heat of pain stunned her as she looked down, near her feet: it was her own pink gym shoe, launched from the easy fingers of her transfigured mother, whose eyes had dimmed into slits.
Samantha pondered for three brief seconds, then began to wail. Her diminutive mother turned and tottered down the short hallway to her own bedroom. Within moments, her father's frame filled the doorway. "What's going on here?"
Samantha, never one to cry in front of others, let her tears course. "She hit me--with that!" she said, pointing at the implement. "Mama hit me!" She resumed sobbing audibly.
Her father pivoted and stepped toward his bedroom. He closed the door. Samantha could hear muffled words ("Did you [inexplicable] Sam [inexplicable]?" "Yeah, so?"), then reclined on her bed as the unmistakable sound of fist upon flesh reverberated through the surrounding stillness.
"Are you sure?" Charlie asked, his face wan. He'd fallen back from a stance onto the lip of the tub. She hadn't planned on springing such information on him in such a vulnerable place as the bathroom, but here they were, and here she was spilling.
"Yeah," she said. "I took a test; it was positive."
Charlie, with his closely cropped strawberry-blond hair, looked as though he were going to faint. Samantha had never seen a male come close to such a resemblance. True, he already seemed close to such a state, with his mixed heritage and all, but still it was quite a sight. She chewed more on the bag to hide her urge to grin.
"What--what are you going to do?" he asked.
"I plan to keep it," she said, again masticating.
Charlie truly looked about to swoon. He stared at the floor and attempted to reclaim his balance, although he was firmly planted on the edge of his bathtub. Brows knitted, he kept his mouth pressed like two bookends. Samantha retained her air of silence while admiring her handiwork. Charlie stuttered, mentioning something about speaking to her again tomorrow at school. He stumbled out, apparently leaving her to find her her exit from his home.
Samantha indeed found the door, traipsed through and began her walk home, visibly smiling. He'd bought her story in utter entirety. The hilarity lay in the fact that Samantha was notoriously a bad liar. A tic would give her away, or some rhetorical anomaly: an inadvertent pause, a downward look, a revelatory stress in her choice of words. This time she had a prop! An unintentional prop, to be sure--she'd stopped at the store as a matter of circumstance, not in alignment with her proposed deceit--but useful nonetheless.
She suppressed the impulse to skip home. Instead, she maintained her steady, dolorous pace.
"Samantha!" A familiar, masculine voice made itself unmistakably loud.
Instinctively, Samantha looked at the clock. Only a matter of hours had passed since she'd arrived home and begun painting her nails. She trudged through the hallway toward the living room, where she was being summoned.
Her father was a hulk of a man: six feet and two inches, a veritable giant as far as a thirteen-year-old was concerned. Tricep to tricep he was forty-two inches around--not a bodybuilder but no slouch, either. As she entered the living room, she almost shrank from his height and breadth. What could he possibly want? She'd not been in trouble at school. She was never a trouble at school. Truth be told, she was often called a teacher's pet, as she bonded with her superiors better than with her peers. What could be behind his calling of her name, in such an awful, accusatory tone rarely heard? She skulked into the room, a turtle with her neck. She took a seat on the sofa without being told.
Her mother stood beside and behind her father, an afterthought.
She looked up at her father. He stared back at her, his solid brown eyes never wavering, diverting or blinking. His pupils neither dilated nor contracted: he was as constant as the morning sun, his eyes nearly as fulgent. Samantha peered at him then at the carpet, his gaze so striking as not to be countenanced.
"We got a call from Charlie's mother today," he began. Samantha's mother shifted in the background.
Samantha's breath snagged in her throat.
A moment passed with only glances exchanged.
"If you're pregnant, you're damned well going to have an abortion," her father said, his calm words flecked with steel.
"I'm not pregnant," Samantha stated plainly. "I came down with my period today." She crossed her arms and looked out the picture window. Dusk was setting with its attendant chill and, soon, its precipitous dew. Traffic on the country road had dwindled to bare streaks of headlights, large chapters of darkness in their wake.
Her subjacent mother stirred at this news. Her father, however, huffed, his black and green patterned shirt rippling along with his movements. He stood akimbo and flared his nostrils as though in disbelief. "Because you will have an abortion," he said again.
"I'm not pregnant!" Samantha exclaimed.
Her father's closely cropped black hair appeared to stand on its microscopic end. "Did you enjoy it?" he asked.
Samantha could only stare at him.
"Did you enjoy it?" he reiterated.
Samantha narrowed her focus. "That's none of your business," she said, simultaneously trying to determine why her father would even ask her such a question. When he stepped forward, she said, "Yes! Yes, I did!" Her father scowled, muttering something about how she was too young to even know. Samantha rolled her eyes. When she saw that the fire had fled from his face, she got up and retreated to her room.
Her mother called after her, but even then Samantha could tell that any words from her would be as weak as an echo: the vodka had crept into her voice, an irregularity in her treble. It didn't help that Samantha's mother was smaller than she was: the woman stood at just over five feet, a hundred pounds on a good day. On a straight day, she was as gorgeous as hyacinths, but when she drank to excess she was demonic. That night, she was in-between: enough to be wary of but not enough to fear. Her steps were full, not a stumble; her voice carried true as an arrow.
"What were you doing down there?" her mother nearly spat at her, emphasizing the dental in her speech. Samantha, already seated on her bed, turned her head from the woman with arms crossed along her bent knees.
"You'd better answer me," she said, snakes hidden in her voice. Still Samantha said nothing.
Five seconds later, the silent daughter felt the sting of rubber on her right cheek. What was that? The heat of pain stunned her as she looked down, near her feet: it was her own pink gym shoe, launched from the easy fingers of her transfigured mother, whose eyes had dimmed into slits.
Samantha pondered for three brief seconds, then began to wail. Her diminutive mother turned and tottered down the short hallway to her own bedroom. Within moments, her father's frame filled the doorway. "What's going on here?"
Samantha, never one to cry in front of others, let her tears course. "She hit me--with that!" she said, pointing at the implement. "Mama hit me!" She resumed sobbing audibly.
Her father pivoted and stepped toward his bedroom. He closed the door. Samantha could hear muffled words ("Did you [inexplicable] Sam [inexplicable]?" "Yeah, so?"), then reclined on her bed as the unmistakable sound of fist upon flesh reverberated through the surrounding stillness.