Dealing With Trouble

CHAPTER 4?

Forever passed as I approached him, the doll from the dream house outstretched , tears streaming. He yanked it from my clammy hands, kissed my brow, and walked down the street without us. As we pushed through the crowd, I clutched Mom's hand even tighter, no longer enchanted by the sights. It felt suffocating instead, the buildings twisting and pulsing like my heartbeat.

"Mom, what's the matter with Daddy?" As we sped through the crowd, I inquired.

"Is he all right, Mom?"

"Yes, Honey, but don't worry about what happened earlier." I felt better after she smiled.

But it continues to bother me. He hadn't yelled or raised his voice, but I just knew he was angry, like I could feel it in my bones.

A brief moment of silence... Mom's words are reassuring to me. Until…

"That wasn't your daddy," Mom said, tightening her grip on my hand. "Mr. Chameron was there."

But I didn't understand what she meant until eighth grade, when I had to read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Chameron for English. My father had two faces: one for the rest of the world and one for us; neither lasted.

When we got home that day, I found the doll propped up against the decorative pillows in my bedroom. I picked it up, clutching it to my chest as I reflected on what had occurred. I'd never seen Dad like that before, at least not that I could recall—and the change in him had been so subtle, yet so abrupt, that it had left me dizzy.

I moved quietly toward his office, knocking twice on the door.

"Come in, sweetheart," he said.

As I crossed the threshold, the door creaked open. He swiveled in his chair, saw me standing there with the doll, and smiled. “You appear to have seen a ghost. What's the matter, honey?"

He's back to normal...

"May I have it now?" I inquired because I wanted to be certain. I wanted to make sure he didn't take it again.

“What do you mean, Honey?” he asked.

“The… doll and the dream house?”

"Of course," he said, perplexed. “It's all yours.”

"What makes you think you won't be able to keep it?"

I stood there for a moment, feeling insignificant and out of place. His office was massive, with pictures of Before and after photos of people undergoing surgery He was a plastic surgeon, so there were photos of peeled-back noses and Frankenstein scars everywhere. "Because you said I couldn't unless I went with you."

"No, I didn't," he said as he stood up. He approached me, running his hand through my doll's long hair and gently kissing my cheek. “You must have misinterpreted me."

Then he led me into the hallway, where I stood in a dreamlike state for the next ten minutes, as if a fog had taken over my brain. That fog, in some ways, never lifted.

~

To mentally prepare for my run, I pull on my clothes and put on my sneakers. I started running track in first year year to get Mom off my back about

extracurricular activities and ended up enjoying it.

When I'm pushed to my limits, knowing that the only thing I have to rely on is my own strength and determination is empowering. And when I reach that point, when I feel like I want to die, I somehow feel stronger. Untouchable.

I pause, taking my phone and headphones from the table. The flyer from last night is still on the nightstand, with a boxer's determined face staring up at me. I should toss it, but I'm reminded of how Red Gloves fought the other night, and for a split second, the rage gives way to something I don't recognize. Instead, I tuck it away in a drawer and tiptoe downstairs so as not to wake anyone.

The house, like the others in this section of Granada Hills, is intimidatingly large. It's in a grove with four other houses, with perfectly manicured front lawns and driveways edged with miniature hedgerows. The interior is just as seamless, with dark wooden floors that shine in the light and wide but homey rooms that flow into one another.

I slip onto the street quietly. Taking in the fresh spring air With my headphones on and the fight from Red Gloves still playing in my head, I choose a song from my angry workout playlist and get lost in the routine.

~

Before anyone wakes up, I'm showered and sitting at my vanity table. I run my fingers through the ends of my hair, which started out wavy but now hangs straight as a pin down my back as a finishing touch to my makeup.

My hair and I have a love-hate relationship. The combination of it frizzing up and me being in middle school—where kids are old enough to know how to hurt you but too young to understand the long-term consequences—meant I'd had to put up with the moniker Frizzy Head.

It was the first time a word had stung me, the cold, hard c***k of its whip. I'd always despised the fact that my hair wasn't as curly as Mom's or as straight as Dad's, and now this flaw in myself had been acknowledged and confirmed by someone else.

But I managed to keep it together. I bottled my emotions, smiled like my parents, and the bullies left me alone; it's how I've survived ever since.

It'll be nearly six thirty by the time I'm ready, which means Jamie will be sitting in English right now, my desk beside him empty. I try to squeeze in a video call before he starts his next class, afraid that the distance will have already changed us, but the moment I see him, I feel safe. Home.

"Hey, you." When he sees me, he gives me that bright, lopsided smile. "You have nice hair."

He's also looking good right now—even better than usual. His dark hair is styled into soft, unkempt waves that are pushed away from his brow. His soft ocean blue eyes match the color of his heavy duty jacket. Back in Brooklyn, it's practically still winter, a stark contrast to the early spring light streaming through my balcony doors.