The Enemy of Time, page 2
“No, thank you. I don’t feel like seeing the fire department today.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not making you use the stove after last time … I need your help with chopping.”
“I can’t. I don’t have medical insurance, and I like all my fingers attached.”
“You don’t have medical insurance!?” Judgment bounced off the four walls of my room; my safe place was compromised.
Flinging my comforter off my limp body, I physically grabbed my legs to throw them over the side of the bed. My heels smacked the floor as I used the edge of my side table to force my body upwards. Everything around me blurred as if windshield wipers had washed my eyes, and my mind spun faster than the teacup ride at Disneyland.
Once my vision and brain rejoined reality, the blood slowly rushed back to my head, allowing me to move one foot in front of the other. How can the most straightforward task of getting out of bed feel as taxing as running a marathon?
Stumbling like a drunk down each step of the staircase, my bare toes finally hit the old wooden floor, filling the room with a familiar crackling sound that echoed through the hall. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, hoping to hear that magical high-pitched squeak once again. I thought about how many times I had listened to those rusty nails move up and down during my childhood, but I never stopped to appreciate it, to value the history and memories that had been pounded into these old wooden floors. Then again, I hadn’t appreciated a lot of the things I’d had.
Walking down the hallway past the living room and dining room into the kitchen, my nose was met with a surprisingly mouthwatering fragrance. It wasn’t that my mom was a bad cook by any means; she didn’t enjoy cooking unless it was breakfast. So typically, when it was her night to make dinner, she’d hand Lucas and me six takeout menus, and we could pick out whatever we wanted if we could agree on something, which usually ended in a very violent game of rock-paper-scissors and one time a hospital trip for a broken finger.
Lucas’s dad, Julian, made most of the meals in the household. Food was his passion; he even studied in Europe during his twenties, but when his dad passed away, he took over the family hardware store. Julian passed down his love of cooking to Lucas when he was finally old enough to hold a knife, and like everything else in life, Lucas excelled.
As soon as my foot hit the transition between the hallway's wood floor and the kitchen's black hexagon tile, it was clear that the miraculous smell was not my mother’s Lean Cuisine in the microwave. My brother, hovering over the stove, stood like an obnoxiously perfect Greek statue.
“How did he somehow get taller?” I murmured under my breath as I shuffled my feet to the kitchen island. I propped my elbows on the surface, allowing my chin to find the perfect resting position on the palms of my hands. I couldn’t tell if it was the concrete counters or the icy chill of unspoken words that sent a wave of shivers through me.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said, the words coming out more jagged than intended. Exhaustion could be blamed, but truthfully, being in a room with Lucas felt like being in a room with your principal; you know you’re getting detention, but you’re not ready to admit you did anything wrong.
“Five years. After five years of freezing me out, that’s the first thing you say to me?” His voice was deeper than I remembered. Ever since middle school, he had sounded like a captivating audiobook—mesmerizing and enduring. Now, it sounded rough and removed like a wind blowing through a hollow canyon.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” After chewing on the inside of my cheek like a piece of bubble gum, I continued, “Mom yelled for me to come down and help her with dinner.” I looked around the kitchen to find any trace of my mother’s whereabouts, “But obviously, I’ve been tricked.”
Lucas chuckled, still keeping his eyes locked on the boiling water. “Yeah, I figured she was up to something. Same old Monica. Remember when she locked us in that shed outside when you blamed me for breaking your toy?”
“You did break my toy!”
Lucas flipped around, meeting me stare for stare, his arms crossed over his massive chest and his eyebrows raised. “No, I accidentally stepped on your transformer, barely bending its leg, and you retaliated by smashing it into my head.”
“Yeah, and your big-ass head broke it in half!”
“I had a black eye in my first-grade yearbook photo.”
“Karma’s a bitch.”
“Then you must be related.”
Biting my lip to keep from grinning, I refused to give him the satisfaction of winning an argument. “You better keep an eye on your water before it burns.”
“The only person in the world capable of burning water is you,” Lucas smirked as he picked the wooden spoon back up.
“That only happened once, and it was your fault for leaving a child unsupervised with a gas stove.”
“You were sixteen.” His thick eyebrow raised at me.
“Which still legally constitutes a child!”
“Is that your same argument for the cookie disaster of 2015?”
“If the baking industry didn’t want kitchens to be burned down, then they shouldn’t make parchment paper and wax paper look the same!”
A subtle twitch of Lucas’s facial muscles betrayed his soldier boy exterior. Despite his best efforts, his eyes crinkled at the corners, hinting at the light joy bubbling beneath the surface; then, almost like a sneeze, a flicker of surprised laughter escaped. His posture stiffened as if the action physically pained him.
“I miss this,” he said under his breath. I’m not sure if he was speaking to me or himself, but those three words hit like a ruler slapping against my skin.
“I’m sorry.” My voice came out as a rattle. Lucas's big eyes locked with mine, and for the first time in five years, I felt like I was home.
“I know.” A silent understanding passed between us. “Here, why don’t you help me with the dessert?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I grimaced.
“No. But if this mushy gushy moment continues, I’m going to turn into you, and that’s a fate worse than death.”
“Ha, ha! Very funny, soldier boy.”
“Ouch! Haven’t been called that since high school.”
“Looks like the shoe still fits.”
“Careful now; if you don’t behave, I’ll call Monica back in here to supervise you.”
Throwing my hands in the air, I surrendered to his threat. “Okay, so what exactly do I do with this?” I glared at the sliced apples and cinnamon.
“Everything is pretty much done; you just have to put it all together.” My puzzled expression must have been evident, because Lucas walked over and began explaining the baking process, as if teaching a second grader to spell. “It’s simple. First, put some flour on the counter and roll the pastry dough large enough to cover the pie dish. I already prepared the apple filling, so all you have to do is assemble the pie. Pour the apple filling into the pie dish, then roll out another portion of pastry dough and create a lattice pattern by cutting thin strips and weaving them together. Lastly, place the crust over the filling, seal the edges, and place the pie in the oven.”
“That sounded like another language!” I stood there dumbfounded.
“Lord knows Spanish was never your strong suit.”
“One time! I asked you to do my Spanish homework once, and you’ve never let me forget it!”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “Just yell for me if you get stuck.” He returned to add the noodles to the pot.
Next to the water was a large saucer with sautéed minced garlic and chopped onions surrounding hot dog chunks and tomato sauce. “It needs more banana ketchup,” he grumbled, tasting the Filipino spaghetti sauce from the wooden spoon. “I haven’t made this in ages.”
“Really?” I questioned as I rolled out the pastry dough on the floured counter. “I would have thought you’d want to cook all the time for that new girlfriend of yours. Mom wouldn’t stop sending me pictures of you two last year.”
“That was last year.” His shoulders deflated. “We broke up a few months back. She wanted a boyfriend who lived in the same country as her.”
“Life as a foreign correspondent must be pretty lonely,” I pried, pouring the apple filling into the pie dish and splattering tiny bits of apple juice on my shirt.
“It’s not without its challenges …” Lucas’s eyes narrowed as if there was more to his sentence. “So, what about you? Still sleeping with your boss?”
I choked on air. “Dude! Gross! No—it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t my boss, and neither are we still dating, nor am I still employed.”
“You got fired! Mom is going to kill you! Please let me tell her!” He was almost jumping up and down.
“Quiet! Keep your voice down!” I hissed. “I wasn’t fired. I quit … after Mark threatened to fire me.”
“So, he was your boss.” I wanted to smack that boyish grin right off his annoyingly perfect face.
Surrendering to his accusations, I threw the mangled dough on top of the filling. “Fine. Yeah, he was my boss.”
“God. I couldn’t believe it when Jamie told me you were banging your boss—”
“You talked to Jamie?” My heart fell to my feet. The sound of his name in the air made a ball of nerves gather in my throat.
Lucas looked like a kid caught sneaking out of the house past curfew. “I called him last month.” He spoke to his shoes. “After he saw you in Boston.”
Boston. The memory overwhelmed my senses: skin on skin, lips crashing into each other in desperation, the feeling of his body intertwined with mine, heat rising in my face.
Then reality came rushing back. I couldn’t catch my breath, my lungs playing tug of war with my heart. Collapsing right where I stood felt like a real possibility. My face twitched involuntarily as I searched for words that didn’t exist.
“Hey, guys,” a familiar squeaky voice poisoned the air around me.
Not possible. I clenched my jaw so tightly I could hear my back tooth squeak against my top molar. She wouldn’t dare. I slowly turned my head to the right, holding my breath while I decided which kitchen utensil would be my weapon. Butcher knives were always a solid choice, but reminded me a little too much of Scream, the horror movie, for my liking. The meat tenderizing mallet, though? That had potential.
“Your mother invited me.” She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, her fingernails baby pink. Kayla looked the same as if five years had been five minutes, except now she seemed unsteady.
She rocked on her heels. “You’re imagining how to kill me with the blender, aren’t you …”
“Meat mallet, actually.”
Chapter three
You can’t always get what you want
But you don’t always know what you want until it’s gone.
August 16, 2012
Life gives and takes, but we only notice when it steals what it’s provided. Maybe this is the curse of being human—we’re bound to stumble through life with eyes closed, only opening them when something is gone. My awakening to this harsh reality began in eighth grade. If only I had opened my eyes sooner.
It was the dreaded first day of eighth grade, the day I had to bid farewell to summer memories and begin another torturous year of school. My insides churned like acid as my mother drove up to the front of the carpool line. The red bricks of the school building loomed, taunting my every breath. My heart pounded in my chest like it was plotting an escape.
“Hey, Ms. M,” Jamie asked my mom from the back seat. “If Jinx passes out at gym class again, can I ride with you guys to the hospital this time?” Jamie found endless amusement in my last name, Jinx—a fitting metaphor for the afflictions my father seemed to bestow upon my life. He was the kind of man who lit a match to see what burned, then wondered why the smoke never cleared. He walked out when I was too young to remember much—my earliest memories of him faint, like shadows cast by a dying light. Yet his absence still shaped my life like the lingering echo of a storm that never fully passed.
I smacked Jamie’s arm. “Thanks for the support. Truly, I’m lucky to have such a caring best friend.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. “And for the record, that gym thing was one time!”
“You passed out because a ball almost hit you,” Jamie countered, barely holding back a snicker.
Lucas chimed in from the front seat, turning his body to face us, his eyes gleaming with mocking taunts. “You do realize it’s our duty never to let you live that down, right?”
I jabbed my finger at Lucas’s slightly crooked nose. “First of all, that ball was an inch from my cheek. Second, I told that meathead PE teacher that sports and I are mortal enemies. She didn’t listen, and her punishment was paying my hospital bill.”
My mother chuckled from the driver’s seat. “After you threatened to sue her for child endangerment.”
I leaned forward, positioning my elbows on my knees. “Attorney911.com specifically told me I had a case. I’m just saying.”
“Okay, miss hotshot lawyer, get your debating butt into class before I get called into the principal’s office on the first day again.”
I shrugged and flashed a sassy grin. “Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted more family traditions.”
Her blue eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, disapproval etched in her gaze. “Yes, but I’d prefer traditions that don’t end with me picking you up from detention.”
“Take it or leave it.”
The school cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos of hormonal teenagers playing a game of Russian roulette with their seating choices. Every year was the same: students nervously paced the cafeteria floor, waiting to be granted a seat in the clique of their choice. Parents liked to think their taxpayer money paid for the enrichment of their children’s minds, but eighth grade was a cesspool of hormonal preteens clawing at the chance of fleeting popularity.
I couldn’t care less about “who sat with whom,” but that wasn’t up to me. Middle school was a ferocious jungle filled with training bras and eyeliner. Consequently, a set of laws and a hierarchy system kept the ecosystem protected. The prized spot was reserved for the jocks, who plagued the corner table with tales of touchdowns and slam dunks. The preps, with trust funds bigger than their vacation homes, occupied the tables near the exit. Artists and musicians, bless their tortured souls, sat nearby. Goths and emos claimed the dimly lit center table while gamers battled digital dragons by the vending machines. The bookworms, immersed in their novels, sat in the corner by the window. Drama kids, ever theatrical, sat on the floor against the blue cinderblock wall. Lastly, the nerds, geeks, and science whizzes solved the mysteries of the universe over by the teacher's table.
We were the wildcards, the social pariahs who didn’t conform to a table. Lucas should have sat with the jocks, Jamie with the artists, and I should have eaten in the counselor’s office. Instead, we chose social suicide and made our home at the community table—the island of misfit toys, where conspiracy theorists, Minecraft builders, and dry-erase sniffers gathered.
We were perfectly unnoticeable, and I loved it. No one bothered us, and we flew under the radar until today.
“Hey, give me your lunch.” Lucas grabbed at my brown sack like a heathen.
“No way, I’m not eating your nasty chicken salad sandwich.”
Lucas pouted like a baby. “Come on, please, this thing smells like wet dog.”
I raised the bag high. “How much is it worth to you?”
“No!” Lucas shouted, his face reddening. “I’m not paying you any more money. I’ll need a job because of you!” He shook the offending sandwich in my face, its smell assaulting my nose.
“Or you could stop making dumb decisions that put you in debt to me.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Lucas glared at Jamie, who was enjoying the show. “Are you going to let her extort me like this?”
Jamie shrugged, taking a bite of his PB&J. “Sorry, dude, I’d help, but I owe her like thirty bucks.”
“Fine!” Lucas grumbled, digging through his pocket for a crumpled pile of five one-dollar bills and fifty cents. “Here.” He shoved the wad in my face.
“Nice doing business with you.” I took the money, my grin enraging Lucas further.
My mood had lifted considerably. What had started as a dreaded day was turning into a profitable one. But I should have known it wouldn’t last. The cafeteria doors swung open, and in she came—wild, black curls bouncing, thigh-high red snakeskin boots clicking against the linoleum like a warning shot. Heads turned, and conversations faltered. She was impossible to miss, and that was exactly the problem.
She strode down the aisle like she owned it, each step bringing her closer to our table. My stomach twisted. This table wasn’t supposed to be seen. That’s why we sat here, tucked away, invisible, just how we liked it. If she sat with us, all of that would change.
I ducked my head, willing her to stop, to turn, to sit anywhere else. But the sound of those boots grew louder and closer until she stopped right beside us.
Lucas, oblivious to my internal meltdown, grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Hey, you must be new. I’m Lucas. Need a place to sit?” He patted the seat beside him. “I wouldn’t want such a pretty face to eat alone.”
The girl blushed and batted her eyes as if something was caught in her lashes. I quivered at the flirtation in front of me. I was forced to share a bathroom with Lucas; thus, the concept of him having any appeal to the opposite sex was utterly lost upon me.
“Thanks.” The girl smiled back. “I’m Kayla.” She slid onto the bench beside Lucas, who beamed like a child with a new toy.
Jamie took a swig of his Gatorade. “I’m Jamie,” he said, scanning Kayla briefly.
Jealousy twisted inside me. “I’m Alex,” I spat, my words sharp.
Lucas leaned towards Kayla. “So, where’d you move from? Heaven?”
Kayla matched his grin. “I just moved from LA. My grandma’s not doing well, so my dad thought we should move to help.”
