Unclutter, page 9
Am I still scared that the mansion would unearth the buried memory of my demons?
My dad raised his voice, and I turned my attention back to their conversation. “Mother, you’re fine. You are not dying anytime soon. Could we please just enjoy this holiday?”
I escaped from the unpleasant atmosphere, because I didn’t want to ruin my special day. I tried to divert my mind and noticed my parents’ packed boxes that had been moved to the side to make space for the party. There were no decorations this year, but I spotted the familiar kitchen cart with the food spread prepared by my father. I smiled as I recalled an incident from when I was a kid.
I’d sat nestled between my parents on our favorite reclining, faux leather couch, where we argued about what to watch together. Dad chose a reality TV show on the Food Channel, while Mom and I wanted to enjoy a crime series. My father was adamant about his choice, despite being a thriller author himself.
“Walt, don’t you want inspiration from other writers for your work?” my mother asked.
Dad shook his head. “I have to think about crime all the time when I write. I need to unwind now with something different.”
“Dad, let’s watch anything else, not this reality show,” I pleaded with my father.
“I will prepare Thanksgiving dinner this year, and every year, if you let me watch this,” Dad declared.
My mother scoffed. “You haven’t even peeled potatoes before. How will you be able to handle an entire menu?”
“Actually, I’m interested in learning how to cook,” my father revealed to us. “Mum never allowed me in the kitchen because I’m a boy.”
Mom reached out and squeezed Dad’s hand. “Then, I can’t wait to taste your dishes.” She added, reading my father’s hesitation, “It’ll be our little secret.”
We huddled in a tight family hug as I complained about being smothered by my parents but secretly loved it.
The memory made me miss Mom all the more. I bit into one of my father’s scrumptious cranberry scones and wondered where she was when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I immediately turned and hugged the person tightly. “Mom, where were you? Thank you for today.”
“No problem. I was right here, but you didn’t see me in front of your friends,” she teased me.
I was glad to see her smiling. I reached out for another embrace when I felt a pat on my back.
I turned toward my father, who engulfed me in a hug. “Tina, it’s so good to see you.”
I was surprised, because my father rarely embraced me. It felt wonderful. I got emotional when my mother slipped her arms around my waist, and I was engulfed between my parents, just like back when I was a little girl.
The three of us held each other for several minutes in complete silence—one that spoke a thousand meaningful words.
Chapter 12
That evening, I helped my parents clean up and pack after the guests left. It felt too strange to enter what used to be my room for the last time. The space didn’t look any different than when I used to stay here, even if it was empty. All it was missing was my futon and my desk. I hadn’t decorated this place or bothered to add color to it at all. I shuddered when I recalled the grim, gray teen years my room reflected.
Memories of my high school days, particularly the hours I used to spend coding at my desk, flooded my mind. I also remembered the long late-night phone conversations I had with Rory, Laila, and Harriet. I closed my room door and left it unlocked for the first time since I had stepped into this house.
Goodbye, Duckville. The bittersweet memories of my life here will remain with me.
I hugged my parents goodbye and picked up Rory before heading back to Strollfield. I went back to my routine the next day and the rest of the week with classes, assignments, karate, online tutoring students, and skating practice.
On Saturday morning, I nervously entered the Strollfield Cultural Festival fundraiser at McCormick Park on my Rollerblades. The fundraiser was held in November every year, five months before the main festival. It had taken me immense willpower to come here. After being fired from the fest’s mobile app team a year ago, I had stopped coding. My beloved hobby brought back unpleasant memories I didn’t want to face, so I quit. I had also skipped the fundraiser last year and stayed at home, feeling sorry for myself.
This year, I was determined to face the public again and signed myself up as a volunteer and a performer at the fundraiser. I tried to ignore the butterflies in my stomach and focused on the event. The venue resembled a fair and was bustling with activity. Families with young kids enjoyed themselves at the various stalls. I laughed silently when I saw a couple walking out of the haunted house, hand in hand, trying to hide their amusement when a child asked them about their experience. I recalled a time when I had been inside, a few years ago, with my parents, and how I had been unimpressed by the plastic “ghosts.”
The most attractive stalls at the fundraiser were the food trucks. I tried not to get tempted by the ooey-gooey, stringy cheese on the piping hot, wood-fired pizzas, baked fresh to perfection. I averted my eyes, only to get a whiff of juicy pieces of marinated meat barbecuing on the grill. I held my breath to stop the aroma and proceeded toward the eatery I’d been assigned to volunteer at.
I need to stop thinking about junk food. I have to perform skating stunts this evening.
Outside my destination, I saw that children had gathered to watch something. They were gaping in wonder as a guy prepared cotton candy by pulling sugar with his hands. He had his back to me, and I watched as he swung his arms from one side to another adeptly. I panicked, wondering if I’d need to repeat his actions as a volunteer.
He held up the white candy that glistened in the sun. “There we go, we have 32,768 strands of this special candy. Who wants to try it?”
The kids ran toward the food truck. “Me. Me.”
He laughed. “There will be more for everybody. Give me a few minutes. Now, let the counting begin once again. How many strands do we have? 2... 4... 8... 16... 32... 64... 128... 256... 512... 1,024... 2,048... 4,096... 8,192... 16,384. And 32,768.”
I couldn’t help but admire him flexing his small-ish, but well-defined, biceps under his shirt.
What a show-off.
The children clapped. He rolled up the cotton candy strands and placed them in serving bowls, and they disappeared from the counter within seconds.
“Alright, kids, the live candy show will be back after fifteen minutes,” the guy announced.
As soon as the kids had dispersed, I stepped up to the truck. “Um, hi. I’m supposed to help out at the cotton candy store,” I said to the guy’s back.
He turned around. “Oh, hi. Tina Lauren, right?”
“Birthday cake,” I blurted. I went red in my face in embarrassment. “Sorry, Chef Okoro.”
He smiled and offered his hand. “It’s Ekon Okoro. You can call me Ekon.”
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you again, Ekon. How can I help? I see this place is packed already.”
“Can you be the cashier?” he asked. He pointed to another chef, wearing an apron. “Sharon will help you settle in.”
I stood in front of the checkout counter. “Sure. On it.”
For the next three hours, Sharon, Ekon, and I worked in sync. Ekon attracted customers with his live show, Sharon prepared the machined cotton candy, and I was the cashier. Sharon and Ekon were speedy, and I struggled to catch up. Having an app would have made this process easier. I froze at the thought of coding for a second, but there was no time to ponder about anything now.
After shutting down the candy truck, Sharon, Ekon, and I cleaned up. Ekon handed me some handmade cotton candy. “Here you go. Try some. You worked hard today. We raised a lot of money.”
I took some strands of the white sugar and put them in my mouth. “This is so good. No wonder they sold like hotcakes.”
Sharon pitched in. “It’s not easy to make. The technique originated from Ancient China. Ekon learned it from me in less than a week.”
“Why didn’t you just take care of the live counter instead, Sharon?” I asked.
Sharon chuckled. “I thought people would come for the eye candy and stay for the cotton candy. I was right.”
I could totally see her point.
Ekon blushed. “Oh, please. Sharon is the real expert. She just doesn’t like the attention and made me do it.”
“Anyway, I don’t think I formally introduced you to Sharon. She is my boss and head chef at the café. Tina, the base of your birthday cake was Sharon’s recipe, with some touches from me.”
“Thanks for the introduction. And belated happy birthday, Tina,” Sharon said. “I’ve got to run now. Maybe I’ll catch you sometime.”
“Sure. See you later,” I replied.
“Sharon’s daughter isn’t feeling well,” Ekon offered once she’d left. “She needed to leave early. Without her, I’ll have to opt-out of the games this afternoon. She was supposed to be my partner.”
“How about we partner up for the games?” I suggested on a whim.
“That’s a great idea,” Ekon agreed.
“Are you sure? I heard the games were terrible last year,” I joked.
Ekon laughed. “You only heard it, but I experienced it.”
I laughed with him. “Maybe we should skip them then.”
“I’m only here for the escape room,” Ekon replied. “That’s always fun.”
We stood in line and waited for the organizers to register the participants one by one.
We should have created an app to expedite registration.
“They should have digitalized this process,” Ekon echoed my thoughts.
I smiled. “Great minds think alike.”
“You could have probably whipped up an app fast,” Ekon said, snapping his fingers.
I laughed. “It’s not so easy,” I added after a pause. “How did you know I code?”
Used to code.
“I read an article about a year ago about your prototype for the SCF app. I thought your innovations were pretty cool,” Ekon answered.
“Thanks.”
“Hey, how come you’re majoring in business instead of something tech related?” Ekon asked.
“I aspire to start my own tech company someday and wanted to learn the skills to do that,” I replied.
Though my dream seems too far away, now that I have lost my ability to code.
I tried to shake away my negative thoughts. “Besides, my minor is computer science, so it’s still relevant. How come you’re majoring in business studies instead of culinary arts? I saw you in our campus the other day and Strollfield U doesn’t have a culinary school.”
Before he could respond, it was our turn to register. Ekon and I showed the organizers our IDs and filled out forms to enter. We hurried to find seats at the packed venue and managed to find two vacant ones in one of the middle rows. On the stage, the speakers boomed with loud music that made my head ache, and I wanted to get out of there.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the fundraiser games. Our first game for today is—know your partner,” the master of ceremonies announced. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve known your teammate for a few minutes or many years. This game is going to be equally tough for all of you. Are you all ready?”
The crowd screamed, “Yes!”
The MC continued. “Each of you will be given a venue, where you will perform a list of tasks in a particular order. Your partner will then guess what tasks you did and repeat them in the same order. Any questions?”
“Will we know what tasks our partner performed, at least?” one of the audience members asked him.
The announcer shook her head.
Ekon and I looked at each other with the same expression—what nonsense was this?
“You need to think like your partner. The team that manages to do that wins,” the announcer declared.
I was about to leave this ridiculous game when one of the volunteers called out to me. He wore an SCF fundraiser volunteer shirt and a pink wristband. “Are you performing today?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“There’s a performers’ meeting going on right now,” the volunteer informed me. “Can you attend? It should take only a few minutes.”
I told Ekon that I’d be back and followed the volunteer. He gave me directions for how to get to the meeting, and I followed his instructions.
When I reached the destination, it looked like a swimming pool that was under repair. There was no one else at the site.
Am I lost? Did I get the correct location?
This was the place the volunteer marked on the map.
Something doesn’t feel right, though, I heard my inner voice speak up.
I had just decided to leave the place, when suddenly someone tried to grab me from behind. Instinctively, I ducked. However, a pair of strong hands held my shoulders firmly.
“You’re a feisty one, sweetheart. I can’t believe you had the guts to show your face here after everything that happened.”
Nicholas Parker.
I tried to fight him. “Let me go. You can’t touch me without my consent.”
Nicholas sneered at me. “Or else what?”
“I will scream and report you to the police,” I said, struggling to free myself from his grip.
Nicholas snickered loudly. “Try. You’ll fail.”
He pressed on my shoulders with force and made me kneel. He yanked my hair and forced my face into the water. With the other hand, he groped my breas— chest.
Swallowing chlorinated water, I kicked him with all my might. When he jerked back in pain, I brought my face out of the water and gasped for air. “Damn you! Is this what you want? Do you want to kill me?”
“Don’t worry, Tina Lauren. I won’t let you die just yet. I will squeeze the life out of you, bit by bit, and you will beg me to kill you.”
Never. I will never give in to Nicholas Parker.
Before I could get up, he caught hold of me again. I was still panting and feeling lightheaded, but I refused to give up. Using some of the skills I’d learned over the last year with Nakamura Sensei, I headbutted his nose with all my strength, then tried to escape.
But the stubborn creep was much stronger. He caught both my hands with one of his hands and pinned them behind my back.
With the other, he roughly pulled my hair. Then he bit the exposed area between my neck and shoulder, sucking the skin.
He smirked. “There, I have branded you with my mark. You’re my pathetic prey. Don’t you ever forget that.”
I am neither pathetic nor prey. And I will fight back.
Chapter 13
“Tina, where are you?” I heard a voice.
Ekon?
“Why are you in an employee-only area?” someone else asked.
Hearing the voices, Nicholas released me from his grip and took off.
I tried to get up, rebuttoning my overalls and smoothening my shirt, but winced in pain, shuddering about what could have happened if no one had come.
Hot angry tears streamed down my cheeks, despite my fiercest attempts to stop them. I pounded my fists on the ground in frustration. How did I fall prey to this perverted creep again? I had avoided him successfully for a year. Did I ask for it?
I did not ask for it. Not then, not now.
Ekon appeared around a corner, finally noticing me. “Are you okay, Tina?” Ekon asked, still panting from running to me. “Just a second.” His eyes darted toward the bushes near the pool for a moment. He turned back to me. “Are you alright?”
How did he know to come here?
I nodded.
I tried to stand up again, but my legs gave away. Ekon held out his hand, and I took it reluctantly.
“Can you walk? Do you need help?” Ekon asked.
I shook my head, and Ekon waited as I tried to take a step forward.
“Why are you both here?” a pool employee asked us. “Did you miss the no-entry sign? This pool is closed for repair.”
Parker and his underlings even removed the sign to set me up.
“Someone must have torn down the no-entry sign, and my friend lost her way,” Ekon answered for me. I was grateful that he pitched in but embarrassed that I couldn’t speak for myself.
The employee muttered under her breath and left. I trudged beside Ekon in silence, limping slightly. I expected him to ask me a ton of questions, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave me some water and asked if I wanted to sit down for a minute.
We sat on a picnic bench, and I took my phone out of my pocket and tried to take a photograph of the wound on my neck.
“Do you want me to help you with that?” Ekon offered.
I handed him my phone to take pictures.
When Ekon returned my phone, he asked me to wait for a few minutes. I was puzzled as to why, but before I could ask, he was gone. When he came back, he gave me a Band-Aid. I peeled the cover and applied it to my neck.
“Thanks,” I said, opening my mouth for the first time since the horrible incident.
“Are you alright? Do you want me to drop you home?” Ekon asked, sounding concerned.
“I’ll be okay,” I answered. “I have a performance scheduled this evening.”
“Okay, get some rest then,” Ekon said. “Do you want me to stay with you? Should I get you anything for lunch?”
I shook my head. “No, but thanks for the offer. I’ll see you during the escape room challenge.”
***
I trudged to the park exit, trying to shake off the feeling of Nicholas Parker’s slimy hands on me. Before it could haunt me further, I focused on my task at hand and got a taxi to the nearest police station that was five minutes away. I barged into the building and walked to the information desk as fast as I could with my hurting leg.
