RED LINES

3 • K

AS I STEPPED OF THE ICE, THE THOUSANDS OF THOUGHTS THAT I HAD BEEN shielded from previously hit me like a ton of bricks. I momentarily rip my earphones off the second I enter the locker room. I take my skates off in silence while the rest of the team chat together. I pack all of my stuff mechanically, like I'm on auto-pilot. I'm the first in and the first one out.

Just as I'm about to push the door to the outside world, I hear someone call my name.

"Krystal! Wait up."

It's Grace. I turn around, I'm annoyed but I try to hide it. I just want to get home.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Ri, you ignored everyone, and now you're rushing to leave. This is not how you normally act."

"I had a fight with Ethan." I sigh reluctantly.

"Again? What happened?"

"It's childish. He canceled our plans to go to his friend's party instead. And I got mad. That's it." I start walking toward the door once more. Grace follows me.

"It's not the first time he does this, you know. You have the right to be mad. Do you even want to go to that party?"

"Kind of? I haven't been to one since Maria's. And we both know how that ended." I'm not sure whether I want to laugh or cry when I recall that disastrous evening.

I was fourteen, it was the first time I had the nerves to ask my parents' permission to go out.

Surprisingly, my parents let me off pretty easily. I just had to mention Grace's presence and they agreed, as long as I didn't have anything to drink. Obviously, I took the first drink that was offered to me. And the next and all the other ones that came after that. By ten pm, I was as drunk as a fourteen year old can get without being sick. I called my parents, crying as Grace stood by my side and we left without anyone noticing. The next morning, I expected my parents to tear into this long speech, but that was not the case.

"You're fourteen, of course you were going to drink." is all my Mom said.

The warm late-spring wind hits my face as I look up to see the sun slowly setting behind the alignment of indistinguishable houses that form the skyline. The sky's watercolored texture goes from a bright oranged to a deep purple.  The sounds of children's ecstasy-filled laughs, as they slide down the park's playground and middle school boys roaming on their scooters in the parking lot accompany the view.

"My mom's already here, do you want a ride?" Grace startles me back to reality.

"No, thank you. I'd rather walk."

"Alright, keep me updated with your whole Ethan situation." I nod as a response.

My feet are still aching in my sneakers as I amble along the sidewalk, up the hill to my house with heavy footsteps. The air smells of humidity, reminders of the recently vanished snow, leaves from last autumn granulate under my weight. The breeze pushes my tied up hair in all directions, nearly causing her shadow to go unnoticed. But she's there. Lying on the front lawn of the dated and decrepit home, more or less the only one with that façade amongst the others on the avenue.

My eyes follow her wired headphones from her device to her heavily jeweled ears. Her black hair spreads in all directions across the grass. If you stand far enough, you may misread her as unconscious, but if you pay attention, you can see her eyes gazing directly into the clouds above. And I pay attention. Enough to notice her coming home at ungodly hours, stumbling around the driveway. I pay enough attention to hear her name everytime it sounds from the intercom, requesting her presence in the principal's office.

But she doesn't seem to be paying attention. Or she doesn't seem to care, everytime I pass by her, on my way home from the rink. Or when I purposefully set my homework in the corner of my desk, for her to copy. Or when I pretend not to see her smoking out the window of our school's second story restroom.

In my head, I have made up her whole story. The story that tells how much she appreciates her mother, but she doesn't know how to show her. She acts as if her brother annoys her to her core but, in reality, she wouldn't hesitate, not for a second, to kill for him. She can't forgive her father for the things he's done to his mother, whatever those things might be. Of course this is all a product of my imagination, a hivemind my brain printed to trick me into thinking I know who Ivy is, when I, in fact, know very little about her undecipherable sentience.

The first time I noticed Ivy was sometime in the second week of 9th grade. I could lie and say that I noticed her right away, that she stood out with her piercing blue eyes and jet black hair and I immediately wanted to be friends with her, even if she was such a loner. But it'd be just that, a lie.

She came from a different elementary school, hers was by the edge of town while mine was overlooking the valley below the hills. The establishment I went to wasn't exactly private, but the various fees were so high that it was known as the "rich kid's school". Aesrin Secondary is the only preparatory institution in the region, causing an apparent overcrowding of the building, despite its minimal student count.

We first met in physical education. The lack of teachers and space meant most students had gym together, regardless of athletic abilities and performance. Some people chose to have extra gym classes, however, I couldn't since I'd rather have advanced math and science courses. I believe Ivy picked neither of those options. and instead went with workshop classes, where most people who didn't fit in neither of the "sporty" or "academic" divisions.

Nevertheless, we had good old regular PE lessons simultaneously. She stood out. But not because of her eyes or her hair. She stood out due to her attire. Unlike all the other 14 year olds in the gymnasium, she wore a jumper and tracksuit pants. The school's funding — or lack thereof — didn't allow for a good air conditioning system, or any air conditioning system for that matter. These lessons were notorious for being unbearable during September, when the weak Canadian summer still blew its hot winds.

Not only did her clothes seem inappropriate for the temperature of the room, it also revealed the famous photograph of Johnny Cash showing the middle finger at Quentin Prison across her back.

She lasted 15 minutes in that hoodie before being sent home by the principal. Rumours say she pleaded her cause with great passion in that office.