Trapped in Forever

17 ~ You'll Meet Someone who won't Grind Sluts at Parties

The peach drapes, somewhat transparent so in the afternoon, when the sun’s at its pinnacle in the sky, miles above rooftops and misty clouds that looked like cotton balls, golden like light seeped onto the carpet, warming the white, cushy material, usually imprinted by Mikayla’s barefoot prints or Dad’s loafers, were drawn as I jiggled the knob, slowly and quickly, just as it dawned on me that I didn’t have a key. But just as I glanced at The Escape Tree, wondering if it would look suspicious to my awakening neighbors, wrapped in plushy, pastel bathrobes and holding steaming cups of coffee in white mugs, to see their neighbor struggling to climb tree branches at almost seven in the morning—maybe they had gotten used to seeing Mikayla gracefully hoisting herself up the limbs, but certainly not me—when the knob turned, clicking, and the door pushed open slightly, revealing the bristles of a tanned doormat that I knew said Wipe Your Feet, with clubs of discarded dirt on the edges.

Maybe Mikayla unlocked it for me, I thought, as I pressed my fingers against the white painted metal of the door, chilled beneath the pads of my fingers, and gently pushed the door open further, the silver of the house—the arm of a couch, the beginning of the W on the doormat, and a couple of frames containing family photos—began to expand and I saw the rest the beige couch, completely free of stains unless you turned over the middle cushion after Dad ordered pizza while Mom was at a meeting, and the carpet, a peach square of light reflecting from the window, and the coffee table, which had a mug, with the string of a teabag and the tag, tangling over the bright pink rim, steam floating into the air.

The first one I saw was Dad—or, at least, the back of strawberry blond head, short strands of hair tousled and sticking up in different directions, uncombed—as he sat on the couch, facing the television, with gray paper rested on his thighs, clad in the pale blue pajamas Mom bought him for Father’s Day last year, and he was sipping from a navy mug, and I could see the black liquid flowing from the mug. And then, in mid-drink, he turned around as he heard the door creak open, and his eyes widened slowly, catching me with the faint residues of washed black mascara staining my pale cheeks and disheveled hair cascading down my shoulders. He cut his sip short, making a muffled noise in his throat, and he placed his mug on the coffee table a few inches away from the pink mug with a clank, a droplet of coffee splashing over the rim and landing on one of Mom’s House & Home magazine cover. Dad’s lips parted, as if he were about to say something as he stared at me, but another voice, one more shrill, interrupted his unspoken words.

“Amanda?”

Mom stood there, a few feet away from me, somewhat greasy, dark hair pulled back into a messy bun atop of her head, a few oily strands escaping from the bun and dangling around her ears, reflecting off of the sunlight through the ajar space between the peach curtains, and her brown eyes were bulging. Her lips were pale and parted, letting heavy exhales pass them, and her arms were crossed tightly over her robe, haphazardly tied around her waist, and her feet were clad in half slippers. They slapped against the bare heels of her feet as she stepped toward me, self-tweezed eyebrows furrowing together, and then she just stared at me, incredulously, eyeing my hair first and then my cheeks and lastly the men’s jacket hanging from my shoulders—the one I forgot to give back to Orion.

I flushed, as my dad stood up, placed the paper down on coffee table beside the mugs, the corner overlapping Mom’s array of home and fashion improvement magazines, and his own slippers shuffled against the floor as he came up and stood behind my mother, placing a pale hand on her shoulder. “I . . .” I began, struggling for choked words to come out, but instead all I could form were incoherent noises.

“Where were you, Amanda Karoline?” she demanded, shaking off of my father’s hand from her shoulder, and she took another step forward, thin eyebrows furrowing even deeper and closer to her restricting pupils. “Since when did you sneak out into the middle of night? I thought you were more responsible than that!”