A Known Stranger

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

                “How’s Kimberly doing?” My mother asked.

                Moving around the kitchen, I gathered the ingredients I needed for dinner. My phone lying on the counter top on speaker as the phone call with my mother continued. It was around seven at night, the sun barely setting behind the sea’s horizon, casting a variety of yellow, pink and oranges to swirl around in the sky out the kitchen window.

                After my third period art class had finished, I had left school, skipping out on the rest of the day, the picture I drew shoved in my bag that was sitting upstairs on my desk in my bedroom. After I had left, I had rushed straight home, showered and fallen asleep, wrapping myself up under my blankets and shutting my mind down for the rest of the day. When I had woken up, which was no more than an hour ago; I had checked my phone to see I had one unread text message from Ryder.

                What’s going on with you? –Ryder.

                That was it. Five simple words that pissed me off more than one of Noah’s witty remarks, ‘What was wrong with me’? I asked myself that question every day. I never replied to his text, in fact, I deleted all of my conversations and was about to shut off my phone the moment my mother called. She had chatted my ear off about how much she loved Las Vegas and how she wished they were staying longer, but their week was coming to an end soon, and they all had to come back to continue on with their lives. A part of me was bothered that not once had she asked how I was doing, instead she asked how Kimberly was doing right after she finished telling me about the amazing show she went to see earlier in the day.

                But then again, my act of ‘everything’s-fine’ always managed to stop her from asking about who I was doing. “She’s fine,” I told her. “Last I heard she was at home resting.”

                “That’s great, I’m so glad nothing bad happened to her,” she responded.

                Turning on the faucet, I placed a hollow pot under the stream of water and waited for it to fill up half way so I could place it on the stove to boil some noodles. “Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

                “Your father wants to know if the house is still standing,” she giggled, as in the background my father yelled at her to tell me something.

                Rolling my eyes, I breathed out a laugh. “Yeah, it’s still standing. But I’m afraid his stock on whiskey is gone.”

                “It better not be,” I heard him yell.

                Laughing, I placed the pot on the stove and turned on the match. “It’s not,” I said. “Chill, your bottle in untouched.” And that wasn’t a lie, I didn’t touch his bottle of whiskey. I knew he’d notice if even a little bit was missing as soon as he walked through the door.

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                I sat in the middle of my bed, staring at the drawing I drew earlier in the day, as Ride by Lana Del Rey played in the background. It had been a few hours since my conversation with my mother ended. I had eaten my dinner of buttered noodles with a piece of grilled chicken, with a glass of red wine. I was never a fan of the drink but being the only thing that my mother wouldn’t notice that was gone, I took advantage of the opportunity.

                It seemed, the feelings that I tried so hard to hide during the day always spilled over the edges of the emotional boat I stood on. The waves rocking it side to side, testing me to see how strong I was to be able to hold on, and I was tired, tired of keeping the boat afloat for so long without any help. Maybe that was why I always had such a strong connection to water. Maybe that was why I always found myself sitting on the beach late at night trying to tame my emotions and thoughts.