Elisabeth Edley's father has three skeletons in his closet. One is aged taupe and named Olivia. The second has a dent in the skull and has been donned A.P. The third is a photograph of a blonde, dead girl.
~ A five part story that I wrote for my Cre...
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"Why are you having Waylon Park over?" Rebecca asked me one evening in late February. "Isn't that the kid you always hide from on our way home from school?"
I glared at her as she stood over her homework. Rebecca always hovered over her school assignments, she claimed that it made her focus better.
"I'll have you know that Waylon and I are friends," I lied, marching past her place at the dining room table.
Rebecca scoffed. "Sure, or you just need his help with your biology homework."
I was about to testify, but I thought it better if she assumed this rather than suspect our plans. I only shrugged my shoulders and left the room to find Frances and my father in the living room.
They were sat at the piano bench as he taught her the beginning notes to "Happy Birthday." Frances was impatient and could never sit for very long, but when it was just my father and her, she always seemed to find a way to stay still.
"Father," I called as I walked through the room. "I'm having Waylon Park over for biology homework."
He suddenly stopped his playing, but he didn't turn to look at me. "You're having a boy over?"
Frances glanced at me with an amused look in her oval eyes. I felt my cheeks grow hot, but I hid them beneath my palms.
"Yes," I stated. I added quickly, "Just for homework. He'll be here shortly."
It was silent for a moment before my father began to play again. He didn't turn to look at me even once.
The doorbell rang a short while later, and I rushed to pull the heavy door open.
Waylon stood before me, a vision of red locks and a pale freckled face against the navy of the night. He wore a plum scarf and green cotton gloves. I wondered if he was colorblind.
I welcomed him inside with a hesitant smile.
"You know, it's funny," he told me as he shrugged off his raincoat. "I've partly lived down the street from you for nearly my whole life, and I've never stepped inside your house."
I laughed, but it was forced. It was his dream, I supposed, to have an excuse to be in my home. To see the childhood photos that hung on our maroon walls, and to receive a glimpse inside of my life. For me, he was simply a way to get what I wanted. It was selfish, of course it was, but selfish was all I had ever known. After all, I had taken after my mother.
I led Waylon to the sunroom at the back of the house successfully, without running into Father, Rebecca, or Frances.
The room was dim and slightly eerie, but it was the only room I knew that would go undisturbed.
I directed Waylon to sit on an armchair beside a dusty bookshelf and I sat down on the pine green carpet below him.
"Okay," I said, before an awkward silence could curse us. "How can we do this?"
