Train Track Girls

4 - Spilling Stardust

Chapter Song: Numb//Daughter

My mom and I have been living with Aunt Decca and November since I was two. Mom got pregnant fresh out of high school, dad disappeared – poof, gone, no trace – and my grandmother wouldn't have us. Becca and Mom weren't on great terms either. I'd ask why, but I know better than to bring it up. Not when I've heard them arguing for years because the problem never seems to scab over. It's still raw.

The problem is me, I think, or that mom got knocked up too soon and decided she was going to keep me. Maybe Decca's mad at Mom for not making more of her life or she wishes Mom got impregnated by someone who wasn't an asshole. I don't know.

But that isn't to say that Decca's treated me differently to her own daughter. Whatever problem she has with Mom, it's outside of our relationship. Sure she's a little stricter than Mom, who believes in me making my own decisions and facing my own consequences, but I know it's because she cares.

I ask where we lived for the first two years of my life and Mom just says all over. I like that thought, Mom and I in motels and hostels and my baby fingerprints left all over the state.

It's a more fascinating story than November watching her dad sign divorce papers from her crib.

...

I exit our room, where November sits on the floor, using yellow clothing dye to imprint the Nirvana logo onto a plain T-shirt.

I can still hear our telephone ringing from outside the room, and November continues to ignore the call. She's ignored the call since we were nine and she noticed she was the only one who'd get it. The only one requested, sent gifts, spoken to. Not me, never me. Or my mom.

In the living room, the Moms and their three work colleagues are gathered around a table, playing cards and drinking. Decca tells me that Mom was just like me, but I think she still is. She just doesn't have much authority to rebel against. The five at the table all work at the diner, The Purple Milk. Decca's friend owns it. Maybe that'll be November and I, someday. Probably not. November wants things and I know she's going to get them, somehow. She makes things happen.

Becca announces, "Okay, that's my last drink."

As I leave the house, her glass hits the table again.

I go to the shed and grab Mom's old guitar. With no case, it's picked up a few scars, but that doesn't matter. The strings are all there and I know more or less how to tune them. I walk to the park, even though it's night, even though it's dangerous and it makes me stupid.

A lot of the things I do makes me 'stupid'. I've never been able to care.

I know the neighbors. They'll pay attention if they hear me scream. I'll be fast enough to run to them if I see someone sketchy. I always tell myself this because I don't like to live in fear. I shouldn't have to. When I think about it, I go mad with rage.

I sit on the roundabout and push against the ground with one foot. I start playing, creating my own tune. No lyrics, because I'm not the one who's good with words. November is. I'm not even good with this old guitar, I just like it.

I don't pay attention to the chords I'm playing, but I've got a pattern going and my hands remember it well enough.

"You're getting better," November says, approaching me slowly in her made-over shirt, sleeves ripped and midriff bared. For a moment I hear another voice. You're getting better.

She joins me on the roundabout and we go faster.

"You can answer her, you know."

"No, Riley," she says, "no, I can't."