Blaze

Fifteen; Blaise

"All done!" Eliza beams as she inspects her handiwork. My fingertips are covered in pink, glittery goo. Some of it even managed to land on my actual fingernails. She's so proud of her manicure skills that I don't dare wipe the polish from my skin. I'll have to wait until she naps.

"Now you!" She exclaims, turning toward Wyatt. He waves his hands in front of his face.

"Oh no. I'm a man."

She cocks her head to the side and inspects him. "Are you?" 

I try to conceal my small chuckle, but Wyatt hears it anyway and glares at me.

"I am. And men don't wear nail polish. Only girls." 

"But why?" she asks, and I roll my eyes. I've heard 'but why' approximately a thousand times already today.

"Women wear nail polish to be pretty. Men aren't pretty. We're strong."

A rebuttal is right on the tip of my tongue when his phone rings. He glances at the screen, then immediately silences the call and rushes to the door.

"Work. I have to take this."

The second the door closes, Eliza turns to me and puts her chubby little hands on her hips. "I don't want to be a girl." She looks down at the pink satin princess costume and starts pulling her arms from the sleeve. "I don't want to be a pretty princess, I want to be strong like a boy." 

I kneel down to her level and place my palms over the tiny hands ripping at the princess dress, halting her movements. I tell her that the special thing about being a girl is that you get to be both. I explain that a princess is a leader of her country. She has to be the strongest. That's how my dad always played princess with me, anyway.

Eliza pulls the sleeves back up on her shoulders and plops on the floor in front of me. She gestures to the spot on the carpet in front of her, and I sit. For the next ten minutes we talk about her kingdom: who lives there, what kind of jobs people have, what kind of food they eat. She decides she's going to hold court so she can hear from her subjects about their problems. She's arranging her stuffed animals and dolls in rows on the floor when Wyatt comes back in.

"I have to go," he says, bending down to kiss the top of my head. "Sure you don't want to stay at my place tonight?" He asks, hopeful. "Then I can see you as soon as my shift is over." 

I turn to Eliza and tell her to go to her room and get ready for nap time. "Not tired!" she shouts through a yawn as she wipes her eyes and stomps to her room.

"I would, but I really need to get this over with and have a come-to-Jesus talk with my mom. I need to be okay in this house, and we need to work out some details." Even after my explanation, he looks hurt. Rejected.

"Hey," I say, reaching for his hand. He looks down at me. "It's not because I don't want to. I'll miss you. Call me later?"

"Okay," he exhales and finally smiles. "Bye, babe. Bye, squirt," he shouts into the next room.

Once I get Eliza tucked in under her Minnie Mouse blanket in what used to be the guest room, I quietly move through the house. My mother should be back from her narcotics anonymous meeting soon. I take a deep breath and work up the nerve to go into my old room. My mom just recently moved back into this house, but I know she lived here for several years after we left, and it has sat vacant for the last four or so years.  I'm not sure what I'm going to find.

I walk down the hall, careful not to step on the loose, creaky floorboards, a trick I learned when I was seven and trying to be invisible. I push the door open, and it groans with a loud creak. It's similar, but so different. The same dusty lavender paint is on the wall. The same white wicker twin bed sits in one corner, a familiar desk and dresser in the other. The same airy, white lace curtains cover the window. But there are no toys, no clothes, no art supplies littering the desk. My posters on the closet door are gone, as are the three framed photographs that sat on my nightstand table. I suppose most of that went with me to Cincinnati or got thrown out when we left. I'm surprised she kept the room as similar as she did for so long. I halfway expected this to be a sewing room or home office by now.

"I couldn't bring myself to change it too much. I always thought you'd come back, that we would be a family again." I jump, startled. I didn't even hear her come in.

"Well, you were right in a weird, twisted way, I guess. I'm back." I reply with a shrug, gently closing the door and walking back down the hall. I don't want to wake Eliza.

"Are you back?" she asks, "Are you really? Or is this temporary?"

"I'm back in Adair. Whether I'm going to live in this house depends."

"On?" she presses.

"On whether I get this scholarship." If I don't get a scholarship, I'll still come back to Adair and I'll just go to the community college and live here. If I get the scholarship, I'll go to the University and either live on campus or live here, depending on whether or not they offer me room and board.

"I'm glad you're back. I missed you. Em- Blaise."

I stare at her, narrowing my eyes at her innocent, wide-eyed expression. 

"Mom, I'm back for Eliza. You understand that, right?" She cringes slightly, the corners of her mouth pulling down.

"Yes, okay," She whispers, looking at her feet. "Look, I know I wasn't the mom you deserved. I'm still not. But I'm trying. And I'd really like you to give me a chance." She sounds so small and pitiful that I want to feel compassion, but I still can't help but feel I'm getting played. So I just nod.

"We had a good day," I say, trying to change the subject. "Eliza's incredible."

"I know," she agrees, smiling again.

"I would do anything to protect her, mother," I look her in the eye to make sure she hears me. That she's listening. That she understands. "Anything," I emphasize.

She rolls her eyes at me and storms into the adjoining dining room. I follow her, close on her heels. "Your boyfriend has already been by threatening me. I don't need to hear it from you, too."

"Boyfriend?"

"The neighbor boy," she drawls in her thick Kentucky accent.

"Wyatt? He's not my boyfriend," I clarify, crossing my arms over my chest defensively. I'm not sure why I even bother correcting her. That's not the point of this conversation.

"Well, whatever he is, whatever he's always been, he's back to doing your bidding, so you can call off the muscle and stop with the threats."

"You make it sound like he's mafia, mother. He's a police officer."

"Same thing," she snickers.

"Whatever," I sigh, and now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "And I highly doubt he threatened you. I think I know him a little better than that."

"Do you? Do you really know him, Blaise?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your judgment is clouded by nostalgia. He's not your childhood friend anymore. The Montgomerys are not good people." 

What does she know about good people? And what is her agenda? Because if there's anything I know about my mom, it's that she always has an agenda. "And you are? I'm supposed to trust  you? Whatever game this is to you, whatever you're trying to stir up right now? You can stop." I grab my purse and storm toward the door. I hate leaving without telling Eliza goodbye, but I can't be in this house with her another moment.

"I'm just trying to look out for you," she calls from the porch.

"Look out for Eliza. With us? What's done is done."