Serena

The footfall on the stairs was a clear sign my daughter was home. It had been two months of peaceful yet stale silence, with unplayed Tori Amos records and absent laughter between friends. I had known I would miss Olivia those two months she explored Europe, but I never would have predicted I would also miss the constant presence of my daughter's best friend.

"I'm heading out," she yelled, running down the stairs and pulling her hair into a messy ponytail. "Don't worry about dinner. I'll stop by for Thai on the way back."

I shifted my attention from the screen of my laptop, watching her slapdash movements. "You just got home."

By the unchanged look on Olivia's face, it was obvious she understood the statement was a mere observation and not a request for her to stay. It had just been the two of us for the last 17 years. We knew each other better than most mother-daughter pairs, and sometimes this type of relationship was to our detriment.

We had driven from the airport, exhaustively talking about her trip. Everything from getting drunk on wine in Tuscany to sunbathing nude in a little fishing village on the edge of Santorini. There was no topic Olivia felt too uncomfortable sharing with me, even opting to tell me about the beautiful, sun-kissed boy in Málaga.

"He was spectacular," she had said in the car, her eyes closing and palms crossing over her heart. A silent farewell to her innocence and youth.

Now that she had returned to Ashford, a small town in Westchester County, Olivia had that bright-eyed excitement — that compulsion to share her adventures with the other important person in her life.

The thick black frames of my glasses slipped down the bridge of my nose. I raised a brow, studying my daughter's slightly disheveled appearance. Normally she tried to look more put-together, but after a 10-hour flight, the grey hoodie and workout shorts seemed appropriate. For most people anyway. "Are you sure that's what you want to wear?"

Olivia nodded.

"It's his?" I asked, watching Olivia smile faintly. I walked toward her and tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears. "You know, he misses you."

"How do you know?"

I pouted and shrugged. "Educated guess."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "Time to put that theory to the test then," she said and kissed me on the cheek. "I won't be gone for long."

"You have plenty of stories to tell Elliot. I don't mind a late dinner, honey."

Her smile reached all the way to her eyes, a warm chestnut just like her father's. She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. "Love you, mom."

Olivia

I felt liberated being behind the wheel of my black 1970 Dodge Charger. It belonged to Serena when she was in college, and she had used it decades later until it had broken down one too many times and she was forced to drive a sensible Toyota. Luckily, I had a best friend who knew everything there was to know about cars, and he had spent the summer before my 16th birthday, tinkering away in the garage and restoring the old muscle car back to life.

With the windows rolled down and the wind in my hair, I drove through the idyllic suburban streets. I passed the Craftsman houses in my part of the neighbourhood toward the Colonial homes that accommodated generations of families.

It was labour day weekend — the last one before the new school year. I drove by a house where kids, no older than six, ran through sprinklers and laughed until their bellies ached. Junior high kids rode their bikes in lazy curves before they stopped at the playground to smoke weed in the painted concrete barrels.

Reaching a prosaic street of colonial homes with white picket fences and navy blue shutters, I maneuvered the tight gearshift and set the car on park. Considering I had seen Elliot's house over a thousand times, it was bizarre how seldom I had been invited inside.

I didn't expect a warm welcome from Joe and Bernie Stabler. Knocking on their front door usually resulted in either one of his parents yelling at him to come down and meet me outside. They would remind him to make it home in time for grace. One of the eight place settings could never be missing from the dining room table, unless there was a perfectly valid excuse, which was essentially any excuse that pertained to football. On the other hand, any excuse that involved me resulted in a verbal attack from his father.

As I walked the stone path to the Stabler residence, I listened to the jovial laughter of his younger siblings. I followed the sounds, seeing the rise of smoke above the black thatched roof. I walked the side of the house, between off-white siding and tall hedges. The closer I got to the yard, the more it smelled of barbecue ribs and corn on the cob. When I reached the gate, I peeked through the wooden slats to see the Stablers crowded around the outdoor patio with Joe helming the grill.

Squinting, I searched for the cropped head of hair and broad shoulders that belonged to my best friend. I couldn't find him, which I quickly realized made sense since he hadn't appeared until after the audible slide of the glass doors.

Elliot joined the rest of his family, setting down a large bowl of potato salad on the table. He had a broad smile on his face as he ruffled his littlest brother's hair. Little Jamie pouted before sliding down the bench and making room to the left of his older brother.

I had my hand on the gate as I weighed my options, seeing if I should wait until after their mid-afternoon barbecue before I announced my return. I had promised Elliot I would stop by once I got back, not giving him an exact date because I wanted it to be a surprise. He hated the idea. He wouldn't stop sending me messages asking about my return flight, even going so far as to question whether or not I had tricked him by purchasing a one-way ticket.

"You're coming back, right?" he asked over a shoddy internet connection and pixelated video. "I'm not going to survive senior year without you."

Elliot would want me to say hello, and that's what kept my hand on the gate. I just wasn't sure about his parents.

Deciding I didn't care about what Joe and Bernie thought, I tugged on the latch until it came loose, but stopped the gate from moving the moment my eyes caught the flip of blonde hair and a chemically whitened smile. It was Kathy Garner — the Barbie to Elliot's Ken. She set down a tray of cornbread muffins, which she probably baked herself, and joined the family. Her pink floral dress was sweet and demure, matching the all-American image of her googly-eyed quarterback boyfriend.

I wanted to throw up.

Securing the latch back in place, I made the pathetic journey back to her car.

I drove aimlessly for almost an hour. I wasn't sure where I wanted to go, only that I refused to go back home so early and have to explain myself to Serena. Usually, I could tell her mother almost anything about my life, but admitting to the cold treatment I received from Joe and Bernie made me feel weary. It would cause problems. It would anger Serena, who wouldn't have taken that sort of treatment without a fight.

My memory jogged back to those episodes of tension and hostility. Three glasses of wine in her system, Serena drove to the Stabler residence and demanded to know why I couldn't attend their son's birthday party.

We were in the fourth grade then. Joe rented out a room at the arcade and invited all of Elliot's teammates from his pee-wee football league. Not knowing any better at the time, Elliot didn't see a problem with inviting me. In fact, it was assumed I was coming. But once Joe found out they were expecting me at the party, he nipped it in the bud the day before Elliot's birthday.

"It wouldn't be appropriate to have one girl at the party. If we invite her, we'd be forced to invite all the other girls in his class and I'm not paying a fortune for all these people."

Serena thought it was absurd. She called out Joe for his blatant misogyny, and he responded by shutting the door on her face. His voice was muffled but she swore he called her a "drunk liberal whore."

Despite the bad blood between our parents, my friendship with Elliot remained strong and unbreakable as titanium. In sixth grade, after a silly argument about crunchy versus smooth peanut butter, I kissed Brian Cassidy in front of Elliot only because I knew it would piss him off. He wouldn't speak to me for a week. It took peace offerings of crunchy peanut butter and banana sandwiches, before he eventually forgave me.

When we were fourteen, Elliot got over his nerves and asked Kathy Garner out on a date. Even when Elliot's first and only girlfriend questioned the closeness of his our relationship, our bond never really wavered. There were times I had to get used to the reality that Elliot could no longer spend as much time with me as I was used to. And there were times he had to realize that sharing more of his secrets with me probably wasn't fair to Kathy. But we made it work. Even when we fought and he made me cry and I took advantage of his kindness and he broke my heart every time he kissed the blonde girl by his locker… We were always loyal.

I was so lost in thought, I didn't realize I had almost run through an all-way stop. I slammed hard on the brakes, the tyres screeching on the asphalt and my head ricocheting. I took a calming breath, opening my eyes to see Nick Amaro standing an inch from the hood of my car.

"Fuck, Liv! Are you trying to kill me?"

I poked my head out of the car and raised an arm to apologize. "Nick! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

He pulled the earphones from his ears and jogged to the passenger side of the car. He leaned down and gave me one of his signature, panty-dropping smiles. "Make it up to me?"

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't stop myself from returning the smile. "Get in, you lazy ass."

"Hey. It's 90 degrees out and I would've passed out in the middle of the street had you not run over me first."

Lightly punching him in the arm, I narrowed my eyes. "I said I was sorry. Besides, it's not my fault you decided it was a good idea to go for a run in this weather."

"You're right. Not my brightest idea."

"Obvi," I bantered back, mimicking the cadence of the school's resident mean girls. Nick shuddered as he shot me a hard look. "So, home?"

He shook his head. "You kiddin'? You just got back from your Euro trip. I wanna hear all about it."

While I felt a tiny bit guilty about telling Nick before Elliot, I felt like I wasn't left much of a choice. I was bursting at the seams, wanting to tell my friends about my adventures. So I drove the car to Main Street and parked in front of Mary Sue's diner. It was usually a busy spot but we didn't have any problems finding a table an hour before dinner rush. Before we walked into the fifties-style restaurant, I pulled Nick into a side hug and apologized again for nearly mauling him with my car. I winced when he pulled me closer. He smelled of sweat and boy and he knew it, chuckling as I tried to wriggle away from him.

"Watch it Amaro, or you're really going to end up like a bug on my windshield."

Nick was one of my closest friends. We didn't have a long history and an implied understanding like I did with Elliot, but I genuinely enjoyed Nick's company. While the circumstances of how we became friends were less than ideal, it served to solidify our friendship right from the very beginning.

Freshman year was rough on Nick. I didn't know him very well at the time, only that he played cornerback in the football team along with Elliot. He didn't hang around with the team as much, because most of his time and attention was devoted to swimming.

The swim meets didn't attract the same kind of crowd as Friday night football games, but they suddenly became the talk of Ashford when Nick tried to compete for state with a black eye, a cut lip, bruises, and a broken rib. He never made it off the platform and he had to sit out the rest of the season.

Police swarmed his house that night, and although Nicolas Amaro was never charged for beating the shit out of his son, he packed his bags and left for Miami the next morning.

The neighbours, teachers, and classmates weren't sure how to treat Nick after all his family secrets were aired out. He hated the pity. He hated how people used what happened to him as some sort of key to figuring him out. As a response, he lashed out and got into fights. He nearly got himself kicked off the football team when he antagonized then-quarterback, Mike Cutter.

Thankfully, Nick had a best friend and saviour in Rafael Barba.

Rafael and I were in the same World History class and were often paired up for teamed debates and other group assignments. We were both high achievers, but Rafael was always an edge above the rest.

It was winter of sophomore year when a distraught Rafael came to me, his green eyes glazed with tears. "Liv, I really don't know what to do anymore. I've heard you talk to people and you just have a way of getting through them… I need you to help Nick."

Everyone in school called me an empath. Helping Nick get his head out of his ass and deal with his history of abuse became my unofficial calling card. Other students then came to me seeking advice. Most of the time I felt unqualified, especially when my classmates sought advice on sex and relationships. But Serena encouraged me, telling me I had the talent for understanding people without coming across judgmental.

"You're trustworthy, Olivia. It's because people can sense your exposed vulnerabilities before you expect them to put theirs forward."

Amanda

Jet streams streaked across the orange and purple sky. My cheek was pressed to the window as I watched the setting sun disappear behind the Manhattan skyline.

It was no Loganville, Georgia; that's for sure.

As the plane descended and passengers scrambled to collect their belongings, I powered up my cell phone. There were a series of messages from people back home — friends who wished me well on my new life in New York, acquaintances who were offended I hadn't told them before they heard from the grapevine. My younger sister, Kim, sent a picture of herself with the caption, "I miss you xx." I chuckled quietly to myself as I stared at the 15-year-old's pronounced pout. It was typical of Kim to make a message meant for another person all about herself.

Scrolling back to the top of my notifications, I noticed a new message from my dad. "Sorry pumpkin. Got caught up with work and can't pick you up at the airport. You got the address, right? There's a train you can take to Ashford then just take a cab from there. I'll pay you back. I promise."

I sighed, leaning back into my seat and closing my eyes. We were already off to a bad start. I just had to remind myself that living with my dad would be a hundred times better than living with my mom and step-dad. I could've lived in a homeless shelter, and it still would have been more bearable than constantly watching my back whenever Gary was around. Creepy didn't even begin to cut it with him.

"Don't worry about it, dad," I typed into my phone. "I just landed so expect me to be at your place… however long it takes to get there by public transit."

It turned out Frank Rollins was only half-right. I needed to take a train and then a cab to get to his house in Ashford. What he failed to mention was I needed to take a bus to a subway station in Queens, take the subway to Grand Central Station, and then take another train to Ashford. In total, it would take me about two hours just to make it to town, and another 20 minutes in the back of a taxi before I would make it to Frank's doorstep.

Even if I had to lug her suitcase and a giant backpack through the streets of New York, I couldn't help my smile from spreading. The sights and sounds of the city were electric, running through my veins and igniting new life into me. I wished Frank lived in the city, or at least close enough that I could spend my time after school exploring all the different neighbourhoods.

As the train departed Manhattan and the view of the city became much smaller behind me, the familiarity of suburban life began to take over. Rows of identical two-storey houses devoid of personality were on either side of the train only to be interrupted by the occasional strip mall of restaurant chains and WalMarts. It was still a step up from the much more pastoral landscape of Loganville, but it wasn't exactly the kind of new life I had envisioned.

I imagined more action, bumping into interesting people on the subway and discovering live music in every corner. Not soccer moms, minivans, and basement renovations.

My father left when I was nine. Nearly half my life, he was gone. He was a musician and a rolling stone as redundant as that was, but he had spent all of his childhood in Loganville. Returning to town on his five-year high school reunion, he knocked up young Beth Ann six months before her high school graduation. Frank wanted to do right by the mother of his child so he stuck around, hoping fatherhood would teach him to settle down and stop running from his problems.

There was no music scene in Loganville so Frank ended up taking several odd jobs throughout the years to provide for his growing family. He never felt passionate about any of them the way he felt about playing bass guitar for a live audience. But those were his early twenties — his glory days. In his thirties, Frank was an unhappy man. His career was going nowhere, his habits were pulling him further into debt, and his marriage was rocky to say the least. Beth Ann nagged him all the time and told him to get his act together, or she would find a new husband to take care of her and us girls.

It took a few years before Frank took her up on the ultimatum. He left. She found two new husbands.

My father had visited a few times over the years, but Kim and I had never visited him because he was always moving. He had lived in almost every major city on the east coast, and had even spent a few months trying his luck in the Pacific Northwest. After Seattle's unfulfilled promises of Kurt Cobain success, he tried to cut it in New York, working construction on the side to help pay for rent. One of his friends from work told him he stood to get a lot more money if they worked as general contractors in the suburban developments outside the city.

I didn't think he would actually bite into the offer, but he did, and he and his friend set up shop in sleepy, idyllic Ashford. My father, the artist and vagabond, who slept from couch to couch searching for his next gig and his big break finally settled down. He seemed happy on the phone when he told me, but I was skeptical.

"Dreams don't disappear, pumpkin," he used to tell me when I was a little girl. "Sometimes, you have to put them aside to attend to other things in life, but promise me you'll never stop chasing them."

The fare clicked higher one last time before the cab pulled to a stop in front of a green Craftsman house. Fishing through my wallet, I retrieved bills and change and stuck it through the tiny window. The driver opened the trunk but made no effort to move from his seat and help me with my bags. There was definitely a shortage of southern hospitality in this part of the country.

I hauled my things up the short walkway, dragging the suitcase the four steps up the front porch. There was a Ford pickup on the driveway, the logo of my father's business advertised on the side. I rang the doorbell and waited.

No one came to the door so I rang again. The porch lights were turned on but it was dark and quiet inside. I tried knocking even though I was well aware it was an attempt in futility.

"Dad, I'm outside. I see the car on the driveway so I assume you're home." I pressed send and watched as the blue bubble appeared on the screen.

Seconds later, a new message appeared. "Sorry! I was in the shower."

I pursed my lips and waited. I had been waiting all day — a delayed flight, a broken promise to be picked up at the airport, and now standing outside in an eerily quiet suburban nightmare. I expected Freddy Kreuger to turn the corner any second now.

I jerked out of my thoughts of horror movie villains just as a screen door slammed. My heart thumped against my chest as I heard someone running and out of breath. Peeking my head around the side of the house, I saw a shadowed figure run across the neighbour's backyard. His arms were flailing, his head obscured by a t-shirt that was halfway down his torso. He got it through his head just in time to leap and stumble over the fence. When he got up from his ass, he wiped down the grass stains on his jeans and cursed in a true and thick Southern accent. "Sonofabitch."

"Dad?" I squinted to try to get a better look at him, but he had already run out of sight. Moments later, the front door burst open and my father stood at the entrance. His chest was rising and falling at a rapid rate, sweat on his brow and his neck red as a tomato.

"Mandy!" His arms opened wide to pull me into a tight embrace. I felt his lips on the top of my head before he pulled her away at arms length to study me. "Have you gotten taller?"

"No, dad. Still the same as when I was 14."

"I could'a sworn —" he began, "Anyway, sorry about that. Didn't hear the doorbell on account'a being in the shower."

I watched as Frank hauled my suitcase into the house. His sandy blond hair was dry and sticking in all sorts of directions and his t-shirt was on inside-out. I glanced back toward the neighbour's house — another Craftsman-style home, but this one was painted a burnt sienna much like the sunset when I descended upon New York. The lights were turned on in one room upstairs, my eyes flicking up briefly to catch the silhouette of a woman.

I shook my head and smiled at the irony of the situation. My dad was screwing the neighbour's wife.