From what Amelia remembers, her mother was a pretty woman—pretty in the sense that she was always well-put together without having to put much effort into her appearance. She took pride in simplicity, and she never had anyone to impress. She knew herself inside and out, and for a long while, she was happy. Her fatal flaw, however, was the way in which she wore her heart shamelessly on her sleeve.
Her mother loved madly and with an insatiable passion. She would give anything for a fairytale romance, and because she loved with such strength and unconditional fervor, she easily became blind to her partner's shortcomings. In her mind, her husband could do no wrong. If he pulled her by the hair and called her a stupid wretch for losing her job at the office, it was because she deserved it. If he told her that her girlfriends down at the nail salon were trying to sabotage their marriage by telling her she could do better, she would believe him.
Around Amelia's fifth birthday, her mother began to fall into intermittent bouts of depression. There were financial troubles, and Amelia remembers the great and many arguments between her parents on late, starless nights. She would hide away in Matthew's room and when the shouts vibrating from down the hall would finally cease, she would go out and find her mother in the kitchen, where she would have a glass of cheap wine in her hand and a cigarette poking out from between her pale, white lips.
"I'm sorry, honey. We got a little carried away again," she would lament, beckoning Amelia to come over and sit in her lap. "Sometimes mommies and daddies don't see eye to eye. It's a terrible thing."
Amelia would stay there on her mother's quivering legs until it was time for bed, and then Mom would dust a kiss over her ticklish brow and bring her back to her bedroom.
"It's all fine, Melia. These things happen to all of us at one point or another."
As Amelia grew older, her mother's psyche continued to deteriorate, and her father's only way of getting through to her was through either verbal or physical abuse. On most days, Amelia wasn't sure which was worse.
"You're such a lovely thing, my sweetheart," her mother once told her on one of her better days. "I often wonder how a reckless and foolish old woman like me was ever capable of creating something so perfect."
And one day, during a hot summer before the start of the sixth grade, she found her mother in the bathroom, cries of agony rolling out of her throat as her body became slack and her bottle of sleeping pills bounced against the cold, tiled floor. Amelia remembers screaming as her father called 911, and Matthew held her on the way to the hospital—cradled her as she fell asleep in a chair outside of the nurses' station. She hoped she would never have to wake up again. She hoped she would go with her mother.
She was a trouble-maker even then. She seldom did her homework, but her test scores were rather exceptional. Her teachers were convinced she was a bright child who simply required a firm hand to discipline her, which is exactly what her father attempted to do for the many years during which they lived under the same roof.
Because of her tendency to misbehave, a few students in her middle school class began to declare that her mother did what she did because she couldn't tame her rebellious daughter. Somehow, the rumor stuck, and even now, on some days, Amelia wonders if it isn't rooted in some truth. Of course her father holds some of the blame for the life her mother had to suffer through, but maybe she didn't help matters. Maybe if she had been kinder to her mother, things could have ended differently. Maybe if she hadn't despised her so much for marrying a pig, she could have forgiven her—told her there could still be a better future waiting out there for them if they went looking for it.
Now she knows what it's like to seek safety in someone else. She knows what it's like to hold onto someone just because you don't want to feel the sting of loss and disappointment again. She, too, has found comfort in the familiar demons of her life. Why move on to someone else and risk being hurt again? It's better to be hurt by someone who you expect will raise a fist at you than to be surprised by someone you trusted.
She knows the loneliness her mother must have felt. She knows the fear of being alone. She knows what it's like to love someone because you don't think you'll be loved by anyone else. She has been with boys just to feel whole—just to know she is visible to the world and still capable of feeling something other than contempt. She, too, loves dangerously and leans too far over the edge.
Ivan takes her to a party over the weekend.
Vash's parents are out of town, and his little sister is sleeping over at a friend's place, leaving him alone in his parent's beautiful brownstone that they purchased with the fortune they inherited from a long-running family business of selling high-end watches and handbags.
There are people drinking as some postmodern rock n' roll drums away in the background, but no one looks like they're having a profoundly fun time. In fact, there's a girl with jet-black hair from her trig class throwing up into a plastic bin, and the entire first floor is dank with the overbearing scent of something Amelia doesn't quite recognize but doesn't plan on trying.
Ivan and Amelia raise a few brows when they are seen together, but Amelia ignores the dark, clouded stares and follows Ivan to a couch pressed against the wall.
"How long do we have to stay here?" she asks, tensing her arms when Ivan coils himself around her waist with a carefree gaze.
"Until we get bored," he mumbles.
"I'm already bored."
"Relax. You're complaining too much."
The girl in her trig class has started a bout of hysteric sobbing, and Amelia cranes her neck around to look at her.
"Is she okay?"
"Probably fine. Just had too much to drink," Ivan whispers, stamping a kiss on the skin below her left ear.
"Is she alone?"
"I'm sure she came with someone."
"We should ask her if she needs help."
"What is wrong with you today?" Ivan grumbles, tracing a hand over her stomach.
"What's wrong with me?"
The girl looks miserable, and she can barely stand on her own feet. It's as though she's never been asked to walk before.
"I'm gonna go up to her," Amelia decides, swatting Ivan's hands off of her.
"Are you crazy?"
"Yes… If I were her, I'd want someone to help me."
She pushes herself off the couch and sweeps over to the girl whose name she doesn't recall, dodging a minefield of empty plastic cups, abandoned stilettos, and glass bottles in the process. When she reaches her, she grabs her by the shoulder and steadies her, looking into the girl's listless face and far-gone eyes.
She shakes her shoulder and asks, "Are you okay?"
The girl mutters something incomprehensible and almost falls forward, but Amelia catches her and tries to talk to her again. "Do you have anyone who could take you home?"
She doesn't give a coherent response, and so, Amelia lifts one of the girl's arms and rests it across her own shoulders to help the girl carry her weight. She's not sure how much she's had to drink, and thus, the situation may or may not be as serious as it seems. Still, Amelia doesn't want to take any chances. She takes out her cellphone and dials a number into it before she can second guess herself.
The line rings for a while, but there's an answer at last, and she is immensely grateful.
"Hey, why are you calling me in the middle of a Seinfeld marathon?"
"Gilbert, I have a problem."
"A problem? If you need me to go to the pharmacy to buy tampons for you again I—"
"Not that kind of problem," she hisses, exasperated. "Can you come and pick me up?"
"What happened?"
"I'll explain when you get here. Just hurry."
She gives him the address of the house and sits the girl from her trig class on a footstool as they wait. When Ivan notices she isn't returning, he comes up to her, and she explains the situation.
"I have to get her out of here."
"You're overreacting," Ivan insists, clearly annoyed.
"You can stay here if you want, but I've had enough."
An angry sneer crosses Ivan's face, and he storms off to find Vash. Amelia realizes she doesn't really care what he does at the moment—there are more pressing matters on her mind.
Gilbert arrives in his banged-up Ford about fifteen minutes later, and she guides the girl outside when she hears him honk, taking slow steps to make sure the girl can keep up.
Gilbert jumps out of the car when he sees them and cries, "Who's this?"
"Someone from school. We need to get her to a hospital," Amelia orders, feeling a bit panicked as the girl in her grasp grows less and less responsive.
"Stupid kids," Gilbert snarls but helps Amelia get the girl into the backseat.
Soon, they're on route to the hospital, and Amelia meets Gilbert's eyes through the rearview mirror and smiles softly. "Thanks, Gil."
"Ja, ja, just don't tell Mattie I'm doing this for you. If he hears you were at this party…"
"I know. It'll be a secret."
Gilbert smacks his lips and swears. "I'm already holding too many of your secrets, kid."
Acute alcohol poisoning. Had they brought her in any later or allowed her to sleep off her stupor, she would either have died from dehydration or choked on her own vomit.
The medical personnel put her on an IV drip and say they'll monitor her until she's stable enough to be released, and for reasons Amelia can't describe, her blood grows cold at the news, and she starts trembling so hard that Gilbert has to hold onto her as they walk back to his car.
"You did a smart thing," he tells her.
"Can't I stay a little longer, just to make sure everything's okay?"
"Visiting hours are over, and they're keeping her overnight. You should go home and sleep."
"That could have easily been me," she rasps, woozy as she works her way into the passenger's side. Her fingers fumble for her seatbelt as Gilbert gets behind the wheel, and her ears ring when the low rumble of the engine stutters to life.
"Let's be glad it wasn't," Gilbert says, avoiding her gaze. He pushes the power button on the radio and settles into the tense air, knuckles still white with anxiety. "This is serious, kid. I mean, I partied when I was in high school too, so I don't want to sound like a preacher here, but if something even close to this happens again, I'll convince Matt to keep you locked in your room until you're forty. Kids your age can't be trusted. If you didn't help that girl tonight… I don't wanna even think about it. Not everyone is as helpful as you are. They might've—crap—this is why I'm never gonna let myself have kids of my own, especially not a daughter. I dunno how to lecture you, so can you just pretend I said something really gushy and heartfelt so you won't get yourself in another shitfest like this again?"
"Aww, Gil… This is the first time I've seen you empathize with someone other than yourself."
"Ja, well, don't get used to it."
"Okay, no more scares," Amelia appeases him, finally managing to steady her voice. "And, for the record, I think you'd make a cool dad someday."
Gilbert gags. "Ugh, don't get all sentimental on me now."
"All right, fine. You know, for a minute there, I thought we might have a nice moment together, but I guess I got my hopes up too early."
"I don't do nice moments," Gilbert growls, but there's a hint of a smile on his face.
Ivan's in a bad mood, which isn't entirely unexpected considering the circumstances, but Amelia was hoping he'd be sympathetic toward her reason for ditching him at the party.
Of course, she hadn't made matters simpler for herself when she responded to one of his texts with "everything isn't always about you," but what else was she supposed to say when he's clearly in the wrong?
She doesn't speak to him for the remainder of the weekend, and when Monday morning comes creeping up on her and tries to rouse her for another dreary week, she decides it's a good time to take a mental health day and fake being sick.
Matthew, being the sweet, caring-to-a-fault person that he is, doesn't even consider the possibility he's being duped when he finds Amelia curled up in a ball under the covers of her bed, mopey and unwilling to budge.
"Hey, sis, what's wrong?"
"Throat hurts," she croaks, doing her best to sound hoarse and miserable. It sounds convincing to her, and she wonders if acting is her true calling.
She almost feels guilty when she sees Matthew draw his brows together as he gives her a pitying frown and tuts with sincere concern. His hand comes up to graze her forehead, and he says, "I think you've got a fever. Stay in bed, and I'll bring some tea, cough drops, and the thermometer."
She'd had the forethought to wrap a hot towel around her head no more than twenty minutes ago—careful to make herself seem warm but not hot enough to render the need for any serious medical attention.
When Matthew returns, he drops the aforementioned items on the nightstand and declares, "I want you to stay home today."
Amelia has to hide her triumphant smile in her pillow. "Okay."
"Gil will be here today, so he can watch you."
It would have been preferable to not have any company at all, but Amelia supposes this is still a victory. She can get Gilbert to hold his tongue and look the other way again.
Matthew leaves for work, and as soon as he's out the door, Gilbert makes an appearance in order to judge the matter for himself.
"Hah," he scoffs. "Sick? You don't look sick to me."
"I'm mentally sick."
"Well, we know that," he teases. "Still shaken up over what happened at the party?"
"Maybe," Amelia hesitates.
"Did you find out how everything turned out?"
"I heard from a mutual friend that she's fine."
"Good… Well, I guess I'll let you sleep off your 'sickness' then. You'd better miraculously recover by tomorrow, or I might just let Mattie know what's going on. I can't have you thinking I'm some kind of pushover. I've got to set some ground rules."
"Don't worry, I know you can be tough, Gil," she reassures dryly.
"Ja, I sure can be, huh? Be afraid!"
"I'm already trembling."
"Oh, well look who it is."
"Your favorite person in the world," Amelia quips, begrudgingly falling into good, ol' Mr. Chair. "I know you've missed me. I was really sick and all that gross stuff, so I'll spare you the details but—"
Arthur raises a critical brow at her and crosses his arms, even grumpier than he is normally, which shouldn't even be possible. "You've missed two sessions."
"Yeah, I had some kind of bug. It's going aroun—"
"That explains why you missed Monday's session, but you were in school on Wednesday, and yet, I still didn't see you in this office. I have your attendance record in your online file, my dear. Now, why don't I give you a moment to come up with a more plausible excuse?"
Ugh, she can't hide anything from him anymore, can she? He's too damn nosy. Any other counselor wouldn't have gone to such great lengths to follow-up on that. It's both touching to know that he cares and absolutely infuriating at the same time.
She doesn't say anything. Instead, she waits for Arthur to talk because she's sure he's already got a lecture up his sleeve, or he's going to ask her questions until he somehow gets the truth out of her.
He seems to go for the latter approach.
"In any case, are you feeling better?"
"Yeah, much better. Thanks for asking."
"Was it a cold?"
Amelia purses her lips and thinks through every word before she says it. "No, it was some kind of stomach thing."
"That's not what Matthew told me."
Why this man chose to be a counselor and deal with ungrateful teenagers all day is beyond her. He should be a lawyer or a detective with these interrogation skills.
"Well, Matt must've been confused."
Arthur sighs and slumps his shoulders in a rare show of defeat. "What am I going to do with you?"
"I'm sorry."
"You say that, but we both know you don't mean it. If you meant it, you wouldn't keep doing this."
She flinches. "That's—"
Her phone rings with the notification of yet another text, and this time, she opens it right in front of Arthur, eager for any distraction that could bring an end to their conversation.
Why don't you just sleep with the guidance counselor already?
"What the hell is this shit? Disgusting!"
How would Natalya know she's been having guidance sessions? Did Ivan tell her? Is she being a creepy stalker and watching her every move?
Arthur narrows his eyes and looks at her with an almost piercing gaze. He is reaching inhuman levels of grumpiness. "What in the world is going on? I'm going ask you this once again… Are you in any trouble, Amelia?"
"It's nothing," she whispers.
She sees the worry on his face, and it's like someone has dropped a bag of stones on her chest, crushing her beneath dead-weight. For a brief second, she almost considers telling him, but then she bites her tongue hard and shakes her head. What would he be able to do about it anyway? This is her battle to fight.
Another text.
I never liked you. Who would?
Then another.
Stay away from me. You just want to smear my reputation too, don't you?
And finally, the last one.
Love, Kiku.
The hand holding her phone turns numb, and she looks up into Arthur's startled semi-glare slowly, devoid of anything and everything.
"Amelia?"
"E-Excuse me. I have to go."
"Go? Go where? Amelia!"
"This is just too much…"
Arthur gets up from his swivel chair and reaches out a hand to catch her shoulder, but she's already out the door and has broken into a full-sprint down the hallway.
She knows exactly who she's after.
