It's our second to last day in LA, Monday our plane leaves around noon. It will be hard to leave knowing that all I will be returning to are my parents and a college future without Miley. I don't know if I can take it, not seeing her, not touching her. But moreover I'm scared because I won't be there to protect her, hold her and remind her that she is strong and beautiful. I need Miley.
But I've decided not to worry about all that junk till Monday; today I'm going to have a good time. Because so many good things have come my way, one that truly comes to mind is that I haven't heard from Lauren in over a week and Miley has finally gone back to being herself, the Miley that I've fallen… fallen in love with.
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"Oh, oh what about impressionism artists, Jackson!" Miley says practically leaping out of her chair. I laugh as I reach for another cookie that Becky concocted yesterday evening with Mr. Stewart, they said the cookies were eatable just not normal, but who cares they kick ass. Taking a bite I watch Miley and Jackson fight over one of Jackson's many art history textbooks.
Jackson for the end of his summer classes has been assigned to teach the class on one artist that has shaped the world. And right now we are trying to conclude which artist, because of course Jackson can't decide.
"Really, Jackson, anything by Camille Pissarro, or Edgar Degas… oh no! Renior! Please, do Pierre Auguste Renoir!" Miley is jumping up and down in her seat as she cheers for one of her many favorite artists.
It's late in the afternoon, Becky and Mr. Stewart are downstairs cleaning up and closing shop. You know it's funny those two have been inseparable since we've got here. But, anyway, the kitchen is ours and Jackson has taken the liberty to take up the entire kitchen table for all his shit.
"I don't know, Lilly what do you think?" He asks me.
I pull the incredibly large textbook over to me and start flipping through, I know my artist is in here… "What about this?" I point to Marc Chagall's painting Birthday. The room is quiet as both the Stewart children examine the painting with their art eyes. I wait, finishing up my cookie then wiping the rest on my jeans- that's good cookie.
"It's beautiful…" Jackson whispers in astonishment, running his fingers over the painting. "Lilly, its perfect… Marc Chagall, yes, why didn't I think of that?"
Miley gives Jackson a funny look that seems to read, 'do you want me to answer that?' Its great watching these two interact, great and also heart wrenching.
"So I did good?" I ask excitedly, bouncing a little in my seat.
"Ya did good kid!" Miley teases while rumpling my hair. I kiss her wrist as she begins to pull it back from my hair. She gives me a warm smile and I melt a little inside. Miley and art, yes, those go together. Its strange but these past few weeks I've been getting this new sense of future- I see Miley in it. I see Miley and I buying a house, I see us in our kitchen fighting over art and music and life meaning. I see us sipping wine after Miley's brilliant ballet performance. Miley and Lilly, Lilly and Miley- us together, always. And this time, it doesn't scare me.
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"I scream you scream we all scream for ice cream!" I sing while swinging my arms up and down as Miley and I walk down the sticky hot sidewalk of LA. I spot an ice cream cart and take off in a sprint to catch up.
"I'll take a vanilla cone, my good man!" I tell the man scoping up the ice cream in large portions and smiling to the small children that dance around his stand. As I watch a six-year old lick her strawberry ice cream I take note that Miley isn't standing next to me. Spinning on my heel I panic as my eyes dart to all corners of the street we were just previously walking on.
"Miley!" I cry, forgetting about the ice cream, spotting her standing looking up at a tall gray building. She never speaks as I race over, breath fading as I wheeze and try to full my lungs with air. I place my hand on her shoulder and she flinches, pushing it away.
"Hey, what's going on?" I'm asking her softly, placing my hand back on her shoulder.
She says nothing, only stares up at the abandoned building blocking out the sun. Her eyes are small fiercely staring, her chin sticks out in determination and then she breathes, exhales her brave face and lets her shoulders drop.
"This was where Rachael's brother held his party last year…"
I scratch my brow, feeling the sweat and oil mix and bleed over my fingers as I try to make sense of what she just said, "I don't understand…"
"This was the party, here," Miley points to the black door, "This is where I was raped."
In the gut, a punch, all air, all air- gone. I try to gulp in all the oxygen I can, but like a fish out of water, nothing, I get nothing.
"Do you want to go, leave? Miley we can walk away." I assure her, taking her hand, pressing my palm to hers.
"No," She shakes her head slowly, still looking up at the broken windows, "No, I want to see it."
She walks first and I want to know her thoughts, I want to know what it was like, that night. Was it a full moon? Was the night air fresh and cool on her flushed cheeks? I wonder if she pulled and tugged on her dress trying to look the part of a college girl, did she flirt alcoholic drink in hand- I don't know, I will never know.
Miley is ahead of me, I let my hand brush the knob of the black door and over the chipped paint of the walls. There are pop and beer cans on the ground, my feet crinkle left newspapers. Miley stares at a couch resting dead center, it is green and the cushions are missing. She places a hand on the arm of the couch then turns and looks to the stairs.
"He took me upstairs," She says to the walls, "I remember he smelled like cinnamon and cigars, it was so intoxicating… Adrianna was with me, she told me we should go," Miley's head drops as she kicks one of the cans aside, "But I wouldn't listen. I followed him upstairs."
Miley begins walking up the stairs, for a second I fear that house is so old that the steps might give out, but I go with her anyway, ready to catch her- if she were to fall. Miley walks down the hall to the first door on the right. I only see the back of her, but the way her shoulders are hunched and tense I know this is torture for her, but she wants it, needs it.
The door opens with a sharp high moan and Miley stays motionless. "He took my hand," She continues, then taking a step inside. As she moves aside I see that the room has one window and a naked mattress in the corner.
"We kissed, and he tasted… good, sour maybe." Miley walks and stands in front of the mattress. "He pushed me down, hard, such rough hands… he ripped my dress, I screamed. He unbuckled his belt, I remember trying to stand," I hear Miley swallow, "But I couldn't get up, because he was straddling me holding me down. He just pushed my underwear aside and then," Miley looks away from the mattress, placing a hand to her face. Breathing in sharply Miley swings her leg back and then forward and kicks the mattress, she kicks it again and again- each time a loud thud echoes through the room, each time a new layer of dust leaps into the air and becomes illuminated in the dying sunlight.
Once she's finished, Miley backs away from the mattress and wipes her eyes. Miley looks up at me and I hold out my arms and she collapses into them, soundless, just breathing me in.
"Let's get out of here." She whispers and I take her hand, kiss it, and lead her out of the dark gray building that has held her nightmare, but now, walking out through that black door, Miley smiles another kind of smile- forgiveness.
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Author's Note: I just got back and the first thing I wanted to do was sit and write. Going out of town is fun, but being home is better. It feels so nice to return to this story. Leave your thoughts.
Side note: It was a blast to see everyone's reaction to Lauren. Personally, I love her, because she is such a joy to write about. Don't judge so harshly, she might be back. Who knows, oh wait… (me)