VII. The One with the Gold

"He's just as bad as he claims you are!"

I am five years old.

I take my brother's hand as he leads me down the stairs of the bus as it arrives in front of our home: a white, brick-faced house. Vince, who's nine, walks us to the front door that hovers above us, the afternoon sun sliding past the windows and reflecting the light at us. I always thought that was our house's way of welcoming us home from school everyday like a third parent.

We needn't open our tall, white door as our mom is revealed on the other side, smiling with her pearly white teeth and thick, fluffy black hair. Hair that looks beautiful when she curls it every morning. Her brown skin seems glossy in the sunlight. I hug her. She smells of vanilla and coconut: that's the fragrance she wears, but I think of it as vanilla ice cream.

"Mommy!" I cry in my shrill, five-year-old voice. "I wrote my whole name today at school!" I'm triumphant. Do you know how hard it is to write Vivian Rosario Graham at five years!? I show mommy my paper.

"Oh, you're a big girl now!" she squeezes me and I smile, saturated with pride.

"Yeah, well I'm the only kid in my class who can multiply with fractions!" Vince boasts. That show off. He always has something better to tell mommy! No matter how much older I'll get, he'll always be four whole years older!

"Very good, Vince!" Mommy plants a huge kiss on my brother's forehead. She draws an arm around each of us. "I have two of the smartest kids in the world." she says warmly. "Let's go inside. I have a treat for your hard work."

Mommy gently pushes me inside, pointless as I race for the couch. "Take off your shoes, Vivian." she reminds me and I do in a hurry, tangling up my shoelaces in the process. Mommy turns on the television, and Vince's and I's favorite cartoon pops up.

"Rugrats!" we both say as a moving image of Chuckie, the kid with the wild red hair, talks to Tommy.

"That's not the surprise." I get up and follow Mommy into the kitchen. Vince follows me soon after as Mommy goes to the refrigerator and opens it. "One for you, and one for you." I can hardly believe it: we're holding Juicy Juice boxes! And it's apple—my favorite. I don't think Vince likes apple juice so much, but he's still smiling. "Thanks, mom." he says as he stabs the straw in the hole after one punch and sips it.

Apple juice is a treat in our house because the juicy juice brand "costs too much money." The phrase is slow and choppy in my memory because that's the way daddy would tell me.

I try to mimic Vince's way of puncturing the box; trying to keep up with all of the things he does is exhausting! He always makes it look so easy. I guess it is when you don't have baby hands like mine. I realize the difficulty when I try and jab my straw into the juice box for the first time: I make a dent. The second time: same thing. The third time—a little faster—I miss the entire box. Fourth time. Fifth time. POP! I puncture more than what I need on my sixth try, and red juice flows out of the box, like a river breaking through a dam.

Wait a minute...red juice? I thought mommy gave us apple juice.

An earsplitting scream erupts in the kitchen, piercing like a cross between a falcon and a cat. I don't recognize this as Mommy's until Vince cries, "Look what you did!"

I look up and see my mother with a large hole in between her collar bones—slanted and ragged like the one I punctured my juice box with. Dark blood rushes from the wound, rapid as if a pipe had burst. It soaks mommy's blue work suit, coloring it purple as it travels down like a waterfall. She chokes and coughs and more blood spills from her mouth. She collapses on the floor and the blood continues to flow, like a water faucet and it pools around her, staining the white floor. It spreads across slowly, expanding its artwork.

Petrified, I watch in horror at my mom, coughing and convulsing at the same time. Lying in the dip of the kitchen floor that previously wasn't there, the blood level rises around her in a bloody bath.

"Mom!" Vince screams at the top of his lungs. It's a scream I've only heard in horror movies I've seen my parents watch. Her entire body is engulfed in her own blood as it continues to rise around her. Vince then faces me and grabs my shirt with both hands, lifting my blood-stained socks off the floor. "This is all your fault!"

I let his words consume me as I continue to stare at Mommy, now only visible from the nose up, gurgling against her own blood. Her eyes bulge out at me, wide and terrified.

"This is all your fault!" The words come out of Vince's mouth, but the voice is my own, reverberating off the walls as if they were spoken from a podium.

"This is all your fault!"

The cry still rings in my mind once I open my eyes with a jolt, and tears slowly follow. I'm all too familiar with this dream—this horror film that plays through my mind over and over.

But it's been six months since I had it.

The very first time it came to me was during the first anniversary of my mother's death. There were different versions, but the same confusing, gory plot overall. I stay planted in bed on my back as I let the hot, stinging tears flow down from my eyes to my ears. I reach down on the floor for my black raggedy-Ann (a gift from my mom) and kiss it for comfort. Six months exactly. Why did the dream come back? Six months I slept peacefully.

It makes perfect sense: the anniversary of my mom's death brought back painful memories from inside our house; the dreams started; I couldn't function properly; and we moved away for a fresh start. I remember my freshman year hastily preparing for my final exams that I had to take in April earlier this year. Vince had the convenience of going to Rhode Island to attend Brown, of getting away, but dad and I didn't.

The return of the dream just doesn't fit into this equation! I close my eyes trying to clear my mind, but I can feel that horrible dream waiting for me in the unconscious world, seducing me into reliving that traumatic moment, and I continue to sob in the dark until, finally, I slip into a choppy, but dreamless sleep.

When I wake up, I climb up into our attic: I don't go to the bathroom, I don't make my bed; I just move impulsively to the attic.

Our attic isn't the typical, pile-your-junk-ceiling-high attic. It's arranged much like a room forever waiting to be occupied. A reddish pink carpet blankets the floor. Along the two parallel walls stand two bookshelves crammed with all sorts of almanacs, magazines, and literary classics. A tiny, violet love seat sits in between the shelves, accompanied by a golden floor lamp, the shade the shape of flower petals, only an emerald green. It looks like a wilted green rose. On the opposite side of the love seat sits a small desk with a large photo of my mother, smiling with her perfectly straight white teeth and her big, dark hair and dark brown skin.

I turn on the lamp and sit on the couch, and come down on something hard. Startled, I leap up and discover a locket sitting there. It's cream-colored and embellished in shiny gold flowers, sitting in a navy colored box. I lift it up, shocked that it's heavier than it looks. Slowly, I open it up and find a photo of my mother inside, holding me as a baby. I appear to be about six months old wearing a yellow sundress, matching the color of my mom's dress, and wearing a white sun hat. I'm not staring at the camera at all like my mom, but I'm intrigued at the daisy she's holding and reaching for it.

Is this...for me? Instinctively, I fasten the gold chain around my neck. It is now.

I show my locket to Queenie when I stop at her locker during school.

"So pretty." she coos as she runs her fingers over the shiny gold while I wear it.

"Open it." I say softly.

Manny soon hovers over Queenie's shoulder as they both stare at the photograph inside. "Awwww." they say in unison.

I smirk and roll my eyes.

"You were such a cute baby!" Queenie squeals.

"Is that your mom?" Manny asks. "She's really pretty." She tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, and I wish that my hair had so much volume like hers—and my mom's.

"Er...thanks." I say awkwardly.

"Do you have any other pictures of her before she-" Manny cups a hand over her mouth. "Oh, sorry, Vivian."

"Don't be." Quickly I change the subject. "My older brother is driving home from Rhode Island to stay for the weekend." I close the locket.

"Rhode Island, U.S.!?" Queenie says. "How long is that drive?"

"About nine hours." I say. "It's cheaper for him than flying in."

"What does he look like?" Manny's dark eyes penetrate mine like she's scaling through my thoughts to find his image.

I shrug. "Sort of tall. Sort of muscular. Curly hair. Nothing special."

"Do you mind if we stay over?" Manny's eyes light up.

"Only if you're interested in helping Mr. Graham set up the guest room." Queenie answers instead, emphasizing the mission for any visitors at our house this evening.

"Whatever." I say. "Flirt with him for all I care, just don't make yourselves look stupid, or I'm going to be the one who gets the questions later." I chuckle.

"Don't worry—we'll make you look good." Manny winks, then something catches her eye—or someone. I turn and see Spinner walking towards his locker. "See you guys later." she follows him.

I tilt my head towards Queenie. "Are Paige and Spinner still dating?"

She shrugs. "Last I checked. What's up with you and Ivory? Suddenly I mention your name to her, and colorful language comes out of her mouth."

My mood changes completely. I forgot about our confrontation just two days ago after thinking about my mom. I cling on to my locket. "She doesn't like that I hang out with Rick, so I ended our friendship."

"Oh." Queenie says.

I fold my arms. "Are you going to join the Anti-Rick Bandwagon too?"

Queenie stares at me for a few seconds, frowning as if she's thinking of something. Finally, she opens her mouth. "Rick was in my theater class last year. Both he and Terri—the girl he dated—before he...well you know."

I nod. "Is there a lot to the story?"

"I guess we can walk and talk." Queenie replies.

We head to gym class as Queenie continues her story. "Rick was so active in the class. The most of any of us. He was confident in answering all of Ms. Kwan's questions. Hell, he even gave his own input from his personal experiences. He was quite sure of himself—even a little arrogant sometimes."

"Really?" that sounds about right: the theatrics part that is. I think about the time when I rode with Rick to his house and how he ranted on and on about theater.

"But when it came to Terri", Queenie continues, "he was different. Every time he was near her he couldn't make eye contact with her. He was really shy around her. It was cute. I have to admit: Rick had good taste. Terri was gorgeous."

I nod. I want to ask her what she looked like, but I don't want to ruin the flow.

"So when the two of them began dating." she says. "If I thought Rick was confident before, man did his ego grow!" she shakes her head. "I didn't take him seriously, but everyone who was around him thought he was weird, and that's all I knew about him."

"Did you ever talk to him face to face?" I ask.

"Sure: a few times when we did group activities, which was a lot in that class. Like I said before, he was really active, so it was sort of fun to work with him, but also so irritating because he thought he was above everyone else in the class! I didn't like him."

"So...what's the point of your story?" I ask.

Queenie smiles. "If you don't see it, then I guess he really has changed."

I look at her, baffled. "Huh?"

"If Rick is still the arrogant, abusive know-it-all from last year, I feel like you would've made a comparison between him now to him last year, but since you didn't..."

"...Then he probably has changed." I finish.

"You're a smart girl, Vivian." Queenie says. "And if you say that Rick's not a bad guy, then I have to take your word for it."

I hug Queenie. "I love you!"

I tell her. I tell her not.

I'm leaning against the wall besides the door to Ms. Sauvé's office. I want to tell someone about my dream from last night which also caught me when I dosed off at lunch just a few moments ago. I'm clutching my locket as I think of the bizarre yet disturbing vision. Why did it come back? I slide down onto the floor and bury my face in my lap.

If you were here, Mommy, I wouldn't have this problem. It's so hard being without you. The thought alone brings tears to my eyes and I bite my bottom lip to keep from sobbing out loud. I take a deep breath and lift my head up when I see Rick from my right walking over. He seems occupied by his own thoughts as he stares downward, but when he looks ahead and sees me, he quickens his pace a little. Quickly I wipe away the tear that slid down my face.

Rick sits on the floor next to me. "I didn't know you were seeing Ms. Sauvé." he unstraps his black messenger bag. "Do you have an appointment scheduled with her?"

"Me? Oh, no." I force a smile. "I just need to talk about something."

"About what?" Rick says in a soft voice.

I stare at the linoleum. "I don't want to say...I'm not even sure if I want to talk to her about it."

"Take it from me, Vivian: it's easier to talk about difficult subjects." Rick says. When I don't respond or look at him, he asks, "I-is it about your mother?"

Briskly I nod, fighting more tears. I don't want to cry in front of Rick again, but I'm sure he knows I'm upset when he puts an arm around my shoulders. I hold his free hand with both of mine and lean my head against his shoulder. "Stay with me for a minute, Rick." I say.

Rick rubs my shoulder in response. "I will." he says tenderly. "I don't go in for another five minutes."

He's wearing that cinnamon scented cologne again, and I'm submerged under the scent now that I'm leaning against him. I want to think about something, anything else that doesn't involve the dream of my mother drowning in a pool of her own blood. I feel Rick's head leaning against mine as he gently runs over my shoulder; a common, comforting gesture and yet it feels so good...

"Wow. The psycho moves fast."

Abruptly I sit up as Jay, a.k.a Cap Boy, looms over us. He looks at me, gaze nonchalant. "You know, this is how they work: they treat you nicely, tell you sweet things...then they go for the kill."

"Jay, please." I say, agitated. "Leave us alone."

"Maybe you're not aware, but I'm the Hallway Patrol around here." He averts his gaze to Rick, eying him like a piece of meat. "And today I'll also be your personal body guard." Suddenly he grabs Rick by his shirt with both hands and pulls him up as he grunts.

I stand up. "Stop it, Jay!" I say. "Put him down!"

"As you wish, princess." Jay slams Rick against the wall with a loud smack, and I flinch. Rick slides back to the floor, biting his lip as if trying to hide the pain he feels. His gaze is fixed straight ahead.

I grind my teeth. "Go. Away. Now." My face is boiling as I walk towards Jay.

He glances at me, and the slightest hint of surprise is now replaced by amusement in his beady little blue eyes. "And who do we have here? The princess is defending her psycho boyfriend."

"I'm gonna count to one." I ignore his remark. "Go away please. Today's not the day."

"Rick's girlfriend is also psycho." Jay taunts some more as he crosses his arms. "It was meant to be." he grins smugly.

"One."

I grab Jay's sack so suddenly he recoils, but I don't let go even as he grabs my wrist. "Hands off my junk." He tries to sound tough, but his voice cracks under the pressure of my grip.

"What are you going to do if I don't?" I press harder, and Jay groans. "Push me? Slap me in the face? Then do it: Rick won't be the only guy around who would've hit a girl before."

Jay swings my hand away, face flushed a hot pink. "You'll regret that, you little bitch." He growls. Suddenly, he calms himself and grins. "But you're right. I can't do what I'm accusing Rick of, but no one gets away with making me look bad."

"I tried to be nice." I try and sound detached from Cap Boy's remark.

He moves towards me so that our bodies are only inches apart. He glares at me, and I return it.

"I go away when I want to, not when I'm told." his hand glides to the back of my neck, and the other grabs my cheeks with his index finger and his thumb as he squeezes my cheeks. "Don't forget that." He says. I can see Rick from my peripheral vision climbing to his feet.

I spit in Jay's face, and he turns his face away for a second before he pushes me to the floor and I cry out, startled. He walks away as Rick helps me to my feet. "You okay?" he puts his hands on my shoulders.

I put a hand on my pounding heart. "He's just as bad as he claims you are!" I reply.

"Don't get involved with him, Vivian." Rick tells me. "I knew by the way he looked at you that he was going to push you. I should know: I did the same to Terri." he shakes his head. "Thank you for standing up for me."

I'm still shaking after the confrontation. It's more than just the physical harm: it's the psychological trauma that I'm suffering from. How Rick has to put up with this every day is beyond me. He's seeing counselors because of his issues, but no one around here seems to care. Isn't it bad enough that he has to repeat the tenth grade?

I grab Rick's arms. "It's so courageous of you to come to Degrassi everyday despite everyone harassing you. How do you manage something like this all of the time?"

Rick smiles shyly. Suddenly he changes the subject. "Uh...Toby and I have this game going..."

"Huh?" I squint at him. Where did that come from?

"It's out of the blue, I know, but—"

"-Sorry, I can't play now. Gotta go to class."

I don't know what I'm thinking—maybe I'm not—but I stretch up and kiss Rick's cheek. "Thanks for comforting me...again." There: I justified the kiss. No need to feel awkward.

But Rick's grinning wildly before I turn and head down the hall.

I've moved across the clearing and start to climb the stairs when the bell rings. I reach for my locket—and find that it's not there. I scan the area around me as students begin to fill the halls. I start to retrace my steps and go back down the stairs to search the floor—least what I can see of it. Panic gradually fills me, and I walk faster in the direction I came from. In my haste, I bump into Emma.

"Sorry." I say. "I'm looking for a locket I dropped."

"A locket?" Emma repeats. "What does it look like?"

"It's a creamy color with gold flowers embroidered on it." I tell her. "With a gold chain."

She nods. "I'll let you know if I find it."

"Thanks." I walk past Emma and continue my search. My heart beat's accelerating by the second. How could I lose something so valuable so soon? I really want to slap myself.

I'm back at Ms. Sauvé's office, and sit down in the spot where I was only minutes before. I fidget with my shirt; I had my locket on in this spot, so I lost it when I was-

I freeze. Does Rick have my locket? The thought relieves me little.

As if on cue, Ms. Sauvé's door opens and Rick emerges.

"Rick!" I rush towards him. "Back just a few moments ago when we were talking...did you notice me wearing a locket?"

He scrunches his eyebrows. "I wasn't...really paying attention. Did you lose it?"

I put my hands on my forehead. "I just had it! And now I can't find it anywhere!"

I'm struck with a realization and widen my eyes, staring directly at Rick, but he's not the person I see.

"What?" Rick says.

"Jay." I say bitterly. "He stole my locket!"*

Housekeeping: I hope the italics in the beginning don't strain your eyes! I did it for the purpose of the dream.