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"Understand what?" My lawyer asks and I notice he's wearing that chicken frying white jacket again.
I roll my eyes. The point I'm trying to make is far too serious to be distracted. "The more love you give a person, the more power they have to hurt you." I sigh, aiming to disengage myself and explain. "When you look at . . . a painting," I'm struggling for an image. "If you keep your eyes wide open and still don't see the whole picture, what does that say about your ability to interpret its' meaning? What if I see a sailboat and someone else looks at the same painting and sees a lighthouse?"
I could not see what was happening. I think I literally blinded my own eyes to maintain sanity.
"Sorry. That's a shitty metaphor. What I mean is, with my specific . . . situation-being in the midst of something that is so glaringly obvious to you-it probably seems like a lie when I say I didn't know, but it's the truth. I had no idea what I was up against."
"Tell them what you were up against, Miss Patel." My lawyer directs.
This is what happens to me every freaking time: I get flustered. Embarrassed-humiliated might be a better word-that I can't find a way to express myself. This is the point where I have to say the hardest hard shit.
I sense the sheen of sweat coating the back of my neck and building up on my temples. My mouth feels so dry. My throat is swelling. I don't want to say anything, and worse, I don't know if I can. I wonder briefly if it's possible to skip over it and try to think up something else to offer.
Nothing comes to mind and I think: maybe I won't say anything at all. Maybe I'll just sit here and pretend to be invisible and after a while they'll move on.
I want to tell them what Avery was doing. I want to shake my fist at them all and spew the filthy details, but they already know. Studying me as they have, it's been obvious from the beginning. Still doesn't make any easier to say.
I bite my lip, aiming to think every word before I speak it, so they will understand. "All any of us knows is the information that our brains take in. It processes our surroundings. Right?"
I sound like an idiot.
The one thing I shouldn't do is the one thing I want to do-shrink into a tiny ball.
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28
-Avery
Some of my best times were the ones I spent at Angels' house. Even if Deanna didn't like me she was still cordial. Even if there was nothing to do over there, I'd still show. I'd sit at the dining table wearing a stupid grin because even being bored over there was way better than doing anything at my house.
"You should totally try that." I whispered in Angels' ear, one night as we sat in the living room, watching a movie with Austen. It was Natural Born Killers.
Angel wasn't paying attention to the movie. She'd started wondering if Jake would stop by during the opening murder scene in the diner and by the time I whispered in her ear, Mallory was splayed on the hood of some car, getting nasty with a guy that wasn't Mickey. Angels' glazed look came into focus on the TV. "Try what?"
Austen glanced our way but I pretended not to notice.
"You've never wondered?" I kept my voice low, eyes widening. One of my hands was twirling a strand of long, black hair. I gave my best salacious gaze, flashing it at Austen, then back to the TV.
Angel rolled her eyes and got up, making for her bedroom. She was in a sulky mood and there was no talking to her when she got like that-when she had that withdrawn air about her, it was best to leave her alone.
But I was in a mood, too. I tightened my eyes and grinned, daring Angel, begging her to say something contrary to my intention so I could spend the rest of the night proving I was way more brave than she thought. It was just one of those nights when I wanted to let go and do something stupid.
But Angel wasn't having any of my attitude. She was too caught up in Jake and his asshat ways. Analog Controllers' tour was starting soon, and she hadn't been asked to go to California. Then there was his inglorious fumbling confession: those two words might as well have been tattooed on her forehead. She thought I didn't hear her mumblings under her breath. Whenever Angel was thinking really deep over something, she'd speak her thoughts aloud.
Angel sighed, gave a semblance of a wave, and disappeared down the hall. She was done for the night. I stayed on the couch, sifting the possibilities of this uneventful evening. I had no plans, nowhere to go. Nothing.
I settled for subtly shifting my weight, leaning towards Austen, who still sat on the other end. Yes, he had a girlfriend. But she wasn't there. His skin was colored like caramel. His hair was too long and he really needed to consider washing his face more often, but . . . like I said, I was bored.
"Moms' got the night off." He murmured, and I wondered if he could read my mind.
I tossed a bemused look. "Am I that predictable?"
He shook his head just as Deanna walked in from the back porch, padding quietly through the kitchen, carrying a tall glass of iced tea. It was late and she looked wide awake. Her sharp eyes examined the two bodies on the couch.
"What are you two whispering about?"
"This movie's weird," Austen complained. "I'm going to my room. I want to listen to music." As he got up, his gaze scraped past me.
