Page 6 of Saints & Sailors

I sat back in the plush cherry-colored chaise. Around Dr. I-Have-the-Answers’ office were shelves with books upon books lining them, no doubt on shrink stuff. His desk, a simple sheet of glass affixed on chrome legs, held a clock, a couple of photos, a funky hourglass, and Newton’s Cradle.

By my read, Dr. I-Have-the-Answers was a neat freak. He had used a can of spray dust cleaner to wipe off a fingerprint smudge on the coffee table before me within the first two minutes of our meeting.

Even his combover was carefully in place.

He adjusted his glasses, offering me that I’m-your-friend smile once more. “Saylor?”

I sighed. “No, Doc, not at all.”

For the rest of our session, he tried to get to the root of my rebellion, the cause of my abnormality, and the reason my mind worked the way it did. Honestly, I was just seventeen.

Before my move, I tried calling the boys, but none of them would answer.

Each and every one of them sent me to voicemail, leaving a sour feeling in my gut. The boys didn’t do angry or moody. Going without saying goodbye didn’t sit right with me. In many ways, they were more family to me than my mother and her husband.

There was just no time to physically go and seek them all out. I had to go.

My leaving was abrupt; there was no time to think before my mother arranged my departure and transfer. In the blink of an eye, I was no longer a resident of Los Angeles, and all that I loved was packed to bring with me to Meadow Grove.

She attempted a sit-down, to talk about my being sent away, but I wasn’t interested.

I hurled a fuck you at her and stayed holed up in my bedroom for as long as I could. The familiar lyrics of Aerosmith comforted me as I rocked back and forth in the middle of my bed.

It was Ian who got me into the classic rock band. Once I started hanging with the guys none of the contemporary stuff sounded as good.

After I really started getting into music, I made over my whole bedroom, littering my walls with vintage posters of old bands I’d fallen in love with. Ticket stubs from concerts and bar shows were collected on a bulletin board. At first, my mother hated my décor, it wasn’t prim and proper, but then, she grew quiet and began taking it in and admiring the art for what it was. My room was a music lover’s cave, and now I was parting with it.

Only Steven Tyler could soothe me in my final hours of all that I had known.

I intended to leave in a harsh silence as my mother escorted me out to her car. Mine would remain in our four-car garage until my return—if I returned.

Maybe good behavior would get me sent home in enough time. It was fall of senior year; I doubted they’d let me change schools twice, but I was hopeful.

“You’re really not speaking to me the whole way?” my mother asked me as she drove with her hands attentively at nine and three on the wheel. “Sandcastles” was playing from the stereo. We didn’t like the same music, but the song felt fitting considering.

I folded my arms, pushing my breasts up just a little in my tank top. Traveling across country, I hadn’t taken in account what the weather was like in Georgia.

A quick glimpse at the weather app on my phone told me it was surprisingly hotter there. Hopefully it didn’t snow in Meadow Grove like it did in some places from my research.

I scratched the bridge of my nose. “Nope.”

My mother sighed. “Saylor.” She shook her head. “This is for your own good. Rich and I have tried to level with you and be patient, but you don’t seem to be doing any better. Maybe you need a break, a vacation, some time to discover yourself.”

Rolling my eyes, I focused on the passing scenery. Goodbye LA. Goodbye sneaking out at midnight to go and hang at my favorite spots with the guys. Goodbye ditching class to smoke behind the dumpster at school. And goodbye late-nights living life on the scene.

If I were the sentimental type, I would’ve cried.

My mother did that for me as we arrived at our destination.

What would’ve been a four-hour flight turned into a near three-day bus ride. The Asshole, formally known as Richard, figured I didn’t deserve first-class—hell, I would’ve settled for a coach seat than a gross bus.

My mother tried to hug me and I swatted at her, staring her down with nothing but anger. As much as I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, I didn’t. Her teary eyes were warning enough for the looming breakdown she’d endure at my leaving.

Serves her right.

“Saylor…” she tried to say.

I huffed. “I don’t need this. I gotta go and prepare for my ride.”