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The only cool part about living in Arizona is the monsoon storms. Monsoons are wickedly sweet and brew up in a matter of moments, wreaking havoc and causing power outages. All of which is over and done in about twenty to thirty minutes. It’s kind of like pumping a two-year-old full of sugar and setting them lose with a wind machine and a water hose. It’s awesome to watch unfold but dangerous at the same time.
The rain slows as I round the street corner to my house. There will likely be no trace it even happened shortly. Though when I see my mom’s car in the driveway my thoughts immediately turn sour, great, she’s home—this should be fun. I hope she has new material in her let me count the ways my daughter has disappointed me arsenal because she’s really beaten the old verbal blows to death.
My mom and I have never bonded on any level, and honestly, I still question whether she’s my real mother. I don’t look like her, don’t act like her and we’re in a never ending battle for my dad’s attention. Dad and I used to do everything together when I was younger. I literally have no memories of any mother-daughter excursions. No hugs from her when I was upset, no girl time at the mall. No…nothing… She kept busy with her circle of rich friends with no room for me. Just as well, those snotty women whose husbands made a lot of money that they spent weren’t favorites of mine. Still to this day, I don’t know what my dad sees in her. She’s always been down on me. Hates the clothes I wear, feels social acceptance is worth its weight in gold and that her daughter is a social pariah she can’t be bothered with.
Granny Ray, my dad’s mom, is the only female family member I’m close with. Until we moved to Arizona, I spent every summer with her in Washington, D.C. After that, my mom said I had to get a job because I was sixteen and she wasn’t going to spend money to send me to my grandmother’s anymore. She’s such a bitch. She doesn’t like the fact that my grandmother and I get along as well as we do, mostly because we both see through her fake bullshit and she knows my grandmother can’t stand her.
My mom’s family lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, or as I lovingly call it, ‘Snottsdale.’ I don’t care for any of them or their money-hungry friends and they don’t care for me. Unfortunately, my mother’s family is the sole reason we moved here.
I didn’t so much as open the front door when she started in, “Is that really what you left this house in? Doesn’t your school have a dress code?” She clicked her tongue. Translation: the way you dress embarrasses me and I hope none of my friends saw you.
Jesus, I wish she’d get on her broom and fly the fuck away, never again to be seen or better yet—get smashed by a flying house. Oh, how my wicked thoughts carry me through each day.
Choosing to take the upper hand by ignoring her, I continue up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and go straight to my room with Dash and Vi tagging along behind me. I love my dogs, they make all the bad go away whenever they’re around. At least temporarily, long enough to catch my breath. No matter what happens, they love me and expect nothing in return other than an occasional pat on the head and a scratch to their pink bellies. I wish life was that simple, a pat on the head, a scratch here and there, and all was right in the world.
If only…
I’ll never forget the day I got them. My mom was totally against it, yelling at my dad, “They will make a mess and chew up my shoes.” I promised my dad I would take care of them and enroll them in all the puppy training classes I could find, so he assured my mom it would be okay.
When I saw them in their kennels at Boxer Luv, the local boxer rescue in Phoenix, Dad and I went to one Saturday afternoon, he said my face lit up and it was the first bright light he’d seen in my eyes since we’d moved. I couldn’t pick one over the other and they were tightly bonded, so I talked my dad into letting me adopt both. It was beyond adorable how they stared up at me while sitting on my lap, chewing on the bottom of my shirt during the car ride home. Love at first sight was the best way to explain it.
Dash and Violet are all white and deaf. Brother and sister from the same litter which according to the rescue was rare. On average only eighteen percent of white boxers are born deaf and to have two in the same litter was even rarer. Dash has one blue and one brown eye, both of Violet’s are brown. My dad was concerned about training them since they couldn’t hear, but I met a wonderful lady named Pat who taught my pups and I basic hand signals. She was amazing and had six deaf whites of her own.
My pups and I were instant BFFs, but my snotty mother turned her nose up at them. I’m proud to report they haven’t chewed up one thing, well except for a pair of her shoes that I kinda sorta gave them *wink- wink.* To this day, she thinks they got lost in the move to Arizona. Sometimes being bad feels oh so good.
Ugh, with graduation lurking like a dark cloud, my mind wanders back to colleges. Do you ever feel like you’re meant for something more than what’s right in front of you? I do, but I can’t seem to figure out what that is and nothing in any career field jumps out at me. Why does society force you to choose at such a young age?
I considered nursing, it’s only two years of school, but I pass out at the sight of blood. Guess I can cross that one off the list. I would make a great veterinarian, except for the fact that I know I wouldn’t be able to put an animal down. I would cry like a baby whenever an injured one came in. I’d like to think I could fix them all, kinda like the Florence Nightingale of the vet world, but that isn’t realistic. Cross that one off. Maybe I’ll take a year off and backpack around Europe. Oh, I can already hear the screech of my mother’s nagging voice, “My daughter is a vagrant. She moves from place to place taking odd jobs.” Tempting as it is to tarnish the perfect little reputation she’s built for herself, sadly that doesn’t feel like the right path for me either.
Chapter Three
Jess
Nine o’clock and time to close up shop. This shift was exceptionally boring tonight. I’ve worked at the laundromat for just over a year now. It’s decent as far as jobs go, they work around my school schedule which allows me time to get home and study before bed. But staying here much longer is a lost cause because it’s pretty much a dead-end job.
Cole, my co-worker, locks the front door behind us as we head to our cars. As I near my car I glance toward the trees and spot a lone figure standing there. Based upon the build I believe it to be a man, though with the shadows I can’t make out the face.
My first thought is it’s one of the guys that attacked me. That’s where my head always goes now, only this time the erratic thoughts trigger heart palpitation, making it hard to breathe. I turn toward Leah and Cole, hoping they see him, too, but they have their faces buried in their cells. When I pivot back, he’s vanished. Somehow, shaky hands and all, I manage to open my car door, dive inside and immediately lock the doors.
Never in my life have I driven in such a frenzied rush. I don’t remember putting my car in park after I pulled into the driveway nor the run to the door until it slams shut behind me. Leaning against it as I try to catch my breath, I scan the room, locating my dad on the couch in his PJs watching the news with my faithful pups resting at his feet. That weird sportscaster guy that barely moves his lips when he talks is on. I think he had plastic surgery at some point and they pulled his face too tight, either way I can’t stand to watch him—he creeps me out. Why my brain chooses to hone in on that at this time is beyond me.
I stand there for a few minutes before my dad realizes I’m home. “Hey, Jess, how was your day?”
“Okay, Dad, how about you?” I pant, though my breathing has nearly returned to normal.
“Pretty much the same, sweetie.” He smiles and returns his attention to the TV.
My dad has a way of making me feel like a little girl again, not a care in the world as I sat safely on his lap. He’s a great, down-to-earth guy who for some odd reason worships the ground my mother walks on, or in her case flies her broom over.
I kissed him on the cheek. “Goodnight, Dad.”
“Goodnight, honey.”
With the pups in tow, we head up to the peaceful sanctity of my room. As soon as the door opens they bound into the room and onto the bed, staring at me with a look that says, ‘Let’s play, Mom.’ Their little white nubs beating a mile a minute, how can I say no to those smushy faces? They are such goof balls, but as much as I’d like to play, I’m exhausted. Sleep has been an elusive beast as of late. The roller coaster I’ve been riding the last few weeks has taken its toll. I’m mentally and physically drained and quite honestly, on the verge of a complete meltdown.
My head doesn’t so much as hit the pillow when I’m drawn back into this never-ending dream, only this time it takes an unexpected turn.
We wander deeper into the dark forest when a familiar structure from my childhood comes into view. A small wood playhouse, the very one my father had built for me. The little house itself is white with baby blue shutters, trim, and eaves. He’d painted them in my favorite color.
