“Sunlight
shines into the q-quiet tomb
He
rolls out of bed; he walks past his shoes
He
crawls out the door, he climbs down the stairs
He
knows it’s not right, but he doesn’t seem to care…
He
doesn’t care.”
#
I often dream I’m flying. That I’m going
somewhere important, somewhere far and somewhere special. When I daydream,
though, I’m drowning. I’m reminded of the fact that when my eyes are open, I
can barely keep my head above water.
That’s why it irks me when the sound of
doorbells and happiness wakes me from my nap. I felt myself drifting into a
dream— into a good one— and suddenly I’m not.
I pull the headphones out of my ears and
sit up in an agitated stupor. I’ve only been out for thirty minutes, but
grogginess has turned me into a monster. Probably should’ve shut the door before I laid down for a nap.
The sound of Bailey’s voice adds thunder
to the storm raging within me. “Glad you made it, Sahara,” she’s saying. I
swing my legs over the bed, ready to kill.
I make out the other person’s less
familiar voice as I stomp, stomp, stomp, wait—hold
up down the hallway.
“Glad to be invited!” Sahara replies in
an all-too-realistic British accent. There’s some shuffling, giggling, and even
more movement before Sahara continues, “You know you owe me this, though, since
you came to see me last year and ‘haven’t had time to entertain anyone’ ever
since…” She says the words, mockingly and Bailey’s feathers ruffle. Go, Sahara, I think as I sneak a bit
closer, forgetting my anger for a millisecond long enough to let curiosity take
over.
“Yes, well, I’ve said I’m sorry,” Bailey
defends once she regains composure. “And lucky Mr. Williams’ grandson dragged
him down South for the summer…”
“Yes, well, lucky I still have my Visa. I could kill you for all this last
minute business. Posting a ‘Help Wanted’ advert on Facebook? Really, Bee, where’s
your dignity?”
“I know, I know, I’m desperate.”
“Anyone could’ve answered it.”
“I know, I know, I know.”
“You’re lucky I’m so popular. So loving.
So thoughtful. Thoughtful enough to reach out to my other American friends. I have those, I hope you know. Ones who
call me, as it were.”
“Sahara.”
They move into the kitchen and like a
ninja, I follow, keeping to the shadows. Oh, Sahara. You may just be my new
favorite person in the entire state of California. What, though, ever possessed
you to become friends with Bailey? My inner monologue rages as I creep closer,
closer, closer to get a better look.
Sahara unwraps the mustard yellow scarf
from around her neck, revealing her dark complexion and, if I’m not mistaken,
beads of sweat. I know she’s not from around here, but summer is summer
anywhere you go, isn’t it? Apparently she didn’t get the memo judging by her
dark leggings, knee-high boots, and long baggy shirt made from some sort of
wooly fabric. I can’t make out whether or not she’s melting from my post behind
the grandfather clock.
As Bailey pulls a few things out of the
fridge, Sahara cuts her a look. “So that Mr. Williams… he the bloke who owns
the place?”
“Yes ma’am,” Bailey answers putting a
rotisserie chicken out onto the counter. She checks the fridge for other ingredients
she might have missed before slamming the stainless steel door shut and turning
to her company. “He’s the one I’ve been telling you about. Such a fascinating
life that man’s had.” She shrugs as if to toss away the subject. “Anyway, since
I’ve been writing his biography since Christmas, he pretty much figured he
could trust me to keep an eye on the house. For some reason, he seemed really
excited about lending his place to a bunch of wayward—”
“—baby-faced—”
“—angst-ridden—”
“—and inspirationless writers.” As
Bailey laughs, Sahara picks up a tomato and takes it to the cutting board. “Oh
yes,” the girl goes on. “God bless his soul.”
And suddenly, I’m in a movie. I’m the
stupid girl who takes a step backwards as if to retreat, but the floor creaks
alerting everyone of her presence, begging them to look.
So I step, floor creaks, Sahara looks, Bailey
glares.
I’m caught.
And Sahara exclaims, “Oh!” breaking the
short, but still awkward silence. “Didn’t see you there!” She smiles at Bailey,
but nods toward me. “New recruit?”
If Bailey thinks it’s good to see me up
and about, she doesn’t show it. “Yep,” she says in robot. Then her mouth sets
in a straight line as she fights so hard!
to look like she’s a decent human being, capable of smiling in spite of my
presence. “Alright, Ellie, this is Sahara Gold.”
“Troublemaker extraordinaire,” Sahara
interrupts with a wink.
“And pretentious songwriter desperate
for something new to whine about,” Bailey adds cutting her a disapproving, but
amused look. Then, Coz looks at me. “You two would get along, I think.”
She is so lucky Sahara beams and cuts in
before I can choke her.
“Is that what you’re here for? You’re a
writer, too? That can’t be it, though, ‘cause… hold on, give me a second…”
Confusion floods her features. “I didn’t send the ad to any Ellie, did I? Did I?” She drops into a slump as she
struggles to remember. “I know I didn’t,” she mumbles. Her eyebrows knit
together and a hand goes to her hip. “I doubt I even know an Ellie...”
Bailey’s eyelids flutter as she pats her
friend’s shoulder and mutters, “No, no, Sweetie, I invited her…” Sahara’s mouth forms an “Oooooohhhhhh” and Bailey
snorts, laughs into her friend’s wooly shoulder, looks almost human. Almost.
Until she speaks again.
“Elena,” Bailey assures her friend, “is
an expert in the art of whining. That’s what I was referring to, Dear, and
you’d better catch up ‘cause—” She prods her phone; it springs to life. “—she’s
been here for a whole hour and thirty minutes so she’s already
getting some great material.”
Sahara snickers, smiles at me, and I
rage, rage, rage, hiding it all behind a smile that shouts,
Idon’tcareIwon’tcareIwon’t…
Bailey tilts her head toward me. I
cringe inside, but smile, smile, smile, as I hear the emphasis on the first
word of her bland, blank, “That’s”—bold,
italics, underline, underline— “my cousin.”
From Sahara, another, but louder,
“Oooooooohhhhhh!”
“Ellie!” she repeats. “Ellie, oh Ellie,
yes! I just up and forgot about you for a sec, didn’t I?”
“Mm.” I swallow. “Funny how that happens.”
My eyes find my cousin’s and I don’t
care. I won’t. But it comes out.
“You think I can talk to you super
quick?”
I turn and take one step (don’t care),
two steps (won’t care), five steps (won’t)
toward the hall before she can say no.
