The Illusion of Annabella

“Good.” She beams happily, scooping up a handful of popcorn from the bowl that’s in between us. “I’m glad you two are over. I never liked him that much.”

  “No one did.” But there are times when I miss the freedom Miller gave me.

  It’s not really Miller himself that I miss, just the numbness, drinking, and drugs he provided for me. Those feelings of longing to self-medicate come in sporadic spouts when life gets really unbearable, like after a nightmare or an agonizing therapy session, where I work my ass off or when I think of my mom and dad and how they’re not here with us.

  But there’s also another part of me that’s almost . . . relieved to be out of the world of drugs that leads you to nowhere but down, down, down, until you finally crash.

  “And just so you know, I really like Luca.” Zhara points the remote at the TV and clicks off the screen. “He seems like he’d be a really good boyfriend, when you decide you want one.”

  “Zhara, you saw me the other night,” I say. “I’m not sure I’m ready for a boyfriend.”

  “And that’s okay, too.” She bounces in the cushion as she turns to face me. “Okay, I have an idea, and you can totally say no, but I want to ask just in case you’re feeling, I don’t know, like doing something different.” She pauses, and I motion for her to spit it out. “I’m going to FaceTime Jessamine this morning, and I want you to do it with me. She holds up her hand, silencing me before I can even get a word out. “I know what you’re going to say, but you’re wrong. Deep down, you want to talk to her. And just think, whatever you tell her stays all the way over in London with her. No one will know but Jessamine.”

  “But what if I don’t really have anything to say?” I nibble on a few pieces of buttery popcorn, remembering what started my phase out with Jessamine.

  Right after my parents’ funeral, she was getting into a taxi to go to the airport so she could fly ‘home.’ I hated that she called London her home, hated that she was leaving us, but most of all, I was jealous because she could leave her old life while I was stuck in it, even when I no longer felt like I belonged. Yes, I was selfish. Yes, I messed up. But I was confused about life and what I was supposed to do from there.

  “Then you can just wave and sit with me while I talk.” Zhara seizes my hand and lifts me to my feet as she leaps up. “Come on. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  I begrudgingly let her lead me up to her bedroom where I sit down in front of her laptop opened up on her bed and attempt to figure out what I’m going to say to Jessamine. It’s been months since we’ve spoken, and I have no excuse other than I was confused about myself, my family, life.

  With a few clicks of the mouse and couple of taps on the keyboard, Zhara sets up the video chat. The computer makes a dinging nose, and then I’m staring at my older sister.

  She looks the same as she did at the funeral, except her hair is shorter now and her mascara isn’t running. “Anna?” She squints at the screen, leaning in closer to get a better look. “Is that you?”

  “Yep.” I muster up a smile. “Hey.”

  “Oh, my God!” Her earsplitting squeal is so loud that the speaker shorts out. “I’m so happy you’re talking to me. It’s been way too long.”

  “Yeah, I guess it has.” We stare at each other for a minute until I grow uncomfortable over who she’s seeing. The stoic Annabella, or the real, raw, doesn’t-have-a-clue Anna. “You cut your hair.”

  “Yep. A couple of days ago, actually.” A devious grin spreads across her face. “But, dude, what’s with the purple hair?”

  “Hey, don’t mock the hair. I like it.” I collect the laptop, balance it on my lap, and sit back against the mounds of pillows on Zhara’s bed.

  “I actually do, too.” She taps her finger against her chin. “You do need to touch up those roots, though.”

  “I’m waiting until I decide what color I want to dye it.” I lift a strand of my hair in front of my face. “I was thinking maybe a different color, but I can’t decide which one.”

  Zhara reclines back beside me with a bottle of nude nail polish in her hand. She stretches out her legs and swipes the brush across her toenail. “I think you should do brown and leave a few streaks of purple.”

  Old and new? Is it really that easy? I don’t know what to think, if I love the idea, hate it, want it.

  “We’ll see.” I let my hair fall back to my shoulders. “I can’t dye it until after Christmas break’s over, though, since I can’t leave the house.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.” Jessamine folds her arms on her desk. “You want to talk about what’s been going on with you?”

  “Life.” I shrug, because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “You seem like you’re struggling with it.”

  “I am . . . was . . . confused.”

  “Is it anything I can help with?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I just need to figure out who I am, I guess.”

  She gives me an understanding smile. ‘That’s probably one of the hardest things to do, especially at your age. I remember right after I graduated, I had no clue what I wanted to do, other than I didn’t want to stay in Honeyton.”

  “I used to have it all figured out.” I stare down at my toes, pointing and flexing them. They use to curl so prettily, but now the left foot can hardly move. “But not so much anymore. And I think . . . I think maybe that’s why things have been so hard.”

  “That’s okay . . . Stuff happens and sometimes we have to change our plans, right?” She stares at something to the side of the screen, and I wonder what she’s looking at.

  “Are we talking about me or you now?”

  Sighing, she directs her attention back to me. “I’m not sure.” She perks up, squaring her shoulders and overlapping her arms on her desk. “But if you ever feel like doing something really crazy, you can come hang out with me in London. It gets lonely sometimes.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I glance at Zhara as she swipes the brush across my toenail, painting the nail a shimmering pink. “Really Zhara? Pink?”

  She applies a stroke of nail polish to another toe. “What? It looks nice on you. And you used to wear pink all the time.”

  Deciding to pick my battles, I concentrate on Jessamine. “Can we talk about something that doesn’t have anything to do with me, please? Tell me something cool or happy going on with you. Because I haven’t heard much happy or cool stuff in a while.”

  “Hmmm . . . Well, I’m seeing a guy. He’s from the States, actually.”

  “Tell me about him. Is he crazy and mysterious, like that one guy you dated, or is he more like Milo, all happy and positive all the time?”

  “He’s nothing like Milo,” she says, getting a faraway look in her eyes before blinking back at me. “And besides, Milo and I were—are—just friends.”

  “That’s what you guys always said, but there were a couple of times that I’m pretty sure I walked into your bedroom and caught you guys fooling around.”

  She jabs a finger at the screen, biting back a grin. “I know what time you’re talking about, and I swear to God, we weren’t fooling around. Milo was just showing me his scars.”

  A conniving grin spreads across my face. “Were his scars on his—”

  Zhara’s hand covers my mouth, her cheeks flushed. “Anna, watch your mouth.” When she removes her hand, Jessamine and I laugh at her. “You guys are ridiculous and so gross.”

  “Oh, my sweet, naïve Zhara.” Jessamine sighs. “One day, there’s going to be a guy you like enough that he’ll show you his,” she makes air quotes, “scars.”

  Zhara huffs, working to get all riled up, but it doesn’t go very well for her, and she ends up simmering down and returning to toenail painting.

  “What about you, Anna?” Jessamine says. “You dating anyone?”

  Curious, Zhara watches my reaction.

  “How much have you heard?” I ask Jessamine, resisting the urge to touch my lips as I remember the kiss.

/>   He tasted so good, like cake and Skittles, and I swear to God, I can still taste it now.

  “Zhara told me about some guy with blue hair getting you into a lot of trouble,” Jessamine’s tone carries caution, “but she wasn’t sure if you were really dating him.”

  “That would be Miller. And he didn’t get me into trouble. Everything I did,” I pause as Zhara’s elbow bumps the bracelet around my ankle, “I chose to do.”

  “That’s a very mature thing for you to say,” Jessamine tells me. “Now, if you could stop choosing to get into trouble, things would be great.”

  “I’m working on it.” My tone wobbles, raw with the truth.

  “Good.” Intrigue twinkles in her eyes. “Now, tell me about this Luca Zhara says you’ve been hanging out with.”

  I glower at Zhara, but smile so she’ll know I’m partially joking.

  I spend the next twenty minutes giving Jessamine a few details about Luca, how we met, his fascination with candy, and our kiss. Then the three of us talk about Zhara’s plans for college, even though she doesn’t graduate for over a year and a half, but she already has everything planned out.

  By the time we say goodbye, it’s late afternoon. We decide to clean the house while Nikoli is at football practice and wherever Alexis wanders off to during the day. Loki is at the store until eight, so we start to make dinner, preparing to ring in the new year with chips and salsa and chicken quesadillas.

  “Remember how Dad always made these every New Year’s?” Zhara asks, skipping around the kitchen island and toward the fridge.

  I push the chicken around in the skillet with the spatula. “I remember how he burned them every year.”

  Zhara giggles as she grabs a bag of shredded cheese. “I never really got why he was the one who cooked so much when he clearly sucked at it.”

  The peppery smoke funneling from the sizzling pan makes my eyes water. “Because Mom didn’t like cooking.”

  “She didn’t? I never knew that. I thought she loved cooking. That’s why she was always baking cakes and brownies and pies.” Her mood plunges. “How could I not know that about my own mom?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up.” I twist down the heat of the burner and sprinkle a little salt and pepper on the chicken. “Sometimes it’s better not to know everything about your parents.”

  “You think so?” she wonders, setting the bag of cheese on the counter beside the stove.

  I keep my back to her. “I know so. The only reason I knew she hated it is because I overheard her talking to Dad once about it. She said the kitchen was starting to feel too stuffy and she needed a break.” A break from all of it, she had told him. But I don’t tell Zhara that.

  About a week later, my dad took on the responsibility of cooking, even though he sucked at it and worked at the store all day. I didn’t think much of it until now, but he almost seemed desperate to please her.

  “Do you think Mom and Dad were happy?” Zhara sputters, sounding terrified.

  I reel around, clutching onto the counter for support. “Why would you ask that?”

  She shrugs, examining her fingernails. “Sometimes, I just wonder if they—if anyone—is truly happy.”

  Where’s this coming from? I haven’t told anyone about the letter. The more time that passes, the less it feels like I should. But I still haven’t brought myself to burn the piece of paper yet, holding onto it for some insane reason. I’ve read it so many times, obsessing over each word, and wonder if my dad did the same thing.

  “Are we really talking about Mom and Dad?” I ask, getting a knife and fork from the drawer to cut up the cooked chicken. “Or you?”

  “I’m not sure.” She angles her head forward, staring at her feet. “It’s just hard sometimes, you know, to always put on a happy face.”

  “You don’t always have to put on a happy face, Zhara. No one expects anyone to be happy all the time, and no one should be happy all the time.”

  I used to think my mom was happy all the time, but I was so wrong, and looking back, I realize I was extremely blind. Through the way she always seemed to be searching for a hidden talent in art, fashion, antiques, and all sorts of other hobbies. How she tried salsa dancing but hated it. How she’d disappear for hours in her room sometimes. How she’d get these sporadic impulses to get out of the house.

  “Let’s just go do something,” she’d say. “Anything at all, as long as it’s not sitting around in the house. I can’t take being bored any longer.”

  “Someone has to be happy in this family,” Zhara mutters, interrupting my thoughts. She tucks a brown curl behind her ear. “No one else seems to want to smile anymore.”

  “You’re allowed to be sad sometimes—we all are. And trust me, crying can be . . .” I search for the right word that sums up how I felt the other night after I let it all out and cried. “Kind of therapeutic, I guess.”

  “Mom wouldn’t want me to be sad,” she mumbles, her hand falling to her side. Then like lightning, she goes from cloudy to sunny, forcing a bright smile as she looks up at me. “Dinner smells delish.”

  I want to pry more out of her, but before I can even start, someone knocks on the front door.

  “I bet it’s Luca,” she singsongs as she tears open the bag of tortilla shells.

  “Maybe.” My nerves are jumbled as I cross the kitchen to the foyer.

  What do I say to him? How do I explain that I wasn’t really crying over the kiss without going into detail about my whacked out brain.

  When I open my door, I realize I have bigger problems than cute neighbor guys I’ve been ignoring.

  The wind is howling, the air chilly from a storm brewing, and in the middle of the madness, is Miller. He’s standing on my front porch with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his torn jeans. His blue hair is flattened on one side, dark circles reside under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and red lines cover his cheeks, as if he’s been scratching at his skin.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask through the screen door.

  He rubs his hand over his eyes, then scratches his arm. “I just wanted to see you.” His gaze darts over my shoulder then lands back on me. “Can I come inside?” Without waiting for me to answer, he reaches for the screen door.

  Shaking my head, I grab the handle and hold tight. “You need to leave. Now.”

  He grunts in frustration, dragging his hand down his face and stomping his foot. “Come on, Annabella. I really need your help.”

  “I’m not giving you any money, if that’s what this is about.”

  He scowls at me but quickly tries to dazzle me with a grin. “Look, if you loan me a hundred bucks, I’ll give you half of what I buy. I can even get you some of those pills you like.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “You gotta be going super fucking crazy at this point, being locked up without anything.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth, and I know he can hear the unsteadiness in my voice. “Now, go away.” I step back to close the door when he grabs the handle of the screen door and yanks it open.

  “I just need a hundred bucks.” He shoves me into a wall as he pushes his way inside, tracking in mud and leaves all over the floor. His eyes drink in the marble fireplace in the living room, the stairway, and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Fuck the hundred bucks. I want five hundred.”

  “I’m not giving you any money.” I square my shoulders and stab my finger in the direction of the door. “Now get the hell out of my house.”

  “You’re such a greedy bitch,” he snaps, his gaze dithering from me to the front door, then he shuffles right and bolts for the stairs.

  I skitter around him and block his path, spreading my arms out to the side of me. My legs are trembling. My heart is erratic. I’m scared to death. And all I can do is feel it—feel it all. “Get the hell out!”

  “Anna, what’s going on?” Zhara appears in the doorway of the kitchen, clutching a tortilla shell in her hand.

  Miller’s attention zones
in on her, and that sick feeling in my stomach that I felt the night he held me down to the bed spreads throughout my body.

  “Who’s this?” A silent threat blazes in Miller’s eyes as his lips curl to a smirk. “That your sister?”

  I hold his gaze. “She’s just a friend.”

  “You’re such a liar.” He looks me dead in the eyes, and I can’t see anything but hunger in them. A hunger to feed whatever’s rotting inside him, the addiction for the next hit, the need to numb whatever it is he doesn’t want to feel.

  Is that what I looked like a month ago?

  “Always have been.” He shoves me back and barrels up the stairs.

  “Call the police,” I yell at Zhara as I scramble up the stairs after him.