The Illusion of Annabella

  “You don’t mean that,” he whispers. “I know you don’t. You care about this family too much. You’re just going through some stuff . . . because of the accident.”

  Maybe my brother and sisters don’t deserve that, but I do—deserve worse for lying to my dad, the man who was always there for me, who read me books, who took me on fishing trips, who was at every recital.

  “I already got on the bus so you can’t drive me to my appointment,” I say, steadying my voice. “I’ll call you when I get out of it, though.”

  “Don’t hang up on me. I’m not done talking yet.” He aims to sound firm, but he’s only four years older than me, and I have a hard time taking him seriously. “I don’t want you going off anywhere by yourself. We had a deal that you were going to stay away from your friends for a little while. Especially Miller.”

  Miller’s the guy dads warn their daughters about, and even though Loki isn’t my dad, he tries to take on the role. He hates Miller. Probably because he’s been arrested many times, mostly for breaking and entering and drug possession. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t have a job, likes to party, and has numerous tattoos and piercings.

  Which are all the reasons why I like spending time with him.

  “I’m not going to see my friends.” Technically not a lie since I haven’t decided where I’m going yet. I usually just wander around until I end up somewhere, because I can’t figure out where to go or what to do with myself.

  “You know, Cece came into the store the other day to pick up some books. She asked about you. Said she misses spending time with you. Your dance instructor even stopped by and said you could go hang out at the studio anytime you want. There’s a ton of other stuff for you to do, Anna, other than get into trouble.”

  “I don’t want to talk to Cece and the last thing I ever want to do is hang out at that studio.” Just thinking about it makes my eyes water up. I suck in a deep breath. I won’t cry. I can’t. Once I do, I won’t be able to stop. “You keep saying all these things to me, trying to get me to want stuff again. But all that stuff . . . Cece . . . dancing . . . that’s not who I am anymore.”

  “It’s okay to miss things, Anna.” His voice softens. “And I get that you’re not the same person, but you can still be happy—”

  Alexis suddenly yells something in the background.

  “What the hell was that!?” Loki shouts at her.

  I hear Alexis blame Zhara for eating all her favorite cereal. Since the two of them could go on forever, and Loki always gets sucked into their fights, I hang up without saying goodbye. I sit back in the seat and stretch out my legs as the bus bumps down the road. My phone rings again, but not wanting another lecture from Loki, I don’t answer. Everything he insists on telling me about myself, I already know, and hearing it isn’t going to change my life. At the end of the day, I’ll still be crippled with absolutely no idea what to do with my life. Or if I even want to do anything with my life. Maybe I’ll just lay down next to my father’s grave and stay there until my body gives up on me.

  When my phone finally stops ringing, I decide I’ve been on the bus for too long and get off at the next stop. I should’ve paid more attention to where I was getting off, though, because I end up near the town cemetery.

  It’s not like I haven’t visited my parents’ graves since the funeral—Loki makes us go every other Sunday to take flowers—but without my brothers and sisters around, the silence in the area is maddening.

  Their graves are side-by-side out by the farthest oak tree, and their headstones are engraved with “everlasting love.” Every time I visit, it feels like I’m visiting a lie, where I thought my parents where happy, that my mother wasn’t a liar—that I wasn’t a liar. But that life that was nothing more than an illusion, just like Alexis when she used to be a nice person. Or like Zhara, the now turned human robot, who used to feel something other than overly fake happiness and positivity. Or like Loki, the philosopher turned parent. And Nikoli who barely talks anymore. Which parts of them were real and which parts were hiding under a mask?

  After the bus drives away, I cross the street as quickly as my leg will allow me to, and run away from the iron gates. I head north in the direction of the Victorian house. I don’t know why, but I sometimes stand at the end of the dirt road that leads to the antique store. Rain, sunshine, cold, warmth, I’ll stay there for hours, just staring at the door. Occasionally, I deliberate whether or not I should march up to his door and knock, demand he tell me why my mom was there that day. But I can’t march, can barely walk, and I’m honestly not sure I actually want to hear the truth I covered up for my mom that day.

  Today, I grow tired fast. Five blocks later, I’m out of breath and exhausted. Making it to the Victorian house is impossible, so I take a break, leaning against the side of an apartment building. Minutes later, the cloudy sky fulfills its promise and starts to rain down on the world. The past crashes down on my shoulders—of dancing, birthdays, rainstorms, car crashes, and secrets. I don’t want to feel any of it. The water. The pain. The loneliness. The confusion of my place in life and how nothing makes sense anymore.

  I turn head the opposite direction of the Victorian house and toward Miller’s apartment. By the time I make it to the rundown two-story brick complex, my clothes are soaked, my hair is drenched, and my leg is so unsteady I can barely keep my foot underneath me.

  I knock on his door a few times before walking in. Music is blasting and the stench of cigarette smoke and alcohol hits my nostrils. Crumpled beer cans are piled on the cracked coffee table along with an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and a mirror dusted with fragments of white powder. When I first met Miller, he wasn’t into the heavier drugs, but about a month ago, he started dipping into other stuff besides pot.

  “Hey.” Miller grins at me from small, dank living room.

  He’s playing video games with one of his friends, who everyone calls Big Jay, and leans over the armrest to turn town the volume of the stereo. The singer, who had been screaming lyrics, silences. Part of me wishes Miller would turn it back up, let the screaming drown out my thoughts for a while.

  Instead, he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray with his brows furrowed. “Why are you wet?”

  I hitch a finger over my shoulder at the door. “It’s raining outside.”

  His eyes sweep across my body, and his attention makes me feel numbly calm. ”It’s a good look for you,” he says with a smirk as he sets the controller down on the frayed armrest. “You should sport it all the time.”

  “You think?” I pretend to be bored, pretend I fit in here.

  “Definitely.” His grin broadens as he gets to his feet.

  Miller is tall and kind of gangly with spiky blue and black hair. He looks older, but he’s only about a year and half a year older than me. I met him in a mall of all places, a little over a month after my parents’ funeral. I was with Cece on one of the last shopping trips we ever made, using crutches that hurt my armpits. The entire three hours we spent there were awkward and exhausting. She kept talking about school, music, dancing, cheerleading, and Ben. She was stuck in the past, while I had been thrown into the future. Nothing made sense anymore, not even our friendship.

  I ended up shoplifting a box of purple hair dye while I was listening to Cece drone on and on about how prom was coming up, and how she didn’t know how on earth she was ever going to get a dress. Then she moved on to dancing and how I should really come with her and hang out at the studio, that everyone missed seeing me around.

  I just wanted to feel again, something other than heartache, pain, loss, so while she was yammering on and on about her life, I snuck a box of purple hair dye in my jacket, thinking maybe I’d dye my hair. Perhaps it would go well with the new scars on my leg and help me get some sort of footing in this hellish of a life I felt like I was dying in.

  Just stealing the box sent my adrenaline soaring. I’d never stolen anything ever—never wanted to. Rebellion had never been my thing,
but maybe it could be.

  Of course the moment I got away with it, the excitement over stealing fizzled out, and I just felt guilty and lost again. Then Miller had strolled up to me, all pierced out and tattooed with his crazy blue hair, completely different from the guys I used to like.

  Dangerous, I thought. And nothing like Ben. Maybe this is what I need now.

  “A good girl like you could get a guy like me into a lot of trouble,” was his lame pick up line.

  “Oh, my God, does that ever work on anyone,” Cece replied, staring him down with disgust.

  I glanced back and forth from Cece to him. Known to unknown, past to . . . Well, I was still trying to figure out what lay ahead. “Maybe you’re already in trouble.” I have no idea where the courage came from. It was really unlike me, and maybe that was the point. That I didn’t know who I was anymore without my parents, the idolization of my mother, and without the dancer that used to breathe life inside me.

  I had to be someone, though, and I could be anyone, even daring, bold, and blunt.

  After my out of character move, Miller asked me to hang out with him, and against Cece’s protest, I agreed. We snuck into see a movie then wandered around the streets, talking about nothing that had to do with my old life. For a moment, I felt alive again. Then he gave my first kiss, and I wondered if he could taste the guilt, anger, and confusion rotting inside me, because I sure as hell could.

  “That was nice,” he said when he pulled away.

  I nodded, but it wasn’t nice. It just . . . was. Like everything else. And I felt a twinge of sadness that I didn’t get my first kiss with Ben on the night of my birthday party. But as quick as the thought came, I smothered it, knowing it was pointless to dream of anything. When I got home, I dyed my hair with the box of purple dye I stole.

  “Come on, let’s go to my room.” Miller interrupts my thoughts, nodding toward the hallway.

  His friend snickers, and Miller smacks him upside the head, laughing, then turns to me. “Your leg feeling okay?”

  I gently place my palm on my thigh. “Yeah, I’ve just been walking on it too much.”

  “I still can’t believe a horse fucked up your knee that much,” he says, kicking clothes that litter the hallway out of the way. “That fall must have been killer wicked.”

  “Yep, hurt like a bitch.” Not wanting to talk about my leg anymore, I crash my lips to his.

  “What was that for?” he asks when I step back.

  I nonchalantly shrug, being the cool version of myself. The one that doesn’t give a shit about anything. “Does it really matter?”

  Does anything really matter anymore?

  He considers what I said with his head slanted to the side. “You’re always so mysterious.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “I like it.”

  Mysterious Annabella?

  No more Open Book Annabella. No Sunshine-in-the-Rain or Chasing-Rainbows-and-Dreaming-of Glittery-Days Annabella. Is that who I’ve become now?

  Dodging the dirty clothes, shoes, and empty bottles on the floor, I gingerly make my way to his bed while he rummages in his dresser for something. I flop down on the lumpy mattress, adjust my leg, but roll to my side when I feel something lumpy beneath me—Miller’s favorite pipe. I set it on the floor then lie back down on the bed.

  “So, what do you want to do tonight?” he asks, closing the dresser drawer.

  “Anything that doesn’t require being at home.” I spread out my arms and stare up at the water-stained ceiling.

  He chuckles as he scoots onto the bed beside me. “You better be careful giving me full rein to do whatever the hell I want.” He leans in to kiss me, and I trap the air in my chest, mentally preparing myself for the numbness. “We could finally, you know, take this to the next level.”

  As deep as I am into this lie, I still haven’t worked up enough courage to lose my virginity to him. “I told you I had a five month dating minimum before we did that.”

  “But it’s been five months,” he gripes. “Come on. I’ve been super patient.”

  “Fine,” I agree, even though it makes me feel sick to my stomach. He grins, his gaze zeroing in on my lips. He leans in, but I place my hand over his mouth, stopping him. “Not right now, though . . . Later tonight.”

  He searches my eyes for a sign I’m lying, but I’ve become such a good liar that even I can’t tell if I am or not.

  When I lower my hand, he seals his mouth to mine.

  Our kisses aren’t magical, but I’m starting to believe kisses aren’t. They’re just lips and movements, promising lies that mean nothing.

  After several minutes of him kissing and rubbing his hips against me, Miller pulls his hand out of my shirt, looking high from the kiss. Knowing Miller, he might just be high. “You seem tense today. What’s up?”

  “I seem the same as I do every day.” I stare past him, focusing on a jagged crack in the wall. Every time I look at it, it seems to have grown. One day, I swear the entire wall is going to crumble.

  “No, it’s something else . . . You seem out of it.” He states it like he knows so much about me. But how could he when even I don’t know anything about myself?

  His endeavor to delve into my psyche makes me regret coming here. Miller is good for one thing—taking a break from being the Anna everyone scrutinizes and constantly worries about.

  I push up on my elbows. “Maybe I should go.”

  He splays his fingers across my chest, pinning me down. “Don’t get pissy. I was just pointing out you seem out of it.” He squints at my face. “You aren’t high, are ya?”

  “No, I’m just . . .” I sigh. “Look, I don’t want to talk about me, okay? I’ve had a shitty day, and I just want to relax and hang out like we usually do.”

  “Relax, huh? I think I might have something for that.” He jumps off the bed and strides out of the room. When he returns, he has plastic cup in one hand a small plastic bag in the other. “Pick a hand,” he says, even though I can see what’s in both. He’s giving me a choice: temporarily escape reality and be left feeling tired and achy or plummet into an unknown world that I might never find my way out of. How fast and far do I want to fall? How hard do I want to crash?

  I want to fall hard.

  I want to fall fast.

  I want to crash and burn and never feel anything ever again.

  Past the pills I take sometimes to kill the pain inside. Past the alcohol. Past the scars I always have to carry with me.

  But the faint memory of Dancing, Dreaming, Good Girl Annabella clutches onto the ledge.

  “I’ll take the cup,” I say, trying to figure out what my answer means. Am I good? Bad? What?

  He seems mildly disappointed but still hands me the cup. “This’ll take the edge off a little.”

  I inspect the brownish liquid that smells like gasoline. “What’s in it? Just whiskey, right?”

  “Just drink up and find out.” He kicks the door shut and climbs back onto the bed, tossing the plastic bag on the mattress beside him. “I promise it’ll blow your mind.”

  My parents’ words of wisdom race through my head. Don’t do drugs. Don’t drink. Don’t give into peer pressure. You’re such a good girl, Annabella.

  “You’re wrong. I don’t know who I am anymore,” I say aloud to myself. Miller gives me a confused look, but I raise the rim of the glass to my lips. This is why I come here. This is what I need. “Goodbye, Anna. Goodbye, rainstorm.”

  Chapter Four

  As Destructive as the Rain

  After I down half the cup, Miller finishes the rest off, does a line, then goes to get a refill. As the alcohol flows through my veins, I sink onto the mattress and drift from reality. Not too much later, Miller joins me, and we lay side-by-side, floating in and out of meaningless conversation.

  I can’t see straight. Can hardly think. My body is so numb that I can’t even feel my messed up leg.

  “See, much better, right?” Miller asks as he stares up at the ceiling with his ar
m draped across his head.

  “Yes . . . much . . .” Is it really, though? Am I lying to myself?

  My phone rings, but I don’t—can’t—move to answer it.

  “Good.” Miller smiles contently as he rolls on his side and props up on his elbow.

  Minutes, maybe hours, pass before the effects of whatever I drank begin to wear off. I become restless again. Start thinking too much. Regret drinking. Being here. Choosing to be this person. I don’t like the feeling at all. Don’t like that the old me still resides somewhere beneath the purple hair and goth clothing, the one who wants to dance, be good—the one who should have just died in the car accident. For once, I just want to forget who I was, who I’ve become, the anger I feel toward my mother, the guilt I feel for feeling the anger. The guilt I feel for not telling my dad. That’s what I came here to do.