Broken.

Broken

By Bea-Boo

Copyright 2011 Bea-Boo

Smashwords Edition

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Table of contents

Chapter0 Stipe Says Everybody Hurts

Chapter1 LeGrand Bane Menage

Chapter2 Ode to Wayyward Academy

Chapter3 The Birth of Zo

Chapter4 A Fine Revolt Indeed

Chapter5 Peace Love and Hemp

Chapter6 The Fall

Chapter7…Rise Up

Chapter8 They Can't Stop Us Now

Chapter9 Dilemmas

Chapter10…And Vendettas

Chapter11 Welcome to the Closing

Chapter Ø Stipe Says, Everybody Hurts…

I took a drag from my mentholated cigarette before I gently peeled back the thin, cotton nightgown draped over my thigh. It was barely sticky with day old blood. I could count how many cuts there were with every slight jerk of my wrist.

The underside of my simple, white dress, that seconds ago, covered my thigh, graced a series of small brown, blotted slits. Evidence of sins from the night before.

I was still healing, but anxious from a bad day, I needed a stronger fix.

I was sitting Indian-style on the floor in my bedroom, in the small gap between my bed and the wall and I could barely see the TV over the top of my blankets and comforter. It was a John Cusack movie on mute and though I’d seen it many times before, the title eluded me as I tried to focus on the task at hand.

I took another puff from my cigarette, which was more than half gone, then held the lit, butt-end up to a clearing on my gashed thigh. The tiny, burning tip’s orange glow elucidated a small round patch of my clean skin, and I could feel the embers warming, but not burning the patch where my cigarette lingered.

My stomach ached and my heart pounded with excitement, but burning was new to me and I couldn’t quite do it.

…Say Anything! I thought, remembering the name of the John Cusack movie muted on the TV.

Ok, back to the task at hand.

I looked down at the cigarette still lingering at my thigh. A mound of ash had formed, so I flicked it onto the floor and got back into position.

Why is this so hard?

Burning would be a different kind of pain than cutting. Cutting, you slice quick, then a slow bleed and soothing, rising pain follow. Most importantly, there are those perverse feelings of happiness. Accomplishment. And lastly, ease.

A burn’s pain would be different. Immediate. Aggressive. Bold.

I kept thinking to myself, if you really wanted this, you would have done it already. If you really wanted this, you wouldn’t have to think about it.

My heart was beating so fast I had to take quick, short breaths, like they teach pregnant women to do in Lama’s class.

I closed my eyes and breathed, thinking about babies.

I could never have a baby, I’m too fucked up. I thought to myself. But as I glanced back down at my cigarette, I realized I would soon be too late. It was my last cig and it was nearly to the filter.

That was it. No more contemplation or digression. I inched my hand forward toward my thigh, careful not to put it out, and let just the tip of the seething cherry kiss my skin for the first time.

All of my attention, my thoughts and feelings, were on that tiny, sizzling patch of skin. It was everything I thought it would be. My satisfaction was full, the new pain was instant and ruthless, and my exhilaration was anomalous, even to me.

Finally I pushed it further into my thigh and twisted, treating my skin like an old, dirty ashtray.

Ah, yes. There it is. I thought, as my eyes rolled back and my lids lowered. That final feeling would help me sleep on this night. Ease.

Chapter 1 Le Grand Bane Ménage

I used to be lost; living in what I thought was an unforgivable world of torment and mistrust. My feelings and thoughts were my own and not for others to be bothered with.

My suppression would spark a rebellion, and that’s what it would take for me to realize– I’m the only one who controls the outcome of my life.

Sure it would have been easy enough to follow in my father’s footsteps like a good girl, and for a while I did live in and out of other people’s shadows. But that can only last so long before those shadows become your whole life and you miss that allotted time slot where you were supposed to find yourself.

I spat blood into the mouths of my enemies and pocketed a stream of tears. Some of it was great but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t change a thing. Still, if my choices were all or nothing, I’d choose all.

’Cause let’s face it, in the real world there are no storybook happy endings. There is no perfect and believe me, there are no such things as superheroes.

There’s only a mishmash of painful truths and wonderful lies. I’ve learned to cope with the mishmash and even found the time to look back and see…huh, what d’ya know, I had my own shadow all along.

(Year 2005)

I’m in love with a boy I don’t even know. It was just before bed and I was lying on my queen size, feather top mattress with Egyptian sheets and gold-colored feather comforter, flipping through the pages of a week old Teen Vogue magazine. I eagerly searched for the article on the boy whose name I couldn’t remember. My sister, Jennifer was sitting Indian-style beside me looking over my shoulder. She yawned as she waited for me to find the right page.

We were ready for bed wearing rather dressy silk pajamas, me in pink and Jennifer in blue. Some pop star of the moment was playing on my stereo.

When did you get this CD? Jennifer asked.

I’ve had it for like…two weeks or something. C’mon Jen, you know me and CD’s. I boasted.

Ahh yes, how could I forget the whole CD collection deal. How many do you have now?

Six hundred twenty seven… I declared proudly. AHHA! Here it is!

I had finally found the article I was looking for. I leaned to one side and looked at Jennifer to see what her reaction would be.

Wow, he’s cute. She said unenthusiastically.

Isn’t he! I exclaimed, even though Jennifer was clearly not as impressed as me.

The page had a photo of a boy with brown eyes, wavy long brown hair, tanned skin and moderately chiseled abs. He was wearing board shorts and holding up a surfboard. Beside his photo was a short article explaining that he was a teen-age, pro-surfer from Australia.

Yeah, those aussies are all pretty hot, Jennifer said as she read the article. She looked over at me and smiled. We should go there and get us a couple. She joked. We both laughed. I fell onto my back and sighed while Jennifer made her way to the door. Well, I should probably get back to the manor. It’s late and my mom’s probably gonna check in on me soon, She said. Good night, I’ll see you at breakfast.

Good night. I responded too late; Jennifer had already closed the door behind her.

My sister lived in the manor, that’s the main house across the driveway. I got to use the guesthouse as a bedroom. After Jennifer left I went back to lying on my bed swooning over the Australian surfer, daydreaming about him and me on a beach in Australia, sharing a glass of wine under the sun. Or at least that’s how it started out.

After a minute or so he flung me across the sand and locked my arms above my head, just before we embraced in a deep stimulating kiss, which practically puts me in a burning stupor…

Your hopeless! I said to myself as I threw the magazine on the floor. I just laid there lazily for a minute, urging my arms and legs to crawl under the covers and go to bed, but I was still thinking of the boy on the beach. Even without the picture in hand I had a firm grasp of the lusty image in my mind.

I curled up comfortably and unconsciously began caressing an old familiar scar on my inner thigh. From my thigh, my hand crept nervously up to a more private part of my body. My fingers dangled patiently over this place as my mind’s desire caught up with my fingers’ wicked intentions. Intentions I always claimed I didn’t have, even to my closest friends.

I gave in to the uncontrollable yearnings of my body and after a moment of stimulation, a marvelous tingling rose steadily in my stomach. I silenced my impelling child-like whines and waited for the feeling to swell. Finally, the tingling erupted into a magnetic bluster of electric light, carrying its warm glow throughout my body. Only then did I tenderly invite my whines back to calm me.

As the tingling and excitement subsided, I could no longer blind myself with the lies of those wicked intentions being an act of uncontrollable urge. I wanted to feel intensity and heat, I yearned for it and went out of my way to create it. My realization as always, shamed me and I began to cry.

I couldn’t believe myself. Night after night, it was always the same. I’d cry myself to sleep feeling guilty over my sexual foolishness. They teach you in sex ED that this kind of stuff is just a part of life, they even encourage it. But not having control over my fervent needs made me feel overly vulnerable– as if normal vulnerability wasn’t enough.

In my late teenage years I found myself second-guessing and criticizing my every move. Any little thing that characterized me was under question; my feelings, my books, my blankets, clothes, makeup, even my own name. They just didn’t seem good enough to represent me anymore. I didn’t seem good enough to represent me anymore.

…Tiffany, I said to myself mid-cry, testing the dignity behind the sound of my name. I looked at the boring pictures hanging neatly in a row, in matching frames on my white walls. Black frames with white matting and pictures of frilly flowers from Hilary’s garden club. My step mom, Hilary, was the one who decorated my room.

"Tiffany…" I said again, in a more serious tone, but as I looked at my golden-laced curtains, and innocently caressed the scars again on my inner thigh, it became harder and harder to find the dignity I was looking for. I wondered, what the hell does Tiffany even mean?

That’s not the worst part though. The worst part was, I liked my magazines and the cute boys in them. I liked my girly clothes and tasseled pillows. I liked my glittery, blue eye shadow– and I hated that! I hated that I liked it! It had always worked before– for me and my friends, but now it all seemed so…meaningless…empty; especially my name…Tiffany.

With a whimper, I wiped away the last of my tears and crawled around to the right side of the bed, plopping my head down on my pillow. I wondered why I couldn’t help being so hard on myself, why my emotions fluctuated with every decision I made, especially lately.

Luckily I became distracted as the pink-feather frame with tattered plastic feathers and exposed glue, sitting on my nightstand caught my attention. The cheap frame was wilting after years of neglect-and just being handled…picture after picture. To me it was the only thing in my room that wasn’t vanilla…it was mine.

The picture it held this week was taken on Jennifer’s birthday almost two years earlier. It was of her and I standing in front of our large estate and towering home…the Bane Estate was the name our home was known as in the socialite society; it was a name that called for adoration and jealousy in our socialite society.

I gazed at the photo and smiled as my emotions fluctuated again, this time to a serene place. The longer I stared at the photo on the night stand and let my mind wonder to fonder times in my past, the better I felt. My sister’s eyes always calmed me in a way my own mind couldn’t. Even though she looked so sad in the picture, the natural softness of her face made it hard to take her seriously. She had a perfect, shapely nose curved to suit her big baby blues. Her full lips and prominent cheekbones completed the genuine but barely-pubescent Marilyn Monroe chicness she portrayed so gracefully. I couldn’t help but be somewhat envious of her classic beauty although that wasn’t a fact I’d ever share with her.

I thought about how ironic it was that we were so ridiculously close, considering how much I hated her and her mother when they first moved in when I was seven and she was six.

Her hair was purple in the photo…a testament to her late father I’m sure. She dyed it just a few hours before the picture was taken. And her frowning eyes and pouting mouth were habits she picked up on that birthday before, when her real dad died in a car accident-just hours after his gift for her arrived special delivery. It was a full-sized, stuffed, purple elephant. The thing weighed a ton. It didn’t even fit in her room.

Who needs a purple elephant that big?

My father felt the same way. Shortly after it arrived he had it removed from the premises. It was sent to some storage space somewhere, because it was too big and an eyesore according to my father, Mr. Bane.

On that night Jennifer overheard her mother, casually but with disdain, telling my father about the circumstances of her real father’s accident.

Apparently, while high on a combination of uppers of the dusted, burned and other variety, plus alcohol for good measure, he ended up on a collision course with the world as he drove naked, screeching through quiet neighborhoods and busy city streets at 100 miles per hour. Needless to say, the ordeal didn’t end well for him, or the woman believed to have been his lover, who was found naked and broken in the trunk of his demolished car.

Of that night a fatherless daughter resulted. A girl with purple hair, frowning eyes, pouting lips and a new purple friend-banished to spend eternity in a leaky, rusted dungeon somewhere, simply for being what it was.

I guess Jennifer had kind of been heading in a weird…for lack of a better word, off direction ever since the night of her father’s death.

Anyway, now Jennifer was nearly 17 and her mother still wouldn’t let up on her about not smiling in photos. Hilary never complained much, she even kept quiet about the hair, (which was rose-red now, and had never been back to its natural blonde color since the purple), but she couldn’t stand a bad picture.

Always look your best because when you die, the way you look in that snapshot will be the only way people remember you. She always said. Hilary was a little dark, but darkness was a common state in the Bane household.

My father, Bart, never said anything about Jennifer’s hair and he sat by quietly and rolled his eyes while Hilary prodded her to smile during special event photo-taking. With Jennifer he usually chose his battles carefully even though she didn’t come equipped with the same reasonable approach. She yelled and cursed until she was blue in the face any time there was even the slightest conflict between them.

He endured the yelling, not because he was afraid, but because their arguments were usually pointless and exhausting. And frankly I don’t think he saw her worthy of his adamant fury, just his poignant comments in defense.

Father didn’t know it, but Jennifer hated him ever since I told her about what he used to do to me when we were younger.

I’d had a few tragedies in my life as well.

She never out right said it but she never talked back to him or stared at him with a lingering hateful gaze until after I told her. There was no doubt he noticed the change in her attitude as well, yet he never asked her why. He was probably afraid that if he confronted her, she would tell him she did know about his misdirected indulgences.

Still, he never would have admitted to it anyway, what he did or that he was afraid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him afraid of anything.

Again, I digress. …But where was I going with this anyway…oh yes! My lovely sister.

Even though she’s my stepsister, I never used the step part when introducing her. I didn’t see the point in mentioning it, because even though we’d only been sisters for 10 years, I loved her like we were born of the same blood. She brought out in me, the little true kindness I had left.

***

Sunday morning came and I woke up early to get ready for Sunday breakfast at the manor, just as I did every Sunday. I put on a pail yellow sundress, matching flats and headed out across the driveway, it was around 7:30 a.m. Father and Hilary were already sitting at the table in the four hundred sq. ft. kitchen, where breakfast was normally served. On the other side of the kitchen there were two cooks who were preparing breakfast over the stove and of course Butler Mason, who was overseeing the cooks. Father was reading the business section in the paper and Hilary was browsing through a magazine. I sat down across from them at the oversized round table.

When I noticed what magazine Hilary was reading I cringed. She was always trying to find something for us to talk about together.

Oh morning dear, I hope you don’t mind, I found one of your magazines in the main living room and couldn’t help but pick it up, Hilary said with a cheerful chuckle. I usually read Cosmo and Elle, but this is good too…I mean you would think that me of all people would read this often…you like Vogue right? She babbled nervously.

Even after ten years of conversations, she somehow developed this nervous jitter around me, ever since she decided we should be best friends. I sighed, crossed my legs and tried not to show her much attention.

Sure Hilary. I answered, only half-smiling. Hilary knew I was feigning interest, though it wasn’t like I was going to great lengths to conceal it. She just smiled and tried to hide her disappointment as she always did.

Maybe I should tell you a little more about Hilary.

Over the years, the relationship between Hilary and I didn’t progress as smoothly as the one between Jen and me. I suppose it was just the wrong time for her to be unexpectedly added into my life. She was an extra queen in a full deck of cards, but Father didn’t see it the way I did. The memory of Mother wasn’t enough, he needed another wife…another queen.

We were civil for a short while, actually when I was seven and eight, Hilary and I would go to women’s society parties together, just the two of us. People would always tell me that I looked just like her. I was too young to understand the politeness intended, and I wondered why I looked like this woman more than I did my own mother.

I felt like I was betraying the memory of my mother by being recognized so frequently as Hilary’s daughter. But at the same time I was torn, because I enjoyed the attention. I enjoyed belonging to someone so beautiful, with a charmingly wicked way about her.

Even at my age I could see how enviable she was. All of those parties with the older women who acted as if they embraced their age by using their cloudy white tresses as testament, only to contradict themselves with their underground, pre-F.D.A. approved, botoxed foreheads and frown line injections. They compensated for their lack of likeness to Hilary with their fancy furs and golden parties, but they could never touch her.

She always got her man, no matter what the cost. She was multitalented– a financial consultant, an award winning photographer and a whiz on the piano, all by the age of twenty-seven. Yet after ten years of being a Bane, she had given up on those things.

For a while she did work for my father. He didn’t need a cook or a maid– he already had them on staff, so he brought her in as a bookkeeper. The overwhelming world of Bane business and its dirty dealings caused her fear and guilt, and drove her to excessive drinking, or it was at least a factor.

It got so bad, Father had to bring someone in to replace her. Then her only jobs were, garden club and sober up to fit the role of trophy wife when the associates were around. It wasn’t long before the feeling of worthlessness started to wear her thinner than she already was.

When we first met, Hilary’s straight, honey colored hair was just past her shoulders and it always seemed to shine, even in darkness. Her features were soft and flawless and her brown sugar eyes were warm and alluring. Ten years later a more familiar person sat across the table from me. This person’s looks matched her helpless soul. Gloom had overrun her and she let it, just like my real mother did. To someone who didn’t know her before, she was still beautiful; but to me she was a blackened shell of her former self. Just a load-baring pole– carrying the burdens my father left behind.

Jennifer walked into the room and sat beside me just as Butler Mason approached us with drinks.

Orange juice for Ms. Jennifer and Ms. Tiffany, morning ladies… He said.

Morning. We responded in chorus. As the young and handsome, Butler Mason sat our drinks down, Jennifer gave him a flirtatious hair toss and I countered with my rarely revealed but ever-successful soft eyes and smirk. He responded to me with a wink before he moved on with his duties.

Jennifer and I then exchanged partly playful, yet partly serious stares of determination.

…And how are we this morning Mr. and Mrs. Bane! Butler continued in an overly inviting tone. Father didn’t even look up from his paper.

Coffee, black. He barked. Hilary just smiled, knowing Butler Mason already had their beverages ready in hand.

Of course sir, coffee for you and a special orange juice for the lady! Butler said with a chuckle and wink. He sat Father’s coffee in front of him and Hilary’s special OJ in front of her. I now paid a glare to Hilary as she guzzled it down, pinky out. It wasn’t so much special, as it was just a screwdriver– three parts vodka. My look of disgust went unnoticed as Hilary summoned Butler Mason to fetch her another.

Father turned the page of his newspaper and started to read the backside.

What’s with these nouveau butlers? When did they become so…colorful? He started suddenly. He looked over at Hilary. "Remember our other butler, the old British guy– what was his name? He never smiled, never looked me in the eye, and called me Master Bane. That’s the way it should be." He finished as he refocused his attention to the paper.

Jennifer and I exchanged a more mocking look this time, knowing there was more to Father’s distaste for Mason than his nouveau style. When Mason was around, Father was no longer the looker in the room. After all the European, mid-thirties, blonde and beautiful always trumps the American, mid fifties, dark and handsome, regardless of social status.

Stop being so cynical honey. Hilary smiled as she rubbed his back and gave him a kiss on his sharkskin suit-covered shoulder. I hated the comfort Hilary expressed over Father when he whined over superficial and more often than not, hate inspired matters.

"Yeah Father, we can’t all be mediocre looking, bought off or mindless slaves." I blurted out of the blue. Jennifer snickered into her glass of orange juice, which she was just about to drink. Father put his paper down abruptly and looked at me.

Did you stop by John Barthelmue’s estate like I suggested? He digressed with pointed intention.

Nope. I answered rudely while sipping my juice. Without hesitation Father slammed his hand down on the table.

Dammit Tiffany! He scolded.

The kitchen grew silent. Jennifer who was caught off guard, jumped at the action and Hilary held her breath as she stared wide-eyed at her husband. I tried to hide my alarm by looking down at the table.

Friday was the only day he was available to talk to you. I had to grovel to get him to agree and you stood him up? He yelled before gritting his teeth and tightening his fist. I put my hands in my lap and tried to compose myself.

I...y-you didn’t say…I thought you were just giving me the option of going. As always, I became a bumbling idiot in the presence of my father’s oncoming rage.

"Who gives a shit if it was a suggestion or a command, as president of the F.B.L.A. it’s your duty to introduce new elements of business and new people who can enlighten your peers, and help them become better businessmen. Now you’re gonna go in there tomorrow with nothing." He said in a low but clearly infuriated tone.

Sorry. I apologized futilely, really just trying to lessen Father’s anger.

Excuse me Mr. Bane, Butler interrupted. Breakfast is ready, are we ready to be served? He asked.

Fine, Father said still focused on me. Look at me. He said sternly. I lifted my head just enough to lock my eyes on his lips. "It is your job as a Bane to do the work, and get the job done right. Just because you came out a girl doesn’t mean you have permission slack off and cock-tease your way into a successful man’s fortune…you can’t just click your heals and hope for the best-we have a name to protect…understand?" He affirmed harshly.

…Yes. I answered.

Butler Mason came with the food and placed it around the table. Fruit filled crepes with lemon butter, thin slices of roasted ham and steak, as well as spinach quiches.

It looks lovely, thank you. Hilary said to break the tension. The phone began to ring and Butler excused himself to answer it.

"I’m going to call him again tomorrow. You can make a presentation for the F.B.L.A. on Tuesday, Father insisted. You need this Tiffany. You need to present something constructive to your peers before they lose interest. Especially with the franticness of the holidays approaching. He said, finishing his rant. Suddenly Butler Mason appeared again, clearing his throat to get Father’s attention. Excuse me sir, but you have a call from a Morris York, should I ask him to call back? He asked. Father scooted himself out of his chair. No, I’ll take it in my office."

As soon as he left the room, I couldn’t help but whimper as I moved the fruit around my plate with my fork. Naturally, Hilary tried to come to my aid. Oh honey, your father had a bad week, troubles at the office I think. He doesn’t mean it. She said, trying to comfort me, only her words never could. I continued to whimper and played with my food, trying to be obvious about my lack of respect for her unwanted comfort.

Not knowing what else to say, Hilary looked at Jennifer, and Jennifer in turn looked at me. She grabbed my free hand, locked her fingers between mine and squeezed tight.

"At least he wasn’t kind and funny...the shock from that definitely would have killed us." She desperately joked. Her attempt was sweet and we laughed as Jennifer wiped a tear from my eye. Hilary was hurt and felt left out by our closeness, but she just smiled coyly and began playing with her own food.

The thought of Bart showing any kind of upbeat attitude was laughable. Bart Bane was the well-respected, unyielding republican with dark eyes, dark hair and all around brooding good looks. He was a celebrity in his own right; a successful, relatively young capitalist with a no-apologies attitude.

Despite his unwillingness to show me normal, fatherly affection, and despite my constant attempts to point out his flaws and my behaving hatefully toward him, I secretly admired his influence and power. It was a secret I didn’t even share with Jennifer because I was afraid of what she might think of me, considering mine and my father’s unnatural past relationship.

***

I looked at various pictures and war related ornaments on a large bookshelf in Mr. Barthelmue’s study. Yup, Bart had stuck to his convictions and set up another appointment for me to speak to him. I hated the hold my father had over me. I always felt tough around him, and then he would let me say so much before he got all anal about it.

Still, I always opened my mouth and got myself into these messes; I yelled, he yelled, I quivered in fear…and so on. I couldn’t control being afraid of him, nor could I control my provoking of him. I know it sounds sickening, but I had an unwholesome need for Father’s attention, good or bad.

I guess I never made the transition from constant physical and emotional attention from Bart ‘till I was eleven…to complete detachment, abandonment…whatever you want to call it.

I poked at an old fashion civil war cannon shaped ornament and accidentally tipped it over, but I quickly set it back up before he noticed.

Union, union, union! They all scream union, but we didn’t have a union when I started this business and I haven’t had any complaints ‘till now! Mr. Barthelmue complained.

John Barthelmue started out as a clerk in a small neighborhood grocery store when he was sixteen, in the mid forties. Before long he found himself still in the business as a young man and went from clerk, to cashier, to assistant manager, to manager, and was first in line to buy the small family owned grocery store when its owners were ready to sell. He turned that little store into a large chain of grocery stores across southern California.

All this talk about union, higher wages, less taxes, paid time off! This damn generation doesn’t know a damn thing about work ethic! They just want you to pay them to sit on their asses! He continued between coughs. They’re worse than those good for nothing, long-haired hippies. Well, I’ll tell those union-lovers the same thing I told the hippies…earn your keep, and get a damn haircut! He ranted.

I was suddenly conscious of my own hair, which came down to the middle of my back. I tried quickly to put it up in a tidy bun while the old man was preoccupied with another coughing fit, but he took notice in time to catch me pushing back a few strand curls. Mr. Barthelmue slowly removed his hand from his mouth and cleared his throat. You know, you’re a very pretty girl, He said, paying special attention to my newly revealed neck and face.

Uhm…thanks. I smiled awkwardly. Mr. Barthelmue continued to look at me too intensely for comfort. You’re Bane’s daughter aren’t you? He asked.

Yes sir.

Well, doesn’t he have a son, He barked. This is no business for a woman like yourself. Your place is by the side of a rich man in need of tenderness…like me. He croaked. I had to swallow to keep from gagging.

So, how’s your business revenue so far this year? I quickly digressed. Mr. Barthelmue arched his mighty brow, and looked right through me in an attempt to concentrate. It was obvious he had no idea how his business was doing.

"Oh, we’re doing ok I suppose. I don’t much keep track of that anymore. I’m old and my memory isn’t as good as it was fifteen years ago. My son keeps track of that now. He’s picked up where I left off…fifteen years ago I think…yes, it was fifteen years ago that my memory started to go; couldn’t handle the books anymore, but I’ll tell you one thing, I’ll never give those bastards more than I have to! They just want my money! My money…for nothing, for doing nothing! Screaming union, union, union! It all started with that damn affirmative action bullshit! This country hasn’t been the same since…."

He ranted on like that for another fifteen minutes or so. Eventually I just tuned it out and thought about how…. this was Father’s mentor for us. This was who Bart chose to represent his approved business conduct; an old, horny, confused bigot. Sure he’s come a long way since he was a clerk in the forties, but at what cost?

Someone like him who doesn’t recognize potential or value in others, especially those of another race, or doesn’t seem to feel guilt for having a lack of morals…Well I’m sure he didn’t come this far without breaking a few backs on the way. If this is what you had to become to be a successful businessman, then I only had three things to say; Union, union, union!

When I finally arrived home, the sun had just gone down and I went to the manor looking for Father. He wasn’t in his room, and I knew the only other place he could be was in his office. As I approached, I heard faint voices coming from the other side of the partially closed door, so I decided to loom cautiously in order to eavesdrop on the unknowing party.

I tip toed over to the door and peered in without being noticed. A tall and slender man with long wavy red hair and green eyes stood coolly in front of Father’s desk smoking a cigarette. His clothes were casual; he had on a red leather jacket with a Mickey Mouse shirt on underneath, faded blue jeans and black and white sneakers.

Not a common uniform for Father’s regular cliental. Father was sitting in his chair, or as my sister and I called it, the King’s throne. If anyone else was caught sitting in it, off with his head! He leaned forward on his desk and laced his fingers together. So, how’s the shipment look for tomorrow? Father asked the man, who then blew a puff of smoke in the air. His blasé demeanor and chiseled jaw were appealing to me in a way I wasn’t comfortable with.

Should be right on time, clear blue skies, The man responded with a noticeable accent. Have you got it?

Father reached into a drawer and pulled out a stuffed envelope. The man took it and shoved it in the back of his jeans, under his jacket. Suddenly, I accidentally leaned in a little too close and pushed the door enough to creek, so I had to knock and pushed it open as a quick cover. I looked at the man and smiled. Now that I had a closer look, I realized the attractive man was also a familiar one.

Hi. I said.

Well Hello there. He said smiling, as he looked me up and down. I watched him as he openly watched me. Father also noticed his client’s sinful smile and wide eyes. We could only imagine the heated and satisfying thoughts fleeting through his client’s mind and only I could compete with my equally sinful, but less obvious, determined imagination.

I think we’re done for tonight. Father confirmed as he stood up from his seat and reached out to shake the man’s hand.

Alright then, The man said. He didn’t take his eyes off me once as he passed me on his way out. Nice seeing you again. He said with a wink. Too shocked for words, I just smiled and watched him walk out the door.

What is it Tiff? Father asked in a calm tone, unlike his tone from the day before.

I went to see Mr. Barthelmue. I said as I nervously edged closer to his desk. I could feel the presence of past intimidations, business dealings and what not that went down in that office. Father sat down on the edge of his desk.

Oh good, how was it? He asked. He placed his hand on my shoulder and pulled me in close for purpose of light speaking, and to hurry my nervous inching to a halt.

…He was very informative, very boisterous. I barely got a word in, but I’ll have plenty of notes to present for tomorrow. I lied.

Bart smiled and grasped my shoulder tightly, I knew he would be, He smiled. My nerves were shot at this point, for whatever reason. But then he loosened his grip.

Thanks for letting me know honey, but it’s getting late and you have school tomorrow. He let go of me and nonchalantly walked back to his desk.

Yeah ok, I said as I walked towards the door. Suddenly I was glad I had that awful interview. Look how happy it made him. He very rarely spoke to me sweetly and calmly like that anymore. Not like he used to when I was a younger girl and it was inappropriate. For some reason my heart skipped a beat when his tone was…that way.

Good night. I said. Father smiled as he leaned back in his throne.

That night, seemingly gentle clouds and the smell of rain filled the night air. Rain soon followed, coolly falling on to the earth’s front. To the side of the guest house a balcony with a white picketed guardrail was positioned, overlooking acres of grassy, untouched land owned by my father. I sat on the floor of the balcony with my legs sticking through and hanging down the slots in the guardrail. My silk green underwear and red cotton knit undershirt became drenched in the rain. As I looked out at the lightening across the field, I didn’t even realize that the cigarette between my fingers had fallen, soggy. Yet when I did notice, I didn’t really care.

I always liked to sit out there on rainy days and think. Sometimes I thought too much and I would start to remember bits and pieces from the past that I had suppressed many times before, but still I never felt sad when I sat out there. I felt…unbound, because of the rain and because of my underwear. Yes, that’s right, I was sitting outside in underwear that didn’t match, it felt great!

It was funny how free I felt just because of the small details. It’s silly I know, but if Hilary or one of my girlfriends knew, I would be teased mercilessly and forced to make an emergency trip to Victoria Secret. Trivial matters like matching underwear was a big thing with my crowd. But on the guesthouse balcony, I was my own crowd. The guardrail was my shoulder to lean on and the green field was my only judge.

I don’t think Hilary or even Jennifer liked the idea of me living out there by myself, but my father made the rules and his guilt afforded me the pleasure of turning it into my bedroom-or little apartment if you will; equipped with a bathroom, mini-fridge and flat screen television.

I hardly watched TV and I couldn’t stay out there for too long a time during the day before someone from the manor came out to check on me or called me to see what I was doing, but it was the most freedom I had ever experienced. I sat outside until my long wavy brown hair was dark, straight and heavy from the rainwater. Then without even drying off, I walked into my room, wrapped myself in my blanket and fell asleep almost instantly as I curled up on the bed.

***

I’ve seen him before. Jennifer said to me. Classes had ended for the day and Jennifer and I were laying head to feet on my bed listening to music, snacking and talking.

Yeah? Me too, but this is the first time he’s ever talked to me. I responded. Jennifer sat up on the bed. So…you think he was flirting with you? She asked eagerly. I laughed and put my hands over my face. I don’t know, I guess. I said excitedly.

Jennifer crawled around to my side of the bed and started playing with my hair.

C’mon Tiff, who hasn’t fallen head-over heels for you? You’re freakin’ gorgeous! She exclaimed. I rolled my eyes with embarrassment. Shut up Jennifer.

What– you are, she exaggerated. "Your naturally curly and oh so perfect, long, coffee colored hair, your silky smooth skin… she said mockingly. I laughed as she continued her phony swoon. …Oh Tiffany, please…can I just hold you? You have an incredible body…I bet you look amazing naked…" She said, imitating an assortment of my deprived ex-boyfriends. I smacked her playfully and tried to refocus on Father’s mystery man.

I wonder how old he is…he looks so mature and sexy. Oh, I forgot to mention the best part; he’s got this really sexy accent, like Mason’s. How cool is that! I responded inanely. Even my stomach felt the stupidity and shallowness of my comment and punished me with bellowing and pain. Oh God, listen to me, I sound like a cheerleader, I grunted as I grabbed my burning stomach. Let’s talk about something else, something besides boys and clothes and stuff. Let’s talk about…the lack of funding and support for inner-city schools. I overly suggested.

Jennifer laughed and rolled her eyes. She knew me best, and recognized my need to seem worldly at all times.

It’s ok to think a guy is a fox Tiffany, we’re young and we’re allowed to be shallow every once in a while; especially when it comes to gorgeous, British sex-Gods! She said, throwing a pillow at me.

"Actually I’ll technically be an adult in a little less than a year…an eighteen year old adult who still says, like totally!" I said, mocking myself. Jennifer didn’t seem amused by my verbal self-abuse and decided to change the subject. I had sex with Tommy last night. She announced suddenly. I jumped to an upright position and almost out of my skin.

YOU WHAT!

Jennifer laughed at my expected astonishment and laid back down. No lets talk about something else now, remember no boys…

"Do you want me to kill you?! What happened, whe-how…" I squealed.

Ok, ok, Jennifer began with a laugh. It was while you were at that guy’s house for that interview thing. He came over and mom was acting all crazy so we said we were going to the movies…but we actually came here. Jennifer explained. I couldn’t believe my own ears. "But you’ve only been on like two dates with him…Oh please tell me you didn’t…on my bed?" I exclaimed.

No, no, no, it was on a blanket on the floor, and so what if it was the second date. It’s not like I’d just met him or anything. Jennifer clarified, as if that were better. Too shocked to complain about her trespassing in my room, I just gasped again and plopped down beside her. Oh my gosh…you’re such a slut. I said jokingly, only it wasn’t necessarily an untrue jest. We laughed hysterically at the casualness of it all.

"Knock, knock." The room door started to open and we grew quiet with anticipation. As Hilary stuck her head through the door Jennifer found it hard not to break out in immediate laughter from embarrassment at the conversation we were just having.

H-hi girls. I didn’t mean to bother you but…well your father’s custom cufflinks were ready to be picked up…I just thought I’d run out and get them myself so maybe all us girls could go get mani-pedis or walk the shops or something… She said, nervous with anticipation.

Jennifer, who was barely able to contain her laughter, interrupted. Uh no thanks mom, we’re good. She said in a burst. I wrapped my arms around Jennifer, and muffled my uncontrollable laughter on her shoulder. She too began to laugh and we soon forgot about Hilary who was standing in the doorway. It wasn’t hard to deter Hilary; she quietly let herself out without notice and Jennifer anxiously looked at me in tandem.

Let’s call him! She said, obviously with Tommy now on the brain.

But my mind was elsewhere. I felt bad for being cruel toward Hilary and using the love I shared with her daughter to make her feel pain, but at the same time I couldn’t stop myself. She was such a victim.

Hilary’s attentiveness started when I turned fourteen and she wanted to do mom stuff like shop for clothes and do hair and makeup for dates. Usually Jen and I just did that kind of stuff with each other. I’m not sure if Jen realized her mother’s torment from us being so close and her being so…out of the loop, but whether she knew it or not, I didn’t want to risk mentioning it and losing what we had. I didn’t want Hilary to be included. I know it was selfish, but I’d never had a sister before, and I’d already had plenty of failed mother-type figures.

Outside of the room, while Hilary crossed the driveway, she stopped suddenly to pull something out of her purse. I stood at the window and watched, peering through a narrow slit in the blinds as Jen absently twirled her fingers in her hair and flirted with Tommy over the phone.

After stumbling around for a minute, Hilary pulled a small crystal flask out of her purse and knocked back the rest of its contents. Even years of alcohol abuse wasn’t enough conditioning to keep her from wincing at the cocktail’s bitter taste.

I remember the day Hilary and Jennifer moved in like it was yesterday. Hilary walked through the front entrance of the manor and the sun’s bright light filled the archway behind her as she walked towards me with open arms. To a young child like I was, she seemed to have the graceful presence of an angel. Little Jennifer, who had platinum blonde curls at the time, stood in the rear, wearily and unseen at first in the glare of her mother and the sunlit door way.

Now this angel-like woman couldn’t even cross the driveway without succumbing to her addiction. Was it my fault for being impossible and unloving? Or was it just a matter of time before her demons got the best of her? That woman in the driveway was my real mother before she died. If this was the fate of Bane women, I certainly didn’t want to be on that list.

Hilary shoved the empty flask back into her purse and took a moment to compose herself before she continued on across.

Hello there! A voice echoed from a distance. Startled, Hilary gasped and