10.1 Olivia

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CHAPTER TEN

OLIVIA

I was six when I overheard Mom and Livy murmuring about race in the adjacent bedroom. Back then, a broken sliding door was the only barrier between the bathroom and my sister's privacy. I watched them through a crack in the frame. I listened to every word.

“The kids at school call me black,” Livy said. I could see her sitting calmly on the foot of her bed; “calm” being a rare adjective for my seven-year-old sis. Her feet dangled beside Mom's chunky legs and her hands were folded in her lap.

“Well that's a silly thing to say,” Mom replied. “Your race is African, and your skin is a beautiful brown color.”

Livy held up her arm and inspected it.

Mom held her arm out beside Livy's. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“People call me white.” She found a coloring book on the nightstand, opened to a blank page, and placed her arm against the crease. “The paper's white, not my skin. My skin is beige!”

Livy smiled.

“We're all different colors, sweetie. And we're all beautiful in different ways.”

*  *  *

Punishment: day six.

T-minus five days until the Fairytale premiere.

Mara would always be my paradoxical muse; a wishing-well of inspiration with heads-up pennies to spare. When she stands beside you, your soul lifts and creativity flows. When she's actually yours--when your arms are wrapped around her neck and your life is no longer dedicated to winning her but to keeping her--the well begins to run dry.

Questions about our editing progress were constant: “When can we see it?” “How far are you?” “Why doesn't it look like a real movie?” And the questions didn’t just come from family. The panel of judges for the Lakeshore Celebration Art Contest called Mom every two days to request my submission.

I tossed the tennis ball at the wall above Whit's head--THUNK--and caught it on the return. “I wrote her a note in secret code last night and left it under her pillow.” I threw the ball again. THUNK. “The other day, we snuggled and watched a David the Gnome marathon on Nickelodeon.” Whit's eyes followed the ball. THUNK. “This morning, I wrote her a poem about Dorothy. She liked it so much she hugged me.” THUNK.

“James!” Livy shouted from the kitchen. “Knock it off!”

“I caught the ball, fell backwards on my bed, and tossed it toward the spinning blades of the ceiling fan.

“Glad you've been workin' so hard,” Whit said.

“If I wasn't grounded, I'd never get anything done!”

He held down the fast-forward button and zipped through the completed Red Room scene. Dad was both terrifying and comical in his red robe and latex mask. Watching him hobble through the room at super-human speed added another layer to the absurdity.

“Did you bring the caffeine?” I asked.

“Crap,” Whit said. “Totally forgot.”

“Darnit. How are we gonna stay awake?” I threw the ball again. The green fuzz came an inch from striking the fan.

Whit reached beneath his chair and tossed me another bag of homemade powder. “This'll keep us motivated,” he said.

I tossed the candy on my nightstand. “No sugar, beetle-dick. Four pounds left till my goal.”

“Whatever.”

I threw the ball again, too far, and it smacked the ceiling fan, flew across the room, and slammed into a Lego castle on my shelves. CRASH! Bricks flew everywhere.

The bedroom door opened and Mom stood in the frame. “James Parker,” she said, hands on her hips. “Give me the ball.”

“It helps me concentrate!” I said. “Do you know how tedious it is to edit on a thirteen-inch screen?”

She tilted her head and looked to Whit. “Keep an eye on my son tonight, Mr. Whitney. He's grounded from having fun.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Whit said. “I'll keep him in line.”

Mom stepped inside and kissed us on the foreheads.

“G'night,” I said.

“'Night Mrs. Parker,” echoed Whit.

“Sleep tight, kiddos.”

The moment the brass latch clicked into place, Whit's brow tightened and his lips curled.

“What is it?” I asked and sat up.

“Does Ryan Brosh still come around?”

“About every day,” I replied. “Chattin' up my girlfriend whenever Livy turns her back. Why?”

“Wanna make sure he stays away for good?”

*  *  *

Mara's sunburn had already dissolved into a perfect, basted tan. Striped pajama pants covered the gashes on her legs. Her left eye was still crimson. “What is it?” she whispered as I led her through the bathroom by her wrist.

I turned on the shower, jerked the curtain loudly so Livy would hear the rattle, then stepped in my room and closed the door behind us. “I dunno yet,” I said and nodded to Whit. “This butt-mop wouldn't say a word till you were here.”

Whit watched Mara as she straddled the desk chair backwards. His smooth cheeks and shit-eating grin reflected the static from the TV. “If I had a dime every time I saw somebody as pretty as you,” he said, “I'd have ten cents.”

“Ha!” Mara scoffed. “If I had a dime every time that line worked on a girl, I'd be broke!”

“Knock it off, lover boy,” I said. “Show us the tape before Livy gets suspicious.”

Whit held an eight-millimeter cassette above his head. “If you tell your sister about this, it will destroy her. Promise me... this stays between us.”

“Promise,” we said in unison.

The camera whirred and the tape slid inside. Whit pushed play.

“It's just a picture of the woods,” Mara said.

“Shh.” Whit said, then turned the volume up a notch. “Listen.”

The shot was canted and still. “Must've left the camera on,” I said.

Whit turned up the volume again. Behind the background noise... there were voices.

Mara swiveled in the chair and leaned forward. “I hear 'em. Is that Ryan?”

“And some of his high-school buddies,” Whit said.

I knelt beside Mara. Through the background hiss, I recognized the silken voice of Ryan Brosh. “Heck no!” said the jock. “--only one girl--”

“--bullshit!” said a friend. “She's-- like a-- Am I right?”

“No, dude-- not like that at all!”

“Are they talking about me?” Mara asked.

Whit pointed to the screen. “Shh.”

“Did you-- Truth or Dare?”

“Heck no! What are--”

The words turned back into gibberish. Whit leaned closer to the screen. “Here it comes...” he said.

“--date her?” asked the friend.

“Psh!” said Ryan.

“But why not?”

And then, as clear as my father's polished spectacles, “‘Cause I don't date niggers.”

Mara bowed her head against the chair.

Whit stopped the tape and ejected it.

My nails dug themselves into the palm of my hand. “Nobody talks about Livy like that.”

“You can't say a word to your sister,” Whit said, then stowed the tape beneath his chair for safe keeping.

“I'm going to kill him,” I said.

“We need to let it play out,” he replied. “Mara? Back me up here, hon.”

She peered at me over the back of the chair. “Don't tell her, James.”

I released a ribbon of air from my lips and nodded. Then I punched the wall as hard as I could.

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