Mama Killed A Man

The night of my fourteenth birthday I snuck out the house with Katie Loraine. I still remember the shiver of sweat gathering behind my ears, the stiff taste of lipstick on my teeth, and the jelly tremble of my legs as I swung them over my window ledge at one am. I was wearing a short, black baby-doll dress that made me feel seventeen and a pair of chunky heels that made me as clumsy as a bear riding a tricycle. I looked good, but felt ridiculous.

Katie’s house was only two streets away from mine but as we sauntered unsteadily up her front lawn, past a couple kissing on the veranda and into the sea of raucous seniors swarming her living room, I felt worlds away from the quiet naivety of my little unit and the
maternal security that came with it. I didn’t like it at all.

It was too hot. It was claustrophobic. I felt nauseous.

“Let’s just go home.”

Katie smirked at me, shook her head, and pulled me through the congregation.

It was here, at Katie’s brother’s house-to-himself party that the captain of the senior footie team took me aside, looked me in the eyes and told me I was pretty.

Maybe it was because of the heat, maybe it was because of his deep blue eyes; maybe it was because of the cup after red cup of amber liquid that was hot on my breath and acrid down my throat. Maybe it was because I’d never spoken to a senior, or ever touched a boy.

Maybe it was because I never had a daddy to call me Princess.

I latched onto this male attention like life support. Like anaesthesia from the loneliness; the captain made me feel worth something. The next morning when he didn’t recognize me, I didn’t mind, because from then on there were always other boys. I wasn’t popular, but I was
there, and more often than not, that’s what boy’s needed.

Even if it meant being the second thought.

My father didn’t say anything when he saw me. His lips trembled and his eyes widened with a hopeful glow as he hobbled his way towards me. My eyes flickered between his and the smooth wooden cane in his hand and I leapt forward to make up the distance. He was about a head taller than me, with the same brown hair and brown eyes, though they didn’t look at all average on him. He looked like a rock star, and I was sure it wasn’t just because I knew he was one. As his eyes analysed my face and his arms wrapped tightly around me, I thought about the fifteen years my mother had taken from us and wondered if reuniting was meant to feel this awkward.

“Amberlyn, my little Bambi,” he said quietly, pulling away. “That was what we called you, Bambi. Do you remember?”

I twisted my lips and looked at him hopelessly. I wanted to remember; I wanted to be comfortable and I wanted to feel the instantaneous love for him that he seemed to feel for me. The way he looked at me, full of adoration and pride, provoked a tug of joy within me and immediately I felt guilty. I felt like with that one look he was giving me the world and I couldn’t find anything to give back.

“Never mind,” he said, smiling crookedly. He lifted a hand and stroked the loose hair from my face, “You were very little.”

I could tell he was disappointed.

Behind us the front door swung open and we both flinched, snapping out of the heavy daze that had slunk upon us. A girl around the same age as me slipped through, numerous shopping bags weighing her hands. With the door shut safely behind her, she looked at us and her lips pursed. Dropping her bags to the floor, she lifted a hand and tilted her gaudy Gucci sunglasses over the bridge of her nose, sizing me up with her expressive green eyes. I felt my nerves crawl backwards into my spine.

“Hello,” she said sharply, dissecting my exterior. My father’s warm hand came to rest upon my shoulder.

“Ah! Brookie,” he smiled warmly, “I was wondering when you’d get here. This is my daughter, Amberlyn, the one I told you about last week.”

Brookie snatched off her glasses and tucked them into the V of her short, white summer dress. Flicking her long, bronze hair behind her shoulders she approached us slowly, stilettos clicking on the sandalwood surface.

“I don’t recall,” she said, chewing the inside of her lip. She struck out her hand and, entranced by her rich, burgundy hair and strikingly wild features, moments passed before I finally took it. Her grasp was brief and subdued and left me feeling unwelcome.

Brookie was Brookie Arquette, up-and-coming pop-punk singer from Tucson, Arizona. She was talented, gorgeous, and was going to be the next big thing. I was Amberlyn Kalya Cross. My mother had just passed away, so Brookie was to be gentle with me, I overheard my father say. I told Brookie she could call me Amber, and she asked me if anyone ever called me Berlin, like the fall of the Berlin wall. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at me, and I felt the bitter fortitude of rivalry.

I wasn’t quite sure what we were competing for, but her comment just proved that on top of
all that talent and beauty and potential, she was intelligent too.

My father said he knew we would get along, and that he hoped we would become like sisters. He had worked with Brookie in vocal and instrumental training for eight months now and she had become like a daughter to him.

That night, I slipped through the gate and paced in front of the house. Graeme had long since gone home and Brookie had forgotten to book a chauffeur for the drive back to Tucson, so my father had opted to drive her, leaving me all alone in the Hurley mansion. They were dropping by the studio to pick up her guitar first, which she’d also forgotten, and allowing time for Friday night traffic, my father had apologized and said he’d be quite a while. He said he might have to stay overnight in Tucson if it got too late.

With the lowering sun, Tempe had cooled down considerably but a heavy heat could still be felt radiating from the russet brick beneath my bare feet. A loud yell and the rattle of a fly-screen door roused me from my thoughts and I stopped pacing, searching the street for the source of the noise.

John stumbled out of his house, swinging a guitar over his shoulder and hollering a goodbye at his mum and Cal. He exhaled loudly as he was met by the outdoor heat and pushed up his sleeves. I mentally acknowledged his presence and continued pacing, the scuffing of my bare feet on the sandy brick alerting John of my existence. He stopped and looked up, greeting me with his lopsided smile.

“Hey, Amber,” he said, waiting for a lone Jeep to pass before jogging across the road.

“Hello,” I replied, smiling up at him. He dug his hands in his pockets, shrugging his guitar further up his right shoulder.

“So how’s your first day in Tempe been?”

I replied honestly that it had been rather pleasant.

“Good,” he grinned, sounding genuinely pleased that I had had a good day. He observed the dark house and empty driveway behind me before asking of the whereabouts of my father.

I explained to John that he’d had to drive Brookie Arquette back to Tucson.

“So you’re all by yourself?” I nodded, “What about that old guy?”

“He’s gone home.”

John shook his head before pushing his hand further into the pocket of his shorts and tugging out his phone.

“All alone on your first night in Tempe,” he murmured, “I’ve never heard anything more absurd- hello, Garret?” He had his phone, a battered old, grey Nokia, pressed against his ear as his eyes wandered the ground. “I’m gonna bring a friend, ok?” He was silent for a while as the person on the other end replied. “So go get more hot dogs!” he said tensely, before hanging up and turning his gaze back to me.

He and his friends were having a small gathering at Tempe Town Lake, and it’d totally make his night if I came, he told me. He reiterated that being alone on my first night in Tempe was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard, and that there’d be marshmallows, if that made his invitation any more appealing.

I was debating whether leaving the house without permission in a city I didn’t know with a guy I’d just met was such a good idea, but one more glance at the dark, lonely abode and I’d finalized my decision. Leaving John at the front gate, I dashed into the house and scrawled a note which I left pinned to the fridge, before slipping on my Vans and exiting through the back.

I hated being alone, so I made sure I never was.