Useless Dresses

I’m done being lonely.

It worked for a little while, the whole anti-social weird girl thing. Beating fast-forwarded Nirvana tunes into the lockers as people stared with wide eyes and quiet whispers had always been fun. I used to like speaking Pig Latin during English class, watching a frustrated teacher try to decipher the fake language. She never liked to listen much, calling me immature for my age before handing me a pretty pink detention slip. I always thought it sounded pretty cool, though. But I think the thrill of it is starting to wear off.

Now, sitting among a mountain of cardboard moving boxes, I can’t think of a reason for all those impulse moves. They were fun. Oh, they were fun. And I never thought they would lead to anything. Never thought they would do any damage. I never thought at all, actually. And now I’m paying for it.

But it isn’t healthy to linger in the past for very long—that’s what Dr. Jacobs said. He also said that the move would help everyone move on. Like this house was the problem.

What a crock.

What Dr. Jacobs can’t get through that fuzzy white head of his, what no one seems to realize, is that I’m the problem. It’s so obvious, yet no one acknowledges it.

Denny won’t listen, either. He’s the worst, running around here in black tie formal wear, like he’s going to a party or something. But he’s not going to a party—he’s not going anywhere. He just likes to look important; important enough to be invited to white collar dinners and balls and masquaranes, or whatever they’re called.

That’s the real reason we’re moving. Not because Mom slit her wrists in the bathroom, or because Emily cries in that bathroom every morning. Denny wants to feel important. So he bought a bigger house in upper Manhattan, where he could easily show off his happy little family and old money. Where he could buy a job at some flashy company, and where no one knew him or the shame his wife brought to her husband.

For a moment, I entertained the idea that I wasn’t at fault here. That Denny’s selfishness, or Emily’s weakness, or Bobby’s youngness brought us to this place. Then I glanced at the torn wallpaper hanging indifferently on the walls of my former room, and the gaping holes in my mattress, and the tiny leftover shards of glass scattered around my floor below the place where the mirror used to hang, and I started to hate myself again.

Like I should. Like everyone should.

Two husky men in jumpsuits, bright orange and soaked in sweat, entered my room. They each took my boxes two at a time, and managed to minimize the mountain in a few trips.

“I’ll take that for you, Miss,” the shorter Gorilla Man directed to my makeshift stool, another cardboard box. This one sunk in at parts, and most had fallen apart completely before I emptied a roll of duct tape on it. The box has been closed tightly since I turned 12. I dragged it down from the attic earlier this morning.

“No, thank you,” I smiled sweetly at the mover, though the sweat dripping from his neck and arms made me want to grimace. I didn’t want anyone besides me handling this particular package. “It’s not heavy.”

The man, ready to get out of the work, shrugged and lumbered back into the hallway. I lifted myself up after him, hauling the tattered box downstairs into the kitchen, which connected to the garage, where Denny’s Buick sat trapped by a massive moving van. The van was painted an even gaudier orange than the color of the employee’s jumpsuits. I entered the chilled 7am air and shoved the thing into the back of the black SUV.

“Psst,” a hissed whisper jumps from behind me as I shut the vehicle’s back door. “Hey. Hey, kid.”

“Hello?” I responded, taking on my best damsel tenor. “Is someone there?”

“Yea,” the whisper continued. “Yea, yea, come ‘ere.”

I crouched slightly, hiding in the shadows of the garage. Then I slunk around the outside of the building, tip-toing my way to the cab of the moving van.

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I continued in the damsel twang. “My grandmama says I shouldn’t hang around with strangers.”

“Boo!” a mound of wispy mocha colored hair leaped from the back of the moving van, ready to surprise anyone standing behind the truck. Bobby was still in his pajamas, dirt covering his bare feet. I snuck up behind the fourth grader, standing inches away from the boy as he looked around the garage tentatively. I towered over the 10 year old, though he was still below average in height and I had always been too tall.

“Shouldn’t you be ready to drive up by now?”

Bobby made a high-pitched noise—“Gah!”—and jumped around to face me.

“Kate!” My little brother’s blue eyes were bright with excitement, his round cheeks pink and grinning widely. “I never get you,” he huffed in mock disappointment, still cheesing excitedly. I chuckled, ready to respond when the back door slammed open.

“What are you two doing out here?” Emily walked into the garage, rolling a polka-dotted suitcase behind her. She spotted Bobby and frowned. Like Bobby, Emily favored Denny’s genes, though she was lighter than both and had Mom’s height. Denny was a third generation Indian-American, though his bright blue eyes came from a German grandmother. Emily was probably losing the most out of this move. Her life flip-flopped from slumber parties and football games, to drill team rehearsals and Saturday night dates. The prospect of losing all of that and being forced to recreate it in a totally alien place made her bitter.

I wouldn’t understand. I craved the move. It represented something new and wonderful and, hopefully, happy. Emily accuses us of running away from our problems. I think of it as trading them in.

“Rob, go get dressed. We’re leaving soon,” she said dryly before pushing her suitcase into the already stuffed trunk. She wore her long hair in a braid today, letting it trail below her shoulders to decorate a pale yellow sundress.

“My name’s Bobby,” my brother murmured after Emily trudges back into the house. “Right, Kate?”

I ran my fingers through his hair, making a mental note to get him a haircut this week. He made me feel better with his undying trust in everybody, his unfailing naiveté. He comforted me, though I didn’t deserve to feel comforted or good or even O.K. Yet. I planned on earning that trust—somehow.

“Yea, of course, Kid,” I wondered if he’d still smile up at me with all that adoration—all that misguided happiness—if he knew what I did.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Denny appeared in the doorway, dark hair slicked back as always, and eased us back into the garage. Emily trailed behind him. Denny was my father, sort of. A few years after my biological dad left, Denny legally adopted me. That made Emily and Bobby my half, adoptive siblings. “Bobby can change at our new home; we gotta leave now. I’m meeting a business partner there at noon. Please put this in the car for me, Katelyn.”

I took the medicine bag from Denny’s hand without a word, guiding Bobby in front of me. The darkened, scrapped moving box sagged even more with the added weight of the bag, and I ran my hand along the exterior of the cardboard to make sure its contents were still safe. It felt rough and aged, and the subtle smell of mold emanated from the item. But my emotions calmed when I touched the box; a little part of a happy past rubbed off on me as long as I maintained contact. I planned to suck all the happiness out of it as I could.

“I’m done being lonely,” I murmured to the box’s contents. “I’m done.”

“Did you say something, Katelyn?”

“Nothing, Den—er, Dad.”