Goodbyes and Second Chances (The Bleu Series Book 1)

Goodbyes and
Second Chances

T.I. LOWE

Copyright © 2014
T.I. Lowe

All rights
reserved.

ISBN:
150271969X

ISBN-13:
978-1502719690

DEDICATION

To my Bethlehem Women of Faith Group.

And to my Georgia Girls.

You ladies ROCK!!

White Trash

White trash is
not a choice. Just like any other social status, you are born into it. You can
take as many bleach baths as you want, but the stigma is embedded in your
pores. Trust-fund babies are born with a silver spoon in their million-dollar
mouths, while white-trash babies are born with a rusty fork, with missing
prongs, in their poor mouths. But hey, you learn to take what you can get.

      
In the brutal life of white trash, you
grow up in tired, worn-out houses that continue to be punished with the
build-up of way past-due bills and beyond-neglected chores. No one wants to
take responsibility for any of it. It is always someone else’s fault and
someone else’s responsibility. And you’re lucky if it’s a house. Normally, you
move a lot and see the inside of too many ramshackle motel rooms and
mildew-reeking trailers.

      
Beer bottle fights over women, emergency
room visits for stitches, and police reports for domestic violence are a given.
A white-trash family responds to their disputes with fists or any object they
can get their hands on. There seems to be a lot of underlying anger—for what?
Maybe past disappointments? Or life struggles? Or instabilities? Most likely,
it’s a combination of all. There’s never a break to be had. Never…

      
I have tried to push this stigma off and
dress in normal wear. But no matter, I feel that I will always wear my
white-trash badge whether I like it or not. It’s part of my roots even though I
have groomed myself to blossom into something better.

Part one

Goodbyes

The Young and
the Stupid

Chapter One

Sometime in the late ’90s…

I’m too young to go to jail, and I
really have no desire to go, either. Yet, here I sit. I’m only a
seventeen-year-old girl. I may act a bit stupid sometimes, but I’m really not.
This whole situation is totally unfair. If I was born on the other side of
Shimmer Lakes, this moment would be laughed off. Instead, I am from the wrong
side of the
water tracks
, and it is
why I am looking down at the smudges, from being booked and fingerprinted, on
my fingertips. I try unsuccessfully to wipe the evidence of my guilt off onto
my jeans, but the ink ain’t having it.

What’s on the
other side of the lake? Although we share the same body of water with those
people, many levels of social status separate us. Wealth on that side is
evident with expansive lakeshore homes, resorts, high-rise condos, and the
million-dollar marina. To live on that side, bank accounts have to range in the
six to seven figures.

On my side of
the lake, tin can trailers that smell like mildew make up the residences, and
most struggle to make it into the five figures. It’s not that this side doesn’t
try. It’s because we have been born with the rusted fork in our mouths and seem
to not figure out how to better ourselves. Once you’ve been deemed a nobody,
society struggles to see you in any other light. This means not many
opportunities come your way, and so the cycle of only being able to keep your
head above water continues hopelessly. Well, it’s how I see it anyway.

I scratch my
head.
How in the world did I get myself
in this mess…again…?

I sit here
shooting daggers at my cohorts as the officer rambles off the long list of
charges. He’s already told us this once, but now he is repeating it for my Aunt
Evie. She is none too happy, just let me tell you.
I know we have pulled her out of
bed, because I can see the nightgown peeking from underneath her long coat. She
looks tired and was probably half-asleep when she put her hair in the haphazard
bun from which several strands are now escaping. It’s well past midnight, and
her day will begin too soon. The woman rises and sets right along with the sun
like clockwork.

“Arson,
unlicensed use of pyrotechnics, operating a powerboat without a valid license…”
Blah, blah, blah… In other words, we’ve screwed up. Again.

Good grief, this
has been one long night. There are only three guilty parties present in this
station. The other three were lucky enough to get away unnoticed. They are
faster runners, and it’s my fault that us three sit here now. I’m short and
slow, and these two wouldn’t leave me. For that I’m thankful. Really, who wants
to get handcuffed and hauled off to jail alone? No one, that’s who! This is one
of those situations that are most definitely better with a buddy.

The officer
finishes the spiel of charges, and Aunt Evie cuts her eyes so sharp at me that
I can feel the sting straight through. I can barely swallow from my guilt
eating at me. This was stupid. Just plain stupid. I’m the oldest, so I guarantee
I will be the one to blame.

All I can think
about is a nice hot shower and dry, clean clothes. We’ve been sitting here for
a few hours with the air conditioner blasting on our shivering bodies. Our
T-shirts are wrinkly and damp, and our jeans are still holding on tightly to
the lake water. It’s beyond uncomfortable. If we adjust in our seats, our
squishy shoes squeak against the tiled floor. I’m beginning to wish they had
offered us orange jumpsuits. Wearing dry prisoner attire has to be better than
sitting here wet and freezing.

“What you reckon
is gonna happen to these young’uns?” Aunt Evie looks over each one of us as
though she is trying to decipher where we keep our stupid buttons, in hopes she
can turn those suckers off.

“Since it’s
their first offense, they will probably get slapped with a fine for the damage
caused and sentenced to community service.”

I hear a quiet
chuckle and look over to find Dillon smirking at the first offense statement. I
cut my eyes at him again and glare with all my might. Those charges against me
last year were dropped, and he knows it—not enough evidence. I promise I’m not
a bad kid. I’ve just made some stupid choices. I glance at Kyle and then back
to Dillon.
It might be time to start
keeping different company
.

“So, I can take
Jillian and Kyle home now?” Aunt Evie signs the document to verify she gets how
stupid we were tonight.

“Yes, ma’am.”
The officer accepts her check. I add that to my I-Owe-Aunt-Evie list. Ugh…

“Are you sure I
can’t take Dillon home, too?” We look towards the man-child in question. He’s
fifteen years old, but I swear to you he looks to be in his twenties. He is
already over six feet tall, and I kid you not, the dude is sporting a
five-o’clock shadow as we speak. If I didn’t know any better, I would believe
his mom is lying about his birthdate. But I grew up with the dude and knew him
before he hit some overly-anxious growth spurts. Dillon says it’s the Italian
in him. His jet-black hair is shoulder length and sports a deep-blue streak in
the front. It’s homage to his band, Bleu Streak. He also has a tattoo of his
dad’s military service number neatly tucked behind his right ear. He always
says something dramatic about the location of the tattoo, something along the
lines of it’s his way of always listening out for his dad. I personally know he
is just hiding it from his mother. She would beat him silly if she knew he got
a tattoo behind her back. That’s one feisty woman. I try to always steer clear
of her.

The only thing
boyish about Dillon Bleu is his signature dimples. I’ve nicknamed him Dimples,
which irritates him to no end. Those deep-blue eyes that are nearly purple look
up hopeful at Aunt Evie’s request.

“Sorry, ma’am.
He has to be picked up by a guardian.” The officer says sorry, but you can tell
he couldn’t care less. He is playing on his computer as Aunt Evie pleads with
him. I bet he’s playing solitaire. I can’t see the screen from where I’m
sitting, but I just bet…

“Well, I’m on
his school forms as an approved person to pick him up. Ain’t that good enough?”
She’s trying to stay calm, but I see her slipping.

Now, here is
another example of being from the wrong side of town. This wouldn’t be a
problem for the other side of good and plenty. No, sir. This thick, bloated
officer would be slapping the pick-up person on the back, having a good laugh
at the expense of the rich kids’ stupid prank gone bad, while telling them to
put their fat wallets away and pretend the incident didn’t really happen. The
pick-up person would promise a lunch date soon at the marina and haul the whole
lot home without question. But poor white trash doesn’t get such breaks. We are
already deemed a nuisance to society, and they seem to take it seriously to
keep us in our place.

“Sorry, ma’am,”
the officer repeats again, without even looking away from the computer screen.
The mouse clicks and clicks and clicks. Yep. The jerk is playing solitaire.

Aunt Evie walks
over to a disappointed Dillon. He has soot smeared across his forehead, and she
tries unsuccessfully to rub it off. I watch as he plays into her pity for him.
It’s not that he is on board to be pitied, but he has no qualms of playing into
it with adults to get his way. I roll my eyes at him to convey my not pitying
him message. A smile twitches from the corners of his wicked mouth, but he
controls it in front of my aunt.

Dillon was
exiled to the Shimmer Lakes Trailer Park and Campground a few years before me
and Kyle. His dad was killed while serving our country the same year Dillon was
born to a seventeen-year-old Cora, who was not allowed to marry Dawson Bleu
before his deployment. He left behind a brokenhearted girlfriend who wasn’t
legally his widow, so the death benefits were directed to his family instead.
The only thing left behind that Cora got to claim was his newborn son and his
Gibson electric-blue acoustic guitar. Dillon laid claim to the guitar before he
could walk and plays that thing like it is his life’s purpose. The boy is crazy
talented and can play any instrument placed in his hands. I’ve never seen
anything like it anywhere. He can pick one up and bring the instrument to life
like it’s some divine calling. I would be jealous if I wasn’t in such awe of
his talent.

Cora waitresses
to make ends meet, so Aunt Evie has helped her care for Dillon over the years
since Cora stumbled into the trailer park, flat broke and devastated. That
feisty woman busts her butt in hopes of making a better life for Dillon one
day. Neither side of her family wanted her after they found out she was unwed
and pregnant—another example of judging someone due to their circumstance. She
hates it and hates that she has had to drag Dillon down with her. Cora has
spent a many a night on our small porch, crying on Aunt Evie’s shoulder. I
really do feel sorry for her until she starts in on Dillon. She rides that boy
something hard. I know she’s scared to death that he’s going to foolishly make
some kind of mistake as she did. I know she believes I am not good enough to be
friends with her son, so she hates me for him not being able to stay away from
me. That’s my fault somehow, too.

My younger
brother and I have been dragged from pillar to post throughout our younger
life. My parents like to live the gypsy lifestyle, so we’ve lived in a variety
of places—anywhere from trashy roach motels and campgrounds to squatting in a
few abandoned homes. They fall into the category of parents mindlessly spitting
young’uns out into this world and having totally no clue as to what to do with
them. Aunt Evie, being childless, offered to take us in after the authorities
hauled us away from our neglectful parents. Kellan and Lucy Whitman had not
enough sense or desire to raise us, so they quickly agreed. Fine by me! Good
riddance.

By the time Kyle
and I arrived at Shimmer Lakes, we were both malnourished and ate up with head
lice. Aunt Evie took to mending us up and showing us a simpler, yet better, way
of life. I couldn’t get over those first few weeks of not having my scalp
constantly itching. Crawling lice had become a torturous part of our neglected
life. Kyle’s lice infestation was so severe Aunt Evie had his head completely
shaved bald. Mine wasn’t much better. My long, thick hair had to be buzzed
considerably shorter. Dillon thought I was a boy for the first months of us
being neighbors. Aunt Evie bought Kyle a cowboy hat to cover his bald head, and
me a hot-pink sunhat to help them remember I was a girl. She kept reassuring us
that it was only hair and that it would grow back, and eventually it did. I was
only six at the time. Now I know that’s mighty young to remember much, but some
things you can’t ever forget, no matter how badly you want to.

Aunt Evie places
her hand on Dillon’s shoulder somberly, as though he is the victim and not a
conspirator in all of this night’s fiasco. “I’ll find Cora and get her here as
quick as I can, sweetheart.” She hugs him.

“Aunt Evie, we
can’t just leave him here.” My voice breaks as I whine. I don’t pity him… Okay…
Maybe I do a little.

“Well, we
wouldn’t even have to worry about this if you would act your age. Jillian, you
are almost eighteen. You know how to make better decisions than this. I depend
on you to be more responsible. Now look at the mess you have gone an’ gotten
your brother and Dillon into.”

Dillon has a
stoic expression painted on his aggravating face. When Aunt Evie turns towards
me, the manly face transforms into a mischievous brat with dimples popping out
full force. Jerk. I take it back. I don’t pity him one bit.

“Me?” I jab my finger
towards him and Kyle. Kyle is the same age as Dillon. Those two have been glued
together since they were toddlers. “It was their idea!”

“Don’t even
blame those boys for your decision. You’re older!” She’s full of vinegar, and I
can’t blame her. She has the trailer park to manage and will be dead on her
feet in a few hours when she is expected to get to work.

So I continue to
be the follower and not the leader. The boys have not muttered one word since
we were brought in, and I decide it’s in my best interest to follow suit. I
look over at Kyle. He seems to not have a care in the world. He is actually
nodding off to sleep with his dark blond hair flopping over his eyes. It’s all
frizzy from our unexpected plunge in the lake. I brush my hair over my shoulder
and inspect my own frizzy mess that spills almost to my lap. Ugh. I really need
a shower and lots of conditioner. I twist it in a long braid to try to tame it
for the time being. Kyle looks like me with the same dark blond hair, but with
lighter green eyes. He’s a good bit taller than me too. I topped out at a grand
five feet two inches in height. I blame my stunted growth on the malnutrition
from my years with the parents.

“We will stay
until Cora arrives.” Aunt Evie wearily relents, so we stay put in the police
station until three in the morning.

A frazzled Cora
storms in, wearing her food-smudged uniform, with her dark auburn hair slipping
from her ponytail. Bags are prominent under her eyes, and her mouth is set in a
severe sneer. And, oh boy, is she ticked. Her whole body trembles with her
anger. She stops in front of a sleeping Dillon and lands a slap across his
face, rousing him abruptly. He almost falls out of the chair from the shock of
it. His face is deep red from the slap and embarrassment. He won’t even meet my
gaze. He just hangs his head and stands behind his witch of a mother. She
shoots me a look that sends the message loud and clear—
it’s all your fault
. She has always had something against me, and I
just don’t get it. She doesn’t say a word to anyone as she signs the required
documents and storms back out of the door. I want to shout at Cora to not treat
Dillon that way and to keep her hateful hands to herself. It’s on the very tip
of my tongue, but I catch sight of Aunt Evie shaking her head sternly at me as
she points us to the exit through her own silent scold. I bite my tongue right
off and file out of the police station like a zombie.