Authors: Kristen Kehoe
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction, #Teen & Young Adult
Life Interrupted
Life Interrupted
by
Kristen Kehoe
To Jan and Livvy
for showing me
true love can come in an instant, but what follows is even stronger.
Copyright © 2013 by Kristen Kehoe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover image copyright 2014 of Erica Streelman at ericastreelmanphotography.com
Life can be such an asshole. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out and you start feeling confident in who you are and how you’ve chosen to live, something comes around the corner and slaps you in the face, not only changing your viewpoint, but leaving one hell of a mark.
We’ll start at the beginning of my life and work our way up to high school,
since my guidance counselor, Ms. Flynn (who was apparently a slut in high school, so the statement “in like Flynn” is used appropriately in her case), is certain that my childhood is a main source of why I am the way I am. I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with it, but I let her take me out of Math once a week and talk to me. The arrangement suits us both. She feels like she’s doing her job, and I get to miss forty-five minutes of polynomials and cosigns. It’s win-win, like my sister Stacy always says.
My entire life has been a rather unique one, never quite adding up the way it should. I’m the second daughter of Sam and Leigh Reynolds. My sister, Stacy, is ten years older than me, the catalyst in bringing my parents together.
My dad was an English
TA at the university and a struggling poet, and my mother was a biology professor who also gave seminars on human sexuality. A few chance meetings at the local bar and one thing led to another which led to Stacy. Apparently, Ms. Flynn isn’t the only adult I know who was a bit of a slut way back when.
As the story goes,
my parents were nervous, but excited, a thirty-two year-old biology professor and a twenty-six year-old English teaching assistant who moved in together and had a baby. And for the first little bit, everything worked. They lived in their two bedroom house on the outskirts of campus, working, raising their baby, all of the things young couples do. But my mother wasn’t as young as my father, and even after he’d gotten his PhD in English and become a full time professor, things got a little tight, not just financially, but emotionally. My father wanted to write beautiful poetry and spent hours on end at coffee shops talking with students, drinking coffee out of pint glasses and smoking scented tobacco, writing and reading poetry and examining life, while my mother spent time raising a baby, teaching, working up proposals for grants, and paying bills.
S
omewhere into Stacy’s eighth year my parents decided what they needed was another baby, something to reinvigorate their lives and bring them back to that place they had once been. So a year and a half later I came along. Really, what they wanted was for my birth to bring them together the way Stacy’s had. And for exactly three years their plan succeeded and their life was everything they wanted—until one day my dad decided that my birth had brought him exactly the opposite of what he had wanted, which was responsibility. Soon they were back to where they had been headed before me, with my mother working and raising two babies and trying to be a woman, while her younger husband spent more and more time with his even younger students.
I was
three years and two days old when my mother kicked my father out of the house, an action to which he reacted kindly and had his things packed in record time, according to my sister Stacy. This information all came to me according to my sister Stacy because she was ten when I was born and thirteen by the time this all happened and nobody thought she heard what they spoke about, especially when they used code to say it. But Stacy was smarter than they thought and she knew what was going on. Which is how she knew that I was a tactic meant to save my parents’ marriage and had instead ended up being the final straw that broke them apart. She gifted me with this information when I was five, sitting me down to tea with my power-rangers and telling me not to feel bad that I had failed at my job. A thoughtful gesture if you’re Stacy, a horrible one if you’re actually human.
After my dad left, my mom worked double time to make sure that she provided a good lif
e for her daughters, never allowing us to go without and always showing us that we were loved, no matter what. The
no matter what
was more for me than Stacy.
The phrase “two-peas” couldn’t be more wrong when it c
omes to Stacy and me. Stacy
is
a pea, a tiny, proper pea who’s known exactly who she is from the day she was born. Smart, athletic, domineering. People bow to Stacy because she won’t accept anything less.
She
brought my parents together, the surprise baby that gave them the chance to have a family—she was a 4.0 student who went on scholarship to the University of Portland and ran track. She is a simple 5’7”, with a lean figure and a pixie like face. She is remembered in her high school yearbook as the
it
girl—the homecoming queen that everyone wanted to be, the president of every club imaginable, the state champion in the fifteen hundred meters and the high jump who received an academic scholarship for college and played a sport as well, just to ice the cake. In short, she was loved—and still is—by everyone, even the ones who wish they could hate her.
Me, well, let’s just say
I’m more of an acquired taste.
I’m the girl who broke her parents up,
the girl who never really knows what she’s doing until it’s done, which results in just as many negatives as it does positives. I’m not an awful student, but no one is rushing to name me the valedictorian. I have friends and people at school know who I am, though I have a sneaking suspicion that’s more because of what I look like than who I am as a person.
Stacy was a gazelle in high
school—long and lean and narrow. Me? I’m an Amazon.
Seriously,
I’m six feet tall, one hundred and thirty-five pounds of muscle. I’ve been built like this since I can remember, steadily getting taller, not in an awkward way that made me skinny and knobby kneed—no, that would have had its own set of repercussions I am sure. I’ve never been too skinny—my height and weight have always been proportionate which, in high school, means death. I’m not a string bean or a Giselle Bundchen look-a-like, however much my mother tries to make the comparison.
I love her for even trying.
What I am is solid, and no one in my family knows where I came from. My mother is 5’8” and my father is barely 5’11”. The football coach envies me, the male and female basketball coaches eye me daily and offer me under the table incentives to join the team. The track coach recruited me, not to be a runner like my sister, but to be a thrower with the rest of the big girls. Stacy was—and still is—a swan or even an ostrich, strong and lean and fast. I’m a Clydesdale. Or a caribou. There is no bird equivalent to what I am.
My size is
only the beginning, though. Part two of this story that I discuss with Ms. Flynn every week is my personality and how it’s been shaped, why I am the way I am, blah blah blah. From one slut to another, I love the woman, but man can she ramble. Oh yeah, did I mention that I’m known as the resident slut in my town? It’s ironic, really, but we’ll get to that in just a minute. Let’s go back to Stacy (Ms. Flynn
loves
to say this).
Stacy was known in high school, she was even known in college. Not the way a lot of us end
up being known, where some teacher remembers you and some of your friends, maybe your coach if you got them a state championship or at least won enough games to ensure some job security for them. Stacy, she just has it—that elusive quality, trait, characteristic, whatever
it
was—and is—that makes people love her. They want to be her, and if they can’t accomplish that, they at least want to be around her. She’s demanding and opinionated and yet, she has a way of making you see her side of things. Never in her life has she spoken out of turn or made a rude or inappropriate comment. She’s a lady, through and through. The absolute antithesis of me.
I haven’t exactly perfected my personality, and people are more stunned by me than enamored.
(Actually, the other day I was running and I had my head down and I sent Mr. Salmon flying just outside of the cafeteria. I really stunned him. But again, not quite what I was going for.)
My personality is what I consider that of the survivor. My size
, combined with my ability to always make a scene no matter how hard I try to stay in the background and never say a thing, has made life all but impossible for me at times. For instance, I got my period in front of the entire student body in middle school during my championship volleyball match. The sideline ref spotted blood and blew his whistle, putting us at a standstill while everyone checked their hands and arms for cuts, even their noses. It took me almost five minutes to realize that the pain in my stomach was most definitely
not
because of nerves and by then the little red droplets had turned into a stream, much like Moses’ red sea I imagine.
You don’t live a day like that down, an
d so I have been dubbed Flow. Even my hopes of leaving the nickname behind once I got to high school were crushed as a girl who had been on the opposing team that day showed up in my Freshman English class and had a good laugh about it as she announced it to everyone. I had a good laugh that day when we played dodgeball in P.E. and her nose started flowing. Coach K our P.E. teacher—who also happened to be my volleyball coach—ruled it an accident and gave me a fist bump on the way to the locker room. That was the first time I had to talk to Ms. Flynn. She assured me that day that once I understood my behavior was a cry for attention and help, I’d live a much happier life.
Who needed help?
I wondered aloud that day.
I wanted that bitch to bleed and she did--straight from her fake nose.
This was not the answer Ms. Fl
ynn wanted and so we began our weekly sessions, me always providing her with enough fodder to have reason to call me in, despite how much I tried not to at first. Now I was resigned to seeing her and made the best out of it, even on days when she was trying a new counseling technique and would take long pauses or continue nodding her head as I spoke, like some out of control bobble head.
So, curr
ently my yearbook is sure to be laden down with memories such as “When Flow got her period in front of the whole school” or “When Flow pinned Tommy Knowles (state champion wrestler) in just under two minutes during the homecoming boys vs. girls Fun-in-the- Sun.” I know, to most people who attend a school of twenty-five hundred students and counting, that’s really not a big deal because they’re just pleased to be remembered at all.
Which brings me to what will surely be the third thing remembered about me: “When Flow went to that party her sophomore year and got knocked up by the resident pothead.”
Yep, I had a baby last year. This is where the slut thing comes in, I’m guessing.
