Made to Love (2 page)

Like me.

That thought made me listen
more closely.  The more I listened, the more it sounded like
crying.  And not just any crying.  It sounded like the
breaking of a heart, and not for the first time.  This poor
creature, whatever it was, had been destroyed more than once. 
My arm stung in sympathy.

And then, just as suddenly
as it begun, it stopped.  I listened for a few minutes more,
and the sound didn't start again.  Carefully, I stretched out
on the floor, clutched my poem, and drifted off into the sweet
oblivion of darkness once more.

Things were about to get a
lot worse.

Chapter Four

The morning dawned dreary
and gray—appropriate for my mood.  The floor was suddenly
cold, and my back stiff, and I had to struggle to sit up.  I
blinked blearily into the half-light of morning, eyeing the pieces
of my bed frame leaned against the wall, the boxes stacked near my
new shelves.

I had hoped against all
hope I might awaken in Georgia, but I wasn’t nearly so
fortunate.  It was still Oregon.

Groaning, I clambered to my
feet, taking the parchment with me.  At some point, an errant
drop of bloody ink had smeared along the bottom of the page,
turning “Why can’t I cry?” into an illegible red blur.

I set the poem on my
bookshelves for now, promising myself I would soon create binding
for a new poetry book, and it would be the premiere poem to mark my
senior year in hell.  Of course, that would not start until
tomorrow, leaving me to fester in depression without even the
distraction school could provide me until then.

On the shelf beside the
poem rested the rose I had found yesterday.  They looked good
together.

Dragging my sore body into
the bathroom, where my shoebox still lay open on the counter, I
climbed gingerly in the shower and turned the water on.  It
was cold, but I didn’t wait for it to heat.  The ice water was
cathartic, shocking my body into consciousness and clearing my
mind.

I had done it once more—cut
my flesh with the quill I had promised would never again taste
blood.

Bracing my hands against
the stone wall of the tub, I hung my head between my shoulders and
watched the water cascade down my taut stomach and legs.  The
shower stung my cuts, and I hated how good it felt.

“
No more,” I said, echoing
my own mantra over the last three months.

Turning the shower off, I
toweled my body dry and dug through the boxes to try to find
clothes that didn’t smell like mold.  Failing that, I pulled
out the least moldy – a pair of skinny black jeans and a poet’s
blouse with long sleeves to hide my arms – and dressed slowly,
watching the ocean through my doors as I pulled each item
on.

Once I was dressed, I
opened the sliding door for the first time.  A salty breeze
slapped against my flesh, rushing through my hair, and I stepped
onto the balcony to take in my new prison.

The ocean stretched
infinitely forward, and a thick fog was rolling in off the
coast.  There was a dark shape out in the mist on the horizon
– probably a little island or something.

The steel gray water
roiled, crashing against the rocks below.  The waves were
capped white and shadowed with dark blue undertones.  The
stone of the balcony under my bare feet was cold, clammy.  I
braced my hands and leaned over the edge as far as I could, staring
down the cliff to the jagged teeth of the rocks at the
bottom.

The swelling of the ocean
filled my ears, roaring and rushing like a mighty wind.

It would be a short path to
eternal darkness.

“
What are you looking at,
Calliope?”

I dropped back onto the
balcony and turned to face my mom.  She was wringing her hands
again—her new favorite tic.  “I was just checking out my new
digs.  What are
you
doing coming into my room without
knocking?”

“
I did knock, but you
didn’t answer,” Mom said.  “I thought you might want breakfast
since you missed dinner last night.”

I heaved a sigh.  “I’m
not hungry.”

“
If you’re
sure…”

“
When can I install a lock
on my bedroom door?”

Mom bit her
lip.   “I don’t know about that.  You’ll have to ask
your father.”

“
I don’t want to ask that
jerk permission to do anything.”

“
Calliope
Crestone!”

I rolled my eyes. 
“Whatever.  Are the moving guys going to put my bedroom
together today?”

“
They can if you want,”
Mom said.

“
Great.  And it needs
to be cleaned, too.”

She planted her hands on
her hips.  “You know that’s your job, Cal.  The maid’s
never been allowed in your room to clean.”

“
Yeah, but I didn’t make
this mess,” I sniffed.  “It’s dusty and grimy.”

A sigh.  “Okay. 
Your room will be done first thing today.  I promise. 
But maybe you could go eat some breakfast?”

“
Fine.  I’ll
try.”

Mom smiled. 
“Great.”

I stomped downstairs to
search for the kitchen.  Like every other room in the manor,
it was way bigger than necessary and decorated with windows higher
than I was tall.  A heavy oak table was surrounded by a dozen
matching chairs, and my loser dad sat on the far end, scribbling
furiously in one of his many notebooks.

If I hadn’t promised Mom to
try to eat, I would have turned and left the room as soon as I saw
him.  I hated my mom sometimes, but my dad was even
worse.  His experiments with the university were
time-consuming, and he had always made it clear where Mom and I
fell on the priority list—which was clear at the bottom.

Grabbing a plateful of
bacon and waffles, I sat at the far opposite end of the table and
nibbled at my food.  It tasted like cardboard.

“
Hey,” I called to my
dad.  “I’m going to install a lock on my bedroom
door.”

“
Fine, fine,” he said
impatiently without looking up.

So breakfast wasn’t a total
waste.

I spent the morning hours
on my balcony, staring out at the ocean, trying to hate it as hard
as I could and failing.  There was something wonderfully grim
about it—a vast, bleak desert made of water instead of
dirt.

Using a normal notepad and
pencil, I began to write.

Alone out here, alone
inside

It’s all

the same

Day in, day out

With the cycling
moon

Endless tides of
sorrow

I bit the end of my pencil,
bending the metal under my teeth.  The tang of metal stirred
me from my ocean-induced hypnosis, and I dodged the movers to put
the notebook on my shelf.  It was too noisy to concentrate
anywhere near them, but at least my bed would be ready for the
night.

Deciding to explore the
house, I made my way through all the bedrooms on the second
floor.  Every door was large and menacing, but unlocked, and
the other side proved to be a disappointment each time.  For
all that the manor was ancient, it sure was boring.

Making my way downstairs, I
continued to try the doors, finding closets, bathrooms, a living
area.  There were at least four fireplaces.  Dozens of
windows.  An apple orchard out back, which I had absolutely no
urge to explore.  There was even a library, but a cursory
investigation yielded only boring science books.  There were
movers everywhere, building and rearranging, and my mom yelling
above it all to make sure everything was put together just as my
dad would like it.

“
I hate my life,” I
muttered, heading into the narrow servant’s hall running behind the
kitchen.

A door I suspected to be
the pantry caught my eye, and out of habit, I tried to open
it.

Locked.

I stepped back to
stare.  The only locked door in the house, and it was probably
hiding food.  Seriously?

I knelt to peer at the
lock.  It was comprised of heavy steel—the only
industrial-grade lock I had seen in the house.  Tracking its
edge with my eyes, I realized the frame was steel, too, and
recently painted to match the rest of the house.

A sudden voice barked at my
back.  “What are you doing?” My dad grabbed my arm.  “Get
away from there!”

“
Hey!  Don’t touch
me!”

He dragged me from the
hall, through the kitchen and dining room to the entryway.  He
moved so quickly that I stumbled to keep up.  “You idiot
girl!  What do you think you are doing?”

I jerked my arm out of his
grasp.  “I was exploring this prison you’re making me live
in!  You have a problem with that?”

My father shoved a finger
in my face.  “You do not belong at that door. 
Understand?  Stay away from it!”

“
Fine!” I spat.  “I
don’t want to be anywhere near your stupid door anyway!  Keep
your door, your house—your entire state for all I care!  I
hate it here!”

I stormed out of the house,
to the front yard, and kept walking.  Where I was going, I
didn’t know.  Georgia would be an awfully long walk, but in
that instant, I was angry enough that I was certain I could make
it.

But then I realized my
poetry was still in my room, at the mercy of my horrible parents,
and that I couldn’t abandon it.

“
I
hate
my life,” I
hissed under my breath.

Chapter Five

Of course, an even more
hellish fate awaited me.

High school.

Coos Bay High was the
intimate gossip mill I expected it to be.  It consisted of one
bland building that looked like a cabin someone had expanded, so
the two-hundred students were packed tight.  The halls were
smaller than my bedroom, so no one had to work to spread news;
everyone listened when someone had something important to
say.

But of course, I didn't
know that right away.  I had to be dropped off
first.

“
All your paperwork should
be done,” my mom said.  My dad, luckily, had opted to stay
with the lab at home.  I hoped I never saw him again. 
“They have your transcripts.  Do you want me to go in with you
anyway?”

“
No,” I hissed. 
“Isn't this bad enough?”

My mom smoothed my hair,
and I flinched away.  “You don't know the way yet.  You
can't drive.”

I knew she wouldn't let me
drive even if I'd been living here my entire life.  I'd aim
for a tree, and I probably wouldn't miss.

“
God, Mom!”

I stepped out of the car
and held my arm back to push the door with force.

“
Love you, sweetie!” she
called.

The crowd in the parking
lot burst into peals of laughter.  Tears stung my eyes, and I
kicked the door closed.  It left a satisfying dent in the
panel. 

My mom waved cheerfully,
honked twice, and drove off.

The day was cool, although
not cool enough to justify a hoodie.  Still, I wished I'd worn
one, so I could hide my face from the eyes of the crowd around
me.  I flipped my hair in front of my face and watched the
world through the strands.  It was the best concealment I
could provide on short notice.

Still, it took some effort
for me to walk forward through the parking lot.

Everyone watched me. 
It was probably my imagination, but every girl seemed disgusted –
probably because their hair was coiffed perfectly and generally
bleached – and most of the guys seemed ready to laugh.  I
thought I spied interest on some of the faces, but that was
definitely a delusion.

I waded through the sea of
pale faces until I hit a solid form.

“
Hey!” a deep voice cried
out.  Then, as a skinny face took a closer look, his voice
took on a softer tone.  “Hey...you're new, aren't
you?”

“
Obviously,” I
said.

He held out a hand. 
“Rich.  Rich Coos.  Sound familiar?”

“
No.  Should
it?”  I didn't take his hand.

Rich laughed.  “You're
only in the town named for my family, silly.  Do you need me
to show you to class?”

“
I need to go to the
office,” I said, then ran toward the north end of the
building.

“
It's on the other side!”
Rich called after me.

I choked back a sob and
turned around.  Even though the sun had come out for a little
while, water started falling in soft droplets.

The woman in the office
took one look at me and smiled condescendingly.  “You must be
Calliope,” she oozed.  “I have your papers.”

She held them out, and I
took them.  I wished violently for a paper cut and was
disappointed when the paper didn't rake across my skin of its own
accord.

“
Do I need to do
anything?” I muttered.  I hoped she wouldn't hear me, and I'd
get to leave.

Unfortunately, she seemed
to speak teenager.  “No.  Your teachers will take
attendance.”