With a heavy sigh, I slam the album closed and toss my half-eaten sandwich on the plate, my appetite suddenly gone. Scooping up the album and my dish, I head upstairs to put the dirty dish in the kitchen sink, and then wander into my bedroom, tossing the album onto my bed.
I stare at the mess I made of my room and decide to leave it for now as I flop down on the bed on my back, staring up at the ceiling. An idea pops into my head and I quickly roll onto my stomach and lean over the edge of my bed, reaching underneath for the journal I quickly tossed there when my father came in. I’m tired of feeling that, at any moment, the things I’ve remembered are going to slip right from my grasp. Even if the journal is missing a bunch of pages that could possibly give me answers, there are still a few blank ones left where I could write things down that I’ve already figured out. Like how I hate pink, hate having my hair braided, hate all my clothes, and I don’t know how to swim. How quickly I get angry when something makes me mad, even though I’m supposedly sweet and good, and how I have memories of feeling so much pain that it takes my breath away. So many things that don’t add up, but maybe if I write them down and look at them long enough it will all come together.
Feeling around blindly with my hands, I come up empty. Scooting my body more over the edge, I lift up the bedskirt and stare underneath my bed at nothing but an empty floor. Someone took my journal. I was only out of my room long enough to search the kitchen and eat a quick dinner. As far as I know, the only two people here right now are my parents, since the handful of tour guides, the receptionist, and the grounds crew have all gone home for the evening. My parents are the only ones who could have taken it, but why? It’s not like there was anything useful in it, since half of the pages were missing. I didn’t even remember that I’d kept a journal, so how would they know of its existence and where it was located?
When I hear the click of heels moving across the living room floor in the direction of my room, I groan and quickly push myself up on the bed, curling my legs under me and wait for my mother to barge in. I’m sure my father has told her all about how I behaved earlier, and she’s most likely going to give me hell for the way I acted with him. As the minutes ticked by after my father left my room, I replayed what happened over and over in my head while I searched for the journal pages. Even I realized my behavior was strange, no matter how good it felt, no matter how right it felt. I probably should have gone to him and apologized. I’m sure the “old me” would have done it, but I couldn’t apologize for something I wasn’t sorry about. I’m so tired of faking everything and trying to be the girl I just don’t know how to be. Nothing feels right about any of it. I’m supposed to be good and polite and not ask questions when everything in my head is telling me to be bad and loud and question everything.
My door swings open and I lift my chin, filling myself with confidence for the scolding I’m sure to get. She can go right ahead and yell at me, and when she’s through, I’ll ask her what the hell she did with my journal.
My mother takes one look around my room at the mess I’ve made, tossing clothing out of every drawer of my dresser and chucking shoes and other miscellaneous items out of my closet, and huffs in annoyance.
“What on earth happened to your room, Ravenna?” she asks, as she bends down and picks up a pile of socks and underwear right next to the door, walking over to one of my open dresser drawers and depositing everything inside.
I watch in silence as she continues picking things up and putting them away.
“Honestly, Ravenna, I know things are difficult right now, but that doesn’t mean you can just behave any way you like,” she complains as she hangs up a pale purple dress in my closet.
When she has most of the items picked up from my floor, she comes over to my bed and sits down on the edge of it, folding her hands in her lap as she stares into my eyes. It makes me just as uncomfortable as it always does, but I refuse to look away. I refuse to cower when she tells me the way I spoke to my father was inexcusable. What’s inexcusable is my being made to feel guilty because I want to know what happened to me, and my mother taking something out of my room that belongs to me.
“We need to talk about something very serious.”
Here it comes…
My mother takes a deep breath before reaching over and grabbing my hands, giving them a squeeze.
“Why in the world is your beautiful pink bedding out on the lawn below your window?”
She looks at me so solemnly that I can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of me. Her eyes narrow in annoyance, and it just makes me laugh harder.
“This is not funny, Ravenna,” she scolds. “Do you have any idea how expensive that bedding was? And you just toss it out onto the grass as if it’s nothing.”
Leave it to my mother to think this is an issue of importance right now.
“I hate those blankets. The color is disgusting, and I don’t want them on my bed,” I tell her.