Young Heroes

Chapter 1

Prologue

If you drove by any American high school where boys dressed in football uniforms were on their mark as a whistle blew across its grassland, and the air smelled darn right wholesome, you'd likely smile. Suppose the lawn on either side of the dark red brick two-story school was covered in dew from last night's rain, and cheerleaders with pony tails practiced gleeful cheers? This site might lull you into believing normalcy resides here in spades. That everything was as it should be. It might persuade you to think that the crazy violent world displayed in the media every day exists everywhere but here. But it's doubtful you would fall for that unless you were naive. For every city shoulders gloom, and people's private lives contain secrets that disguise truths.

Portland, Oregon, is one such city, and within the confines of this metropolis live Millar Carmichael, Robin Lamb, Jermo Salvador, and Felix Matteson-Truax, four fourteen-year-olds. A tricky age, for sure. Being neither adolescent nor bona fide teenager can’t compare to their boisterous and bold 16- and 17-year-old counterparts. Yet their hunger for independence, the right to be taken seriously and adequately recognized, is beyond question. Now, you might ask whether this is a coming-of-age story, young love gone amuck, or everyday teenage angst. Emphatically, no. Well, okay, but it's much more. This story concerns four young people facing significant circumstances and events that will recompose their lives forever. Here are their stories.

Chapter One

The ballerina’s olive-green leotard gathered in uniform pleats along the curve of her willowy frame. Elongating into a vertical split, her glossy hair, tied back into a ponytail, swept over the floor. Seamlessly rising she pivoted through a series of pirouettes. With her head held high she danced with refinement. Anyone could see this impeccable young dancer was glorious.

On the sideline, a group of junior dancers stood spellbound, eyes filled with admiration. Further back, from where they stood, a few others whispered out the side of their mouths in poorly disguised jealousy. Robin, the dancer's best friend, held her breath so as not to miss a second of her finishing stance. Millar Carmichael, the dancer, noticed none of it. She was concentrating on pushing each extension, each muscle, each arch a little further than Nureyev might have demanded. One, two, three forceful steps drove her into a leap above the specially designed wood floor. Now suspended in mid-air, the afternoon sunlight streamed through the upper transom, silhouetting her refined form until she touched down on one toe with the quietest reverberation. The dancers and the premier maître de ballet, Ernestine Baptiste, cheered as Millar held her grand pas de deux.

Diva Ernestine, an aging prima ballerina, sailed onto the floor. Her sublime feline eyes and elevated cheekbones could put any Paris model to shame. Her lips, oversized and voluptuous, made it impossible not to gawk, and left others wondering what it would be like to kiss such a marvelously pillowed mouth. “Mon cheri, c'est magnifique,” said Diva Ernestine, lowering her outstretched hand, middle finger down, pinky up. "Except for your releve’ and demi-pointe, you are prepared for la concurrence."

Millar released her breath and curtsied. "Merci beaucoup, Madam." Pointing her right foot forward she pulled out a hall pass from her waistband. "I told you I have an appointment with my counselor today, remember?”

Flashing at the slip of paper held in Millar’s hand, Diva Ernestine nodded "Oui, au revoir.”

Millar curtsied again while Ernestine called the next fledgling to center stage.

At the sideline, Robin, who promised to give her a dose of reality whenever she danced, waited with a broad smile. Like a pair of metallic Akhal-Teke horses they hooked pinkies, and pranced on toe to the wall of open cubbies. Millar reached in for a hand towel, dabbed her face, and wrapped it around her flamingo-like neck. Robin waited to let Millar catch her breath before beginning her critique, an agreement they made at their very first ballet class so many years ago.

Millar leaned against the shelves and turned out one hand. “Okay, let’s have it.”

"Your jete was perfection," said Robin, holding her nose to a lofty height.

“But?” asked Millar, tilting her head to one side.

Robin grimaced and crossed her eyes. "The last pirouette."

Turning in disgust, Millar interjected. "I know, I know, and Diva Ernestine slammed my releve’ and demi-pointe.”

Robin dropped her gaze. "Ditto."

"I had it in practice," said Millar, scrunching her mouth to one side.

At age three, Millar would drag the coffee table to one corner of the living room, press play on the compact disc machine holding Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite, OP 71a, and twirl and leap about the modest space. She became obsessed with ballet at age four after viewing a video of Sylvie Guillen and Rudolph Nureyev dancing. Her legs had grown sturdy enough by age six to enroll in ballet classes two days a week. At eight, she began studying modern and jazz dance every Saturday morning. She trained at the classical school of dance in Southwest Portland to supplement her ballet pedagogy during school breaks and summer vacation.

As her obsession with dance grew, an exquisite inflorescence deep within her bloomed. She didn’t understand its existence, but listened with a receptive heart. You are a dancer. She believed it, and vowed to hold it forever in her heart of hearts. When she told her mother, Susan, at the age of eight she intended on becoming a ballet dancer, she received a head pat.

"Big goal," said Susan with a weary expression before turning back to stir a pot of split pea soup with a big old ham bone, a family favorite handed down from Great Granny Carmichael.

Millar stiffened and placed her hands akimbo. "You believe me, right?"

Susan set the spoon down, turned, and softly clasped her palms together. “Of course,” she sighed, dropping the other arm to her side. "Just remember, it's not the only thing you can do with your life." Grabbing a tea towel, Susan wiped her hands to give herself a moment to choose nicer words. "What you want is really hard. Hell, I should know. When I got into a ballet school, I thought I had made it. Then I broke my foot, twice. By the time I healed the year was over. Susan sniffled and grabbed for a tissue. “Well, you know the story. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” She stared blankly at the ground with one foot pointed out. "Enjoy the ride, be grateful and do your best. That's my best advice."

On the other hand, her father said, "Well, certainly you could be a dance teacher and still raise a family." Being patronized was not yet in her vocabulary of life experience. But it didn't have to be. She felt his betrayal instantly. Its impact sparked fury, and flicked feelings of being an actor, a boaster, or worse, that she thought she had left no crumbs. She sensed that keeping her intentions on the down low was paramount until it could be undeniably proven. If she did fail, it wouldn't be because the flower within her was a lie. She knew that if she didn't believe and try her very best, she would never know the truth. She became determined not to let her passion for dancing succumb to skeptics. In fact, the more she was doubted, the harder she worked. But what she didn't realize were the consequences that sometimes come with that level of conviction.

Everyone she talked to, everything she read said, "You must be a professional by the time you're seventeen." If not, chances were remote of ever getting signed by a ballet company or prestigious school. So attending a school such as the Pacific Northwest Ballet Academy in Seattle, Juilliard at Lincoln Center, or the New York School of Ballet was absolutely essential to her odds. You are a dancer, her voice kept shouting, so clear and so every damn minute. That voice was why she vowed to get signed before graduating high school.

When she imagined dancing on stage under the lights her chest heaved. She would rise to her feet, move through the starting positions, pirouette around the room until leaping high above the floor. The big voice in her body shouted, I, Millar Carmichael, am a ballerina.

When sweat ran down her back, and her muscles were fatigued, she'd stop, drop, and pray. "God, if you exist, grant my wish. Please, I'll do anything!" Yet, truth be told, with God's help or not, deep down where the flower resided was a riveted confidence, a dead-set certainty that could only be stopped by the angel of death.

Robin, who also loved ballet, and resembled a newborn colt with impossibly long legs and a top knot of coiled hair, wanted to compete at Millar's level but knew she was no match. Robin's enthusiasm for ballet had recently lessened as it had for most things in her life since her father, Capt. Robert A. Lamb, a Marine, had extended his tour in Korea for the third time since 2020. His absence depleted her natural exuberance. With over twenty years of service, she knew from the many discussions at the dinner table, he could retire and start a new career on the mainland. Robin, on the other hand, didn't want anyone to think less of her father, and therefore kept these feelings to herself, even from her bestie.

****

One night, after dinner and homework, Robin dawdled over to her mother's bedroom. "Have you heard from Dad?” Bonita, a lean elegant woman with fine hands and feet dropped the book she was reading onto her lap and foraged for a plausible excuse. "I saw that he called today, but I was on a business call and couldn't pick up."

Robin rolled her eyes and clenched one fist. ”Jeez, Mom, you're always on the phone. Did you call him back?"

Bonita pushed the book off to one side and sat a little taller. "I did, but he had already gone for the day."

"I thought we agreed to a weekly call," said Robin. "I guess he's too busy for his own daughter."

Bonita reached out for her. "Come here. Now, you know that isn't true." Sighing, Robin curled up against her mother and nestled her head against Bonita’s shoulder like she used to when she was younger. Pushing a cluster of loose hair from Robin’s forehead Bonita said, ”I'll get him on the phone this weekend, and you two can talk for as long as you want."

Robin huffed. "You promise?"

"One hundred percent," said Bonita, with one hand pressed to her heart. "Now, my little hero, it's time for you to get some well-earned sleep."

Robin smirked. "Why do you keep saying that? I haven't saved anyone."

Bonita paused and thought a moment. "Your strength is heroic."

Shaking her head Robin pulled away, severing that tender moment before Bonita could say more. "I still don't get why he’s gone so much.”

Robin stood, turned and shuffled down the hallway to her bedroom as Bonita wearily reached up, turned the ribbed knob on her bedside lamp, shaped like the Eiffel Tower, rested her head on the pillow, and stared into the rooms darkness. Her husband's vacancy rattled around inside her like a ball in a box, but her daughter's anguish pained her most. Of course, she had her suspicions, but she tried with all her might not to entertain them. Robin's welfare was the bigger issue.

****

"Still, you were so good! How did it feel?" asked Robin.

Millar, sitting on the floor untying her satin laces, looked up. “It was like I was somewhere else. In a spell or something."

"That's what Diva Ernestine always says happens for her," said Robin, unconsciously practicing her arm extensions: the Quatriene Devant (second position), both arms out and parallel to the floor, to the Efface Devant (third position), one arm straight up while the other remained as it was. Then, on the A La Seconde (fourth position), switching arms, and concluding with the Croise Derriere (fifth position), arms overhead, arched like a swan, hands relaxed. "You're awesome, you really are."

Millar pulled on her fuchsia-colored snuggle pants and gazed at Robin. “So are you!"

Robin shrugged. "Not like you," raising up on one toe and extending the other high enough to touch the wall sconce behind her.

Millar grabbed her bag. "I gotta go. Are we studying tonight?"

"You're not staying for my routine?" pouted Robin.

"Sorry, I can't," said Millar. “I have a meeting with Janik.” Sweat now beaded on her upper lip.

Robin's eyes clouded. "Probably better," she said insincerely. "See you after dinner at my house?".

Millar touched her shoulder. "Don't hate me."

Robin spun off, looking a bit like Tinker Bell in flight. "Impossible." Robin thought she was a master at hiding her feelings, but Millar was wise to her tactics and called back, “We’ll talk later,” then pushed the door out into a hallway of wandering teenagers.

Jayden and Blair, from history class, crossed in front of her, fluttering their fingers under their chins. The three had often met at the community pool in the summer but didn't hang out much during the school year.

The ceiling of the '80s school hallway, painted by the class of '82, showed dated scenes of typical high school activities: study hall, prom night, soccer games, and lunch in the cafeteria, all done in popular colors of the day: black, white, silver and pink. Other senior classes had complained about the outdated images, but so far nothing had been done to change them. When Millar reached her locker, her hair swung gracefully over to one shoulder and settled like a silk scarf.

Jermo Salvador, the soccer captain already possessing a man's physique, skated into the hallway with his best hip-hop moves. "Hey, Milly." At school, he was the soccer hero. At home, he was the little brother who slept in the basement on a mattress.

Millar smiled and mimicked his routine. "Nice moves, Jermo."

Jermo shined his best heart throb smile before launching into his practiced battle moves, "Ha, don't I know it."

"I know you do," said Millar, scooping, swaying, and jerking in kind.

Jermo was impossibly charismatic, and all the girls wanted to hook up with him. Millar could almost see herself with him if not for his reputation as a fast-mover. She didn't want that kind of reputation; besides, she didn’t have time to be distracted by boys.

Meanwhile, an elfin-looking boy named Felix Matteson-Truax cringed as Jermo passed. He raised a hand to say hi, but his gesture went unnoticed. Making friends when you’re the new kid in school with one of the most popular people is as excruciating as being escorted to your first dance by a parent. You’re not sure if you’ll die from humiliation or from self-hatred. Either way, you know you’ll never measure up to them no matter what you do. You’ll be just another Midwest kid trying to fit in with the cool West Coast kids who have it all together. Felix had been scheming for a way to ask Millar out ever since she had been assigned to be his school buddy at the beginning of the year. Wanting to appear calm, he tucked his hands in his front pockets and angled his shoulders. A classic stance.

Millar closed her locker door finding him leaning against the adjacent cabinet. "Hey, school-buddy," his eyes holding a look of practiced indifference.

Millar flinched, startled by his sudden appearance. "Hey, Felix! How yah doin’?”

Felix shrugged. "Not bad."

Millar noticed Felix seemed different. "Making any friends?"

Felix scratched his chin. "Yeah, a few."

"That's a start, right?" said Millar, noticing his shirt was unbuttoned at the top.

“One hundred percent," parroted Felix, his heart beating faster.

One might not say Millar was 'beautiful' like the women you see in magazines, but her to-die-for nose, luminous skin, and hazel eyes, made her a bit of a hottie. Everything she didn't possess could be brought out with lipstick and a steady eyebrow pencil.

Millar turned. "Sorry, I can't talk now."

Urgency flushed his cheeks. "Can I walk you home after you're done?" Felix forced a smile that made him look like he had just swallowed sour patch candy.

Millar hesitated. "It might be a while."

"I can wait," said Felix.

Millar smiled. "Suit yourself," and off she winged toward the school office.

Felix lowered his gaze, scanned the hallway from side to side, and with an exuberant vocal fry, whispered, "Yes."

Millar announced her presence with two firm raps on the glass-pained door etched with the name Amy Janik. The door creaked open. Janik was on the phone and signaled for Millar to come in. Millar eased in and sat down on a dark green vinyl chair. The walls, covered with photographs of smiling students always captivated her. She paused at one of her favorite photographs: dancers with big smiles posed on the front steps of Juilliard.

"And you'll send me the link?" asked Janik, her eyes set on Millar. "Great, thanks again."

Janik pressed off her phone. Her desktop was a mess of papers, the trash bin stuffed with discarded coffee cups, several unfinished, one dripping into the metal can,”hey, hey, how’s my star today?"

Millar arched her back. "Great, thanks."

"Got the applications?" asked Janik, who was dressed head to toe in teal-colored running gear which screamed Nike.

Millar pulled the envelope from under her arm and held it out, "They're all here."

"And the checks?" asked Janik, an avid tanning bed user who was never far from her tinted lip balm.

Millar pulled open the envelope flap. Tugged out the documents a few inches to show that the checks were paper clipped to each application.

"Great!" said Janik, "and copies of your dance video?"

Millar tipped her head. "Do you really think I'd forget that?" Millar patted the bottom of the packet, revealing the outline of three tiny flash drives.

"I love organized people," said Janik. "Okay, leave it with me. I'll write the letters and send them off today." Janik lifted out the contents of the envelope. "What's your first choice?"

"Juilliard," said Millar without delay.

"Of course," said Janik, beaming temperance.

Millar fidgeted. "But any of them would be great.”

Janik rested back in her chair and surveyed Millar. "You'll get your spot. I can feel it."

Millar inhaled deeply, knowing not to get her hopes up. "Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle," said Millar, leaving with her lips tightly drawn over her teeth. She didn't get to go last year. Money was short. Frankly, she didn’t think she could even match up to some of the more senior girls she’d seen in the competition. Since then, Millar wrote daily affirmations in her diary, believing intention was the magic needed to secure her spot in the summer ballet programs.

Drumming with pencils on his knees, Felix waited on the front steps. When Millar blew past he lurched up. "That didn't take long.”

"Surprisingly not," said Millar, swinging her luscious hair to the back.

"It must have gone well," smiled Felix.

"Yep, thanks," said Millar with a quick side smile.

Felix pointed. "You live this way, right?"

"Yep, Clinton and 39th, or Cesar Chavez as it's now called," said Millar. "How about you?"

"I live in Laurelhurst," said Felix.

"Oh, that's right, I remember now. So you don't mind walking out of your way?" stammered Millar.

"Nah," said Felix, tingles zinged through his stomach.

"Okay, good," said Millar. "I am applying for several summer dance programs and feel pretty hopeful."

"Awesome. I've heard you're good." Felix smiled tersely, knowing she'd be gone for a good part of the summer if she got in.

Millar lowered her chin. "My mom was a dancer before she had me."

"Now she’s living through you?" asked Felix, thinking he was drawing an obvious and intelligent conclusion.

With raised eyebrows, Millar replied. "Yeah, so, it’s also my dream.”

Felix grimaced. "Sorry."

Millar glanced away as they walked further up the sidewalk. Felix, who was barely taller than Millar, wore size thirteen shoes and did what teenage boys are often prone to do. He tripped on a buckled sidewalk and rolled onto the adjacent lawn tossing his backpack into the air. With a thud, it landed close enough to his head to brush his cheek.

Millar's eyes widened, and she giggled. "You all right?"

Felix sprung to his feet as if practicing a karate move. "I meant to do that.” He brushed off his jeans, and straightened his shirts 12.

Millar burst into laughter. Felix joined in, although somewhat more restrained. When the laughter fizzled, Felix grabbed his bag and swung it onto his right shoulder. "Shall we continue?"

Millar gazed at him and said, "Oh, we shall," in an affected way.

Halfway up the street, Millar turned to Felix. "Don't worry about what you said earlier about my mom living through me." Shifting her pack onto the other shoulder. "She is, but I don't mind."

"You're a good person, I can tell," said Felix, still feeling stupid over his flub.

"Not if you ask my twin siblings, Hedy and Teddy," said Millar.

Felix and Millar stared at each other momentarily.

"Hedy and Teddy, nice metrical composition," laughed Felix.

"Metrical what?" said Millar, looking confused.

"Sorry, meant to say rhyme," said Felix, who loved exacting and formal words.

Millar politely wagged her head in confusion. "If you asked them, they'd tell you I am a mean, rotten sister."

"I doubt that.” Then out of nowhere, he said, "Man, you have the best hair."

Holding each other's gaze, an undeniable bolt of chemistry zinged between them.

"And look at you with your cool pomp," said Millar with a shoulder shimmy.

In response, Felix modeled an iconic blue-steel expression.

Millar hadn't taken notice of Felix before, but suddenly found herself adding up his pluses. When she showed him around campus during his first few days of school, she wouldn't have ever imagined having any feelings for him. She considered him nice, a bit nerdy and brainy, but certainly not boyfriend material. He, on the other hand, had pined for her from day one.

"What's your favorite subject in school? After dancing, of course,” said Felix.

"Lunch," said Millar.

“Ha-ha, old joke," said Felix.

Millar winched. "How about you?" She asked, embarrassed that she’d parroted something her father might say.

"English," he said, ducking in time under a low-hanging branch jammed with pink cherry blossoms. "I'd like to be a journalist someday like Marco Wermen."

Millar spun around."Marco, who?"

"Marco Wermen, he's on NPR. He's awesome. He speaks several languages and can pronounce any word like a native.”

Turning off of 39th Street, Felix caught a glimpse of a guy approaching from behind. He dismissed it at first, but found himself looking back to check his proximity.

Millar stepped from the curb. "I only listen to music on the radio."

"You might feel different if you heard Marco Wermen," chimed Felix. Felix looked back again. The guy had gained on them. Felix nudged her shoulder. "Do you know the guy behind us?"

Millar glanced back and sighed. "That's my brother Casey.” Lately, she had noticed him following her.

Felix paused. "Should we wait for him?"

Millar shook her head and shuddered. “N … nah.”

"How much older is he than you?"

"Five years."

Felix nodded. "Then he's graduated from high school?"

Millar shrugged. “I think so, he’s taking coding classes at PCC," pausing momentarily to stretch her left quad. "My house is just there, third one up. Want to meet him?"

A weird rawness rolled over Felix, and his instincts told him there was something off about him. Casey reminded him of a dude, while he was walking in one of those enormous enclosed malls in Minneapolis with his father's. The dude approached from behind, leaned in within inches and mocked, “Disgusting Fagots.” Gerard became enraged and was ready to fight him. John pulled him back. Felix, coward in shame and took off to a nearby shoe shop. He hated it when people called out his dad's.

Millar turned abruptly. “What did you say?”

"Nothing, I just said not today," stammered Felix. It had taken him weeks to gather the nerve to talk to Millar. Now, his plot to win her over was about to be squelched by a lurking brother hovering over them like some giant wasp. He struggled for the courage to keep Millar’s attention, and break through her brother’s looming presence.

Millar seemed to notice his unease and twitched. “Well, here I am. Thanks for walking me home."

Felix smiled and forced a relaxed stance. "How about tomorrow?"

Cocking her head to one side, she studied him. "Okay, but Friday, I've got a slumber party."

Felix smiled. "Great, see you tomorrow."

"Later," smiled Millar with a coy glance.

When Casey and Felix passed each other, they shared a split-second smirk.

"Hey," said Felix.

Casey, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth nodded like some kind of a gangster. Felix felt a weird vibe and thought he was probably protective of his little sister. Bet a lot of boys want to get to know her.

When Casey caught up to Millar, she was still standing on the front door steps watching Felix diminish down the street. Casey dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and didn’t bother to snuff it out. "A bit nerdy for you, isn't he?"

Millar and Felix exchanged a wave just before he turned the corner and went out of sight. She pivoted back to Casey. "I'll bet Mom and Dad really appreciate you leaving smoldering butts all over the place."

"Is he your new boyfriend?" said Casey, with a rag of orange-brown hair hanging in his eyes and a few patches of beard growing at either side of his face too precious to shave. Casey was tall but would probably always be raw-boned.

"Are you stalking me?" asked Millar.

Casey squinted and released a menacing smile. "I'm gonna tell Mom."

Millar fidgeted with her sleeve and screwed her mouth tight.

Casey snickered and plowed past her, shrieking, "Milly's got a boyfriend!”

Millar grumbled. "You used to be cool," and stomped into the two-story 1940s saltbox house. When she was little, he’d come into the backyard and push her on the swing really high. They’d laugh each time she could touch the top bar. Once she was so high she fell off the swings in mid-air. He caught her just before she hit ground. That was a memory she liked. Somehow, things had changed.

The kitchen, at the back of the house, was empty when Millar entered, opened the fridge door, grabbed the quart of OJ, and gave it a good shake. Her mother, Susan swept in through the back door and sniffled. "Use a glass."

Millar rested against the kitchen counter and sighed. Susan stepped over, opened the cabinet door beside her, grabbed a glass, and handed it to her.

Millar smirked. ”Why is it okay for Casey to drink from the carton?”

“Ha, it's not.”

Millar poured herself a glass in one gush. “Sure, Mom.” Rolling her eyes like a typical fourteen-year-old.

Susan was a willowy woman of forty-six with bleach-blond streaks over her natural strawberry-colored hair. Her long and slender face was fettered by a bony, slightly turned-up nose, great from either side, not so good straight on.

Millar downed the contents of her glass before handing it back to her mother.

Susan pointed to the sink. "How was your day?" tucking a loose clump of hair behind one ear.

"Good. I danced well today, and I dropped off the apps to Janik."

Susan and Millar bumped fists. Millar wiped her mouth on her shirt sleeve. "I can't wait to hear back from the schools. I’m so excited. Oh, and I'm going to Robin's after dinner to study. Where are the twins?"

"In the back," said Susan, feeling a bit disregarded.

Millar saw them through the window, swinging in tandem, giggling and talking like she and Casey used to do.

"And Dad, when will he be home?"

Susan grimaced. "Said he'd be here for dinner, but you know your dad." She had become fed up with the long hours spent at work. Truth be told she was lonely. Wistfully she looked toward the front door. "This is his busy time."

Millar was familiar with her mother’s poker-faced expressions."It's okay, Mom. Let me shower, and I'll come down and help you with dinner."

"That’s sweet," said Susan, releasing a bundle of pent-up emotions in one breath.

Millar bounded up the stairs to her bedroom. Stepping on the unavoidable squeaky spot on the floor in front of her door, she cranked the knob, bumped the door open with her hip then closed it and immediately began pulling off her clothes. Leaving them on the floor in a heap, Millar donned her bathrobe then swung open the door to find Casey peeking through the keyhole. Every muscle in her body froze.

“Are you spying on me?"

Casey stepped back, and shushed her. "Don't be such a drama queen." His shaggy bangs hung over one eye. Below it, a blue vein ran through a cluster of freckles and over his nose. "Just checking to see if you were in your room before I knocked."

Millar studied his face, sullen and twisted. "Like I believe that."

She bolted past him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Glancing back at the light coming through the key hole, she grabbed a tube of toothpaste, unscrewed the cap, and squirted a gob of paste into it. “Creep.”

Chapter Two

Millar chewed fast, washing each bite down with a slug of milk.

Casey spied her from his periphery, and directed a question to his mother. "Where's Dad?”

Meanwhile Hedy and Teddy sawed their pork chop.

Susan raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Working, what else."

"He works hard," said Casey, his face close to the plate like a dog.

Susan released her breath, yet held her tongue.

Casey, reached across himself and scratched his armpit. "Give him a break. Someone's got to bring in the money."

With a hostile glance, Susan put down her fork. “Casey, we’ve talked about this.”

"Save your breath," said Casey. "Hey, did you hear Milly's got a boyfriend?"

Millar covered her full mouth with her hand and garbled. "Shut up."

Susan sighed. "Be nice."

Casey grinned and tipped back on his chair with a smug expression, his feet wrapped around the chair legs.

Hedy, soon to turn seven, huffed as she attempted to cut off a piece of pork chop.

"Let me help," offered Millar.

"Me too," chimed Teddy.

"Is it tough?" asked Susan.

"Yeah," said Casey, feigning a hard swallow.

Hedy and Teddy were fraternal twins, and favored their father, fair-skinned with light brown hair and small ears. The ears used to be what Susan loved most about her husband’s looks.

With a tender expression Millar leaned over, and cut their pork chops into small chunks. "How’s that?"

Hedy and Teddy stabbed gleefully at a piece and put it in their mouths. Millar stuffed her last two bites in her mouth, stood, and raised her back leg into an elongated Arabesque. Turned, placed her plate in the sink and utensils in the bowl of soapy water. Casey appeared indifferent. Concluding in second position, both feet on the floor, her toes in opposite directions, Millar curtsied.

“Lovely, mademoiselle," said Susan.

Millar grabbed her book bag she’d left by the heat register and headed toward the front door. "Thanks, Mom."

Casey threw back his head and shot her a smart-ass look. "Going to see your boyfriend?"

Millar glanced at the ceiling, sighed, and left, totally annoyed.

"Please, you two," said Susan, signaling goodbye with her fork.

Snatching his pork chop by the bone, Casey tore off the hanging piece with his teeth and dashed upstairs gnawing at the rest.

Hedy and Teddy exchanged glances and kept silent.

Exasperated, Susan threw down her napkin and grumbled. “That boy is dead-set on testing my every limit.”

In his bedroom, Casey pushed the baseball-themed curtain aside, and watched Millar glide toward Robin's house while licking the pork bone. Susan had promised to update his curtains but never found the time. Frankly, Casey couldn't care less about them.

Clenching his other fist against his groin, a tiny whimper slipped out. Brought on by a badgering of voices no one could hear but himself, he circled the room trying to quell his mounting urge. His feelings for his sister were escalating, a decrepit longing poisoning him like water from a lead pipe.

Unlike Hedy, he had always desired Millar. She was so uninhibited with her body. She played naked in the kiddie pool for long stretches as a child. She'd spin around the house in her underwear when she started dance lessons at three. She showed such freedom and happiness in every plier. Her parents fawned over her. He yearned for that kind of approval and, at the same time, hated her for it. Those memories spiked an awful itch which soon enslaved him to surrender to the closet.

Millar and Robin sat cross-legged on the floor of Robin's bedroom. Their school notebooks were spread over an oval hand-braided Chindi rug of whites, pinks, and yellows. Robin's favorite color was green. All manner of green furniture and green knickknacks accented her bedroom. An apple green rattan chair sat before a white lace vanity table with a matching green rattan mirror. A brown-skinned porcelain ballerina with a green tutu sat on the left side of the vanity. Strands of green hair ribbons lay over a hat stand. Her bed was covered in lace and, you guessed it, two green bolster pillows. Robin searched the floor for her American History book when she heard a knock at the door. Bonita stepped in carrying a tray with two steaming mugs.

"A little hot cider to keep you going?”

Robin turned. "Did you hear from Dad?" she asked, finding her book and pulling it onto her lap.

"Not yet. You know there's seventeen hours difference," Bonita replied.

"I know, but doesn't that make it a little after lunchtime his time?” asked Robin.

"As soon as he emails me back, I'll let you know," said Bonita.

"I want to talk to him," said Robin, pouting, "you know."

Bonita nodded with a resigned smile.

Millar watched the exchange of glances between Robin and her mother and decided to stay out of it. "Thanks for the cider, Mrs. Lamb.”

Bonita Lamb stood quietly in her skinny jeans and cashmere sweater. "So, how's it going?"

“We’ve finished reading about Jefferson. Now we’re onto Hamilton," said Millar, “we should be finished pretty soon.”

"Only if we hurry," said Robin, smirking yet avoiding her mother's gaze.

"Okay, I get the hint." Bonita stepped out and closed the door quietly.

"Thanks again, Mrs. Lamb," called Millar through the door.

Bonita worked in public relations for a firm in downtown Portland. Her husband was set to return this summer. She had gotten used to it being just the two of them, but Robin had grown weary of his absence. He had offered to fly her over for spring and summer vacations, but Robin feared flying alone. Bonita suggested it could be a good experience to be in a new country for a time. However, Robin's fallback was always the same. "Why can't he fly home?" While the attempts to create a sense of normalcy around his vacancy was failing, Robin’s loneliness grew.

Millar tapped Robin's hand with her pencil. "Felix walked me home today."

"Felix," screeched Robin. "That nerdy guy with the pointed ears?"

Millar twisted a lock of hair. "I see him as quiet and thoughtful."

"You know what they say about those types?" said Robin with a raised eyebrow and breaking into a half smile.

“No, what do they say?” asked Millar.

Robin rolled her eyes. “Never mind, I thought you were into Jermo."

"Jermo! No! Jermo's into Jermo."

"Ha, I totally get that," said Robin returning to her book.

"Besides, a bunch of other girls are already into him," said Millar.

When Millar began packing up her books to leave, Robin leaned in. "Have you heard the one about two older girls smoking? "One says, ‘I took a pregnancy test today.’ The other says, ‘Were the questions hard?’ Robin burst into laughter.

With a deadpan expression, Millar said, "Where do you get these jokes?" Grabbed her book bag and promptly zipped it up.

"You didn't think that was funny?" asked Robin.

"Yeah, a little bit," said Millar with a half-smile.

“Okay, how about this one? What's the difference between ignorance and apathy?”

Millar thought a moment. “Wait, I know this one. Is it don't know, don't care?”

“You got it.”

“That is pretty funny,” said Millar, walking out of the room and scooting down the stairs. "Good night, Mrs. Lamb."

Bonita glanced up from the press release she was editing. "Goodnight, Milly."

Millar waved as she bounded through the door and jumped down the steps. Raindrops, cold and penetrating, hit her scalp straight away. The streets were quiet and smelled of pine and concrete. Black shadows from towering fir trees and overgrown rhododendrons loomed on both sides of the street. An orange tabby darted in front of her feet startling her. Thinking she heard footsteps, she stopped and scanned the street behind her. Reaching the end of the block, the shadows were still too dark to discern anything definite. The rain continued to plunk on her head. "Is someone there?" called Millar. An eerie sensation tightened in her throat. Skittering up the front steps, she glanced back once more before bolting into the house.

Inside the house, every light on the first floor was off except for a soft blue glow coming from the television room. With her body suddenly heavy with fatigue, Millar dropped her backpack beside the door and headed toward the light. She heard a knife scrape across a plate as she entered the room. "Oh, hi, Dad."

Titus turned. "Hi, Milly," he mumbled, continuing to chew. "I didn't hear you come in. How's my girl?" Titus's brown hair was tousled and thinning at the crown. His white oxford shirt pulled from his belt hid a growing belly. He had thrown his flimsy cotton grocery store vest with manager embroidered on the pocket over the back of the couch. His eyes were every day blue, his front teeth too white and obviously capped.

Millar walked over, leaned down, and pecked his cheek. "Fine, Dad. How are you?"

Titus patted the cushion beside him. "Come and sit for a while."

"I'm tired, Dad. It's been a long day," said Millar. "We missed you at supper."

"End of the quarter. I’m slammed," he replied. "We'll spend some time together this weekend."

"Sure, Dad," said Millar. "Is Casey home?"

"Not sure," said Titus spearing a broccoli floret with his fork and raising it to his mouth. "Goodnight, my dancer girl. I love you."

Millar yawned, turned slowly, and proceeded to the staircase. Pulling herself up one step at a time, she called back. "Love you too."

As she reached her bedroom door, the floor creaked and Casey stepped out of the shadow. Millard pushed him back with both hands. "What the?"

"Geez," stammered Casey, "I just wanted to apologize for the keyhole thingy. I was just kidding around."

Millar moved toward her door, pushed it open with the heel of one hand and spun back. "Promise?"

Casey nodded. "Of course," assuring her with a pathetic half smile.

Millar squinted low and bit the inside corner of her lower lip. She wanted to believe him but something inside felt all wrong. A chill ran down her spine. Was he the one following me home from Robin’s? With just a crack of open door between the two, Millar grunted, "Good night," closed and locked her door. She waited and listened. Hearing his heavy breathing through the door, her heart thumped in her chest as he lingered on the other side. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she heard his footsteps trail off. Flipping on the lights, she grabbed a tissue from her nightstand and stuffed it into the keyhole. Why was he being so weird. Always in my face. He used to be a good brother. Creep.