TW: abuse

“Keelin,” Mom calls, just before I can escape.

I freeze.

“Make sure you apply for those scholarships I told you about. You’ve got this year and next year of school left, so you need start thinking about your future.”

“I know, Mom. I’ll do that later. I haven’t done my homework yet.” Even though I try my hardest, I can’t keep the bite out of my voice.

“I’m not liking that attitude, young lady.”

“I’m not trying to have an attitude,” I reply in as calm a voice as I can.

Something clinks behind me, and I flinch. Mom’s voice is low as she says, “I know Anwell would want to go to business school to help me. Your brother loved me.”

How do you know? I want to snap. She’s always pulling this—saying something about Anwell that I know isn’t true. She has no idea what kind of Anwell could have turned into. Closing my eyes, I fight back the urge to scream.

“I’m sorry.” That’s how it always ends. With me apologizing. For what, I never know.

“Good. Now get going.”

I roll my eyes and leave the kitchen, escaping back to my bedroom. Leaning against the door, I take in several calming breaths to keep from smashing something. I don’t care how soon Mom wants me to work on getting into business school, I’m going to put it off for as long as I can. As she said, I have this year and next year. Plenty of time left before I even graduate.

Time.

I grip my arm, not brave enough to look at my curse. I’d almost forgotten about it. With this, I don’t have much time left. I doubt I’ll even be able to graduate. At that thought, I smirk. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I died before I could get stuffed into the box Mom is slowly closing around me?

Gritting my teeth, I march over to my nightstand and snatch up the two-way notebook Ryuji gave me. I sit down at my desk and open to the front page. If I’m going to die, then I’m not going to regret the time I have left. I’ll write. Because that is what I want to do.

Fear coils through my stomach as I pick a pen from my pencil holder and hold it over the paper. My heart pounds against my ribs, and my hands begin to shake.

I can do this. I have to do this.

Ryuji was right. Once you start writing, no matter how much you want to, you can’t stop. Nothing can stop the words from flowing through your mind, entangling you in thousands of stories and worlds and characters and dreams. Even though I haven’t been able to put pen to paper, I still came up with stories to pass the time. Some ideas I wanted to write down so badly, but I was scared that Mom would find my notes and make me throw them away.

“I’m a teenager,” I mutter as I brace the paper with my left hand and press the pen to its pristine white surface with the other. “I should be allowed to rebel.”

Just one word. That’s all I need to start with. Just one—

Stop it!  Mom’s voice booms through my head. Stop this instant! Stop it with your stupid stories and your ridiculous fantasy worlds. It’s all just nonsense, a pipe dream. This will never get you anywhere in life.

I throw my pen onto my desk and sit back in my chair, shaking. Running my hands through my hair, I grip hanks of it in my trembling fists. Fine. You win this time, Mom.

With disgust, I slam the notebook shut, then quickly shove it into the bottom drawer of my desk under piles of paper and old school notebooks. What point is there in trying?

A while ago, I read this book called Summer of Tomorrow by an author I’d never heard of. It was tucked away in the furthest corner of Inkdrink’s library, so I doubt anyone had touched it in decades. But the story within has stayed with me ever since.

It was about a girl named Fiona, who lived alone with her mother in an abandoned village, as the last two survivors of a plague that swept the land. They were happy together, tending their garden and wheat field, caring for their animals, celebrating the holidays and festivals, even though it was just the two of them. Fiona loved her mom dearly, and her mother was picture-perfect, loving her in return.

But then a day came when her mother left. Fiona searched all over for her, not wanting to give up on the woman who had abandoned her. In the end, she discovered her mom had died, and tried every magical spell she could think of to bring her back. But Fiona was no mage. All she had was the eye to see the dead.

It was a tragic and bitter ending, but it was beautiful at the same time.

I couldn’t understand it. I still can’t understand why she risked everything for the mother who abandoned her. Why she fought so hard to bring her back when in the end it did her no good. Fiona was a fool, thinking that her mother loved her. Just like I’m a fool for thinking I can do something my own mother hates.

I can’t do it. I just can’t. My throat tightens and tears prick my eyes. Who knows if I’ll ever be able to write again?

After that night, I don’t touch the notebook again. I focus all my energy on homework and books from my shelf. But the stories in the books stir that need to set pen to paper, and I find my mind drifting every time I try to study.

And burn it, I want to. I want to so bad, but every time I pick up my pen my hand shakes and I can’t find the courage to write the words burning in my mind.

School is no better. Over the weekend, I don’t hear a word from Ryuji. But the moment I step inside school on Monday morning, he’s there, calling my name across the hall and waving his arm like an idiot. At this point, I’ve grown used to it. But it’s starting to get annoying. It’s almost like I have a winged stalker. I know he’s just trying to be friendly, but does he have to be so freaking extroverted?

Another week passes and I still can’t find the courage to write. When Ryuji invites me to join him on Friday at the writer’s group, I tell him I accidentally spilled a mooncat potion on myself while trying to finish homework and am currently hacking up hairballs. I spend the rest of the evening staring at the pages of one of my favorite novels, Dream Ori’sia, absorbing none of the words. Even Herjolf Dawnborn won’t let me escape.

Another Monday. My head pounds with every beat of my heart as I trudge with the rest of the students across the school courtyard toward the massive, mansion-like building made of whitewashed stone and crenellated windows. Way too fancy for a public high school in my opinion, but who am I to judge? It’s funded by Princess Beatrice, who’s known for her eccentricities.

Up the steps and through the open doors, down a hall of white plaster walls and checkerboard floors. I know the moment I turn right toward my row of lockers that he’s going to appear. Taking a breath, I brace myself, not really in the mood for Ryuji’s shenanigans.

I turn the corner.

“Keeeeliiiin!” Ryuji yells it so loud I’m sure the entire block outside can hear him.

The other students around me glare in my general direction, none of them glad to be rudely awakened by this overly happy individual. With a sigh, I turn to my locker—powder blue, with a permanent burn from some student’s jinx missing its target—and tap it three times. The door swings open.

Ryuji hovers over my shoulder, his wings blocking the magic lights overhead. This time, I don’t complain. The shade helps ease my headache a little.

“Good morning!” he says, way too close to my ear.

“Morning,” I mumble, shoving my things into the locker and pulling out my potions book. Thank goodness someone flooded the mathematics classroom last Friday, giving us a reprieve for a few days.

“Still can’t write?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“Hmm. Having trouble with finding something to write?”

“Sure,” I say, not really wanting to get into the topic of the real reason. “That thing’s been sitting in my drawer staring at me like a grimoire. It’s a bit intimidating.”

“Two-way notebooks are way cooler than grimoires, in my opinion.” Ryuji follows me as I slam my locker shut and make my way towards potions. “How about this? I give you a word, and you come up with a sentence for it. Maybe try writing it down like it’s homework.”

I stop, and he bumps into me, nearly knocking me to the floor. I catch myself, then look back at him. His expression is so ridiculously guilty that I can’t help but laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to run you over.”

“No worries,” I say as I try to keep from laughing. “I was just going to say, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll try to treat it like homework. Maybe then I’ll actually get it done.”

A giant, goofy grin splits his face, and he gives me a thumbs up. “Awesome! Well then, as your teacher, you better have that sentence turned in by this evening or I’m giving you a demerit, Miss McConaughy.”

I give him a two-fingered salute, “I’ll try my best, Professor Haruta.”

He rubs his hands together, then tucks them under his arms as he thinks, his wings tucked close while other students flow around us like fish around a plant. After several moments, he returns his gaze to me, a devious light in his eyes.

“I’ve got it! My word for you is courage.”

Before I can say anything, the bell rings and he fluffs his feathers like a startled pigeon.

“Gotta run!” He takes off, leaving me standing alone in the hallway.

Courage. Of all the words to choose, he had to pick that one. My original sentence drops from my mind as I turn the word over and over in my head, an idea already forming. I smirk as I set out toward potions once more. Sneaky Ryuji. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Want me to show some courage, huh?” I mutter. “Alright, Mr. Haruta, I’ll show you what courage looks like.”

###

When I get home, I put all my homework aside and place the two-way notebook in front of me. I’m going to do this. I’ll write that sentence if it’s the last thing I do.

It’s homework, I tell myself, over and over. It’s homework. Just think of it as homework.

The thought doesn’t really help all that much. Instead, I can’t help but remember Mom’s voice, screaming through my mind. The way that she had thrown my paper to the floor.

The feeling of the bond between me and my muse, breaking.

But I have to write this. I can’t give up. Not now.

I grip my pen tight in my fist. Open the notebook. Take a deep breath. Then another.

Place the nib on paper. One stroke. Two.

With a shaking hand, I finally write my first sentence in years.

No one would believe it, but the fact of the matter was, Sir Horatio had no courage.

I sit back, my limbs shaking, my heart pounding as if I’d just run a million miles. But a wild grin takes over my face and I allow myself a small fist pump. I did it. I did it. I did it!

For the first time in three years, I’ve created something, something that is completely mine. And no one, not Mom, not Dad, not all the snobbish business people wanting to suck out my soul can ever change the fact that I belong to the magic of words.

I’m so caught up in my own private victory that I almost miss Ryuji’s messy handwriting appearing across the page. I watch until he’s finished, then read his sentence.

Which was why, on the day that Sir Horatio was meant to set out on a daring quest to conquer the wildebeest terrorizing the countryside, he was nowhere to be found. Sir Horatio had fled the scene.

I laugh. That wasn’t exactly where I was going, but it’s close. My phone buzzes, startling me. Picking it up, I read the screen. It’s a message from Ryuji: GOOD JOB KEELIN!!! I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!!!! I can almost hear his voice echoing through the phone and I can’t help but blush.

My phone buzzes. Another message.

Now write another one.

Another sentence. Okay. I’ve got this. No problem. Picking up my pen, I add another line, building on this weird and wacky story we’ve started to create, my heart pounding in my throat.

The townspeople were at a loss as to how to bring the knight back without him taking off again.

I lift the pen, waiting to see what Ryuji will do with that. He responds with a quickly scrawled sentence. I add my own. On and on we write like this, the story growing more and more ridiculous with each sentence until Sir Horatio has turned into a horse and can no longer perform the ritual dance with which he could defeat the wildebeest. Which, of course, is an outrageous lie, since he had no idea how to defeat it in the first place, and Sir Horatio turned out to be a shape shifting pixie all along.

When I flip the page to continue, Ryuji writes words on the left-hand page before I can.

Save this side for notes. That way we can talk and write at the same time.

I smile. Yes, sir!

It’s past nine by the time we run out of steam and ideas. Ryuji leaves a note for me before I can tell him we should probably do our homework.

Write me a line tomorrow morning. We’re doing this every day until the notebook’s full.

I hesitate. It was fun today, but I have no idea how I’ll feel about all of this tomorrow. I start to feel anxious just thinking about it. What if Mom finds the notebook? What if I forget to hide it and she decides to destroy it while I’m at school?

You can do this, Keelin. Ryuji’s messy handwriting is big across the page, as if he’s trying to get his point across. One line. That’s it. You can do this.

Okay, I reply. One line. I promise.

For the rest of the night, I stare up at the ceiling, imagining what it would be like to write a wonderful story, win the contest, and present the money to Mom. She’d have to begrudgingly agree that I did a good job. Or at least accept the money without forcing me to conform to her ways. I smile. Winning that contest doesn’t seem like such a pipe dream anymore.