Finley Embraces Heart and Home by Anyta Sunday
Progressing.
A failed grade. Another failed grade. Sure it acknowledged that I tried, but still not hard enough, I guess.
I swing my backpack onto my unmade bed and kick off my boots. They smack against my wardrobe door, leaving a clump of mud behind on the white paint. I feel like that mud today. Everyone else Achieved or Merited or gained Excellence. All shiny grades and mine, Progressing. A nicer word for Failed, You Dumb Shit.
I move to the overflowing wastepaper bin next to my desk and crush the short story. My tenth attempt. I’d thought it would be enough. It had made me smile. The paper feels hot in my hand, prickly like my eyes. I stare at the teacher’s joking comment.
Just don’t become a writer.
I want to drop the paper into the bin, but Mum has to see it.
I roll it up, push it into the tight pocket of my jeans and haul in a steadying breath. The air drags over my lips, tasting of musty wet towel, the deodorant I put on this morning. And the boy I stole kisses from under a canopy of unfurling grape leaves.
Voices trail down the hall, Mum’s soft and gentle murmur followed by deep, male, urbane. Irritation picks at the dark hairs on my arms and legs. The investment manager boyfriend. Again.
Every Friday, every weekend.
I slow my step over the Oriental rug and stop where my toes meet the fringe. The tassels roll under my foot through a hole in my socks. I curl my toes around them. I don’t really want to show Mum my Progressing with him here. He looks down on me as it is.
The door to the living room is ajar and I spy them on the recliner. Mum on Tom’s lap, Tom looking stately and boring and sickly pale next to Mum’s fuchsia pink shirt and dark complexion. He’s unravelling her plaited hair like they didn’t hear me arrive home.
I glance to the wall on my left where my dad’s grinning face stares back at me.
My reflection on the glass merges our faces together. Brown. High cheekbones. My eyes aren’t as full of humour today, though. Nor do my lips lift in that cheeky grin that Mum so loved. Full of mischief and daring. My nose bumps against the glass and my sigh fogs his image; for a moment, as it clears, it’s like he’s moving again. Like he’s alive.
Healthy, happy. Home.
“Whatever it is, Maata,” Tom says. “You can tell me.
Mum’s words are hushed, but they carry in our tiny house. “I think Finley’s gay.”
My heart clogs up my throat. She walked through the village to school with me today, past Bennet’s greenhouse. How much life you could see in it from the lane, she’d said . . .
She’s talking toTom about this first?
Swallowing hurts. “You thought I’d change my mind because of that?” Tom laughs.
Mum sighs.
My toes clench around the tassels until they click.
“Finley is everything to me.”
Then why not talk to me first?
“Look,” Tom says, kissing her brow. “It’ll be fine.”
“I just thought . . . If we’re moving in with you and your son—”
Moving?
I stumble a step, taking the edge of the rug with me. I catch myself on the wall next to Dad.
This is the house he built for us. This is the home I was born in. These walls are stories, our history.
I want to shout it.
They still haven’t heard me in the hallway. Like they’re lost in a world where I only exist as a problem to be solved.
Tom is speaking. “If you’re worried about him and my boy, don’t be. They’ll be stepbrothers, siblings. In fact, Ethan might be a good influence. Help Fin toughen up.”
Finley. You don’t get to use my nickname.
Intruder. Home breaker.
As if I’d fall for someone with your genes, anyway.
I can feel Dad in the dusty air, like a comforting hand on my shoulder. It’s tough, but your mum deserves happiness, eh?
Am I not enough?
You’re fifteen. You’re almost grown up. You don’t need her anymore.
Footsteps scuff over carpet; Mum closes the door to the bathroom.
A few seconds later, the hallway door widens.
Tom looms before me, thumbs casually hooked into his suit pants. “Caught all that, did you?”
“You’re getting married?”
“End of March. Start calling me Dad whenever you want.”
It might be a joke, but I want to punch the smile off his face.
He grimaces.
I fold my arms, a shield. A message: I’ll never more than tolerate him. “When’re we moving?” I mumble.
“Soon as school’s out.”
“But that’s next week!”
The slam of my bedroom door rattles the bones of the house. I sink to the floor against it and the roll of paper pops free from my pocket. I sniff.
Mum’s footsteps pad urgently down the hall. I’d know the sound anywhere. “Fin?” She knocks softly. “Oh, honey.”
The pages are bright through my blurring eyes.