Sandcastles Chapt.3

March 21st, 1995

Swooping dancers adorned in long, silken dresses hung on the arms of handsome men garnished in tuxedos. Dates walked arm-in-arm with glasses of champagne in their hands. Golden curtains, light coral pink walls, and a shining hardwood floor accented the ballroom. Mom and Dad loved dragging us to this kind of crap.

My hair was hard and itchy from the hairspray, and high heels made my feet burn. Tucker and Michael were off with my parents somewhere, I’d lost sight of them a few minutes in. I walked among the crowd in an attempt to find them, scooting my way past women in Dior and Chanel and men who shot me looks of contempt.

I caught sight of my brothers sitting at one of the round tables scattered around the ballroom. Back straightened, fake ‘I’m-a-rich-girl’ grin plastered on my face, I approached.

“Hi.” I said, stupidly, folding my hands behind my back, the complete strangers at the table looking me up and down.

“Molly.” My mother stated, “Have a seat.” She gestured toward a chair next to Tuck. I glanced over at my oldest brother nervously. He watched the strangers with confidence; laughing, smiling, nodding on a queue.

(After all, half of being a superhero is acting.)

“I’ve heard that your boys are doing well in training.” A woman who resembled a bird piped up between sips of Chardonnay, gold earrings dangling delicately.

“They are, after he graduates our Tucker is going to be sorted, we’re all very proud.” My father replied, his mousy brown hair and glasses reminded me of a business man.

The birdie woman’s mouth formed into an “o” before she turned and looked to Tucker, her eyes gleaming, “Are you excited young man? Getting sorted is the most important moment in a hero’s life.”

“A bit nervous, but I’m fairly confident it’ll end well for me.” Despite being nineteen and underage, he took a sip of his champagne with a confident, if not cocky smile.

“That’s the spirit.” My mother interjected, a grin of hubris across her face.

“You’ll have to train hard so you can be like your brother, Michael.” The avian woman said, “Won’t he, John?” She turned to her date of the evening, an older man with slicked back and graying hair.

“Very much, but I’m sure you’ll be the apple of your parents eyes just like Tucker.” The man named John added, clasping Michael, who looked like he was drowning in his dark blue suit and yellow tie, on the shoulder.

“We know he will be.” My mother replied before taking a sip of red wine, looking sickeningly elegant in her long, black cocktail dress.

Their talk is mechanical, like I’m sitting with robots at the table; it’s the same chatter as last time, the same stupid subject.

I’d been used to this, everyone at the table was a superhero, I only tagged along because my parents still didn’t want me to be home alone for hours, but I was fifteen and it still hurt to hear. It was lonely, watching my mother and father talk about my brothers and their progression in perfecting their abilities. The room was crowded to the point where the air was thick, and bodies bumped into one another, but never had I felt more detached,

“Molly.” My mother’s words made sit up straight.

“Yes?” I answered, bathing in the attention of the birdie woman and her date, my mind going a million miles an hour, scanning my achievements: number one in my class, all advanced classes, talk of early admittance college.

“Don’t put your elbows on the table.” She demanded, and the knife in my gut twisted.

Scarlet colored my cheeks, my jaw dropped; everyone around the table looking me expectantly as I removed my elbows. “Right, sorry.” I replied, standing up in silence.

“So, Tucker, how have your studies been?” the strange woman spoke in a flutter, looking at my oldest brother with an admiring smile.

I couldn’t hold the hate that had festered in my heart, afraid of it, I ran.

(At fifteen, could you blame me?)

I rushed through the crowds of people. The beautiful women and handsome men looked at me with disgust, seeing a child run in among adults. It felt as though they loomed over me, threatening to smother me.

Bursting through the front doors, a wash of the cool March air caused the hairs to rise on my skin, sending gooseflesh across my arms and legs. My arms and legs spread apart, taking in the breeze. Air rushed into my lungs and I dropped to my knees, scraping them, though I couldn’t feel it at the time. My hair fell in front of my face, and my thoughts for a moment were reminded to how hard my mother worked to get it “just right”.

I stood on shaky legs, wondering if anyone at the table had noticed I was gone.

(Of course they had, I ran out of that place as if my ass was on fire.)

I looked toward the grand doors of the building, and pondered for a second whether to go in again.

(And show my face to all of them? Ha, yeah right.)

I turned and started to walk toward where we came, my mint dress now dirty at the hem. I paused to tear off my shoes and hold them in my hand as my bare feet padded the sidewalk of the city. A laugh escaped my lungs that refused to stop. My sides screamed as I walked, and pedestrians stared as if I’d just been released from the nut house.
 
“Molly!” At the sound of my name I turned to see Tucker looking out the doors I had burst from not five minutes before. He couldn’t see me; I’d disappeared in the nighttime crowd. People bumped into me as I watched; half of me wanting to tell him I was alright, but the other half demanding I stay, my feet glued to the pavement.

He caught sight of me and sprinted in my direction. Panic becoming clearer in his features as he drew closer. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to scream or take me into his arms. He chose the latter. “God dammit, Molly.” He said, “You scared me!”

“I hate these fuckin’ parties.” I replied, separating myself from him and crossing my arms.

“Jesus Christ on a cross, you didn’t even take your coat before leaving? It’s forty degrees out here!” He shuffled out of his coat and draped it over my shoulders, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“You should probably get back inside, people have been tal-”

“Don’t even start that shit.” He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a cigarette from a silver case.

I glanced over, smoke exhaled out of his lungs and dissolved.

“Mom’s going to kill you if she finds out that you smoke.” I pointed out, rubbing my arms.

“Like I give a shit.” He responded, “That woman’s always riding my ass about everything else, I can at least give myself this.”

“She just cares about you.” I reminded him, “She’s preparing you.”

“Well, maybe she can bother you for a change.” He snapped, throwing the butt of his cigarette on the ground, crushing it with his foot before pulling out another one.

“Don’t go there.” I begged, my arms tightening.

“Dammit, sorry, I’m just under a lot of stress and I forgo-“

“Don’t worry, I know.”

No more words spoke between us as he lit the cigarette and brought it to his lips. A soft rain had started to fall. Strangers walked past us, opening umbrellas or pulling their coats closer to take in as much warmth as they could muster. Streets became slick with water and reflected the city lights overhead. Cars honking, people yelling for taxis or holding blocky cell phones to their ears, along with the occasional barking of a dog or mewling of the cats that loitered around the alleys merged together into a single sound. Here, side by side with my brother, hearing the sounds of the rainy setting not only lifted the burden off my shoulders, but threw it into the evening traffic.

And, just for a moment, I felt peace.