Interference: Book One Read online

  . . .

  MERCY- THIRTEEN YEARS OLD

  The hot spray of the shower streamed down my face, washing away the remnants of sleep and fatigue. I hadn’t slept well. The nightmares were vivid—too real. Images flashed between dozens of mirrors, drowning, and being chased through a dark forest as I fought for my life. My heart pounded at the thought.

  “Happy Birthday to me,” I grumbled.

  Loud pounding beat against the old wooden door of the bathroom. “Maybe you can save some hot water for the rest of us! Ungrateful child.” Mother stomped down the hall, leaving me ashamed for the longer than usual shower. I knew better.

  The old faucet groaned as I turned the rusty shower handle and stepped out onto the thin, worn bath rug. Cold air enveloped my wet skin, as chills traveled across my arms and legs. The towel did little against the chilly morning air. It barely covered half my body.

  A mild burn—not exactly painful—radiated across my left shoulder. I reached across my chest with my right hand, massaging the ache that began only minutes before. I rolled my shoulders forward, attempting to loosen the muscles in my neck and back. Nothing helped. Lowering the towel, I stepped in front of the mirror to investigate.

  I blinked, as if my mind didn’t comprehend the reflection. Drop by drop, black specks appeared on my shoulder, as if someone had dripped ink, staining my skin, one speck at a time.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  “Get out, Mercy! Now!”

  I jumped, the knock jolting me from my daze. I glanced once more at the small speckled image on my shoulder and swallowed. My mother would think I had gotten a tattoo. She wouldn’t believe me.

  “Now, Mercy!”

  “Be right out, Mom.”

  I stared at myself in the mirror. I would hide it—as I did everything else. No one saw things move out of frustration or anger. My teachers didn’t know I purposely missed questions to blend in. My tennis coach wasn’t aware I could have easily won every tournament that year. No one would know about this either.

  I walked out of the bathroom wrapped in the small towel and ducked into my bedroom before she returned. I slid into the only pair of jeans that fit—handed down by my mother. I grabbed a sweater and left my hair down to dry. If I didn’t hurry, I would miss the bus. I swiped the books and brown paper bag off the counter on my way out the door.

  I’d barely caught the bus in time and took my usual seat, relaxing my head against the cracked leather seat in front. Thirteen-years-old. I knew there wouldn’t be a card or cake. There would be no gifts. I didn’t expect it. In the past, I had hoped there would be an acknowledgement, but it never came. Now, the pure joy of knowing I was one year closer to moving out was enough.

  I didn’t need anything else.

  When I stepped off the bus, a familiar heaviness surrounded me. Not dark or eerie, just an awareness of being watched. Sometimes, I could feel longing in the air, as if someone’s sadness penetrated my heart—taking over my emotions. I glanced across the street as busy pedestrians crowded the sidewalks and children made their way toward the school.

  I shook off the feeling and headed into class. Something felt different about that day—a change was near. I didn’t know whether to be afraid or excited.

  Maybe a little of both.

  . . .

  Like always, I kept my head down and mouth closed. I knew the other girls would make fun of my clothes and ask if I’d done something to my hair.

  Whatever thrills them.

  I shuffled from class to class, pushing myself through the day when all I wanted was to run—away from school and home. I started volunteering at the kids club downtown, teaching youth basketball and assisting with homework after school. It gave me purpose. Pride. I’d grown quite fond of the children and made the decision to work with youth after college. Maybe a social worker—to be there for the ones who didn’t have anyone else.

  When the bell rang for gym class, I hurried down the hall. Nothing satisfied my pent up energy like physical activity. I quickly turned the corner, barreling into a group of students. A firm grip reached out for my elbow, steadying me. I glanced up, startled, to find Michael Bryant grinning mischievously.

  The cute, cocky football player just happened to be Bethany Spencer’s boyfriend.

  I struggled to find words. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you alright?” He grinned—obviously aware of how flustered I’d become.

  “She’s fine, Michael. No need to worry yourself over her.” Bethany flipped her long red hair, cocking one hip to the side. “Don’t waste your time.”

  Michael smiled, apologetically. “See you around, Mercy.”

  My stomach cramped, tied in knots over the encounter. He’d never spoken to me before. How did he know my name? I nodded and turned away, but loud cackling followed me down the hall. I refused to turn around and give them the satisfaction of my hurtful gaze. No—I would ignore them like always. At least I would try.

  By the time I reached the locker room, I could barely contain the tears—the five minute walk from algebra to the gym filled with antagonizing shouts and whispers. I heard my name on their lips, as if ignoring me wasn’t enough to please their cruel desire. They needed to torment me.

  I pulled the gym clothes from my bag, and hurried into the restroom. Flipping the small metal lock on the door, I kicked my shoes off at the same time a small item slid underneath the door. I froze, as if a bomb threatened to blow the tiny stall to bits.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  Silence.

  As I took in the plastic wrapping in front of me, my heart dropped and sweat broke out across my neck. The threatening tears from before rolled down my cheeks as I quickly slid the jeans down my legs to see for myself. Nausea built as the dark red circle soaked through the back of my pants.

  I’d started my period. And everyone knew it.

  Panic set in. I unwrapped the small square of what looked to be a bandage or gauze of some sort. I’d hoped for instructions, but I guess most girls had a mother to teach them this part. I didn’t. There were no intimate, private discussions about becoming a woman. No demonstrations about the proper application of products.

  There was only me. It had never been any other way.

  I buried my face in my hands, attempting to keep the sobs at bay. Those were my only jeans. What would I wear to school? The laughter and pointing fingers . . . they all knew. Anger built within me like never before. I cleaned myself up, situating the protective pad into my gym shorts. Shoving the clothes into my backpack, I walked out of the locker room with my head high.

  I shuffled, somewhat awkwardly, over toward my gym coach. “Coach?”

  “Yes, Monroe?” She asked.

  “I’m not feeling well. May I be excused?”

  Whispers and snickers echoed throughout the gym, but I didn’t acknowledge them. I knew they wanted to embarrass me.

  Coach turned, meeting their eyes with a stern look. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

  It was no use. “No, Ma’am. I would like to go home.”

  She sighed. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  If only I had walked a little faster. If I’d made it out the door a few seconds earlier, so much disaster could have been prevented. I hurried toward the double doors of the gym when the shrill voice of Bethany rang out across the gym filled with students.

  “Wow, Mercy. It looks like you’re wearing a diaper under those gym shorts.”

  A cascade of laughter surrounded her as I froze. Bethany’s words penetrated the small sliver of self-confidence I’d worked so hard to hold on to. It began as a tremble inside the building and quickly escalated to a shudder as the bleachers shook against the wood floor.

  I shoved through the double doors, my anger almost pulling them from the hinges. As the metal doors slammed closed, every window in the gymnasium shattered on impact. Screams from terrified students filled the air as small slivers of glass clinked against the wood floor
. I heard every piece fall.

  . . .

  I sat on my bed that evening, thoughts drifting from the tortuous morning to the anxiety-ridden afternoon. It was more than what happened at school. A pivotal moment had arrived—a crossroad shadowed in uncertainty came out of nowhere. I climbed under the covers—as if I could hide from the darkness calling out to me.

  My door swung open with a bang, the brass knob slamming against the faded paneling. Mother, dressed in her usual khaki pants and button-up shirt stood with one hand on her hip, frowning.

  “I heard there was an incident at school. Want to tell me about it?”

  I swallowed, but knew to play dumb. I always did. “I left early. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “The news reported an explosion at the gym, possibly a gas leak. Are you sure you don’t have something you wanna say?” Her mouth sneered in disgust, as if she knew I was to blame.

  “Like I said, I left early.”

  She exhaled. I imagined her somewhat disappointed in the fact she couldn’t punish me. “Hmph. You better keep your head down. I don’t need anything else from you, Little Miss.”

  Mom jerked the old door closed, as a small piece of wood splintered against the shag carpet. I exhaled, relieved she was gone.

  Something had changed in me that day. A power I didn’t understand and couldn’t reach grew with each passing hour. I shoved the covers back, and pushed away from the comfort of my bed. My hand grazed the black and white quilt as I slowly stepped toward the window.

  It felt as if I expected someone to be waiting for me—watching me. An ominous shadow closed in until my chest tightened. There was pain—someone, somewhere suffered a tortuous pain I would never be able to comprehend. But who? I closed my eyes as their life slowly faded, taking a piece of me with them. After several minutes, the connection broke and they were gone. My heart broke on my thirteenth birthday, for someone I didn’t even know.

  I’d never felt more alone or confused. The knowledge of what I was capable of terrified me. It erupted into an avalanche of self-doubt and fear. I didn’t want to be different.

  I vowed to ignore the powerful pull threatening to take control over my life.

  Hide it—for as long as I lived.

  3

  ⥈

  FREMONT- PRESENT DAY

  I waited, just like the past few nights. Sitting on the floor, beside my bedroom door at Fremont, I listened for movement, voices, or anything to let me know they were still awake. From the small rectangle windows that met the ceiling, the lights flickered above me—then blackness enveloped the hallway.

  The bedside table had been stocked with literary fiction before I arrived. Jane Austen, John Steinbeck and Charles Dickens—the greats. I didn’t care that I had read them before. They transported me to a different time and place.

  I craved it.

  Easing the door open, I clutched a small flashlight I had found in the closet alongside a copy of Pride and Prejudice. I would take the only path I knew, the one I memorized on arrival. I snuck out into the hallway, easing the heavy wooden door closed without a sound. Then, I tip-toed across the hardwood floor toward the old metal elevator to the ground floor.

  Fremont was located in an old brick building a few blocks from Greenwich Avenue. Adorned with industrial-style light fixtures, exposed brick walls, and dark hardwood floors, it wasn’t quite what I expected. There were no padded rooms, white-uniformed orderlies, or electric shock therapy. I found myself disappointed about the last one . . . Who wouldn’t want to see that?

  The guild held a sense of grandeur—a posh but classic style few buildings maintained after years of renovations. The character and rich history intrigued me, but apparently not enough to come out of my room. I’d secluded myself from the rest of the institution, studying and taking my meals in the comfort of isolation.

  Over the years, I’d grown tired of trying to fit in. The last thing I wanted to do was socialize. Snarky comments stood guard in front of my wall of emotional solitude. It was easier that way. I’d become someone I didn’t know, just to survive. I didn’t need a new crowd of people to clash with when I’d only be there a few months. It was easier to be alone.

  Leaving the elevator, I took notice of the large set of front doors on my right and quickly turned left toward the courtyard. I slid the bolt lock free on the back door and stepped out into the chilly night air.

  The narrow brick path disappeared into a garden, surrounded by tall evergreen trees. I had discovered the secluded area the night before when the need for fresh air became too strong to ignore. In the far back corner, beside a thick cypress tree, a worn down spot in the landscaping led to a large smooth rock—perfect for reading—hidden behind a wall of shrubs and bushes.

  I stayed out over two hours the night before engrossed in a novel—forgetting about what lay ahead. My own perfect, private. . .

  “Can I help you?”

  I glanced up, startled, by the deep voice in front of me . . . sitting on my rock. “You’re on my rock.”

  “Your rock?” he asked.

  “Well, yes. I sat out here for two hours last night. We bonded. Talked. Cried. We’re committed now.” I tried to sound sincere.

  The dark of night obscured his facial features, but a sliver of moonlight lit up the black of his eyes—tinged in red. His lips tightened, holding back a grin. “I feel like a third wheel. I’ve been cheated on. You see, I’ve been coming out to this very spot to look at the stars for over two years.”

  I nodded with sympathy I didn’t feel. He couldn’t expect me to give up my spot so easily. I didn’t have anything else. “You seem like the kind of guy that might have several spots. You know—not fully committed to any of them. Surely you can find another to suit your tastes.”

  His eyes narrowed at my words. Was he as handsome in the light as he was shadowed by the night sky? I needed to step away before he found a way to humiliate me—they always did.

  “I’m more of a one-spot kinda guy. I get attached. This particular location is not only hidden from the other residents, but provides a clear view of the big dipper. Do you know how special that is?”

  I exhaled. The jerk would not move. “Well, as much as I would love to waste my time arguing with you, I need to be searching for a new hideaway. Goodnight.” I turned to leave, disheartened.

  “What are you reading?”

  I froze, but refused to turn around. “Jane Austen.”

  “Fan of Mr. Darcy, huh?” There was humor in his tone.

  “Maybe. Not many gentlemen around anymore, so maybe I like to fantasize.”

  He chuckled. I heard a rustling of bushes, then a tall shadow stood beside my shorter one. “I wouldn’t deprive you of a quiet place to read. They’re hard to come by.”

  He walked toward the house, and I heard him utter, “Goodnight, Elizabeth Bennett.”

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. There were no hateful sneers, no ugly comebacks. He’d given up his peace and quiet . . . for mine. But why? I shook off the strange encounter and sat on the cool smooth stone I’d looked forward to all day.

  I wanted nothing more than to get lost in the life of Mr. Bingley, Jane, or even Mr. Collins—but I couldn’t stop thinking about the tall, dark-eyed stranger that had shown kindness instead of ridicule.

  . . .

  “Thank you for meeting me today, Mercy,” Fitz mumbled while shuffling through paperwork. “I wanted to give you a couple of days to settle in and get comfortable. Unfortunately, Stella tells me you’re refusing to leave your room. Except for your nightly courtyard visit. Is that true?”

  My shocked gaze met his. The nurse, Stella, reminded me of my mother—snarky, skinny, and apparently a tattle-tale. I nodded. No use denying it. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  He tilted his head forward, his brows furrowed. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The reason you’re shutting yourself off from everyone.” He tapped his pen against the d
esk, waiting for an explanation.

  “Oh, that. No, I’m good, thanks.”

  “Come on, Mercy. Give me something here.” Fitz leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

  What did he want me to say?

  “Why does there have to be some deep, dark reason for staying in my room? Maybe, I’m not good with people. What’s wrong with that?”

  He exhaled and rubbed his eyes as if I exhausted him. “Are you sleeping at night?”

  I cleared my throat. “Sometimes.”

  “Why not every night?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me . . . doctor.” I grinned.

  The staring contest began—Fitz versus Mercy. The confidence in the way he locked eyes with me, scrutinizing my weaknesses, impressed me, but he’d never challenged someone as stubborn as myself. I was sure of it. After a few minutes, Fitz submitted and looked down at his paperwork. The inner Mercy pumped her fist.

  “I’m sure your mother is missing you right now,” he called out.

  “Really? Has she called to check on me?” Hope swelled within me at the thought of her realizing her mistake, but I knew it wouldn’t happen.

  Biting the side of his lip, he lowered his head and mumbled, “Good point.”

  He knew she didn’t care. At least he didn’t pretend otherwise. Fitz scored bonus points for being honest.

  He tossed his pen on the desk. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from her, alright?”

  “Don’t bother. I just want to graduate and get on with my life.”

  “I heard you flew through a week’s worth of classwork yesterday. At this rate, you’ll finish your senior year in half the time.”

  “I’ve recently had some free time on my hands.”

  I didn’t intend on being abrasive. None of this was his fault. If I could control what came out of my mouth, my life might have gone a little smoother. Anger simmered inside of me like a volcano ready to erupt. Innocent people like Fitz needed to stay clear.