Lessons in Love Page 4

  Pausing on her way to the register, Alex forced herself to think. To remember how she knew this place, and then it came to her with frightening brutality, causing her to crumple to the floor, casting her water aside.

  The bottle rolled away from her as Alex crouched on the floor, covering her head with her hands. She remembered being in that store, she remembered going to get a drink from the fridge and taking it up to her father, who had been waiting at the cash register. Only she never had the chance to give it to him.

  A fourteen-year-old Alex had carried her bottle of Coke up to the register, smiling broadly, but she froze when she saw her father, who motioned for her to stop and lower to the ground. It was only when she saw the man with the shotgun that she realized what was going on.

  Alex and her father had been driving back from a music recital when she complained to him how thirsty she was.

  “We’ll be home in a minute,” her father had told her from behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes.

  “But I’m thirsty now, Dad,” Alex had protested.

  “You can have a drink when you get in.”

  “But Mom only has iced tea in the house.”

  “And what would you like?” her father asked.

  “A Coke,” Alex told him cheekily.

  “A Coke?” Her father mulled over the suggestion. “I suppose you did play exceptionally well tonight, Alexandra. I’ve never felt so proud to see you playing violin.”

  “So can I have a Coke?” Alex asked innocently.

  “So long as you don’t tell your mother, you know how she harps on about how it can rot your teeth.”

  Mr. Heron pulled up into the absurdly small parking lot of the 7-Eleven, which sat on the fringes of what was dubbed a ‘bad area.’

  “Jeez, do they have enough spaces?” he scoffed, stepping out in his designer suit, his daughter dutifully following him, wearing the uniform of the private school, which was located just outside of Woodsdale.

  Alex had eagerly run straight over to the drinks section, desperate to enjoy her illicit bottle of Coke. The fact that her mother had made it contraband in their five-bedroom mini-mansion made it all the more desirable to a teenage Alex.

  She reached her blazer-covered arm into the fridge and picked up the nearest bottle of Coke. Then she paused briefly to see if there were any other snacks she could pick up, any other sweets she could talk her father into buying for her. During this time, the doors to the 7-Eleven opened and closed as someone else entered, but Alex didn’t look up. Nor did she notice how the atmosphere within the shop suddenly changed.

  Satisfied that she wanted only her Coke, Alex turned and headed towards the cash register. Her father was already there, probably buying mints or his own secret vice, cigarettes. He turned and spotted Alex and waved her down to the ground, his expression intense.

  In fearful confusion, Alex obliged, dropping her drink. The plastic bottle rolled away from her, fizzing up the contents inside.

  Glancing back to her father, she spotted the man standing beside him, directing a shotgun at his head. The store clerk looked terrified and kept reiterating that the man with the gun could take whatever was in the register.

  Alex’s father was still, but he didn’t seem scared. He remained poised and in control, even when the man with the gun shouted at him for his wallet. Her father coolly handed it over, doing nothing to antagonize the robber. But as he accepted the Ralph Lauren leather wallet, the terrified store clerk took the opportunity to sound the alarm.

  Harsh, screaming bells filled the room, and in a panicked reaction, the robber pulled the trigger on the shotgun, instantly blasting away half of Alex’s father’s head. She watched in horror as his body fell to the ground, twitching, half of the checkout area now drowned in his fresh blood.

  The teenaged Alex started screaming. She screamed as loud and for as long as she could.

  ****

  Alex was crouched and screaming as the concerned store clerk came over to her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her, his kind faced etched with worry.

  Glancing around, Alex spotted her discarded bottle of water and the stillness of the store. There was no alarm ringing, no corpse of her father lying on the floor up ahead. Tears of realization began to drip down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” she spluttered to the man, who helped her to her feet.

  “It’s okay,” he told her kindly, letting her lean against him as he walked her towards the front of the store.

  “Did something scare you?” he asked her gently.

  “Huh?” Alex felt confused, as though she were within a dream.

  “You just suddenly started screaming. I figured something had scared you.”

  Alex glanced to the floor, remembering how her father had been zipped up in a black bag as a female police officer led her out. She couldn’t stop shaking. No matter how many blankets they wrapped around her, she continued to shake like a leaf.

  “She’s in shock,” another officer said behind her.

  “Poor kid, can you imagine what she’s going through?”

  “Best thing for her would be if she can repress all this,” the first voice said sadly.

  “Yeah, can you imagine dealing with this for the rest of your life?”

  Alex tried to smile at the store clerk, but all she could do was shake. And despite her attempt to stop them, the tears just kept falling.

  “I’m sorry,” she stuttered.

  “Don’t be. It’s okay,” the man told her kindly. He left her side briefly to retrieve her water. “Here, drink this,” he instructed, unscrewing the cap and passing it to her.

  Alex took a small sip. “Thank you.”

  “So are you okay? Is there someone you want me to call?”

  “Four years ago, my dad was shot in this store,” she confided, and the store clerk’s eyes grew sad and concerned.

  He placed a consolatory hand upon her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he told her earnestly.

  “And I saw it happen. I was here when some psycho with a shotgun walked in and killed him.”

  “That’s terrible,” the store clerk said, vaguely remembering reading of the incident in the local paper.

  Alex realized that she had stopped shaking. For the first time in four years she had said aloud that her father was dead, that he’d been shot. Her anxiety gave way to a strange sense of relief. But that passed when she looked out on the parking lot and remembered how the ambulance and the four police squad cars had been unable to all fit. It had been a chaotic ensemble of sirens and flashing lights. And for Alex it had been a living nightmare, one she’d been unable to wake up from.

  Part II

  “You look tired,” Claire noted carefully as she met Alex on the school parking lot.

  “I am.” Alex sighed, rubbing at her weary eyes. She’d barely slept that night since confronting the truth about her father’s death. So many emotions had come boiling to the surface, the most painful of which was the hollow emptiness of knowing she’d never see her father again. That he’d never walk through the front door and demand hugs as he’d done when she was young. That he’d never wipe a tear from his eye as she played her violin for him. She’d not picked up an instrument since his death, having completely lost her desire to play.

  “Did you not sleep well?” Claire asked, concerned.

  “Barely at all,” Alex admitted. She’d lain awake as she relived the horrific night of the shooting. Remembering details in the fallout of it all that had been long buried in the far reaches of her mind.

  She remembered her mother’s ashen face as they took away their home, revealing the terrible truth that the family was actually in mountains of debt. Alex’s father had left a plethora of wonderful memories but sadly just as many unpaid bills. The family was left with nothing, forced to move into a trailer on the outskirts of town, their comfortable existence completely shattered.

  Changing schools was difficult. Alex was quickly removed from her priva
te school, as her mother was unable to pay the exorbitant fees. She was enrolled into Woodsdale High, and there she ceased to be Alexandra Heron, violinist and mathlete. Instead she became Alex Heron, cheerleader; blonde and vacuous, she soon fitted in among the elite.

  “Are you sick?” Claire queried.

  Alex knew she couldn’t tell her friend the truth, couldn’t risk shattering the illusion of herself she had so painstakingly crafted.

  “Yeah, I must be.” Alex forced a small cough for emphasis.

  “At least it’s Friday,” Claire said brightly.

  “Yeah.” Alex smiled back, but she felt numb inside, completely detached from the world around her as though she were falling and powerless to feel anything until she eventually landed.

  ****

  “Can we talk about Dad?” Alex asked over dinner.

  Jackie Heron had already noticed how pale her daughter looked, how sunken and red her eyes were. She feared something had happened but didn’t dare ask what. She herself worked hard to force a smile beneath her lipstick mask each and every day. She couldn’t risk it falling away even for a moment. Her children depended on her too much for that.

  “Do you want some more peas?” Jackie asked, ignoring the question and piling a spoonful of peas onto Alex’s plate, where they settled against the mashed potatoes and meatloaf.

  “I asked if we could talk about Dad,” Alex reiterated.

  Andy looked up from his dinner and glanced nervously between his mother and sister. They never, ever discussed their father.

  “Let’s just eat dinner,” Jackie said calmly.

  “I think we should talk about Dad,” Alex persisted. She could see how Jackie had tensed, struggling to maintain her composed exterior.

  “There is nothing to talk about,” Jackie snapped.

  “But we never talk about him.”

  “He’s dead. What else do we need to say?” Jackie yelled at her daughter, her eyes clouded with tears.

  Alex shrank down in her chair. Sometimes she forgot how her mother must be feeling. She’d lost the man she loved, the home she knew, and now lived only to work to support their life in a dismal trailer. It was easier for them all to try to endure it rather than discuss the woeful events that led them there.

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said, her voice small as she stared at her plate.

  “It’s okay.” Jackie reached out and patted her daughter’s hand.

  “Can I have some more peas?” Andy asked innocently, extending his plate towards his mother.

  “Sure, honey.” Jackie forced a smile, and just like that, Alex’s deceased father resumed his position as the constant elephant in the room.

  ****

  “Sucks that we have math first thing.” Claire shook her head. They were now at her locker, and she was rummaging around inside for her textbook. The metal door was covered in pictures of her and her friends smiling and beaming into the camera, usually wearing their cheerleading outfits.

  Next to her, Alex opened her own locker, which was undecorated. Alex didn’t feel comfortable sticking pictures all over it like the other girls did. She didn’t like leaving aspects of herself anywhere, fearing that if she got shot one day, it would just mean that someone had to come clear out her locker, taking down the pictures of her smiling, then crying because they knew she was gone. She wanted to spare someone that pain. Her locker was barren. If it had to be cleaned out, no one would feel overly sentimental about it.

  “We’ve got math?” Alex asked, concerned. The last time she’d seen Mr. Simmons she’d stormed out of the room and demanded he never again ask her about her father. She suddenly felt sick with dread, fearing that he would bring the issue up in front of her friends and peers.

  “Yep, sucky, sucky math.” Claire found the textbook she was seeking and shoved it into her bag.

  “But at least we get to check out Mr. Simmons,” Claire added, smiling cheekily. “I was talking to Emma Laddon about him, and she was saying that all the girls in their class totally have a crush on him too.”

  “We don’t have a crush on him,” Alex corrected her friend.

  “Speak for yourself!” Claire laughed. “I’m totally crushing on Mr. Simmons. He’s older, well dressed, handsome, more than likely has his own car.” She was ticking these qualities off on her fingers like a checklist.

  “Is our teacher.” Alex did a finger check of her own.

  “The teacher-student thing is hot,” Claire defended.

  “And illegal.”

  “No, not illegal. Frowned upon. We’re eighteen and therefore, in this state, officially women.”

  “He’s in a position of power; to embark on a relationship with a student would be seen as perverting that,” Alex explained.

  “So you think he’s a pervert?” Claire asked, confused.

  “Uh, never mind.” Alex waved her hand dismissively. “Let’s just get to class.”

  ****

  Alex sat down at the back of the classroom at a desk adjacent to Claire. Mr. Simmons had his back to her, busy with some papers on his desk, so she’d been unable to read him as she entered the room. She just prayed that he wouldn’t say anything to her about her outburst.

  “Right,” Mr. Simmons began when everyone had entered the room, beating the bell, which rang just as he commenced speaking.

  “Glad to see everyone in their seats on time.” He nodded to his students in approval. “I bet you’re all excited that it’s Friday and have big plans for the weekend.”

  A few students nodded and grumbled in agreement. Jeff turned briefly to catch Alex’s eye, which made her assume that whatever plans he had, he hoped they would somehow include her. She’d heard whispers of a victory party, not that she was in any mood to celebrate. All she wanted to do was find somewhere dark and quiet where she could listen to Radiohead and try to silence the panicked voice in her head; since she was fourteen a voice screamed in her head that her dad was dead, that the world was a vile place, and that nothing would ever, ever be the same for her.

  “Well, before you can commence your weekend, you’ve got an algebra test.” Mr. Simmons began to distribute test papers among the desks.

  Almost everyone groaned in protest.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not being graded on this test. It’s just to give me an idea of your abilities and where you’re at,” Mr. Simmons explained.

  As he dropped a paper on Alex’s desk, she noticed Claire give a not-so-subtle glance at his rear, which, in all fairness, was held most favorably by his jeans, but Alex still shot her a disapproving glance.

  Claire winked in response. As Mr. Simmons gave her a paper, she thanked him, her voice dripping with seductive overtones. Mr. Simmons continued passing around papers, oblivious to Claire’s flirtation.

  “You whore,” Alex whispered across to her friend.

  “You prude!” Claire retorted.

  “Everyone quiet for the test, please!” Mr. Simmons ordered his class. He made a note of the time and then asked them to begin.

  ****

  What Alex had always liked about mathematics was the order of it all. With math, there was a definitive right answer, so you could be either right or wrong. She found comfort in that. The ambiguity of English literature, where it was all about your interpretation of a text, made her nervous. She didn’t want to think, to delve into her own feelings. She wanted to find sanctuary in something methodical, something with rules and order. She’d always been like that, even before her father died. He used to call her his little number nut.

  “You take after your dad, the way you like numbers,” her mother would say as Alex eagerly pored over her math homework.

  Sadly, it turned out that her father’s enthusiasm for numbers didn’t match his skill with them, which was why the family was now in debt.

  At her private school, Alex had excelled at math, working on problems set way above her current grade. Her teachers encouraged her, prompting her to try calculus and algebra when other students
were still struggling to grasp much simpler aspects of study. Alex loved it; she loved learning new, improved ways to work with numbers.

  Even now, when life in the trailer got to be too much, she got out her old textbooks and worked through a variety of mathematical problems. It calmed her mind and was the only way, other than loud music, that she could silence the worried voice within her head.

  As Alex scanned the test paper in front of her, it pained her to realize that the questions were simpler even than those in the textbook she had been working on at fourteen. She could easily answer them, and in half the allocated time.

  The drama of the previous night kept replaying in Alex’s mind. If she listened closely, she could still hear the sirens ringing in her ears as the police arrived at the scene, could still hear the blast of the shotgun that ended her father’s life.

  She needed the distraction of math. She began to work on the questions, relishing the familiarity of it. She didn’t notice how Claire glanced across at her, shocked to see her friend working away so feverishly.

  When Alex finished, she looked down proudly at the test sheet, assured that she had scored a perfect 100. Then she felt Claire’s eyes on her and remembered where she was and, more importantly, who she was trying to be.

  Panicked, Alex went back through her answers and changed most of them so that they were incorrect.

  As she did so, she felt a second pair of eyes upon her and glanced up to see Mr. Simmons watching her with a quizzical look on his face. When Alex’s eyes locked with his, he blinked and looked away.

  “Time’s up,” he declared just as Alex finished doctoring her test paper.

  “Papers to the front,” Mr. Simmons instructed.

  She handed the sheet to the guy who sat in front of her and sighed, her heart racing.

  “You looked like you were nailing that test,” Claire said as they entered the hallway. There was a hint of suspicion in her voice.