Chapter I
The Ring
At first, it was a normal day. I had finished my schoolwork early, so I’d taken up residence on the couch and was reading my latest fantasy novel when I heard the sound of metal crashing onto our hardwood kitchen floor.
“Mom?” I asked, laying my book down, “Everything okay in there?”
“It’s fine Alana,” came her out-of-breath response, “I just dropped the baking sheet.”
I frowned. Most teens I know like when their mom bakes, if she’s as good at it as my mom is, but to me, the sound of my mom baking meant trouble. She almost never bakes just to bake, and there weren’t any church bake sales or fund raisers that I knew of, so she had to be upset about something. Because that’s really the only other time she bakes. She spent two weeks straight baking the year my dad walked out on us. And at least a day every time she talks to him.
With a sigh, I set my book down on the coffee table and hopped off the couch. Walking into the kitchen, I was greeted with the sight of my mother frantically stirring a bowl of what looked to be cookie dough. Oatmeal raisin by the smell.
“Whatcha making?” I asked, sliding onto the cabinet.
“Oatmeal raisin cookies,” she said, throwing me her best I’m-not-upset fake smile.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, ignoring the smile.
“Nothing. Why would something be wrong?”
“Because you only ever make messes like this when you are upset about something,” I said, glancing meaningfully at the pile of measuring spoons and cups, bowls, pans, and other baking ware in the sink and the now cooling batch of banana-nut bread on the opposite counter.
“That’s not true,” she insisted, then tried to blow a strand of her auburn hair out of her eyes. Reaching over, I tucked the stray hair behind her ear.
“Yes it is,” I said, “Now what’s up Mom?”
She didn’t answer right away, which was almost more of an answer really. She usually doesn’t like telling me what’s wrong, but she only ever tries to hide it when it’s caused by one person. But I waited, hoping I would be wring this time. I wasn’t.
“Your father called,” she finally said, starting to drop dollops of cookie dough onto waiting baking sheets. I felt myself take a sharp breath, involuntarily, but I still didn’t speak. She had more to say. “He’s doing well, apparently. He’s living in California now, working as a contractor for a big software company there.”
Mom sighed and fell silent, finishing the first pan and moving to the second. Without really thinking, I hopped off the counter and slid the pan into the oven, still waiting. Clearly it was something that was probably really going to piss me off, if my mom was still stalling.
“He wants to talk to you,” she finally said after she finished filling a second pan and moved to a third. She wasn’t facing me, but I saw her back and shoulders tense, waiting for me to snap.
“No,” I said, staring at her back. I didn’t yell. I didn’t have to. She knew the answer before she said anything.
“Why not?” she asked then, turning to face me, “It’s been five years. If I can forgive him—.” but I cut her off.
“I will never forgive him.” I still wasn’t yelling, but my mom flinched anyway, and that hurt. I hated when I hurt her. Too many other people had already hurt her; I didn’t want to be one of them. But when it came to my father, there would be no talking. It just wouldn’t happen.
“Honey,” she said, setting the bowl down, “I know you’re still mad, but I think maybe you should try talking to him. It might help.”
“No. I told you, I never want to talk to him again.”
“But he’s your father.”
“And he walked out on us. Abandoned us. You might be able to forgive that, but I can’t.”
“But Alana, honey.”
“No!” I shouted, then flinched and looked down. “No,” I said more quietly, “I am not talking to him.” Then I padded out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving my mom to her cookies.
Grabbing my book from the living room, I dashed up the stairs to my bedroom. Closing the door, I leaned against it and sighed. I hated these days, when my mom talked to him, and he made her wheedle me again. It used to only be once every few months, when he actually called again after he left, after the divorce. Then it was to be every two or three months. But ever since I’d turned sixteen, he’d called at least once a month. When I turned seventeen, it’d been every two weeks. He just couldn’t take the hint, couldn’t see that he was ruining the tenuous grip on happiness my mom and I had had since he left.
Opening my eyes, I checked the clock on my nightstand. It read 2:36. Sighing with relief, I walked over to my dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, changing from my pajamas. Being homeschooled had distinct advantages. Once I was dressed, I grabbed my keys and some shoes then headed back downstairs.
“I’m going to Lexi’s” I yelled, opening the front door, then dashing out. I didn’t feel like listening to my mom try and convince me that we needed to talk about my dad some more.
Lexi lived at the end of my street, so it didn’t take long to get there. Her green sub-compact was parked on the street, which meant she was actually home. Smiling, I ran the last few yards to her front porch.
I knocked once, then let myself in, yelling, “Hey Lex!”
“In the kitchen,” came her reply. I found my way there, finding my best friend with her homework spread out around her at the kitchen table. Plopping down in the seat next her, I glanced over the various text books and notebooks spread out around her.
“What’s up?” I asked, grabbing her history book and thumbing through it. I never got tired of looking at her books. Public school books were different from the ones my mom purchased from a homeschool curriculum vendor, so public school books always fascinated me.
“Massive social studies paper due tomorrow,” Lexi said, scribbling notes in one of her notebooks. “I should have started on this ages ago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because, there are more important things than homework.”
“Unless you have a paper due. Then it’s the most important thing in the world.”
“What would you know about it? You’re homeschooled, remember?”
“Exactly. All I have is homework.” Lexi just stuck her tongue out at me.
We lapsed into silence for a while, her jotting down more notes as I flipped listlessly through her textbooks. At some point though, she must have noticed something was wrong.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, setting her pencil down.
“My dad called again,” I said, fiddling with the dog-eared corner of the page I had been looking at.
“Is your mom upset?”
“She baked a batch of banana-nut bread and was working on oatmeal raisin cookies when I left.”
“Ouch. What’d he want this time?”
“What else? He wants to talk. Like usual.”
“And you said no?”
“Obviously.”
“How’d your mom take it?”
“She tried to convince me otherwise, again.” I slapped the book closed. “But I don’t really want to talk about it. Tell me about your day.”
“You know, you really need to get your own life,” she said, smiling. I couldn’t help but smile too. Lexi’s smiles are infectious. Between that and her perfect tiny frame, it’s no wonder guys are always asking her out.
“I ran into Mark Jacobs today,” she said, shifting into her lets-talk-cute-boys mode, “he was talking to Leena Mills, which I don’t really get at all.”
We talked about Lexi’s day and fellow students for a while. Listening to her helped get my mind off of the argument with my mom. I knew I should go back and talk to her again, but I didn’t want to get into it again, so I just ignored the niggling guilt and lost myself in Lexi’s world.
“Oh!” she exclaimed sometime later, “I completely forgot!”
“What?” I asked, worried she needed to leave or something and I’d have to go back and face my mom again.
“Brandon found me as I was leaving today, before he went to soccer. He wanted me to tell you that he wanted to meet you at the old fort after practice.”
“He did?” I asked, staring at her, trying to decide if she was joking. She was known to tell me things that weren’t completely true just to get a laugh. It usually had to do with boys I didn’t know though. She knew I couldn’t take it if she toyed with me about Brandon. Anybody but Bran.
“Yup. I wonder what he wants to ask you. Isn’t the spring formal coming up in a few weeks?”
“Lexi shut up,” I practically squealed, something I never do, and playfully smacked her arm, “Don’t even joke about that. You know we’re just friends.”
“Not if you had it your way,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.
“Oh stop. We’ve known each other forever. You know that.”
“Exactly. You have to get together. Who else knows you so well?”
“You.”
