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My parents were childhood sweethearts, back when that was still a thing. Mom was a cheerleader and Dad was the quarterback, with a promising career ahead. They had a GPA of 3.8 and were beautiful and popular. You know the type. Actually popular, not in an I-hate-you-you’re-popular way. They named me Brianna Destiny Mendes, possibly with the hope of my following in their footsteps. Unfortunately, that didn’t really work out. I’m kinda plain looking, I have no friends and I see ghosts. Sorry Mom and Pop.
Not that I ever met her, anyway. She left the hospital as soon as I was born. Post-natal depression. She couldn’t handle it, so she walked out on the both of us. Moved to Fiji, as you do. Over the years she’d tried to get in touch, but I wanted nothing to do with her. I never needed her, and I didn’t really want to know. I knew all I wanted to from my dad. The main thing was she never saw ghosts, so that’d be another parent who wouldn’t understand. I already had one, didn’t need another.
Dad never made the big leagues. He tried his hardest, but it was pretty clear. He was a good player, not great. He never would be, but like I said, he was smart. After an injury, he gave up playing and took up coaching instead. Turned out to be a sweet move. He was a lot better at the tactical side of football than he was the physical, and he got a job at one of the best college football teams in the whole of the US. Makes a pretty good pay-packet, too. Hence our nineteen-room home and a long line of gold diggers.
I don’t know when the whole ghost-seeing thing began, but I must’ve been young. It’s what I’ve always known. Translucent people would come over to me, confused and afraid, and scream at me about their murder. Pretty weird for a seven-year-old with her dad buying toys at the mall, but I got used to it. They couldn’t hurt me, and didn’t want to. They only needed help.
So, I helped. I talked to them whenever they appeared, wherever that may be. Dad thought it was a phase and let me get on with it. Kids in school quickly thought me insane and abandoned me. Within months, I had no friends and my dad began to realize this wasn’t going away. He took me to psychiatrists, psychologists, psychotherapists – basically, anyone with the word “psych” in their job description. They couldn’t do anything. I mean, I know what I was seeing and I knew stuff about the ghosts that I’d never otherwise know. I wasn’t hurting anyone, and I wasn’t going crazy. I was still me, with a side effect. They didn’t really want to give me pills for it since I was only a kid. And not a single one of them ever believed me, so I quit them all. Since then, my dad decided to ignore every word I say about ghosts. He doesn’t do a very good job, bless his heart.
At least I’m mostly independent, though. I learned to get along fine on my own. No living person would talk to me anyway, so there was nothing stopping me having conversations with ghosts whenever they popped up. It would actually be funny if it wasn’t so heartbreaking.
The only person I can legitimately call a friend is Michael Davis, nicknamed Mickey D. As in fast food. He’s fat, so it was inevitable. Poor guy. He really doesn’t like school. It’d be fine if he was smart, but he’s distinctly average in everything except gym class, where he fails exponentially. Out of the two of us, he definitely gets the bum deal. Fat is safe to deal with and mock. Seeing ghosts, especially murder victims, tends to frighten people. Now that is fun. I usually wait until the main asshole Brandon’s on a roll, calling me Casper about a million times and then I look right behind him, mouth wide open. I nod my head, listening intently to what the “ghost” is saying and then give Brandon a grave look.
‘Don’t drive home tonight,’ I’ll tell him, or I’ll ask if his mom works in that big insurance building downtown. I know she does, and it totally freaks him out. After doing that a couple of times, most kids in school avoided me like the plague. Brandon’s stupid, so he still throws the odd insult my way but nothing I can’t handle.
That’s pretty much it. I’m a weirdo, nobody understands me and I hate everybody.
And that brings me to today. Bypassing the life stories of about a hundred morons my dad dated, anyway. Same old, same old. It’s felt like there’s been a never-ending train of them since I was a little girl. A vicious cycle. My dad introduces some mannequin, I don’t like her, she leaves. And lather, rinse, repeat.
‘Oh my God, I cannot believe I sat through that whole damn movie,’ George moaned. He stretched, for some reason, and gave me a look of complete and utter loathing.
‘What, you didn’t like it?’
‘I thought you were kidding. I did not have you down as an action girl. Your name’s Bree, right?’
‘Ann,’ I corrected.
He guffawed, catching me off-guard. I grimaced.
‘What’s so funny about that?’ I snapped.
‘I’ll tell you another time,’ he said after a moment, still shaking with laughter. Pursing my lips, I watched him wander over to my movie collection.
‘You seriously have every action movie ever. This is terrible, you know that, don’t you?’ he critiqued, groaning. ‘Don’t you have anything else? Anything at all? I’d even settle for a chick flick- wait, no. I take that back.’
‘I thought guys liked fights and explosions?’
He shrugged, taking a trip around my room with disgust written all over his face. I already regretted inviting him in.
‘It’s alright. I’ve never really gotten into it,’ he sniffed. Now it was my turn to groan.
‘Don’t tell me. It’s not a movie unless it’s in another language? I bet you’re into arthouse and indie.’
He’d been starting to grow a hipster beard. I should’ve seen the signs.
‘Are they the only two genres for you? Action or arthouse? Please. I like thrillers. Crime dramas. A good adventure.’
‘You’re part of one now,’ I helpfully pointed out. He smirked.
‘Ain’t that the truth.’
‘So, what else? Music, TV?’
‘I don’t watch TV,’ he replied ponderously, looking at my book collection with interest. ‘I did not have you down for a reader.’
He sounded impressed with me, instead of the disappointment I was getting used to hearing. It was unfortunate that I had to prove him wrong.
‘I’m not. I had an empty shelf and nothing to put there,’ I explained, sounding stupid.
‘Oh. I thought we had something in common there for a second.’
Color me intrigued. My bookshelf was full of coffee table books, ones that nobody in their right mind would read for fun. I shuffled off my bed and edged over to guess at what he was looking at. Looking him up and down, I quickly made the only assumption possible.
‘Is it the modern art book?’
He looked hurt.
‘Ew, you have a modern art book? No, it was the one on Mayan history.’
‘I have a Mayan history book?’
‘Yeah. Quite a few, actually. Did you randomly buy stuff that looked vaguely intellectual?’
‘Well, when you put it like that...’
It was his turn to look me up and down. Critically, of course.
‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen,’ I said, dignified. I may have snapped.
‘Wow. I thought girls were supposed to mature quicker than guys? By that logic, I thought we’d be on the same level.’
‘Oh? And how old are you?’
‘Nineteen,’ he replied. He pointed toward the history book he so desperately wanted to read. ‘I’ve actually read that as part of my studies into Ancient Civilizations. It was my major. My professor was going on a dig for a couple of weeks in the summer, close to Mansoura. Only a small dig, and he wouldn’t get to see much, but he invited me along. I’d just paid off the deposit when-’
He closed his eyes, his mind going back to the day before. Weirdly, little things like that were usually the worst part for lucies. Never seeing family or friends again, that was something big that they could get their heads around. It was when they remembered that they had concert tickets, or a vacation booked, that it hit them. They were no longer people. They could no longer do things. They’d had plans, but death got in the way instead of life.
I awkwardly decided not to break the silence so we both stood there, giving my bookshelf some much needed company. I wanted to ask where Mansoura was, but he’d probably start jibing about my age again.
‘I hope my dad gets his money back. He’s gonna need it,’ he said, voice hoarse.
Lucies couldn’t cry, but they could come pretty close.
‘Hey-’ I started, reaching out a comforting hand. I never got the chance.
The front door slammed open downstairs, giving us both a fright.
‘Brianna!’ my dad yelled, sounding furious. I sighed. Guess I’d have to deal with that sooner or later.
‘Stay here,’ I whispered to George, rushing to head off my dad before he stormed upstairs trying to find me.
‘I’m here, Dad,’ I called calmly. ‘I’m coming.’
I trotted toward the sound of his voice and stopped when I saw him, almost tumbling down the few remaining steps. He looked awful. His hair was unusually disheveled, his sun-kissed face an unflattering burgundy. He’d been crying.
He reminded me of Mr. Randle.
‘I have tried to raise you on my own,’ he spoke slowly, spelling out every word but still, he faltered.
‘I know that-’
‘Let me finish!’ he bellowed. I was aware of our door being wide open, and made a move to shut it. He slammed it behind him before I got the chance. I froze. My dad had never used violence before. This wasn’t like him at all.
‘I have tried my best to raise you,’ he tried again, leaning against the banister for support. ‘I gave you everything you asked for. I’ve never asked for anything in return.’
‘I know-’
‘Please, Brianna,’ he implored. The rage died down and he only sounded exhausted now. I felt bad for him.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. Please, continue.’
He looked all of his forty-five years plus another decade on top. I couldn’t understand it. I was protecting him, and he didn’t want to know. It didn’t make any sense.
‘You don’t know what I’ve done for you. After everything, I thought I deserved a little happiness.’
‘You’re not happy with me?’ I asked, hurt.
‘Of course I am,’ he cooed, coming over to stroke my hair. It was odd, but I let him. I didn’t want to see him cry anymore.
‘I love you, Brianna. You’re all I’ve got now. But I love Stacy, too, and you haven’t been fair to her at all. She said you threatened her. She’s afraid of you, baby. She’s left me. For good. Why can’t I be happy, Bree? Why won’t you let me?’
‘Dad, she’s using you. She only wants your money.’
It was the first time I’d ever told him outright, and it killed me. Up until now I’d only ever suggested that we’d never gotten along. My poor father. He only wanted a mother for me, and he’d never get that wish.
He was too nice, that was his problem. He only saw the good in people instead of their dark, twisted souls. I hadn’t even heard him say a bad word about my mom, even though she’d abandoned us both right when we’d needed her most. That was the kind of guy he was, and people took advantage of that. It was my job to stop them.
‘Bree, listen-’
‘No, you listen, Dad. I can’t watch them hurt you anymore. They’re manipulating you, and you’re too kind to see it. But I do. I can’t let it happen again. I’m not letting them hurt you anymore.’
Taken aback by my outburst, he spluttered as he tried to think of something to say. In the end, there was nothing he could. He took me in his arms and held me like I was his little girl again. With a pang, I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done that.
Eventually, he let go, and I think we both felt lighter afterward. It’d been brewing for months but neither of us had acknowledged it until now.
‘Okay. I won’t see Stacy again, if it makes you happy.’
‘This isn’t for me, Dad. It’s for you. I love you.’
He smiled, holding back happy tears.
‘I love you too, Bree. I’d do anything-’
‘Ann,’ I corrected, gritting my teeth. Seriously, was it that hard for people to remember?
‘Ann. Of course, I forgot. I’m going to go box up Stacy’s stuff, okay?’
‘Need a hand?’ I offered, knowing how difficult it might be.
‘No, but thanks. Why don’t you head on upstairs and get back to whatever it is you’re doing?’
‘If you’re sure. I’ll see you later, I guess.’
He nodded and headed into the lounge, the room where the majority of Stacy’s ugly candles were kept. Distracted, I walked through George before I even noticed he was on the stairs behind me.
‘I thought I told you to stay in my room,’ I hissed, whipping my head around in case my dad heard. Luckily, the lounge stayed shut.
‘I wanted to see what the fuss was about,’ he shrugged, staring at the lounge door anxiously. ‘Is he alright?’
‘He’ll be fine. How much did you hear?’
‘Enough.’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked as he skipped past me.
He didn’t answer, so I guess he didn’t hear. It wasn’t important enough for me to repeat. I followed him into my room and put on another movie. This time there were no complaints at all.