Burning Lili

Aunt Rose is going to be pissed.

I groan against the sunlight shining in my eyes, cursing it for not waking me up sooner. Tossing my blankets aside, I stumble to find a mostly clean pair of jeans from the floor and grab a bralette from the basket of fresh laundry Aunt Rose left by my bed yesterday. The cropped tee I slept in would have to suffice. I’m slipping on my second combat boot when my alarm plays Rhianna’s raspy voice, expressing that she’s had enough. I can’t help but agree. It’s a great song, but it may not have been the best choice in alarms for a grieving person. I hit snooze again out of habit and took the stairs two at a time.

“Mm-hmm,” Aunt Rose says as I rush into the kitchen. She doesn’t take her eyes off her tablet as she frees one hand to tap an invisible watch on the opposite wrist. “I suppose I should be proud of the improvement, Lili. You only snoozed three times today.” She uses her free hand to grab her coffee and smiles at me. I give her a chuckle in return, but only because she thinks she’s funny, and I wouldn’t dare ruin my favorite aunt's vibe. It’s been a rough year for us both, and we need these moments.

“Sorry, auntie,” I give her a side hug, careful not to mess up her work. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I told Jenine that I would be in at nine today. I have that breakfast thing, remember? Grab something to eat in the car,” she tells me, changing the subject and refusing to let me point out how her “breakfast thing” actually is a date. “Oh, and don’t forget a brush, or scrunchie, or something for that head.” She motions at my untamed fro as if it wasn’t already clear that my hair looked tragic. I passed by the mirror on the stairs. I know.

“Mason’s braiding my hair after school today. A breakfast thing, huh?” I ask, tying a scarf around my thick curls and wishing she would just be upfront with me. I’m not mad at her for trying to be happy. Thirteen months is more than enough time to start dating after a tragedy.

“Yes. Just a breakfast thing,” Aunt Rose places her mostly empty coffee cup in the sink and beelines around the island to kiss me on the cheek. “Let’s go, mama. You’re gonna be late.”

I grab a Greek yogurt, the fancy kind with the crumbled cookies you can add in, and follow Aunt Rose to the car.

Aunt Rose drives me to school every day. She wants to buy me a car, but I enjoy our time together. I look out of the window, watching as the buildings pass us by. I’ve gotten used to being on this side of town by now, but the art-covered buildings are still a sight to behold. I remember when Aunt Rose first told my mom about the trendy new development project she was working on. The once crumbling neighborhood was bought out. The residents, or at least those who would budge, were given a check they couldn’t refuse to make room for the project. The homes they grew up in were gutted and made suitable for the wealthy. A perfect example of gentrification. Before Aunt Rose’s fancy project, The eastside was like the rest of The Greater Harbor area—a shabby part of a small Texas town by a manmade lake passing itself for a harbor. In reality, the whole city

I never thought I would be living on this side of Harbor Heights, but all it took was one tragedy to earn me a ticket over the infamous tracks.

The project was still underway, with more condos and coffee shops than any one neighborhood needs still waiting to be built. It’s a game of mine to look for changes on the drive to the high school. The school is a new building that worked in my favor when I started last year. The massive place was just opening when I was given to Aunt Rose, so no one noticed me that first day. No one cared to gawk at the new girl with the murdered parents, not when the newly-built commons had a billiards table, which is a fancy name for pool, and a coffee bar. I blended seamlessly with all the other students who couldn’t believe they were at the sparkling new East Harbor High. But my reason for not believing was much different. Much darker.

Two and a half weeks before that first day last year, I watched my turn to ash. It was so ridiculously cliché that I almost laughed thinking about it. It was the start of every Criminal Minds episode.

I played the unsuspecting victim, dancing in my room to the rhythmic beats of Drake’s new album. Meanwhile, the camera panned from the party in my room, down the hall to the living room where my parents were watching a movie. I didn’t hear anything at first. I didn't hear mom scream or hear dad ask, “Who are you? Why are you in my house?” I didn’t hear Grandma Holly’s antique lamp smash across dad’s head. All I heard was, “I was running through the six with my woes,” when I felt him grab my arms from behind me. He didn’t hold me hard, so I thought it was mom coming to tell me I was too loud. I hadn’t realized I was rapping aloud.

“Sorry,” I said to who I thought was mom, reaching up to take off my headphones. Looking back, I should have known something was off. Hands I was starting to realize were too big to be my mom's and too gentle to be dad’s slid down my arms, grabbing both of my wrists with one hand and wrapping duct tape around them with the other. “My parents,” I half whimpered, half choked. “Where are my parents?”

The intruder didn’t say anything, so I screamed for help. The sound was low at first, almost inaudible, like I couldn’t get the words out fast enough to produce noise with them. I started to get louder, but he had already ripped a piece of the tape to cover my mouth. “Why are you doing this?” I tried to say, but it came out as a muffled blur. He pushed me into my closet, and I hit the shoes on the floor with a painful thud.

I could see him then. Tall and thin and dressed in a plain hoodie, his face covered and brown eyes frantic. He didn’t stay long.

The last thing I heard before the bullets went off was my mom screaming my name. It was my whole name, which she had never used, and I felt like I could pass out at the sound of it. I didn’t know what was happening or why. Whatever the answer, I couldn’t do anything to stop it. It felt like all the air was being sucked out of the closet.

I have to move away from the window before I have a panic attack.

Aunt Rose noticed my jolt back to the present but didn’t say anything. She just puts her hand over mine and drives on. I’m grateful for that. She knows that I relive it sometimes, but I prefer to keep the details between myself and the therapist she got me. I’m focusing on the road ahead of me, too sick to look at the buildings anymore and trying to shake the sound from my mind. I opt for my earbuds instead to drown out my mother’s voice screaming, “Lilianne!” and the two gunshots that came after.

These are the moments that mess with my head and fill my sessions with Dr. Kate. The one’s where I had forgotten for a while and actually felt happy. They remind me how messed up I am.

` I can forgive myself for trying to live a life that mirrors normal. For finally having said yes to Chadwin Johnson when he asked me on a date last week. He was persistent but patient, and I’m excited about this Saturday. For Friday nights at Mason’s, who I am starting to consider my best friend. For making up games and changing the flavors of a sour situation. I think my parents would have wanted me to have those things— friends and someone to date. But I don’t think they would want me to forget. That I can’t forgive myself for. It was just a moment, but I was content while knowing they were dead.

Aunt Rose squeezes my hand— she never moved it from mine— to let me know that we made it. “You okay, Lili Bear? Do you want to take off? I can drop you back home before my meeting,” she asks, her face empathetic. She doesn’t understand how much I appreciate her. She didn’t have to take me in. My dad’s side of the family dropped him years ago when his business started picking up. It wasn’t making much more than what we could live off of, but we were comfortable and happy. They wanted in, but dad had called them users. Aunt Rose was the only family my mom had after Grandma Holly passed. She took me in without hesitation despite having to exchange her role as the single rich aunt for the part of a single mom to a teenager. She’s been my rock since that night.

“Lili?” she asks again. I had been lost in thought.

“Sorry. No, I’m fine,” I squeeze her hand back and reach for the sleek door handle. “Thanks for the ride. I’m going straight to Mason’s later if that’s cool?” I half ask, half declare in classic teenage fashion.

“Of course, love,” she musters a smile. “Have fun, and call me if you need me.” I shut the door behind me, and she rolls the window down. “Seriously, I will leave my date at the drop of a dime.”

I smile a true smile now, and she grimaces, noticing that she’s been caught. “A date, huh?” I laugh aloud, “Have fun, Auntie.”

I can do this.

The first period of the day has already started, so I head to the office to get a tardy pass. I won't be allowed into class without one. There are more rules here than at my last school. The halls are quiet and clean, shining with a newness that takes longer than a year to diminish. I soak in the echo from my boots, sounding with each heavy step and coming back to me like a song. I feel secure in the blanket of being alone right now. In this big, empty room I feel like nothing can hurt me. I have to push the blanket off as I reach the office doors, though. Encased in clear glass like a lot of the school, I see the room is empty save the nice front desk lady whose name I still haven’t learned.

“Tardy to the party, Ms. Myles,” the receptionist beckons me to a screen on her desk. “Scan your student ID and select,” she drags out the last word as she checks the system for previous infractions and raises her eyebrows when the page loads. “Second Warning, and it’s Friday! Not a bad week.”

I was late to fifth on Tuesday after my lunch session with Dr. Kate ran long. “How else will I break the record?” I kindly joke. She’s a nice lady. Or maybe she is extra nice to me. Aunt Rose had to inform the administration of our situation when it was time to enroll me in school, and the death certificates hadn’t been processed yet. All she had were emergency guardianship papers and an explanation that consisted of her sister and brother-in-law being murdered. Now all the teachers know about my parents, and while it sucks to have them act like the receptionist— overly nice and accommodating— I’m glad it hasn’t gotten around to the students. Not even Mason knows. She knows they’re dead, of course, but I could never work the courage to tell her the gritty details, and she’s never asked.

The murder wasn’t televised more than once on Channel 8 News, the station that covers the Greater Harbor area. It was just another shooting in the hood. I imagine the reaction from the Eastsiders as an obligatory concern. Mason’s family probably commented on how bad the world was getting and offered the poor orphaned girl their thoughts and prayers before moving on to Cammie in the Café. Her segment explored the cutest morning eateries on the Eastside of the lake, after all. My picture wasn’t aired, but they never connected my last name or the timing of my arrival. The story was a passing thought, and I was their daughter’s guarded new friend.

I grab a pass from the machine and turn to head out of the door.

“Oh wait, Ms. Myles!” the receptionist stops me, and I spin back around. “You went to South Heights, right?” I simply nod in response. She’s read my file, so she knew the answer before asking me. “Perfect! Would you be willing to show a new student around? We just got a transfer in, and I thought it would be nice for him to meet someone else who transitioned schools.”

“Oh, uh,” I stammer. She looks me dead in my eyes with that smile plastered on her face. I couldn’t look to anyone to save me and she has one of those friendly, saccharine faces that are hard to say no to. “Sure. I guess”

“Perfect! You are just the sweetest,” she excites. She pushes a button on her desk phone. “Principal Grant, I have a tour scheduled for Everett. Please send him out as soon as you're done.”

“Wait, now?” I say, stunned. My hair is a mess, and I just barely avoided a breakdown in the car. I’m not in any state to meet someone new. I try to flatten the puffy tendrils beneath my scarf.

“Thanks, Sally,” Principal Grant responds through the receiver.

“Oh, you look fine, honey,” the receptionist, Sally, says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

A few moments later, the principal's door opens, and the boy named Everett steps out. He stops short when he sees me, and I self-consciously bring my hands back to my hair. He’s eyeing me down, and I don’t know how to feel about it. It’s kind of rude, considering he hadn’t even said hello. It upsets me even more because I could be the one staring. Across the right side of his face, starting around a set of plain brown eyes is a pinkish slash of burn marks that slide down his neck and into his hoodie.

“Lili, Everett. Everett, Lili. She will be showing you around the school. Do you have your schedule?” the receptionist beams, oblivious to the discomfort I’m feeling.

How cliché is this? Two kids from the other side of the tracks, bonding over our newfound privilege. Maybe we’ll form a club and host regular meetings to discuss just how shitty South Heights looked compared to East Harbor.

Everett doesn’t look away from me when he nods. He eyes me like I’m the last thing he expected in a tour guide. Like me representing this fine establishment confused him. Fantastic. Let’s add an awkward trip around the school to my roller coaster of a morning.

“Well, Lili, if you may,” she gestures us out of the door in classic southern passive insistence.

“Uh, yes. Follow me.”

He moves to the door before I can get there, opening it for me. I nod a thanks and look ahead, trying to plan a well-rounded, very quick tour in the few moments before the rules of social norms demand I break the silence. We’re almost to the staircase, and he still hasn’t said anything, but I am the guide here.

“So, the school reopened a little over a year ago. It was… less nice before The Johnson Development Group took over the neighborhood,” I pause a moment. “Well, they didn’t take it over. That sounds bad. They funded a project to restore the harbor, and the school was one of the many places to get a makeover,” I look back at him, making sure he’s still there. His feet are barely making noise on the stairs, and he still hasn’t said a word. I shudder.

Come on, Lili. I practiced this with Dr. Kate. All men are not that man. All men are not that man. I have no reason to be scared right now. This guy is not that man.

“What brings you to this side of the harbor?” I ask, collecting myself at the top of the stairs in front of the library. The floor-to-ceiling glass offers a full view inside, so we won’t be going in. He can see it from here, and Mason’s probably wondering where I am by now.

He steps near me, too close, and I take a protective step back. My heart’s drumming like Nick Cannon in that one movie. I place a protective arm across my chest. “Sorry,” I say.

He takes a step back, putting even more distance between us. I’m grateful I didn’t have to explain. The guys here know by now to keep their distance. I’ve had this very reaction to more than a few of them.

“I got a new placement. It’s zoned here,” he says in a nonchalant voice. A placement? Did his parents get a job placement or something? There are a lot of opportunities in town with the development. But, no. He said I.

“Are you…?”

“It’s a foster home,” he says coolly. I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod. Oh, I would have been in a foster home, too, if not for my aunt, isn’t a good conversation piece.

“This is the library,” I say stupidly. He looks past me, eyes darkened by his jacket’s hood.

“That’s a cool library.”

“It’s a very cool school. Especially compared to South Heights,” I half-joke. He just looks at the books a while longer before walking towards the commons. I scurry to catch up to him, stopping when we’re about five feet apart. “Hey, I’m the tour guide,” I say. A lame attempt at a joke.

“I’m sorry. Lili, right?” he stops walking. I stop too, keeping my distance. “I appreciate this, really, but I think I can find it all okay.” He looks annoyed or something and I’m stunned.

He is not blowing me off from the tour I didn’t want to give him in the first place. I was offered up for this. Hell, I’m missing Journalism for this. “But… Okay. Give me your schedule, at least.”

Everett’s right-hand digs the schedule out of dark jean pockets and hands me the paper. He has to extend his arm fully to reach my outstretched hand, and quickly grab the paper at its edge, avoiding his scarred fingers. After a quick scan, I give him a verbal map of his classes in order. We have one class together, seventh-period University Preparedness. A must-have course for us, given the neighborhood we’re from.

“Thanks,” he says before turning to walk to his first class. I’m certain that wasn’t the tour Sally the sweet receptionist was expecting, but it would have to do.

I watch him turn the glass corner, wondering why he wears his hood like a barrier to the outside world. Surely, he can’t expect to make any friends being so distant and cold.

“Welcome to East Harbor,” I mutter, turning to find my own way to class.

Ms. Jacobs is discussing how to form guided interview questions “to promote detailed responses” when I slip in. She gives me a bright smile and waves, gesturing me to my seat without breaking the flow of her lesson. I sink into the desk next to Mason, who gives me “where were you?” eyes.

I mouth, “Long story,” and take out my notebook. Journalism is my favorite class. I hate that I have it first-period since I’m always late to school, but Mason being in the class makes up for the shitty scheduling. She takes very detailed notes. I mean, color-coded and all.

Ms. Jacobs is animated at the front of the room. She’s one of those 30-something, gifted-teen-turned-burnout adults. She went to East Harbor before it got its makeover and loves to tangent from our lessons to tell a “When I went here” story. She overshares, and we love her for it. She tells us about past relationships, high school drama, her college experience, and, more recently, her experiences on a women-make-the-first-move dating app. She’s a lot like Aunt Rose, actually.

I’m finding that since I moved here, a lot of people have been like Aunt Rose and Ms. Jacobs. Accomplished, attractive… happy. Ms. Jacobs left a doctoral fellowship in creative writing to teach high school journalism here. People are attracted to this easy, classy, burden-free area. I think back to Mrs. Jenkins at South Heights. Her dingy sweaters that always smelled like roses, her plain ankle-length skirts, and her tired, hungry eyes. Not for food, though. If there’s one thing that did bring Mrs. Jenkins joy, it was cooking after church. The hunger she bore was for something greater; something new out of this life outside of Church, teaching high schoolers, and her life with Mr. Jenkins in Port Glen. Ms. Jacobs looks fulfilled like she doesn’t want anything outside of teaching us.

Ms. Jacobs releases us to practice profile writing using the notes from the lesson. Mason and I partner up and snag a bench in the hallway.

“To start my thought-provoking line of questioning, what is your reason for abandoning me this morning?” she asks, flipping her waist-length ginger red braids. I envy her braiding skills.

“I want braids like this,” I say, grabbing a few and threading them through my fingers. “With beads, though.”

“You will get nothing until you answer my question,” she rolls and flutters her eyes dramatically as if saying, “sooner, not later.” She reaches for her braids, but I grab her hand instead, inspecting her nails.

“A new set,” I say, my voice dripping with admiration. She’s so good at looking good. “It’s giving… bad bitch, take no shit, queen-energy.”

“And is,” she responds, clanking her long gem-encrusted nails. My best friend can’t ignore compliments for long. “But, stop buttering me up! We were supposed to get coffee with the BSU. Remember? The BSU with Chadwin in it?” She spreads her arms like she just made the most valid point ever, and I’m missing it.

I laugh. “We are not stalking him before tonight.”

“But we need to know how much he likes yooooou,” she whines.

“We know he likes me. Obviously. Why else would he put up with my… aversion. He has to like me to look past that.”

The playfulness in our exchange dims a little. Mason hasn’t asked me about it after all this time, but I know she wonders. Almost a year has passed since she saved me from a public meltdown and started this friendship.

I had gotten through the first few days of school with no problem. Everyone was so excited to be back with their friends after Summer in what seemed like a brand new building. No one even noticed me. I sat in the back, had lunch in the library, and kept my earbuds in. Then one day, I dropped my ID and lost my incognito status. Brandon Lewis, the best arm on the baseball team, picked it up. I hadn’t realized I had parted with the ID, so I wasn’t expecting him to come behind me.

His hand on my arm instantly flushed my body in a deep, aching churn of terror. I could feel it move through me like a wave. I was back in my room on the night it happened.

Once again, I was in a suspended state of unawareness. My brain had no clue who the hand belonged to, but its past experience led it to picture him. His hand. His roll of tape. Imagining him was pointless because I never saw his face, and whatever he looked like, the faceless man in my nightmares was far more terrifying. I couldn’t comprehend that I was miles away from my old house. It’s been too long. He couldn’t be here.

The coherent thought slipped through, but it was too late. My mind had signaled my heart to increase to an unsteady rhythmic beat. It told my muscles to tense, including my lungs. They tried to tell my brain they couldn’t breathe, but it couldn’t look past the slim possibility of there being a killer behind me.

I hyperventilated. I may have screamed. I turned, eyes wide, backing into the opposite flow of traffic into the hall. Guy after guy, man after man, infinite versions of him bumped into me from what seemed like each direction. I was drowning.

Then I bumped into her. Mason grabbed my shaking shoulders to steady me.

“Hey, hey, hey!” she said calmingly. “You’re okay. Breathe.”

“I can’t….” I gasped, focusing on the colorful stranger in front of me. She had four long pigtails, the two in the front blue and the two in the back purple. In traditional fashion for the childish hairstyle, she had silver knockers tied to the tops and bottoms of each pigtail. The rhinestone hoop in her nose glittered under the overhead lights.

Her bright pink lips pursed as she looked around in thought. The next thing I knew, she had interlocked our fingers and was guiding me to the bathroom. Once we were behind the closed door with no men in sight, my heartbeat slowed, and the uncomfortable waves calmed.

I sucked in a large breath. “Thank you,” I told her.

She responded with a smile, “No problem, girl. I know a panic attack when I see one. What’s your name? I’m Mason Reed.”

“I’m Lili Myles,” I replied, refusing to use Lilianne.

“OMG, that’s such a pretty name! Did you just start this year?” she asked before answering herself. “Well, duh. I know all the other Black people here. There are only like five of us. Where you from, Lili Myles?”

“I’m from Harbor Heights,” I answered sadly. “Port Glen area, by South Heights High School.”

“Oh, cool!” she exclaims. “My cousin goes there. The homecomings are so lit. And the band! East Harbor could never.”

The bell rang then, but we kept talking for another ten minutes. Her bubbles-and-sunshine attitude was infectious, and we had exchanged numbers before parting ways. A few regular lunch meetings, and I had a friend at East Harbor High School.

The interaction with Brandon made its way around the school, and a few more flinchy, fear-filled run-ins went down before the boys finally learned to stay away. If not for Mason, I would have become a pariah. She’s a celebrity at the cookie-cutter school, and if she says I’m cool, then I’m cool. No question about it.

Chadwin is the first guy to shoot his shot with me, though. The ball is currently rolling around the rim, but maybe after a few dates, I can learn to feel safe with him. It’s been enough time that I’m willing to try, but until then, the scoreboard will stay at zero.

Mason pulls me back into the present. “Well, if you insist on going in blind, be my guest. We gotta get that hair done, though,” she says, attempting to finger-comb my hair. We both burst into laughter when her hand got stuck halfway to my shoulder.

“Did you even brush it today?” she asks, feigning disappointment. “You’d be lost without me.”

“I was late! It’s not my fault. Blame my alarm for not being better at its job,” I laugh.

She’s right that I would be lost without her. With Mason by my side, Dr. Kate’s sessions, me trying new things… I was going to get better. I shiver in anticipation for my date tonight, attempting to loosen more tangles and thinking of a map for myself, one that would allow me to avoid Chadwin for the next seven hours until school lets out.