UnLEASHed

chapter un

Watching the parade of ants carrying bits of my vomit away from the foul stench beside me sheds a whole new appreciation for the expression, blowing chunks. Light ekes from the horizon, but at this angle, whether it is nightfall or daybreak remains a mystery. Damn. Is it possible that a look-alike toadstool is the culprit that forces me to spend my sixteenth birthday passed out in the middle of the woods? Yeah, no, that doesn’t happen with me. I don’t confuse mushrooms. I know what’s good, what’s not, what’s better, and what’s best. It’s why everyone buys whatever they need from me. I’m the best, and I have the best stuff.

I sit up, but the spinning makes me seriously reconsider this action. I roll myself a stick of remedy and light it. A few deep inhales and I’ll be good to go. Mmm. Yeah. With my newfound clarity smoldering in my hand, I pop up to my feet and navigate homeward. The decreasing light orients me to the west, and knowing this forest as I do, I’ll be to its edge before dark.

Nan! Billy’s voice startles me as I hop the old-school, wooden fence into his pasture. Nan! Where have you been? You weren’t at school! We’ve been looking everywhere for you! Come on! He is in a rush. I, however, am not.

Yeah, sorry, Billy. I wasn’t feelin’ so hot today.

Yeah, no time to talk. Come on!

Whereas most kids would anticipate being whisked away for a surprise party, I know better. What did Cuckoo do now?

Nan! Don’t joke at a time like this!

I wasn’t joking, I clarify. Perhaps his nagging haste should compel me to emote a baseline level of worry, but as the drama that is my mother has been so embedded in my world since birth, and presumably equally present before I was born, I can’t muster an iota of concern about whatever her latest, perceived, urgent, matter of life or death is. Cuckoo’s bullshit is so part and parcel of my being that I wouldn’t even recognize life without it.

So, imagine my shock to arrive home to flashing lights and yellow tape and the discovery that Cuckoo is dead. My father is dead, too. It isn’t a murder-suicide. It’s a double homicide. The police inform me that they tracked Daddy to the house, following his jailbreak, but before they could intercede, Cuckoo and Daddy simultaneously pulled their triggers and blew each other away. Yeah, no, I’m for real. This would be how my family functions. Given the things I have seen and heard growing up, nothing really surprises me about anything they do any more. Although, their sudden, unexpected, untimely demise does present me with a short-lived but glorious birthday gift.

But, as always, when one good thing happens in my life, three negatives immediately follow. What on earth have I done to piss Karma off so much?

So, on the night of my sixteenth birthday, one, my belongings, other than the contents of the backpack I perpetually carry, are now part of a police scene and thus are barricaded away from me. Two, being a suddenly orphaned minor, I have to immediately vacate my home to go live with the legal guardian Cuckoo has named for me or else I’ll become property of the state of Massachusetts. Yeah, not much of a choice there. So, three, with barely sufficient time to say goodbye to Billy, I am shipped off to Vermont to live with some random, old guy who is purportedly my godfather. Hmph. I have always been under the impression that the hoopla about godparents taking guardianship of their godchildren is just another myth of urban legend proportion. Apparently not so much. Talk about a threefold, karmic bitchslap.

Happy sixteenth birthday, Cordeleya.

chapter deux

While my fingertips remove the sleepyheads from my eyes, I inhale a calming breath, craving a remedy stick to alleviate my disorientation. Although the white box surrounding me triggers no recollections of familiarity, the insanely comfortable bed makes a strong argument to not get up and face whatever the day has in store. A peek to my left and right reveals luxurious décor and furnishings, causing me to suspect that I am waking on the set of a cover shoot for an interior design magazine.

Then, it strikes me. I am in my new home.

A tray teeming with an astounding array of foods awaits me on the antique hope chest. My body yearns for nourishment, so I snag an apple and read the accompanying note.

"Cordeleya, we’d love for you to join us for breakfast downstairs. I don’t yet know what you like to eat, but I’ll gladly fix you whatever you want. If, however, you prefer to have some time to yourself, hopefully this tray has something you can eat on it. I’ll stop up a little later to check if you’d like something from the kitchen brought to your room. Welcome to Vermont. –Mrs. S"

Wow. The lady of the house is perfect, which is in keeping with the immaculate condition of her presumable spare room that is now my bedroom. I toss the contents of the fruit basket – yes, a legit fruit basket – into my backpack and head for the window.

As my sneakers touch the manicured, lush, green grass below, a voice unnerves me. Yeah, no. Not so fast, missy. I spin around to a middle-aged man sitting in a lawn chair, reading a newspaper. Wow, newspapers aren’t extinct. Hmph. Only in Vermont would anyone have something so ironically archaic.

Were you waiting out here for me to sneak out? I probe.

It’s something I would’ve done at your age, he notes with a shrug. But I can’t allow it. Yet, if I say, ‘no,’ it’ll make you do it all the more, so… He hands me a metal key on an old keychain. Wow. They’re not extinct either? Sure, Vermont has a reputation as proudly and outspokenly behind the times when it comes to technology, but to be holding an actual key? Nobody has used anything as antiquated as keys in years! Rather than climbing out your window, please use our side door. Just lock it when you leave and after you come in. And in exchange for not having a curfew, kindly be home at a time that doesn’t give me or the Mrs. any gray hairs worrying about you. On school nights, I think we’re okay if you’re in by ten.

Oh, I don’t do school, I interrupt.

Yeah, well, now ya do.

Fury flames through my body. Since my first day in middle school, I have counted down until my sixteenth birthday and the actualization of Cuckoo’s promise to let me drop out of high school. And now it’s not happening? Oh, hell no. I yell, "You can’t even be serious! Cuckoo promised me!"

Calmly, my guardian informs me, "Well, there’s no record of any documentation, and in Vermont, the dropout age is eighteen."

I’ll never actually go, I threaten.

Oh, I’m thinkin’ that you will, he counters.

A car with dark windows pulls up in the driveway. An actual car!? Wow! Vermont is a living museum! Newspapers, keys, and cars? All in one day? Geez! Alas, the cool factor of seeing a for-real car is cut short when I notice that the driver is a scarily big man who climbs out and opens the door to the backseat. Hmm. Intimidation. Okay, yeah. I understand the silent implication. My backpack of fruit and I are apparently heading to school.

Specifically, Red Clover High School. What a stupid name for a school, but then again, schools are stupid. As much as I don’t want to be here, I recognize that noncompliance with my guardian’s rules will likely land me in jail or in the system. Considering that he and the Mrs. have provided a respectful amount of space and a key to their home, clearly conforming with whatever edicts my godfather gives me is the vastly preferable option.

However, signing up at a new school in May of a school year totally sucks. What is the point? To miraculously make new Vermont friends with whom I’ll carve out lifelong memories over the summer? Ha. No, thanks. Friends and I don’t mix. Sure, back home there’s Billy, but he’s the exception to the rule. So, if any of these Red Clover kids are going to waste a summer as my gopher, they’ve got about a month to make an impression on me.

Let us synchronize her LEASH, and we’ll have immediate access to her transcript, some patronizing, cardigan sweater-clad bitch in the main office demands.

I don’t have a LEASH, I note before grumbling, because I’m not a dog.

My guardian’s chuckle prompts me to glance over at him skeptically, as typically, adults don’t appreciate my dark humor. What do you mean you don’t have a LEASH? the pencil-pushing snob presses. All the kids have LEASHes.

He snarls at her, "Well, Cordeleya doesn’t. Is that gonna be a problem? Can Red Clover only educate kids on LEASHes?"

Obviously not, she snidely retorts. But we have no way to confirm her grade level without access to her school records.

Told ya that school was a waste of my time, I mumble.

Well, under the circumstances, that’s impossible, he argues. So, either put her in tenth grade until the end of the school year, as she just turned sixteen, or we’ll go to the Academy.

The Academy requires school records, too, she claims.

"The Academy requires a hefty sum of payment, he counters. They don’t much care what their students do beyond that."

The haughty bitch sneers, "You’d send your daughter to a school that you didn’t even attend?"

Instead of dignifying her stupidity with a response, he turns to me and says, Well, I hope you like plaid skirts, Cordeleya, as we’re enrolling you in Catholic school.

Catholic school? Suddenly, jail doesn’t look so bad. I’m not cut out for Catholic school. Arguably, I am not cut out for any school, but particularly not Catholic school! Religion classes, extra rules, and that goody-goody bullshit? Oh, hell no. This Academy place is not for me.

I’m sorry you had to go through that, my guardian apologizes as we return to the car. "I mean, ugh, what a bitch! I hated that place when I went there, and I hate it just as much now. Frickin’ waste of our time."

I confess, I can’t do Catholic school.

"You’ll be fine. The Academy kids were a billion times wilder than we RCHS kids ever dreamed of being. You’ll have plenty of fun. Probably too much."

Ah, right. The ol’ high school mantra. I recite, Because the high school years are the best years of my life?

Shockingly, he replies, Where did you hear such utter crap? The only people who believe that are losers who peak in high school. He looks me over. "You don’t have to worry about that."

Excuse me, what? What’s that supposed to mean? I snap.

"Only that you’re not a girl who will peak in high school. Cuz you’ve got more to offer the world." Hmph. Good answer. Too good. The guy doesn’t even miss a beat. He means it. Wow.

"Did you peak in high school?" I ask him.

"Naah. I peaked way before high school," he retorts with a smirk. Oddly, I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or being flip.

But as he has predicted, his deep pockets secure my enrollment in the Academy’s sophomore class. The jolly, rosy, nun-wannabe in the main office hands me a uniform skirt and a handbook and sunnily exclaims, We’ll see you tomorrow morning!

Yeah, great. Lookin’ forward to that, I lie.

On the arduous trek back to the car, my guardian ribs, That wasn’t so bad, was it?

Compared to what, appendicitis? I counter.

Instinctively, his arm slides around my shoulder, and he decides, Chip off the ol’ block. I mean, if you were my kid. The onset of the panicked expression on his face amuses me, and I let him flounder out of the misspoken statement on his own. I only meant, you’re gonna fit into the family just fine.

"I’m not really a family sort of girl," I explain.

Of course, he concedes. "Didn’t mean to pressure you. Just don’t want you to feel alone in the world."

Ah. So, the Mr. is in denial of the minor detail in life called reality. I am alone in the world. My parents are dead, and I live in a stranger’s house in a strange place. And trust me… if you’ve ever been to Vermont, you understand exactly how strange it is.

Hey, he says, stopping and looking me in the eyes before we get into the car. It’s going to be okay. I know it doesn’t seem it right now, but it will. I roll my eyes. And yes, I’ve been in your shoes, so I know what you’re going through.

I snap, "Your mother and father killed each other and left you orphaned, shipped off, and consequently separated from your business at sixteen? His eyes gaze off briefly, and before he can seamlessly shift his perceived empathy to mere sympathy, I cut him off. Yeah, as I thought! You don’t know what I’m going through!" I bound into the car and close the door in silence. How dare he assume he knows anything? I lose more money by attending the charade known as high school than I will ever make from the education it provides me! I have clients who need their supplies, and I need their cash.

My guardian gets into the car and immediately apologizes. Cordeleya, I’m sorry. Obviously, I don’t know how you’re feeling. No, really, you presumptuous jerk? I just don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in the world when I’m here for you and can relate to what you’re going through.

You think you can relate to this? I scoff.

"Considering my parents weren’t even dead when they discarded me? Yeah, I can relate, even if I don’t know how you feel."

I’m actually better off without them, I confess. "Cuckoo was insane, and Daddy wasn’t really my father." It is the first time I allow the words to leave my lips, and I immediately hate myself for saying them. Like I’ve betrayed him. But I owe him nothing.

I didn’t realize that, the Mr. whispers as he stares out the window. He cracks his knuckles, or maybe he’s just making a fist.

"No love lost between you and Daddy, is there?" I uncomfortably acknowledge.

He shrugs. Yeah, not so much. But everyone reacts to someone’s death in his or her own way, he reminds me, turning to me with a contrite grin on his face. It’s okay for you to grieve, Cordeleya. And how you grieve may look vastly different than how someone else grieves, but closure is what’s important.

I grumble, My only loss is my business.

What kind of business is that? he skeptically inquires.

It’s all perfectly legal, I defend. I procure local, natural resources, and I sell them to my clients so they can utilize them as ingredients for the stuff they make.

So, you’re either the grassroots supplier for Salem’s drug market, or you’re screwin’ with witchcraft. Knowing your mother, I’d wager on witchcraft.

Okay. He guesses that too easily. "Well, I don’t do witchcraft, I clarify. Witches are simply my clients. And I don’t do drugs. And I don’t hang out with people who do drugs."

He smiles with relief. Well, so far, Cordeleya, we’re still good. You get what the witches want, sell it to them, and make serious bank. I roll my eyes. Adults seriously need to cease their use of old slang from their childhoods. Ugh. "The move to Vermont will actually be an asset to your business, though."

"Yeah, right. My clients and my resources are all in Salem."

But Vermont’s stuff is better, he claims with a cocky shrug. Always has been. Sure, we bought things in Salem because it was Salem, but our local resources were always more powerful.

Great. Just when the guy shows promise of being an almost alright adult he goes and gets all witchcrafty on me? Ugh. I point out, Well, Vermont isn’t exactly known for witchcraft.

"Good! I don’t want witches invading. You know what I mean?" He smirks again. Having grown up surrounded by witches, I totally get it. An inherent perk of my parents’ double homicide is that all that witchy lineage shit that plagued my formative years goes to the grave with them. "Not to diss witches, as I won’t speak ill of your mom, but in general, I have no use for them."

You can diss witches, I point out. I’m not one, and the only purpose they serve me is in giving me their money.

He chuckles and holds his fist towards me, but it’s not like he’s trying to punch me. I look at him skeptically. Fist bump, he states with a snicker. Gently bring your knuckles over to mine. Promise I won’t hurt you. I half-ass touch my knuckles to his fist. He makes a weird explosive sound and wiggles his fingers. Clearly this means something, but it’s lost on me. Sorry, that was kinda standard when I was your age. He sighs. Not so much anymore?

I shake my head and crinkle my nose and eyes. Yeah, not so much anymore. Wait! Like guys’ weird handshakes? I realize.

His face lights up at the connection. Yes! Exactly like that! I smile feebly. He means well. It’s kinda endearing.

As I watch the unfamiliar houses and scenery pass by, my guardian babbles about the funeral services for Cuckoo and Daddy. My brain only half-listens. I don’t want to deal with it, but as their daughter, I kinda have to. I inquire, Did you know them well enough to go to their funerals?

He specifies, "I’d go to your mother’s funeral. Your fath-, I mean, her husba-, I mean, her ex-husband’s? Cue polite pause. Only if you want to go."

Not particularly. But I’m supposed to, right?

"Well, first of all, Cordeleya, don’t ever do anything because you’re supposed to. Do it because you can’t imagine not doing it. He smirks. I guarantee you don’t want to go to either of them, but the closure you get will be a good thing. It’ll be worth it. And, if that’s not enough incentive, it’ll get you out of school for a few days. His grin grows to a smile. So, let’s plan on going."

I laugh. Sure, laughter isn’t the appropriate reaction to planning to attend your parents’ funerals, but considering I’m being bribed to be there by getting out of a day or two of life at the Academy, when I haven’t even experienced life at the Academy, how else am I supposed to react? Deal.

chapter trois

Okay. Confession? I look smokin’ hot in my Catholic schoolgirl getup. Mirrors don’t lie about such things. However, I anticipate that I’ll be cited for a dress code violation as I don’t own little, strappy, mary janes. My footwear options are my trusty sneakers that I always stow away in my backpack or the combat boots I wear every day back home. And with a cutesy little plaid skirt, my obvious decision is the boots. I grab my school cardigan, procured by the Mrs., and head downstairs to have some coffee.

In the kitchen, my way-too-chipper godfather, wearing a yellow and white striped apron, inquires, Do you like omelets?

My lips form an overwhelmed semi-smirk. I haven’t had any coffee, I grumble.

Oh! Right! He pours me a hot mugful. Black, right?

Uh-huh, I agree. The warmth of the ceramic mug is therapeutic for my hands. Oh, the aroma. Then, the taste. Mmm. Good coffee in Vermont. Is it the beans or the clean water? I don’t care. I will drink as much coffee as humanly possible here.

That’s how I take mine, too, he continues, trading his spatula for his travel mug. The Mrs., on the other hand, is totally a cream and sugar gal. I tease her relentlessly about it.

Daddy! A high-pitched squeal followed by what would not be described as the pitter patter of little feet runs at my aproned guardian. He crouches down and scoops up a little strawberry blonde frizzball. Kiss? she demands. He kisses her cheek.

How’s my little princess this morning? he asks her, with this nauseatingly adorable tenderness that I have only ever previously witnessed between kids and parents in movies. But no, it happens in real life, too. At least in Vermont.

So embarrassing! she notes, throwing her hands in the air and turning to me as if performing to her captive audience. I snicker. What a ham! But okay, her father is clearly a man who cherishes his family, and well, as a maybe fourish-year-old, the overlove of a parent is undoubtedly nothing less than so embarrassing. Daddy, who is she?

Harley, this is Cordeleya. Cordeleya, my daughter, Harley.

Nice to meet you, Harley, I acknowledge with a smile and a wave before giving my coffee further worship.

Don’t let him fool you. I’m Mommy’s daughter, too.

This kid is too much. I chuckle and admit, Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.

And if you go into the living room, you’ll find her big brother zonked out in front of this relic called a TV and a contraption called a videogame system, their proud papa informs me. He’d love to kick your butt at videogames, so anytime you kids aren’t at school, feel free to be his latest victim. He’s kinda sick of beating the rest of us.

I glare at the Mr. incredulously. Videogames? TV? In working condition? No way! I have got to see this, I decide, getting up from the stool at the counter.

Right this way, Cordeleya, Harley leads me, holding my hand with her tiny, little, soft fingers. Oh my goodness! She is so precious! This is Weston. He’s my brother. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. She turns and runs out of the living room, leaving me alone with this wiry kid who wears glasses and has a spikey mullet.

Are you gonna stand there gawking, or are you gonna do somethin’ useful? he asks, never taking his eyes off the screen or hands off the controller.

I’d love to play, but I have school. I feign disappointment.

Me, too. There’s a great invention on this thing. It’s called a pause button. So, come up with a better excuse, he challenges.

Fine. I’m gonna kick your ass on this thing, Kid, I threaten, grabbing the other controller and flopping onto the bean bag chair that he isn’t sitting in.

Don’t let Mom hear you say that, he reveals. She has a swear jar.

Like I give a shit about a swear jar? I scoff.

He lights up like a Christmas tree. "Damn! We’ll be goin’ to Florida on your mouth!"

From nowhere, the Mrs.’s voice booms, Weston! Swear jar!

Shit, how did she hear that? he whispers to me. I shrug.

That’s two dollars, mister! she shouts from wherever she is.

What’s your name? he asks me, putting our game on pause.

Cordeleya, I note, skeptically.

Cordeleya owes two dollars, too! he tattles.

I pull two dollars out of my pocket and hand it to him. There, you little shit, I grumble.

Mom! She owes a third dollar!

The Mrs. appears in the doorway. Yup. She’s the missing piece of perfection in her picturesque family. Only when I lay eyes on her do I ponder why I haven’t actually met anyone other than my guardian until my second morning of residing here. Yes, I have needed some serious decompression alone time in my room, but my wishes for solitude have actually been respected. Wow. Good morning, Cordeleya, she greets me. I’m pleased she’s not forcing some corny introduction. I know who she is, and her husband has surely filled her in about me. "I hope you’ll respect that with their father’s mouth, I’m attempting to teach our children to use words that are more appropriate than swears are. So, not trying to tell you how to speak, but, if you could please not use obscenities around the kids, that would help me out." Her condescending tone is clearly intentional, but she isn’t truly pissed off at me. And okay, little kids’ ears don’t need to be privy to my kind of talk. Point taken.

I reach into my pocket. Fine. There’s the third dollar, I note, handing it to the puny punk, but those three are all mine. Potty mouth here still owes his two dollars. Having made it impossible for Weston to claim my money as his contribution to the swear jar, I smirk winningly at him. But can we go somewhere other than Florida?

I vote for Hawaii, the Mrs. suggests, taking my three dollars from her son and leaving the room.

Yanno what? I think I really like the Mrs..

Ready for school, you two? the Mr. suggests as he enters, armed with two lunch bags. The blue one with zigzags, fish, and gears on it is clearly his son’s. The plain black one must be mine. I am curious about what he has packed for lunch for me, when he doesn’t know what I like, but if I look now, I’ll seem ungrateful, so I simply slip it into my backpack. Surely I can buy food at the Academy if I need something edible. Or coffee. Yeah. Coffee.

Shotgun! my videogame archnemesis shouts, running at the car.

He’s not actually big enough to ride up front, my guardian casually explains to me. So, you don’t have to worry about sitting in a car seat. You ready?

My stomach flip-flops at the concept of actually going to school, but I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter. Oh boy.

The Mr.’s hand grabs my shoulder and holds on until I look him in the eye. "You’re gonna be okay. I know you hated your mother, but a long time ago, she was an intensely resilient girl. So, ignore all the shit you hate about her, dig deep for that resilience, and announce that today will be okay, and it will be."

Babe, you owe the swear jar a dollar, the Mrs. and her clairaudient hearing detects. The Mr. replies with a muttered f-word, which is apparently a ten-dollar offense! By the time he leaves the room to pony up to the swear jar, he owes twelve bucks. Yeah. Remind me not to swear in this house.

Alone in the living room, I sigh and compliantly proclaim, Today will be a good day, to the nobody who is still here to hear me. Call me superstitious, but I don’t need the I told you so that my guardian will bestow on me if I fail to listen to his advice in a situation where it makes a difference. So, maybe I err on the side of caution, but why not? It’s high school. I need all the good karma I can get.

chapter quatre

Here we are… the lone car amid a sea of PARs in the drop-off circle at the Academy. Each vehicle releases students at the bottom of the stairs that lead into the building, but whereas the Personal Automated Rides then self-park in the student lot or return to their garages, I relish the novelty of arriving in an actual car with a protective driver who waits and watches me pass through the doors of my school before driving over to the elementary school and repeating the routine with his son. Harley hasn’t tagged along because she doesn’t go to school yet. She and the Mrs. are apparently at home making cookies. No, really. I’m not actually imaginative enough to make this shit up.

You’d think after all the years of the existence of high schools they would undergo some massive changes. But no. They are still the same vapid wastelands they have always been. The same fake, popular people float down the halls, brainwashing the masses into believing they want to be them. Truthfully, everyone wants to see them fall on their faces. Therefore, apparently deep down, everyone secretly yearns to fall on their own face. That’s pretty messed up.

Among the popular crowd, you’ll find the jocks. These star athletes don’t float as much as move in a lurking, jerking way that doesn’t look comfortable. As my gait is fine and nobody stays up all night wanting to be me, I’ll neither ever be a jock nor one of the popular kids.

Then, there are the brains. They’re the kids who give the teachers a glimmer of hope that they’ve made the right choice in their profession. No high school functions without them, but nobody actually sets out to be one of them. You either are, or you aren’t. I don’t give a damn about books, so I am an aren’t.

Even in a Catholic school, there are the rebels, with their leather jackets over their uniforms, and their piercings strategically placed so as not to alarm administration. Don’t get me started on where their tattoos must be if they aren’t visible with our short uniform skirts and lightweight, white blouses. Now, it might surprise you, but I would rather save my money than spend it on artwork I’ll regret in a few years. So, no, I’m not your stereotypical bad girl either.

Ah, yes, let’s not forget the do-gooders… the elusively in-your-face, involved with every club, organization, and charity known to mankind, heart of gold, martyrs for any cause that looks good on a résumé. They are the vice presidents, treasurers, and secretaries of every school sanctioned group, but they will never be the president of anything. That title is always strictly reserved for a member of the popular crowd, not a do-gooder. Why on earth student bodies can’t figure out how to vote someone deserving into office,