© 2002 by Alessandra Azzaroni vcaoriginals@yahoo.com.au

STORY LAST UPDATED ON 22/05/2002

PROLOGUE

I can't remember how many times I've been told to live for the day. After all, who knows if you're going to live to see tomorrow?
    I believe in tomorrow. I just don't believe that I will always have a tomorrow. I worry about the future, and if I even have one. If so, it probably won't go on for very long.
    I know I seem as if I'm bitter at the world. But I'm not. I'm bitter at my rich grandparents for disowning my mother, just because what she wanted didn't match up to their bigoted beliefs.
    But mostly, I'm bitter at myself.

CHAPTER ONE

I know my parents have always been kind, sweet and caring people, who only want the best for me. That's why I've found it hard being an only child. Because I'm the only one my parents want to have the best. Sometimes it felt like they had me on an elevator, and each time I disappointed them, I went down a level. But I could never get back up.
    My parents have had a difficult time. My father's a photographer, who was born in New York. Yeah, that doesn't sound so bad at first, but then people find out that while my mother is white, my father's African-American. And sometimes he struggles to find work. That makes him a black "starving artist".
    Obviously, my mother's parents looked down on Papa for that. My mother's wealthy, white parents, whom I had never met before. Apparently, through the years, my grandfather had died, so it was just my grandmother now.
    Mama knows where her mother is - in the house Mama grew up in with her sisters, Kristine and Abigail. Apparently, they have children themselves now. Mama said that Aunt Kristine moved to New York with her husband when they first got married. Aunt Abigail and her family still live in Littleton, a small town about two hours away from San Francisco. Mama only knows this from one of her old childhood friends. They write to each other, but never visit.
    After Mama's parents disowned her, she packed her things and hitchhiked her way down to Los Angeles. I was born and raised near Long Beach, California, in a little suburb called Fresno. I attended the local high school, where I was in senior year. That's when I think things started to take a nosedive…

The papers were ready, and we waited to get our own. From the pile, I found the one with my name on it, before passing the stack to those behind me.
    On my paper were marks in red ink. Always red. Red means bad. Everyone knows that. Sure, all the papers were corrected in red, so what's the big deal? Okay, so maybe in art class, Miss Dresley marked our work in green. Green means good. We could get the same grade in green as we'd get in red, but the green just always seems better. Must be a mental thing.
    But the crosses weren't the only things in red. The comments were, too. The words "see me" were scrawled on the page. "See me"? What was that all about? Never before had those words ever graced something of mine. But there's a first time for everything, and I was probably just having a turn of being "the chosen one". Everyone gets a go, fair and square. Share and share alike, and all those other quotes that float down through the ages.
    The bell rang to end last period chemistry class, and the other students in the room raced out. I packed up my belongings slowly, and soon the only people in the room were Mr Kimmorley and I.
    "Did you get my note, Sapphire?" he asked from his bench table. Next to the sink was his open grade book. That was a bad thing. And he wasn't smiling. That was bad, too.
    "Yes, sir." I approached the high table and looked up at him, where he was seated at a tall chair. "Is this about my test?"
    "Yes, Sapphire, this is about your test." He nodded slowly as he spoke.
    "What about it, sir?" I asked timidly, not looking directly at him.
    "Maybe you should be the one doing the talking," Mr Kimmorley said, stroking his moustache.
    I looked down at the ground, ashamed. I wondered for a fleeting moment if I could somehow talk him into not letting my parents know. I had to try. "Whatever my grade is, sir, I can improve upon it," I argued my case. "I can do some extra credit work-"
    "And normally I would let you. But not this time." He shook his head firmly, looking straight at me.
    "But why not?" I knew I was sounding desperate. But I didn't want my parents to know that something was wrong - that I wasn't as good as they thought I was, or wanted me to be.
    "There's no nice way of saying it, Sapphire. You're failing chemistry. And don't you say tried," he went on, holding his hand up to ward off my excuses. "You did not even attempt questions thirteen through seventeen. Why not?"
    Ooh, I hated it when people asked me questions. Especially when I didn't have a straight answer for those questions. I just didn't know. "I just… blanked out," I tried to explain. "I just couldn't remember-"
    "Okay, Sapphire, I guess you don't have to explain yourself to me. You can explain to your parents."
    "What!"
    "I'm sorry, Sapphire, but I'll have to call your parents. This is your senior year, and you're failing a subject. This is important."
    "I know, Mr Kimmorley. Look, I can retake the test-"
    "No, you can't retake the test, Sapphire." I was definite then that I had no choice but to cooperate. "I suggest you keep your home telephone line free tonight. Do you understand?"
    I lowered my head. "Yes, sir," I whispered.
    "What's that?"
    "Yes, sir," I repeated, louder this time.
    "Good. You can leave now, Sapphire."
    I left quickly, without another word. I power-walked through Fresno High School's tiny corridors with my head down, books clutched tightly to my chest. My eyes were filling with tears, and I tried blinking them back. It was sinking in - I was failing. I was a failure.

In Fresno, our family lived in share housing. It was a building with three levels, each level for a different family. We weren't allowed on the other levels unless we were invited, or if we were using the staircase to move onto our level.
    My family and I were on the top level. Mama hated that, because she was afraid of heights. I was the one who washed the windows once a year, at spring-cleaning time. (Strange how there's a designated time for cleaning.)
    I remember one time - the only time - my family and I went on holiday. This was because Papa's work at National Geographic Magazine - a job from which they cut him loose later - sent him to Hawaii. I remember that it was sunset, and the wind was shaking the palm trees outside. We were in our hotel room, on the twenty-sixth level, and Mama was dead certain that the building was swaying. Needless to say, she didn't sleep that night.
    Our building was industrial grey brick. The tenants on the ground floor were the Ascot family, and they were about to move out. Their finances had been rising - and we never questioned why - and they'd just put a deposit down on a house in Monterrey.
    The family in the middle was the Stantons. I was kind of friends with their seventeen-year-old girl, Melina. We both went to Fresno High, and we were both looked down upon, due to our poor conditions.
    It is absolutely true that money is a big matter. People really do judge you by the amount of money your family has - or in my case, has not. Of course, this doesn't happen everywhere. Just in the snobby, high-society places. I didn't think it would be this was in Fresno, but Long Beach is close to L.A.
    When I think of the way my parents and I live, I think of my grandmother, and my two aunts and their families. They wouldn't know what it's like to live our way. And I had the feeling that my cousins would be spoiled. Okay, maybe not all of them - but at least one of them would be. I was definite of that.

I stuck my key in the lock and pushed open the door. I closed it behind me and made my way up the stairs. All was quiet at the Ascots'.
    The Stantons', however, was not. When Lenora Stanton, the mother of the family, saw me, she immediately came up to me. "Sapphire, did you hear? The Ascots are gone now!"
    "Already?" I asked, looking questionably at the pretty redhead. "But I just saw them this morning."
    "They were packing, and then they left. There's a new family moving in soon."
    "Right. See you later!" I continued up the stairs to my family's level. I knew that Mama would be at work - she was currently employed at the cosmetics counter of a department store. Papa would probably be at home. At that time, he didn't have any good, solid work.
    I walked straight through into the tiny living room. Papa, as expected, was there, going over the classifieds section of the newspaper. He looked up when I arrived. "Had a good day?" he asked me.
    "Fair to middling," I replied. It was something that Mama said often, and Papa always smiled when one of us said it. However, this time his smile was a bit forced. "Is everything alright?"
    "No," he sighed. "I'm still looking for a job, but there just doesn't seem to be any jobs for photographers." He turned the page of the newspaper with one big, strong hand.
    I dropped my bag on the ground, sat down on a well-worn couch and yawned. "When does Mama get off work tonight?" I asked.
    "Five. I bought some pork to roast for dinner. Could you do it?"
    "Yeah, I'll do it." I went off into the kitchen, and washed my hands. I then set about collecting the ingredients I'd need.
    The phone rang, and I jumped to answer it. If it was someone from school, I could hang up the phone, take it off the hook and pretend that it was a wrong number. "Hello?"
    Someone bursting into tears over the line answered me. "Sapph? Is that you?" It was Mama.
    "Yes, Mama. What's wrong?"
    "Put your father on the line, please."
    I didn't question that. I just called out for Papa. Little did I know that things were about to step down once more.

CHAPTER TWO

I stepped out of the kitchen when Papa took the phone. I decided to give my parents privacy, but I really wanted to know what was going on - even if that something was bad.
    I wanted to eavesdrop, but I didn't. Instead, I just grabbed my bag from the living room and went to my bedroom. It was nothing fancy, and it was quite cramped, even though all of the furniture - bed, bookshelf, chest of drawers and clothes rack (I didn't have a closet) were small. There was flowered wallpaper, faded, left from the tenants before. And the carpet was grey, with pastel geometric shapes on it, also left behind.
    But the windows were huge, even if the view wasn't too great. Unfortunately, my room did not get the beach view. However, the windowsill was crafted so that people could actually sit on it - lie on it, even, if you stretched out longways and put your legs on it. But you had to be below six feet tall to do so comfortably.
    I got on it as I usually did. I went there to read and think, and sometimes I even did homework there, if I only used a notebook and no textbook.
    I was worried about Mama. She's just not the crying sort of person. If we weren't so short on cash, people might think that her life was pretty good. She was attractive, with blond hair that hadn't lost its smooth texture, and blue eyes that Papa said were like sapphires.
    Yeah, and she also had a great husband. His love for her had never faded over the years. When Mama refused to give him up, and was disowned for that reason, Papa was forever grateful for that. And she loved him, too. Papa and I were the only true, steady things in her life that she could always rely on. But judging by that recent test result, I couldn't be the daughter that she'd always wanted me to be.
    Since she had called during her work shift, I could only assume that something had happened regarding her job. I hoped that she hadn't lost it.
    The possibilities were endless. She could've been fired, or there could've been sexual harassment in the workplace, or someone could've died… there were so many things that could've happened, but it was my prime guess that she had lost her job. But I couldn't imagine why.
    The department store wasn't far from our building, considering we were living near the centre of town. It was maybe a ten-minute walk away. Papa hadn't left the house yet, so I assumed that Mama was taking the time to think as she walked.
    I stayed at my windowsill, but I knew when Mama came home. My room was just off the living room, so I could hear what was said, even though it was mostly Mama's sobbing.
    "Dana, there's still hope," I heard Papa say. I knew he was holding her, because her sobs were muffled. "Sapph could still get the job at Fonteyn."
    Unlikely. I had been interviewed and had handed in my résumé in hope that I could do some reception work at the local ballet academy, named after the famous dancer, Margot Fonteyn. I didn't even like ballet, but getting a job anywhere was all I needed.
    And since I was just about definite that Mama had lost her job, I really needed one. But the people at Fonteyn hadn't called me back, so I assumed that I hadn't got the job.
    "What can we do?" Mama cried. "I've got no job, you've got no job and Sapph has no job. This is it. This is the end of the road."
    "We'll go to the benefits office tomorrow," Papa said. "We'll see what we can do. I'll see what kind of job I can try to get."
    Once Mama had calmed down, they knocked on my door. "Come in," I called out. They did, and before they could say something to me, I spoke first. "The people at Fonteyn haven't called back and they're probably not going to."
    I turned to face Mama from my perch on the windowsill. "I know you lost your job, Mama, and I'm sorry. I can't seem to get a job, so I don't know how the three of us will cope out of work."
    They were both still standing, arms folded. "We'll just have to keep searching," Mama suggested. "Have you tried looking for any other jobs? I hear a new bistro is opening soon - we could all try there. Bennett, you could cook, I could wait tables and Sapph, you could wash dishes and bus tables or something."
    "We could try," I said meekly, but I wasn't too hopeful. The chances of all three of us having a job at the same time were pretty slim.
    Papa turned to Mama. "You could call your mother-"
    "My mother wouldn't even talk to me. She rejected us those years ago, and she's not just going to change her mind. She won't give us handouts."
    "But didn't your father have the most say in the matter? Maybe your mother just wanted to keep on your father's good side," Papa reasoned. "Now that he's out of the way, maybe she'll have changed her mind."
    "Maybe," Mama mumbled, unbelieving. "But there's no way that she can get all three of us jobs. There's no way she'll rewrite me into her will."
    "Why can't we go see Papa's family?" I asked quietly.
    Papa looked over at Mama, and then came over to kneel on the carpet beside the windowsill, looking up at me. "Sapphire - my entire family is dead."
    My eyes widened. "All of them?"
    He nodded. "I was an only child, and my parents were, too. They died in a road accident. Everyone else died of old age and/or disease."
    "O… kay," I said slowly, nodding. I wasn't sure what to say to that. I'd never known them all, so I couldn't exactly feel sadness for them.
    "You hungry, Sapph?" Mama asked, still standing a distance away.
    "Not really."
    "Good, neither am I. I'm going to bed early now. I'll see you in the morning." She turned to leave.
    "Sleep well, Mama," I called out to her.
    Papa stood up. "I'll leave you to it. Take care."
    "You too, Papa."

When I woke up in the morning, I could tell that the new tenants had arrived. I could hear the distinct sounds of cardboard boxes on polished wood floor. They must've already ripped out the carpet.
    It was a school day, Friday, so I hurried about getting ready. I never ate breakfast. Not only did it take up time, but also we were limited to toast with margarine.
    When I went down the stairs, I couldn't help but peek in to see whom the new family was and what they were doing. Four people were dashing in and out of the building with boxes, bags and sporting equipment. The middle-aged man and woman were obviously the head of the family. And the other two, a male and a female, both looked about my age. All four of them seemed quite active and good looking, with straight, glossy black hair and bright blue eyes that I could see quickly from quite a distance away.
    And their belongings just didn't seem to belong in this building. The family obviously had a bit of money, and it made me wonder why they were moving here. They seemed much more suited to Palm Gardens, an exclusive living area close to the beach.
    "Have you brought in the cutlery and crockery for the bistro yet?" the woman called out, examining the contents of a box.
    "No," the girl my age replied. "We're leaving them in the car. Dad's going to drive it all over this afternoon."
    "Are you ready to go to school now?"
    "Yeah, I've got everything."
    "And you'll tell people that we need people to work at the bistro?"
    The girl rolled her eyes at her mother, hands on hips. "You don't tell people that kind of thing on a first day, Mother."
    "I could work." It wasn't until all four of them looked my way that I realised I had spoken aloud. "I could wash dishes or bus tables," I suggested. "My mother's just lost her job, but she could wait tables. My father's a photographer who can't find work, but he could work in the kitchen or something."
    The man was nodding, looking thoughtful behind his thin-framed spectacles. "So you're all unemployed?" he asked me.
    "Yes, we are."
    "But you'd be dedicated to work?"
    "Oh yes, sir," I said enthusiastically. "Unlike some other unemployed people, my family actually wants to work. We need the money, but we also need to do something with ourselves."
    The woman was agreeing with her husband. "Right. You sound like what we're looking for. Do you know Penrith Street?"
    "It's right around the corner."
    "We have a bistro there, the Smiths' Arms. It's next to Demitriou's. Can you parents come in today?"
    "Absolutely. When should they come around?"
    "Two," the man answered. "Can you come over after school?"
    "Sure." My voice had emotion in it, and I knew I was feeling hopeful. Maybe our family could be saved after all.
    "Good. We'll discuss wages, and you can help get everything unpacked. How about it?"
    "We're on. I'll go up now and tell them." I dashed up the stairs and saw my parents sitting in the kitchen. "Bistro… next to Demitriou's… two o'clock… jobs for us," I got out between my huffing.
    Mama looked sceptically over her cup of coffee. "You sure about this?"
    "New people… downstairs… they said."
    "Tell them we'll be there," Papa said, speaking for the both of them.
    I sprinted back down to the new family. "We're on," I confirmed. "You can count on us."

CHAPTER THREE

At school, I realised that the girl was in a few of my classes. Her name was Margaretta Sanderson, and her family consisted of her parents, Simon and Janine, and her older brother, Duncan. They were Southerners, from Georgia, and I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed it at first. I must have been too wrapped up in the dream of my parents and I all getting jobs.
    After last period, I met Margaretta at her locker, and we walked to Penrith Street, where the Sandersons' bistro, the Smiths' Arms, was. Inside, it looked almost identical to a similar place on Tagstren Road. The walls were painted a dark red, with black scalloping near the ceiling.
    It was separated into parts. To the left were the bar and the food counter, and to the right were the tables and restrooms. The kitchen was at the back.
    Already, the tables and chairs were in position, but they needed polishing. Janine armed us with rags and furniture polish, and we got to work. Duncan was bringing in bags from the car, Papa and Simon were examining the kitchen, and Mama and Janine were collecting linen to take to the Laundromat.
    After awhile, Duncan left, saying that he had to collect his college textbooks. Papa announced that the dishwasher and stove needed repairing. So Simon put Margaretta and I to work unloading everything else that was left in the Jeep. They went to the hardware store, while we brought the boxes in.
    Once everything was inside, we began the lengthy task of unpacking things and putting them in their rightful places. The bar and the kitchen were clean, so items could be put down at any time.
    When we got around to the liquor bottles, Margaretta stared longingly at them. "Look at them!" she exclaimed. "They're not full. That means that we could take some and not be caught."
    "But wouldn't your parents be able to tell by the levels?" I asked, unsure.
    "No, they haven't looked at these in ages." She put the box aside, and walked over to the bag she took to school. She rummaged around inside, and pulled out a flask. She showed it to me. "I usually keep soup in this, but this is an opportunity too good to waste!" She seemed to bounce around; she was so excited.
    When she came back over, I asked casually, "So, you drink often?"
    "Promise you won't tell?"
    I nodded.
    "I usually only drink at parties and stuff, but when things get tough…" Margaretta trailed off, and she stared down onto one of the liquor boxes.
    "So things have bee difficult for you?" I asked gently.
    She snapped out of her little haze. "Actually, no. But I have a little… fascination with alcohol."
    "By fascination, do you mean addiction?"
    She looked up at me. "You get right to the point, don't you?"
    I nodded. "It's a trait I pride myself on."
    "Well, I'm not really addicted." She shook her head. "I don't buy my own alcohol, and no one else really buys any for me. And I don't like to touch my parents' at home, just in case they notice." She scrunched up her face, remembering past times. "When I baby-sit, I have some. When I'm at other people's houses, I have some. Without them knowing, of course," she added. "And I get extremely drunk at parties.
    "That's why I was glad to leave Georgia," she went on. "Sometimes I got really bad, and my friends stopped talking to me. No one, it seemed, was really into alcohol. I could've used a friend."
    "I know what you mean," I murmured, more to myself than to her.
    "What?"
    "It gets bad. My family doesn't have that much money. This morning, before I talk to you all, none of us three had a job. And I recently failed a chemistry test, but they don't know about it yet. I just wish that someone would understand."
    "Alcohol understands," Margaretta whispered, gazing with an almost yearning into the box. "It's always there for you, if you can get your hands on it. It always makes you feel better."
    She unscrewed the lid off the flask, and started opening liquor bottles.
    "What are you doing?" I asked.
    She rolled her eyes. "This is the trick. You don't take it all from one bottle. If you did, it would be quite clear what's going on. Instead, you take a little bit from each. Get what I mean?"
    "But isn't that dangerous?"
    "No, I can handle it just fine. Of course, I've done this a heap of times before. It's old hat to me."
    I watched as she began pouring from all the different bottles. Some of them weren't even labelled in English, so the contents were unknown to me. Of course, I didn't really know anything about alcohol.
    "Want some?" Margaretta asked me.
    "No… no, thanks."
    "Are you sure? You just failed a chemistry test, didn't you?"
    "Yes."
    "And your parents don't know yet?"
    I shook my head. "They don't know."
    "Well, when they do, you'll need these." She rummaged through her school bag. "Here, I'll give you a present."
    She held out an identical flask, and I hesitated in taking it. "You don't mind giving this to me?"
    "Of course you can have it. I don't really need two. Sometimes I keep hot water in there. I'll just rinse this out, and it's yours."
    I watched as she got up and went to the kitchen, flask in hand. What was I getting myself into? Did I really want to turn to alcohol? But apparently, it was a good way to forget about your problems. Instead of having them in your mind all the time, the alcohol would let you forget about them. It would let you see the world through glazed eyes. And I always had kind of wondered what that would be like.
    Margaretta came back to where the bottles and I were. She waved the flask triumphantly in her hand. "All clean!" she announced. She dropped back down and finished filling her flask with all kinds of liquor; most of which I didn't even know the names of. Our family never could've afforded alcohol.
    "You seem to know what you're doing," I commented.
    She smiled. "As I said before, this is almost as natural as breathing. And sometimes I'm a little hesitant to do even that." She let out a laugh, and I could see pain and bitterness written all over her face. But I decided not to question it.
    "But also," she said, letting those emotions float away, "at our old restaurant, I sometimes helped out at the bar, mixing drinks and such."
    "But you're underage!" I exclaimed. "Why would your parents let you do that?"
    "They didn't," she explained. "They weren't always working at the same time the rest of us were. Sometimes, when I was closing up the place alone, I used to fill my flask."
    She shook her head, trying to erase memories. She then picked up my flask and got to work pouring all kinds of liquor in. "This one isn't as strong as mine," she said. "Since you're new at this, we'll start you off gentle and you can work your way up."
    She made it sound like something you would do at the gym. Start off easy, and then add more weights and do more repetitions. And I had this funny feeling that I'd be doing plenty of repetitions.
    "All done." Margaretta screwed the lid on tightly and shook the flask, to get the liquids mixing. "If it's too strong for you, just add water or lemon juice or soft drink. But you'll build up a tolerance for it soon enough, and you won't need to add in anything." She handed the flask over, and smiled. "Enjoy."
    "Thanks," I said, still a little unsure.
    As we got back to work putting things away, Margaretta suddenly got an idea. "Hey, how about this?" she began. "I'll ask my parents if the two of us can close up on our own sometimes. Just one or two days a week. We'll probably have to make them Friday and Saturday nights, so we won't be too tired for school. What do you think?"
    "Sounds good," I said immediately, without thinking. I knew that what we were doing was wrong, but I was intrigued by it all. And it felt like I really did have a friend.
    "Great. And if we get the place to ourselves, we can refill our flasks then."
    "Good."
    We got back to work. Yes, I knew this whole alcohol business was not a good thing, but I didn't want to be good. I had been good for too long, trying not to stuff up, as not to stress my parents. But I wanted to do something for me. Margaretta said it would make me feel better, and I believed that.
    But somehow I didn't think that this new "friendship" was right. Sure, she probably wanted friends in Fresno. But what about me? Did she only want me to be her drinking buddy?

CHAPTER FOUR

I didn't touch my flask.
    As expected, Margaretta convinced her parents to let us work the late shifts on Friday and Saturday. They agreed, and let us have Sundays off.
    So now we had a schedule - a schedule of when we would steal alcohol. Now it didn't seem nearly as interesting as it had before.
    In the afternoons and early evenings, we'd stop off at home before going to the bistro. Within a week, everything was ready and set up for customers.
    On Friday afternoon in last period, just as we were all exiting the class, Margaretta tapped me on the shoulder. "Bring an extra flask," she whispered. "Unless you've already finished the other one."
    I knew she could tell just by looking at my face that I hadn't had any. Yes, I thought about it, but actually drinking it was something else. And boy did I think about it!
    I hadn't told my parents about the test yet, so they hadn't called the school to decide what to do with me. So on Wednesday evening, just as Mama and Papa were about to leave the house for some work with incoming food orders, the telephone rang.
    No one ever really called our house at all.
    My first thought was that it would definitely be the school, so my plan was to rush for it and pretend the caller had dialled the wrong number. But before I could get to it, my mother had already picked up the line.
    She sent Papa off to the Smiths' Arms, but she just knocked on my door and came in to talk. "You failed that chemistry test, didn't you?" she asked, arms folded and standing upright in the room.
    I was on my windowsill, and I knew that I shouldn't lie at all. I would just explain things exactly as I saw them. "That's right," I confirmed.
    She closed her eyes, sighed and looked thoroughly frustrated. "Why, Sapphire?" she demanded. "We've managed to come up with the money to send you to school. So why are you stuffing around like this?"
    "It's not that I didn't try-"
    "You can stop your lying right now, Sapph," she said firmly. "You are perfectly capable of passing every test you take." She started pacing around on the small section of spare floor. "You have the capability, but you don't have motivation - where is it?"
    "Mama-"
    "Sapph! You're not on scholarship at that school. You know we can't afford college for you, so the only way you're going to get an education is if you win a scholarship. And the way you're going now shows that you won't win one, so you can kiss your college dreams good-bye!"
    I was surprised. It had always seemed as though she'd had some kind of hope for my future. But it was clear that she didn't believe that I even had a future. I was doomed.
    And all I could think about at that time was the flask in my school bag.

I started drinking during Friday night. When we were alone, Margaretta and I talked. I told her about Mama and what had happened on Wednesday night. It was apparent to Margaretta what I should do. "Go on," she urged. "Have a sip, a swallow, a gulp, whatever… you know you need it."
    I wasn't so sure. "What do you mean, I need it?"
    "Look at yourself." She arched an eyebrow. "You're stressed, so you need a relaxant."
    "I don't want a drug," I pronounced firmly.
    She laughed. "Alcohol is not a drug. Its effects are a lot less harmful to your body, I can assure you. It's not going to kill you. Not an eency-weeny little sip." Her eyes went all puppy dog-like as she said that, perhaps mocking me.
    I showed her! While we were in the storeroom, I opened my bag, took out one of the flasks she had filled for me and had a long swallow. The taste was a mixture of fruit, and other things that I couldn't name.
    I put the cap back on the flask and wiped my mouth. Margaretta clapped twice. "Why, fancy that! Took you some time but you finally got around to doin' it."
    I stood up from the crate I was sitting on, and adjusted the apron around my waist. "I think Table Four are ready for their dessert now."

The patrons had left, but Margaretta and I were falling behind in our duties. There was a heaped stack of dishes to get through, and as the night went on, we both had become more than a little intoxicated. It's strange when you're getting under the influence. For a long time, you don't even realise that you're getting drunk. It's only when someone comments on your speech or actions that it begins to sink in, but you're not even paying attention to that.
    If any of our parents had realised that something was wrong with us, they didn't say so. They just left us in the kitchen to clean up.
    Margaretta was beginning to get a headache. "I'll never be able to sleep tonight," she moaned.
    "You just need a little warm milk," I suggested. I put down the dishtowel and got mugs from one of the cupboards. "Get me a pot from under the stove."
    It was strange how I still thought I was saying and hearing things correctly. I was surprised I even remembered how to warm milk at that stage. So we drank our milk, finished our dishes and went to the storeroom to get ready to leave.
    Bags in hand, we were stopped by my mother. As soon as she heard us giggling at nothing in particular, she put down the trays and stopped us in our tracks, sniffing the air. "So you've been drinking, have you, girls?" she asked us sarcastically.
    "Maybe just a little," Margaretta replied, and I burst out into wild laughter.
    Mama spun her head around to look at me. "Sapphire! Since when do you drink?"
    "Tonight, eight fifty-four," I answered, falling into a coughing fit after sucking in too much air.
    "Right, I'm taking you girls home." She glared at me, and I started shaking, but I didn't know if it was because of her, or because I could hear - and almost feel - the rainstorm that had already settled into its wildness.
    We went first to the Sandersons', and I had to wait in their kitchen while Mama helped Margaretta fix herself up for bed. It seemed almost before I could count up to ten - I couldn't remember what came after four - that Mama was helping me, too. As she made my bed properly, she spoke in a grave tone. "That's the last you'll be seeing of Margaretta Sanderson," she told me firmly. "You can count on that."

I woke up late on Saturday and headed straight for the bathroom. Once I'd cleared my stomach, I had a good, long shower, and it was only then when I felt ready to face Mama and Papa.
    I must've made some noise, because Mama seemed to have been anticipating my arrival. She was sitting crunched up at the kitchen table, rubbing her temples and breathing heavily. Her blond hair was unwashed, and it hung lifelessly around her face in sticky sections.
    She looked up when she heard me enter the room, and threw her head back. "How kind of you to join the land of the living," she said sarcastically, ferociously, with a false, tight smile on her face. "Unfortunately, your father and the Sandersons could not do the same."
    I furrowed my eyebrows as I sat down at the table. 'What's that supposed to mean?"
    "It means they're dead. Dead."
    I didn't move. I didn't think. I almost didn't breathe. I sat entirely still. For despite my hangover, I understood what she had said.
    "That's right," she confirmed. "When we got home, there happened to be a blackout on Penrith Street. All the electricity went out. So your father went into the kitchen to get candles. And you know what happened then?" I could feel the sparks of rage shoot at me, and I almost jumped back. "He lit the flame and the kitchen became a fire room. Do you know why that is, Sapphire? Someone left the gas on!"
    It was I. The warm milk. I had forgotten to turn the gas off. I had just killed my father and Simon and Janine Sanderson.
    "You did that, didn't you, Sapphire?" Mama continued. "You used the stove, didn't you, and forgot to turn the stove off, right?" She shook her head grimly. "It's hard for me to even look at you, my own daughter. Not only did you kill two people that had actually managed to give this family some hope, but you managed to kill your own father, too."
    Something was wrong with me. Something was definitely wrong with me. Not only the fact that I had no emotion. I had just one feeling, just one craving at that moment.
    I wanted a drink. A full on, heavily laced alcoholic one. And I wanted it, needed it badly.

CHAPTER FIVE

I fled from the kitchen, and didn't feel partly relieved until I was sitting on my windowsill. As soon as I was stretched out comfortably, I sprang back into a standing position. I then turned my room upside down, searching frantically for anything with alcohol. I even had to hold back from drinking deodorant, the craving was that bad.
    How had it all happened so fast? It had been less than twenty-four hours since my first drink ever, and already I was craving more. Sure, I still had a hangover, and I thought that would've put me off a bit. Maybe it stimulated my need for more. Having your mother blame you for killing people - including your father - is another reason. Doing terribly at school? Another thing.
    I gave up searching. Every inch of the floor covered in everything I'd pulled out, I hopped back to my windowsill. I could hear Mama on the phone across the room and through the wall. "I'm so sorry about all this, Duncan," I heard her say. "Both of your parents… Does Margaretta have somewhere to stay?"
    I don't even know why she was bothering to think of Margaretta. I thought Mama thought that she was almost as much to blame as I was.
    "Ten minutes?" she repeated. "Take your time… And good luck for the future."
    I knew Mama didn't want me to see Margaretta, but I wanted to. Maybe not her at that moment… but she did have alcohol in her house. I knew that. I found an empty plastic bottle that once had water in it. I stuck it in my backpack, and added some borrowed books.
    Mama was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, staring at her little black book of telephone numbers and addresses. She jutted her head up when she heard me. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, nodding at my backpack.
    "The library," I answered quietly. "I need to return some books."
    She sighed. "Very well, then. I need to think."

I sneaked to Margaretta's before I went to the library. The front door was wide open, so I didn't bother knocking. I just waltzed into the living room to find Margaretta removing the familiar glass bottles from the pine-and-glass cabinet. "Care to share?" I asked by way of greeting.
    She looked up, her blue eyes sheeted with a blurry shield of tears. "You know where they are?" she asked me.
    "Do you?" I answered in return. I wasn't sure if she knew what had happened.
    She nodded. "I saw the morning news. They said that three people died, but they didn't name whom. I didn't need them to. I know." She picked up my backpack from where I had placed it on the carpet, unzipped it and removed my plastic bottle. She wordlessly stood up, went out of the room - presumably to the kitchen - and returned with an armful of plastic bottles from her own family's collection.
    "I hope they're not all for me," I remarked, giggling nervously.
    "Depends where I'm going," she replied vaguely, settling herself down and pouring from the wide selection of beer, wine and spirits.
    "My mother called your brother," I told her. "He's picking you up."
    She sighed. "Back to Georgia for me, then. Nanny and Pa will be there for me. Oh, Lord, how'd this have to happen?" She screwed the tops on securely and loaded three or four bottles into my backpack. "For the road."
    "The road?"
    Margaretta rolled her eyes. "Of course. Your mama's not gonna want her husband's killer in the home."
    It really sunk in then. Killer. The police could chase after me, and any hope of me having a future at all would go completely down the drain. Completely. I'd be one of those orange jumpsuit-ed figures with shackles around my ankles and a gruff disposition-
    "I don't blame you, you know."
    I shook myself out of that haze. "For what?"
    "For burning the place down. If I hadn't have introduced you to alcohol, all that wouldn't have happened."
    "No way. I'm the one who wanted warm milk."
    We paused, and then both laughed. She zipped up my backpack and handed it over. "Good luck."
    Realising that this was the end of our friendship, I wasn't sure of what to do. A hug? A handshake? Toodle-ooh? What was there to say? "You, too."
    Turning my back, I left the building and set off for the library.

As I crept quietly back onto our level - for I didn't want to disturb Mama, as she was never going to forgive me - I could hear her on the telephone, with her mother, I supposed.
    "You can't deny me this time, Mother," she said. "If you've let Kristine and Abigail each have a child in your home, it's only fair that you include mine, too… Father denied me, Mother, not you. He's dead, but you still have a say, you do… Well, I'm so terribly sorry about that, Mother." Her voice took on a sarcastic tone. "Just because I was never as perfect as them. But listen here - you have a third daughter, whether you like it or not."
    Her vicious tone disappeared as she spontaneously began sobbing. "Why weren't you there for me? When I accidentally broke that bottle, he just yelled at me, but you never said a word. Didn't you care about me? Did you remember that your youngest daughter Dana needed attention, too? And still does?
    "I need your help, Mother. I can't live with her, not now… maybe later… Please?" A long pause followed this, and she sighed with relief. "I have enough money to put her on a train. Can you arrange for someone to pick her up?"
    It was true. Margaretta was right. I would be leaving… leaving because not even my own mother wanted me.
    Mama hung up the telephone and caught me quietly stepping to my room. "Pack your things, Sapphire. Pack everything. It's time to meet your relatives."

I packed everything. Including the bottles Margaretta had given me. Just in case. After all, I supposed it was only natural for Mama to have told my grandmother about my little problem. And if she knew, she would clear out every single cabinet, fridge and mini-bar just so I couldn't get what I wanted. Or needed. And I believed that I would need it. What Mama had told me of her sisters led me to think that they were perfect and special, and Mama wasn't. Maybe her father wasn't really her father… maybe she was the result of her mother's affair, if there was one.
    And if Kristine and Abigail were perfect, I could only imagine what their daughters were like. I could just picture them, all "yes, ma'am, no, ma'am", and sugary sweet to everyone. Spoiled. And when the adults' backs were turned, they'd be out smoking pot and having sex with anyone who showed them attention. Spoiled little brats.
    But in a way, wouldn't I be just like them? I may not have smoked or anything, but I did consume alcohol. And not at parties, but anywhere where I couldn't be caught by the inappropriate people.
    I seriously don't have any recollection of the train ride from Long Beach to San Francisco. Mama - though I couldn't feel as if I could still call her that, because our bond was broken, so I would call her Dana from then on - had told me that she would call my grandmother to let her know what time my train would be due.
    It was 2:33 a.m. once I got off the train. Peak-hour fares cost more, so Dana chose the cheapest ride she could find for me.
    My eyes fluttered about inside, still waking up from the train ride of sleep, trying to find anything that would point me in the right direction. And then I saw the sign with blue letters spelling my name. Sapphire-blue letters. Mocking me. It was all I could do to keep from shouting out, "Hey, lady - I didn't name myself, my mother did. If I could have a normal name, I'd jump for it."
    The woman holding the sign was so blonde and petite I felt like laughing. Great. If my cousins were anything like her, they'd be little Barbie dolls, tossing their hair about, and saying "whatever" every five seconds. I knew the type. I hated that type.
    "So you're Sapphire?" she asked me, as I came closer.
    "Sure seems like it." Rude, perhaps. Life's too short to waste on politeness sometimes. And I'd never been a happy lassie when I'd only just woken up.
    She bent down to pick up one of my bags, but I quickly snatched it away. "Don't touch my property. Please." I picked up all of my bags, and suddenly realised that manners were called for. I would be living with her indefinitely, after all. "I'm sorry, it's just…" I tried to apologise, "…it's been difficult."
    She didn't exactly give me a hug, but she wasn't completely cold. "So I hear." She paused before adding, "I'm sorry to hear about your father."
    "So am I," I whispered to myself. "So am I."
    "Emerald and Azure are sleeping, but you'll meet them later," she told me.
    As I followed my grandmother out to the parking lot, I couldn't help but be apprehensive. I had no idea of what lay ahead of me. Absolutely clueless as to how long I would survive.
    The craving began right there and then, but I couldn't have possibly got out a bottle from my bag and say, "Don't mind if I do" to my grandmother. I would have to wait until privacy took over.
    But even if people were surrounding me, I knew I'd be alone. If by some miracle my cousins would take a liking to me, so be it. But they would never truly understand.

EPILOGUE

I slept during the taxi ride. I was barely awake as my grandmother led me out and into the house. There were stairs, I remember, so many stairs. Sleep sounded welcoming. So I pretended I was climbing a stairway to heaven.
    She opened a door, but I grabbed her hand before she could bring it to the switch. "Don't touch the light," I hushed drowsily.
    She turned around and left me be. I didn't bother unpacking. I just lay down gently on the soft, soft carpet, not bothering to climb onto a bed.
    And just as I was drifting off to sleep, I had a thought. People were so quick to judge alcoholics, and shove them into rehab. But they'd never try to help them themselves. They never bothered to try to understand where we're coming from.
    So why was I here? Were people actually going to bother to help me? Or would they leave me be?
    I would just sleep and wait for my saving grace.

THE END

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