Get Out If You Can

Alison | She Who Bikes

"Honey, you've got mail," Mom says, walking in and setting a lavender envelope on the kitchen table. She's acting really, really weird lately. Since the paint incident, when Hunter came home. She's been acting like she's okay, like everything's fine. I know she's putting on a mask, but — but let's just say it's her first time. She doesn't know the art, like most of us do.

Dad hasn't been home for six days, five hours and twenty-three minutes now. Yeah, I'm counting. It's the least bit of respect I can give to a family that's made of glass, and now has a huge crack running down the middle. He hasn't been home, but certain visitors have. Mom's trying to get to know them, and she's being really sweet and everything — but however much I try, I can't be like that. I can't pretend to give a fuck for feelings even if I tried, because no one ever did the same for me.

"From whom?" I examine the envelope. I've never gotten mail this pretty before.

Mom shrugs. "It's addressed to you," she says, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "I thought they'd got the wrong house; don't you guys usually communicate through those phones of yours?"

"We do," I say, still examining the curious envelope. "And I don't think this is sent to me by anyone I know."

"Of course they know you." Mom sets two hot chocolate cups on the rickety table, and takes a sip from hers. "Your name is on it. Correct spelling."

Like that was even a characteristic to measure authenticity. You've probably met a million people named Alison Carter, and spelt like it too.

Not for long, though. The second I turn eighteen I'm scrapping that last name off my records.

"Okay," I say, readying myself to tear it open. "We'll see what this one's got."

I rip off the edge of the envelope, and a rose-gold-ish paper sticks out. I didn't know they make paper that fancy. This sheet literally has sparkles and glitter on it, and it's disturbing in a way.

I smooth out the paper, and skim the first lines of the letter.

'Dear Miss Carter,' it says, 'Callenfield Bikers Association would be delighted to have the pleasure of your company for dinner at the Scholarship Headquarters, on the twentieth of October, 2021. Please see the back of the envelope for details.'

"It's an invitation," I say, excitedly flipping it over. I've heard of the Callenfield Bikers, damn, I've been trying to get a place in their program for ages. I'm not a professional biker or anything, it's just that I'm pretty good at it. I've done a few local races, and I've won some decent places. But I've never really applied for Callenfield Bikers because they don't accept applications, they issue approvals.

And this one has landed right into my hands.

Something good has happened. Finally. Finally, just when I thought this week couldn't get any worse.

"From whom?" Mom says, skepticism in her voice. Mothers, well. Can't trust kids when you see them excited about something.

"Callenfield Bikers," I say, hoping to see a flicker of recognition in her eyes. It's there, and damn, I'm glad. "The club I've been working my ass off to enter? Remember that?"

"Well, this is nice," Mom says, holding up the envelope and reading the letter. "Funny that they send out approvals on rose gold paper, but still."

"Who cares what kind of paper the approvals are sent on?" I grin. "The important thing is they're sent. Hey, do you know where their headquarters are?"

Mom shakes her head. "I don't," she says, "but they mentioned they've given directions, maybe we should look through them?"

She turns over the envelope and reads the address.

"Fancy place," she says. "Calleja manor. Didn't know it was purchased, but then, who else would. Yes, I know the place."

"Great!" I'm positively beaming as I head out the door. "I'll go do a few rounds on my bike, okay?"

"Okay," Mom says, clearing up the table. "Take care."

"Um, Mom?" I'm not sure whether this is a good question, considering the various — situations — involved, but I go for it anyway. I've a right to know if she's got something to tell me. "Where's Dad?"

Mom starts. Like I did when I — never mind that day, really. I was just very messed up and this one person wasn't doing much to help. I'm glad I caught myself just in time.

I shouldn't have asked — but hey, I'm trying. I've been for a long time. Hopelessly, but it's the thought that counts. "I'm sorry if I shouldn't have —"

"No, it's fine," Mom says, unconsciously wiping one of the mugs so much I assume when she's done, it'd be dirtier than when she'd begun. "He's — out. Got a gig or something. I don't really know."

She takes a deep breath. "And don't care, either."

"Okay," I say, running a hand through my hair. "Okay. I'll go. Bye, Mom."

***

I seat myself on my black bike and swing my legs on one side. I force myself to smile, because, well — I've got what I wanted, right? A fortnight's passed since some kid decided to spray me red. It's almost like the whole Tejada business is kicked out of my head – again, like it was when everything happened.

Shit, it isn't something I want to remember. It's something nobody wants to remember.

I shut my eyes and massage my stinging temples. Maybe I should call Diego and tell him about the envelope? We have been making more than general conversation after Hunter told him about the paint incident — and I'm just so glad Mom hasn't been hovering around me since that. That's one good and bad thing about her. She both knows and doesn't know when people need their space.

Well, maybe I should. Worth a shot.

I take out my phone, open my contacts and scroll to his number.

His I-don't-really-care-all-that-much face stares out from the little circular contact photo area, and I'm about to hit the call button when I realize that he may not care after all. What are we? Two kids who happened to reach out after one of them had their clothes painted red one night. We aren't even friends.

I don't know why I even wanted to call him. Maybe because I'd really like a friend to share news like this with, and I thought he maybe was one. Maybe because this is all about the 'October' hype. Maybe because I need someone — just someone.

But I don't really care about that anymore. This invitation is pretty legit. In any case, vandals most probably can't hire mansions like that one, judging Mom's look when she read the name. Besides, two weeks have passed and nothing has happened.

Just like all the incidents before this one.

And either way. Diego and I haven't even had a friendly conversation till date. Since...never mind that. A long time ago. I honestly can't even remember.

I stuff my phone back into the fanny pack round my waist, and steady my feet on the pedals. The surprisingly warm winter sun washes my face. It's rose gold with gentle tinges of pink in the sky, like golden tea sprinkled with roses.

I breathe in the evening air, and set off; pedaling harder and faster than I ever have before.