Her Suicide Note

Chapter Twelve

Bianca
Adrian has abandoned today's math lesson and is, instead, resting his forehead on the spot between my shoulder blades, kneading different places in my back I didn't even know we're tense until they loosened up. Though it feels good, I'm pretty sure that's not how our employer-butler relationship works. But now that I think about it, is he in my services anymore? Hasn't he been my "butler" long enough for his apology to have been paid off?
"Adrian, you're scaring me," I whisper over my shoulder at him because he is. Who, on a Tuesday morning, walks into school smiling like a Cheshire Cat, only seconds away from hugging every single person in the halls and maybe even going out of his way to kiss babies?
"Sorry," he mumbles dreamily.
I set my pencil down and tune out Mr. Bell. There's no way I'm going to concentrate with him like this.

"For the last time, I'm not high," Adrian says as I have to wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself up to sniff his breath. It smells like Mentos.
"Just making sure," I reply as I jump down, giving him a suspicious eye. "You just seem a little too happy today."
He doesn't answer, just continues to walk toward the cafeteria.
"Are you and your mom doing anything for Thanksgiving?" I question as I fall, somewhat, in step beside him.
"Nope, Mom and I are probably ordering takeout. Mom's trying to turn over a new leaf, but I think Thanksgiving's too much for her even though it's just the two of us," he explains.
"Ah." I nod in understanding. "Well, I think you and Ms. Houston should come over to my place. I think a good home cooked meal will do you some good." I pat his stomach with the back of my hand.
He raises his eyebrows in thought. "Are any of your family coming?" he asks.
"Yep," I answer. "From cousins to grandparents and everyone in between."
He shoots me a smirk as he opens the door to the lunch room for me. "And you want me to meet them."
I stop cold, one foot in the cafeteria, one out in the hallway. The weight of what he said sinks in. He's going to meet my family. He's going to meet my family!
Placing a hand on my shoulder, he gently pushes me forward, the door swinging shut behind us. I feel the rise and fall of his chest on the back of my head.
"I promise to behave," he whispers in my ear.

The thin sheet of red, orange, and yellow leaves covering Midnight let's me know Mom didn't go to work today.
"Hey, B." My older brother, Trey, scoops me up a few feet to give me a bone crushing hug. He's as tall as Dad, maybe an inch or two more, but a perfect shade of light skin where both Mom and Dad blended together. "I missed you."
"I missed you, too, T," I pant out, trying to let my ribs live. "It's been a while."
Since Trey goes to an out-of-state university, we're not able to see him as often as we'd like, but it makes holidays with him that much more special.
When he sets me down, I take a step back to examine everything about him from his dreadlocked head to his Jordan-clad feet. His blue eyes are dulled by flecks of chocolate brown and his ropey muscles are still as thick and defined as ever from continuing his basketball career. I notice he's advertising a new tattoo on the inner part of his right forearm with the initials M.S.K.
"Is that for me?" I ask, grinning like an idiot as I point to the new ink.
"Of course," he replies, slinging an arm around my shoulders. He leads me to the kitchen.
"Has dad seen you yet?" I question as we watch Mom literally fly around the room, taking inventory of what's in the cabinets.
"Only for a little. Mom sent him to the store with this long ass list."
"Language, honey," Mom scolds gently, absentmindedly, writing something on a yellow notepad.
That's another thing I love about Trey: his colorful vocabulary. I find it funny how he can cuss like a sailor but be in the first pew in church on Sunday. 
My parents never really minded the swearing, just as long as it wasn't in front of important people like the neighbors or family.
Slapping the pad on the island, Mom gestures me over without looking in my direction. Instead, she points at one of the two columns she's written on the right side. "These are the dishes we're going to make," she tells me.
We're doing the turkey together, Mom and I, but we have side dishes that we're creating ourselves. The column on the left consists of the family members bringing food from home.
"What am I gonna make?" Trey asks.
Mom and I exchange a look before turning a blank one on him.
"Honey, don't you remember the dish towel?" Mom asks.
"The one Grandpa Elijah monogrammed for us before he died?" I chime in, raising an eyebrow.
Trey hangs his head. "You guys are never going to let me live that down," he mumbles.
"You turned the stove on and the towel burst into flames!" I exclaim.
"I didn't know it was still in my hand!" Trey defends. "I didn't realize the end of it was so close to the fire until it was too late. That hardly qualifies as not being able to cook."
"What about the time you under cooked that steak and we had food poisoning for a week?" Mom asks.
"Or the time you got hot water on the back of your shirt when you were boiling it?" I question.
"Or the time you didn't read the directions on the brownie box and put in vinegar instead of vegetable oil?" Mom adds.
"Or the time you put diabetes in the Kool-Aid?" I state.
"You're supposed to put a lot of sugar in Kool-Aid," Trey explains. "The directions are bullshit."
"You basically just filled the pitcher with nothing but sugar," I tell him. "Di-a-betes."
Trey sucks his teeth before turning on his heels. "Fine," he huffs. "Don't let me cook anything."
"We'll try to find something for you, honey," Mom calls out but Trey just turns around and walks out.
"Touchy much?" I ask.
"We were pretty hard on him," Mom admits while I shrug.