The Day Anne Parker Lost Her Voice

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

I tapped my pencil against the desk as I stared blankly at my math homework. For the whole fifteen minutes I’ve spent doing nothing but staring at the blank sheet of paper, I still got nothing.

It was just after dark and I could hear the man of the house bustling across the kitchen downstairs, no doubt in a tracksuit and his favorite apron with the sunflowers on it. He refused to believe how absolutely ridiculous he looked in it so I just gave up arguing.

Just as I set the pencil down to write, some racket erupted from outside, giving me a start. The graphite scratched across the surface making my homework look as if some toddler found it and decided to channel out his inner Van Gogh.

I flick my pencil away and tore my headphones off, swiveling my chair around to look out the window. To no surprise, the ruckus had come from over the charming next-door neighbors. As always, Anne Parker’s window was wide open and I caught glimpse of the nuisance herself standing in the middle of her room.

Usually, I’m not this nosy but I suddenly found it interesting to watch her get grilled by the lovely Mrs. Parker. I couldn’t really hear anything but I continued to watch as the vein on her mother’s forehead bulged. I watched until the very end and to see Mrs. Parker confiscate a wire from Parker’s amplifier before leaving the room, slamming the door behind.

I was still watching when Anne replaced her electric guitar with a smaller guitar and sank into her bed, strumming like crazy as if nothing had just happened. Her bad strumming travelled all the way from her room to mine, making my teeth buzz.

A migraine was beginning to form.

”Jesse!”

I catapulted backwards from my chair when I hear my father’s voice from downstairs. Through the array of discarded clothes permanently residing on the floor of my bedroom, I fumbled around and heaved myself up to my feet.

“Coming!”

I pat down my shirt and glanced out the window one last time. Anne Parker looking back right at me and I froze. She smiles and gave a little wave.

My fingers automatically reach for the drapes, yanking them over my window, and blocking her from my view.

“What took you so long this time?” Father asked as I emerged into the kitchen.

I definitely was not wrong. He was in his tracksuit, as usual, and the sunflower apron. I slid into a stool and leaned over the kitchen counter.

“How’s that Math homework doing?” he asked, setting food down the table.

The scent of warm, home-made meal wafted into my nostrils. “Zero progress.” I shrugged. “Still can’t get the hang of it.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, bud,”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, picking up an apple from the table to inspect it. “I hate Maths.”

“Yeah? Well, your mother loved Math,” he says.

My eyes flicked upwards. He rarely talks about her.

“She was really good. Heck, I used to copy her homework back then just to pass,” he said. “Guess, now you know where you got most of your genes, eh.”

He was turning off the stove, his back facing me. I stared at his back.

He and mom used to be his high school sweetheart, so he says. They were perfect, were inseparable. But things just didn’t work out well between them for reasons I chose not to ask about. And I knew it hurt dad the day my mother packed her things up and left through the front door without even a glance back.

I was never a fan of soppy stories about love and romance. I don’t really believe in all that crap. They’re simply pathetic. Love’s just a made up lie people believe in to cover up the fact that we’ll just end up alone for the rest of our lives. People are desperate. They’d believe on anything. It’s not being bitter or resentful. It’s just hard facts. And everyone always denies the hard facts.

“Look, Dad,” I began. “You don’t have to talk about her.”

Dad’s eyebrows furrowed and his forehead scrunched up. “Why not?”

I like my dad but he’s always been somewhat of a question mark to me.

I see other broken people all the time. It was nothing like that. They always aim to forget the past. They chose to bury all the darkness, the pain, the loss. They chose to look at the brighter side of life without looking back at their own Dark Ages.

My dad, he did moved on – but it was different.

I never saw a single tear from him or a string of curses just to show that he was at least angry at her. Nothing. The guy’s acting totally fine as if nothing’s happened. I’m convinced he’s got no feelings at all or that he’s just totally lost it.

His eyebrows shot up again when he saw the look on my face. “What?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, setting the fruit down the counter. “It’s just – how do you do that?”

“Do what? My ultra-super-duper-special beef steak? Oh, it’s simple. First –”

I shook my head, chuckling. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, how do you stay like that?”

“Stay fit?”

“After mom left,” I say carefully. “You know, I never see you sad or anything…”

He leaned against the counter, his steely blue eyes watching me. My heartbeat spiked. I was scared I’d said something wrong and must’ve hit a nerve.

“You’re always … happy. Why?” I slowly asked. “It’s scary.”

He took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, it’s easy. You just don’t let your dark corrupt you, don’t let them get to you,” he tells me. “Instead, befriend them and things’ll be okay.”

I stared at him, searching through his eyes. Was he bluffing? Did it never occur to me that he was just a plain good actor? “Ok.”

“You see, your mom,” he began. It was eerie how his voice was extremely calm. “She’s happy. She’s happy in her new life.”

My eyes travelled down and stayed on the fruit basket. “O-kay…”

“So, I should be happy, too. Happy for her and happy for myself,” he carried on. “I can’t just wallow in here for a lifetime, can’t I? I’ve got a life to live.”

I stared blankly at a mango. I didn’t know why, maybe because I didn’t know where else to look. I focused on a dark, bruised spot on the fruit’s skin.

“Plus, I’ve got this moody lad to raise!”

He launched at me and tackled me into a headlock, fiercely mussing up my hair. I was nearly taller than him but he was bigger so I had no chance against him.

“Dad, you got to stop doing that! It’s embarrassing, for Christ’s sake!”

“My bad, my bad!” He pulls away to step back, hands in air. “Forgot you were getting too old for some quality time with your old man!”

I was aware that my hair was already sticking towards all direction. I grumbled quietly and tried setting my hair back to place, wincing when my fingers got caught in a tangled knot.

“By the way, The Café called,” he said. “You free tomorrow? It’s a weekend. They’re going to need full force.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll head there after training,” I say with a shrug.

The Café was one of the popular local hangouts in town with a poorly thought up name. But it was a hit to most of the town’s folks and nobody really minded. It was a coffee shop where they serve the usual and I work there during weekends as a part-timer. It’s a great place. I mean, who doesn’t love coffee? Nothing beats the scent of freshly brewed coffee grounds. Oh, and the flock of hot girls gathering in there for their weekly get-together – heaven.

Plus, I got this knack with latte art just recently. I don’t know. I just find it interesting and cool. It’s a good hobby. I’m not exactly an artist but I do appreciate neat artworks. I suck at arts and I know that. I’ve been sucking way back since pre-school. My stickman figures were a nightmare and the arts teacher would have this forced smile on his face that looked more of a grimace as he says, ‘Good job, little buddy,’ and I knew even then that he just had to say that because it was part of his job.

Anyway, The Café was a nice place with nice people. Fred’s the name of the owner. Everyone in town knew Fred. He’s been around way before most of us did. He’s this old, gentle, big fellow who doesn’t talk much but sure do smiles a lot. I hear he was a war veteran back in his days though some says he used to belong to some sketchy underground mafia. Probably because of the scars. But when I look at Fred, I could never imagine him wielding big, heavy machine guns. Heck, he wouldn’t even hurt a bug.

“Hello, Jessie,” Fred greets with a big smile as soon as the tiny bell on top of the door rang as I entered the shop.

I smiled, nodding at Fred, who was sluggishly wiping over the countertop. My fingers combed through my hair as I pushed them all the way back. I never bother to correct him. He thinks it’s actually my name but I just let him be.

“Let me do that for you, pops,” I offered.

He shrugs and strolls away into the back of the shop, whistling a merry tune.

“Aren’t you a bit too early for your shift?” Ron asked.

I ducked when he glides past me, balancing a tray of mocha latte expertly on one hand. He smacks me on my behind causing me to topple over the counter so I whipped him with the cloth to retaliate. He swerves just in time, grinning triumphantly.

Ron was one of the senior full-time staff at the Café. He’s already in his twenties but he stopped going to school at some point because he says he suddenly found it boring. Before his time at The Café, Ron actually used to be one of those ‘juvenile delinquents’ who prowl along the streets at night, pickpocketing people, breaking into small shops, and the likes. He had these inks up all over his arms and studded earrings on his ears. He was so cool; he was immediately my hero.

Fred caught him breaking into The Café one time. But instead of turning him over to the cops, he decided to hire him so that: ‘He’ll at least have something useful to do with his sorry life,’ according to Fred. Still cracks me up every time Fred retells the story.

But Fred actually did a good job of turning him around. Ron stopped being reckless and now he’s talking about plans on going to community college. He’s just changed. He still got his faded tattoos and the studded earrings he refused to take off much to most of our older patrons’ disapproval. But it was none of their business anyway.

Ron says it’s a reminder of what he used to be.

“Here you go, kid,” I heard him say to one of the customers as he sets the tray down on the table near the window. “What ‘ya reading there?”

A gaggle of girls passed me by on the way out and I subtly checked them out over my shoulder.

“Hi, Jesse,” they chorused.

I nod at them as they left out the door, giggling and chattering excitedly to each other. They waved and pointed towards Ron, bursting into peals of giggle when Ron shoots them a wink through the shop’s window.

My smile faltered when I glanced his way. Not because he was now getting most of the girls’ attention, which was quite a bummer, really. But it was only because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

There was no way I was seeing what I was seeing.

Anne Parker was parked by the table near the window, chatting up with Ron as if she and Ron have been close buddies for years. He even gave her fist a bump before leaving the table.

“Whoa, what’s up?” Ron asks me. “What’s with the look?”

He traced my gaze and it was already too late to look away. His gaze landed on Anne Parker. Ron raises his thick, bushy brows at me.

“You know that kid?”

“Yeah, we-ell,” I stammered. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he nods, his red curls shaking. “She’s a regular. She swings by every Fridays and Saturdays to have her latte and read her book. Nice kid, she is.”

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Give me a break. I was never going to get rid of her, wasn’t I?

Ron smirks, sensing my displeasure, and tosses me my apron from over the counter which I caught mid-air. “You don’t look like you’re too happy to see her,” he noted and leans over the counter, narrowing his eyes. “What is it? Is it a crush or something? Tell me, I’ll help you out.”

“God, no!” I shudder.

“Well, if you say so.” He shrugged and went to polish the mugs hanging from the rack behind him.

I exhaled and shook my head.

“By the way, you know that open mic thing I suggested to Old Fred?”

“Yeah?” I raised a quizzical brow.

Ron gives me this devious smirk. “Well, I booked her a gig. She’s going to be singing here sometimes.”

My week keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?