Black Licorice


 
 
 
 
 Black Licorice
 
 
 
 ELAINA BATTISTA-PARSONS
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2022 by Inked in Gray
 All rights reserved.
 No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 For Kev, I will always pay full price. xo
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 Chapter 2
 
 
 Chapter 3
 
 
 Chapter 4
 
 
 Chapter 5
 
 
 Chapter 6
 
 
 Chapter 7
 
 
 Chapter 8
 
 
 Chapter 9
 
 
 Chapter 10
 
 
 Chapter 11
 
 
 Chapter 12
 
 
 Chapter 13
 
 
 Chapter 14
 
 
 Chapter 15
 
 
 Chapter 16
 
 
 Chapter 17
 
 
 Chapter 18
 
 
 Chapter 19
 
 
 Chapter 20
 
 
 Chapter 21
 
 
 Chapter 22
 
 
 Chapter 23
 
 
 Chapter 24
 
 
 Chapter 25
 
 
 Chapter 26
 
 
 Chapter 27
 
 
 Chapter 28
 
 
 Chapter 29
 
 
 Chapter 30
 
 
 Chapter 31
 
 
 Chapter 32
 
 
 Chapter 33
 
 
 Chapter 34
 
 
 Chapter 35
 
 
 
 
 Song List
 
 
 Acknowledgments
 
 
 About Elaina
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Mom rips open my bedroom curtains with a flourish. The winter sunlight threatens to sear my eyelids. I roll over and cover my head with a pillow.
 “He’s gone. Deal with it and get your butt out of bed this instant. It’s past nine. Up, up.” She sprays my window with Windex and wipes it in caffeine-fueled circles. The squeaks and hustle are deliberate, a language all their own.
 I rub the sleep from my face. A desert has nothing on my lips right now. “Wait, WHAT? Why? No he’s not.”
 “Your worry-wart father called Darlene to see if she was alright. The sun is out. It’s Christmas Eve,” Mom says. “Up! I need to strip and clean the sheets.” She’s already tearing the pillowcase off my pillow with my head still on it. “You smell like burnt oregano.” She grips a handful of my hair and shoves her nose in it. “And there better not be mud on your sheets from those boots.”
 I groan. “Where’s Court, Mom?”
 “Freddi, Court never listened to anyone’s advice. Now out of bed. Downstairs in five minutes.” She races down the steps with the Windex in one hand and my bedding over her shoulder.
 There’s no way Court left without calling. Or texting. He had asked me to go with him last night, which didn’t even make sense, but still. Friends don’t leave without saying anything.
 I call Court. No answer. He’ll call. We’ll sit on my front porch and sort it out. We’d play our complex pieces of music, talk about those complex pieces of music, and argue about notes embedded in the complex pieces of music. All would be right between us.
 I sit up in bed and grab two pieces of mint gum from my coat pocket. I peel off my boots and clothes and throw my bathrobe on. With feet that don’t feel like my own, I pound down the stairs where I’m sure Dad is waiting with a steaming mug of coffee and a script for the ages. Not answering my dad’s frantic texts last night was a terrible mistake.
 Dad would have woken me up with jokes about horticulture or a gentle squeeze of my ankle instead of Mom’s stabby punch of words. I bet he’s the spokesman for grounding rules. I bet he will tell me Court is just sleeping. Grounded, just like I’m going to be, but still home.
 Instead, Dad is hunched over at the kitchen table looking like he hasn’t slept a wink. Mom is red-faced, hustling in and out of the laundry room before finally landing next to Dad.
 What I want to say is maybe you should’ve had more kids so that you’re not so hyperaware of my existence, but I love my father too much to tell him the truth. And he’s always been pretty fair.
 “I’m sorry I didn’t text you sooner last night, Dad. It’s complicated. Court didn’t leave, right?” I ask. Mom chugs her coffee one-handed, a move that means she’s gearing up for discussion. “He just turned eighteen, and now he thinks the world is all his? Come on.” The sun thrums through the kitchen window, illuminating the dismay on both their faces. I guess that wasn’t the right thing to say.
 “I think a week-long grounding is in your future, don’t you think?” Mom’s manicured finger is pointed in my face, and Dad’s hand is on her other wrist as it trembles on the table. She’s scary sometimes, and Dad’s obsessed with her in a way every husband should be. Then again, it can be pathetic. And the discussion never goes in my favor.
 “Court better not show up here,” Mom says. “I don’t trust myself not to —”
 “You act like you’ve been waiting for this to happen. It’s not like we walked out of Chestnut Bay, GOD.” I stare out the back window at the depressing Christmas Eve silence. “Why do you assume it’s all his fault, anyway?”
 Mom’s up, and Dad immediately guides her back into her seat with his please, Francesca. “Federica Lisette Birdoni. I swear to God I’ll pull you from ARTS if this happens again,” Mom says with a tone that could lacerate marble. That escalated fast, and I’m not even a tiny bit surprised. I’m not worried, though. Threatening to take away ARTS is