998583's blog: "Writing Right now!"

“Mathew,” Tilly asked during lunch in the cafeteria, “can you please come over tonight and help me with this trigonometry?”

She flipped through the pages of the current chapter they were studying and the numbers and symbols that met her eyes might have well have been French. It seemed she had an incapacity to grasp the concepts the advanced math course’s teacher attempted to educate.

“Can’t Tills,” her best friend answered back, “I have basket ball practice tonight. We have the big game against Donovan High School on Friday, and if I miss a practice coach won’t let me play.”

She felt the tears begin to well up and her bottom lip poked out. It was a trick she became adept at during an early age. Now, that she was a young teenager, the talent came without coxing at the instant it was called upon.

“Aw, Tills,” Mathew shrugged. “Now, don’t cry.”

“You know how I’m doing in this class Matt, “she slammed the book cover closed and crossed her arms. “One more F and I fail.”

The first tear flowed over her lower eyelid and slowly rolled down her flushed cheek.

Matthew sighed and leaned closer.

“I will sneak out after my parents go to bed,” he said gently wiping the tear away with his thumb. “If they find out coach will be the last of my worries.”

The bell rang and she grabbed up the thick heavy Trig book and quickly stood.

“Okay,” she leaned in and gave him a hug, “I will meet you at my front door.”

Tilly quickly turned and swiftly walked from the lunch room before her friend had a chance to change his mind.

 

“Hi Mom!” Tilly shouted as she opened the front door of her house. Usually her mother’s melodic voice called instantly back to her from within the house. There was only silence.

“Mom?” She called dropping her school books on the kitchen table. Still, there was no answer. Her mother’s car was in the drive, and all the other moms she knew in the neighborhood worked during the day. Her mother couldn’t be visiting any of them.

Tilly slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor and called out again.

“Mother, are you home?”

She stopped halfway up the stair case when she heard a thud from upstairs. Her heart was suddenly beating wildly inside her chest.

“Mom?” The fear that burned in her heart tainted the tone of her voice.

A moment later her mother’s voice floated down to her and a sigh of relief escaped her lips.

“Up here, darling.”

Tilly immediately noticed her mom’s call did not have the normal melodic ring it usually did. She climbed the last few steps and peered around the corner to see the ladder to the attic was pulled down. She slowly ascended and found her mother and their neighbor, Mr. Thomas, on their knees busily going through old boxes.

“Just going through this old stuff,” her mother said without looking over her shoulder, “looking for items for the neighborhood yard sale this Saturday.”

Tilly looked over at Mr. Thomas and felt the tension in the atmosphere prickly on her skin as the man resisted making eye contact. The young girl immediately felt contempt towards the man.

“What is he doing here without dad home?” she asked bluntly crossing her arms over her chest accusingly.

There was an uncomfortable silence as the two adults froze. Tilly’s mother slowly stood and turned leveling a stern gaze at her young daughter.

“Now, Tilly.” She answered, trying to maintain parental control. “There is no need to be rude.”

“Well,” Mr. Thomas said anxiously standing and brushing dust from his pants, “I will leave you ladies alone now that you some help, Mrs. Garcia.”

He gave a quick hug to Tilly’s mom then turned and walked towards the attic’s exit.

“Ms. Garcia,” he gave a slight nod as he walked past. Tilly smirked at him noticing an undeniable glint in the man’s eye.

“Tilly,” her mother quickly instructed steering the subject, “why don’t you help by starting over there in that corner.”

The young girl looked to where her mother pointed but out of the corner of her eye she noticed one last glance shared between the two adults as Mr. Thomas descended the steps. Anger boiled within her veins as she stomped over to the dark corner where several dusty trunks were stacked.

“So, how was your day?” her mother asked as they settled into their work.

“Terrible!” Tilly answered impolitely. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

As if to affirm her guilt, Tilly’s mother left the comment alone and quietly went about her work. This infuriated the young girl even further until she opened the first dusty old trunk.

Within, brightly colored dresses possessing delightful patterns of bright reds, yellows and blues were neatly folded and stacked. Few things could distract her the way clothing did. Tilly could be called a fashion nut. She pulled out sun dress after sun dress reveling in their exquisite beauty. Soon her anger was a distant memory as she lost herself in visions of frolicking through fields of grass in sun bathed joy.

“Mom,” she said over her shoulder holding up a dress with a red flowery pattern, “whose were these?”

“One of your great, great Aunts I believe.” Her mother answered eager to move on from the recent embarrassing incident. “She was from Guatemala.”

As she refolded the dress a small doll fell from its single pocket. She carefully picked up the small trinket and studied it intently. It was made from a single stick of wood two inches long wrapped in small colorful scraps for its clothing. A face was carefully painted on the small wooden face.

She stood and carried it over to her mother.

“Look what I found.” She said holding it out for inspection. Her mother’s eyes lit up and she held out her hand.

“I haven’t seen one of these since I was a little girl.” She said reverently as Tilly dropped the doll into her palm. A faraway look crossed her face as she explained the doll to her daughter.

“This is a Guatemalan worry doll passed down from Mayan times. It is believed that when something bothers you and you can’t sleep, these little dolls do the worrying for you.”

Her mother seemed to snap back to the present as she handed the doll back to Tilly.

“How does it work?” Tilly asked turning the doll over in her hand.

“You tell it a specific worry before you go to bed,” her mother went back to the box she had been rummaging through and continue back over her shoulder, “and then place it under your pillow. The doll takes the worry from you as you sleep.”

 

Later that evening, at dinner, father asked mother what she had done that day. After a nervous glance at Tilly, she told him about her chore in the attic conveniently omitting the fact that their neighbor had helped out.

Another admission of guilt, Tilly thought as she idly pushed the food around her plate with her fork.

“How about you pumpkin?” Mr. Garcia turned to his daughter then shoveled a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and joyfully chewed.

Father’s favorite dinner, another move fueled by mother’s guilt? She asked herself. Mr. Thomas’ name was on the tip of her tongue as she looked to her mother and saw a pleading look in her eyes. Her next biggest worry crossed her mind and she instantly seized onto it to take her mind from her mother’s indiscretion.

“I tried to study for this Trig test I have in the morning,” she said with a sigh, “but I still don’t get it.”

“Oh, Tilly,” her father said concernedly, “isn’t that the class you had a D in on your last report card?”

“Yes, sir,” her gaze dropped to her plate. “Matthew is coming over later to help me cram for the test.”

“And his parents,” her father asked curiously, “don’t care that he’s going to be up all night helping you study?”

“No.” She lied.

“I don’t know how I feel,” her mother responded standing from the table and taking her barely touched plate to the kitchen sink, “about you having a boy over here so late.”

Anger boiled once again as the image of her and Mr. Thomas in the attic played on her mind. She swallowed the insult that rested on her tongue.

“He is just a friend!”

“Well,” her father said after chewing the last bite of his food and pushing his plate away, “he must be a good friend if he is willing to help my daughter out with her most difficult subject.”

“He is daddy,” she said then turned to her mother as she came from the kitchen with a bowl in her hand. “AND, he is NOT my boyfriend.”

Her mother shot Tilly another nervous look then placed the bowl in front of Mr. Garcia.

“Hot fudge Sundae?” He said with eyes bulging with delight. “What’s the occasion?”

“None,” she said with a nervous chuckle father failed to notice, “just because you deserve it.”

 

Later, Tilly met her friend at the front door. They studied at the kitchen table late into the night, but the young girls frustration grew as her confusion with the material refused to subside. Both teens were exhausted by the time Mathew finally gave in.

“Thank you Matt,” the young girl said apologetically, “I’m so sorry I’ve wasted your time.”

“Ah, Tills,” he said putting a sympathetic hand upon her shoulder. “Try to get some rest and hope for the best. That’s what I always say.”

She gave him a hug and showed him to the door. She climbed the steps to her room and plopped down upon her bed. She looked at the alarm clock. Ten past midnight. She contemplated how much sleep she would get when she sudden realized she had shoved her hand within her pocket and she was grasping the worry doll she had found earlier. She pulled it out and studied its brightly color clothing and painted smiling face.

“Ah, what the hell,” she said with a sigh. “Worry doll, I am scared about my Trig test in the morning. Will you please help?” Unsure what to do next she kissed the doll and slid it underneath her pillow. Soon exhaustion caught up with her and she fell into a deep sleep she had not experienced since her infancy.

 

The morning sun shone brightly through her window as she dressed the following morning. Her spirit seemed to shine as brightly as the morning as she gathered her things and the Trig book caught her attention. She walked over the unmade bed and shoved her hand underneath her pillow. The doll was no longer there. But, neither was her worry about the test. She had an overwhelmingly good feeling it was all going to turn out fine.

Later that morning, she sat in her seat in Trig class listening to the kids around her cheer as her feeling of well being turned to despair. There was no Trig test. The principal was explaining the substitute teacher was on the way and that Mrs. Sullivan had a sudden family emergency and could not make it in.

As the principal left the room, and spit balls and paper airplanes began to fly, she shoved her hand into her pocket surprised her fingers closed around the small worry doll. She pulled it from her pocket and studied its brightly colored swatches of clothing and then looked into its face. A smile no longer greeted her. Instead it was replaced with a neatly painted frown.

Tilly jumped to her feet and raced out of the room. She caught up with the principal halfway down the hall.

“Mr. Bruer?” she called to him as he scurried hurriedly towards the school office. “What’s wrong with Mrs. Sullivan?”

The principal stopped and turned at the young girl’s voice.

“Ms. Garcia,” he responded, “get your butt back to your class room.”

“Please Mr. Bruer,” Tilly said as her childhood ability kicked in and her lower lip jutted outward, “I must know.”

The principal stepped towards her and put a tender hand on her shoulder.

“Mrs. Sullivan’s mother died just after Midnight. Now, go back to class and wait on your sub. Tell no one else what I’ve told you, young lady.” Then he added sternly, “no one.”

The principal turned and continued towards his office. Tilly looked at the doll she still held within her hand and a chill ran up her spine as now the doll smiled back at her once again.