Sixteen

I don't have to work. When Nana passed, she left me a very large amount of money in her life insurance policy that ensured that I'd be set for a very long time. But sometimes it's boring doing nothing all the time and after meeting Larry, I knew this was the perfect job for me. Twice a month, I go to the Rivercrest retirement home and help with an arts-and-crafts class that they have. I'm sure I stick out like a sore thumb there, but I like it. It reminds me of the many times I spent with my nana, painting stained glass. Dropping my armful of supplies on the front table, I start spreading out different colored watercolor trays and thick paper. Today, we're painting.

Trisha, a CNA who often helps with the crafts, comes through the door, wheeling one of my favorite residents into the room with her. She smiles at me, pushing him to another table. He scowls at me, and I smile in return. "How are you doing today, Larry?"

"I'd be better if they'd let me have another fruit cup with lunch." His shaky wrinkled hands cross over his chest.

"You know we need to watch your blood sugar, Larry." Trisha gives me a side-eye, smirking at me as she comes to stand by the table. "Now what colors do you want? We're going to be painting today."

"I don't want to paint." He huffs at the look she gives him, shaking his head. "Just give me blue."

She chuckles, putting a square of paper, a small plastic cup of water, and a tray of various shades of blue watercolors in front of him. The other residents are starting to file into the room, a few others being wheeled by CNAs like Larry was. It doesn't take long for everyone to settle, and Trisha takes over since she knows I don't like to.

"We're painting today! Hadley brought a bunch of different colors of paint for us to use and you guys can come pick what you'd like."

After everyone has picked their paints and I've done a demonstration on how to paint a silly little rainbow, I walk around the room, making sure no one needs help. Most of the ladies here are crafty themselves and already know how to do most of what we do in these classes, but others, like Larry, struggle a bit. I move to stand near his table, watching as he stares at the giant wet blob he's made.

"That looks interesting, Larry."

He frowns at me, gesturing at his paper. "No. It looks like shit."

I laugh, picking up his discarded paint brush. Dipping it into a lighter shade of blue than he already has, I make a ring around his blob. I walk around the table, reaching for a yellow color palette from the front to make star-like shapes around it. When it resembles an abstract version of the moon and stars, I set his brush down. "There."

His fingers brush along the edge of the paper as he looks down at it. "My granddaughter used to paint." He shifts in his wheelchair, and I wait for him to continue. "She did watercolor."

"I bet it was really pretty."

"It was shit." I laugh again and he smiles, picking up the paint brush to rinse off in the water cup absentmindedly before placing it back down. "But she loved doing it and that's all that mattered."

"You said she used to. Does she not paint anymore?" He shakes his head, the look on his face stopping my heart in my chest immediately, making me wish I could take the words back and pretend I never asked.

"No. We lost Tracy this summer."

I swallow hard. "Tracy? Tracy Mucket?"

"Yes. She took her stepfather's name. Did you know her?"

I suddenly feel sick to my stomach, vomit burning up my esophagus that I have to fight down. "I'm so sorry, Larry. Excuse me, I have to use the restroom." Spinning from the table, I walk as fast as I can from the room without drawing attention to myself. My lungs are on fire as I try to keep my breathing under control. My palm on the doorframe to steady myself, I push into the bathroom and close the door behind me.

I don't understand what's happening. I don't know why the mention of Tracy, someone I don't think I've ever even met, is triggering such a response. Falling forward, I grip onto the sides of the sink, my head bowed as I try and get my breathing under control. My chest is tight, making each breath hard to pull in, my heart beating so hard I can feel it vibrating my ribs.

"... ing News. Tracy Mucket, a senior at Rivercrest University, was found murdered in her own home. Detectives say she appears to be another victim of the Butterfly serial killer. RLQ News anchor, Robert Yunder is currently on the scene..."

Turning the cold water on, I splash my face. It doesn't help. I feel like I'm on fire, my skin burning in hot flashes. My vision is blurring out of focus, black dots dancing when I blink.

Focus!

Focus, Hadley!

Hadley!

"Am I weird, Nana?"

Nana frowns at me over her magazine, curling the edge down with her hand so she can see me properly. "What are you talking about?"

"Am I weird? Brandon Morre said he wouldn't go to the dance with me because I'm weird."

"Yes." She lifts her magazine back up, ignoring my gasp. "What? You asked and I answered."

"That's rude, Nana. You were supposed to make me feel better, not rub it in."

She drops her magazine in her lap and purses her lips. "Honey, you should know by now that you're weird. It's okay to be weird. If anything, it makes you unique. Can you imagine how boring the world would be if everyone living in it was normal?" She lifts her magazine back up, ending our conversation. "Now leave me alone, weirdo. I'm trying to read."

Trisha grabs my arm, lightly shaking me so I look at her. "Didn't you hear the siren? Someone pulled the fire alarm. We have to evacuate."

Now that she's said it, I notice the white-and-red lights blinking on the ceiling and hear the loud wailing. "Yea, sorry, I was just in the bathroom."

"Well, you're out now, so let's go."