Chapter 1 — Lilybug

I hate flowers.

 There’s a Lily in my room. My mom puts one in a vase on my windowsill every day, fresh cut from the farmer’s market. I threw one out once, and she got mad at me and slapped me. The imprint of her hand on my face, and the remains of the lily imprinted on the bathroom floor. 

I leave the Lily alone now. It’s a reminder of my father, which is why my mother insists on keeping it there, a memory of my father, who loved lilies.

 He called me Lily Bug, his nickname for me. I would tell him, my names Sarah Lee, dad, not Lily. Why do you call me that?

He would laugh and say,

 “Sarah Lee, you’re my little lady and a bug all at once. So lily bug, do you want to keep bugging me or do you want to dance with me?”

I flounced away, refusing to dance on his feet, and he would chase me and throw me on his shoulders anyway. And dance we did.

 My dad once said, “My dad once said, that people aren’t flowers. The true essence of someone doesn’t lie in their external beauty, in their make up and in their perfume. The true essence of someone lies in their faith, in the words they aspire to live by.”

The grass withers and the flowers fade but the word of God endures forever. - Isaiah 40:8

 I sign the bottom of my journal entry with a flourish and close the notebook. There is little more rewarding than spending time alone journaling, and knowing that this time is reserved for my own introspection, my thoughts and feelings spilled out on pen and paper.

Sunlight pours into my room. The light flickers against the glass of my cup, and I bring it to my lips, sipping my cool water. I like it with a bit of lemon, tangy and sour against my tongue. Refreshed, I put the glass back on my coaster. 

 I stand up and stretch. I’ve been journaling for an hour already, and my shoulders are sore from bending over my desk. I felt like dancing, reminded by my dad who loved to dance and sing and play violin and piano. He was a musician, first and foremost, and dad second. I learned to sing and write from him, brought up on his knee to be like him.

I pull out my iPhone and scroll through my playlist. Found the song I want. 

 Take Your Time by Joseph O’ Brien. 

 I press on play, and the music fills my room. 

Light break through

You know I'm really needing it

To tell the truth I wish it was immediate

Show me how to hold on, slow down

Don't gotta get what I want right now

'Cause you'll come through again, again, again, again, oh

But even if you take your time

Even if you say I gotta wait in line

Go ahead and do what you gotta do

God, I'm giving you control, oh

'Cause even if it's hard to see

I believe you're doing something good in me

Go ahead, 'cause you're doing it with love

And you're not gonna rush my life

It's all right, go on and take your time

I dance my heart out, my body in rhythm to the upbeat song. Shaking my arms and legs, tossing my shoulder length hair, I let my body free. All the stress of the school day released from my body, I drop to the bed, content.
 I hear a knock on the door.

 “Sarah Lee! Dinner’s ready!”

My mom calls from outside my door. 

 “Coming!” I yell back.

 I turn off the music, pull my sweater cardigan on and head out the door. 

-

Monday nights are all about grits.

And mashed potatoes. Soaked in gravy and bacon bits. Some cheddar cheese please.

Not to mention, my mom’s garlic cranberry rosemary scones. They’re her specialty and no one else knows her recipe. 

My mom’s cooking is legendary in Burberry. She won my town’s cooking competition 7 years in a row. She even appeared on the Food Network channel in several of their cooking show episodes. Not everyone’s mother does competitive cooking for a hobby. I don’t like to brag, but I like to brag about my mom.

My mom keeps my family together. And as she hands us the plates of food, I notice the weary lines around her mouth and her callused hands. 
Table set up, the four of us sit down around the table.

“Sarah Lee, say grace please.”

 “Yes, Mom.”

 “God, thank you for this time spent with my family this evening. May you bless this food and our conversation this evening. Amen.”

 “Amen.”

 “Mom guess what,” says Addie immediately. “I got a perfect score on my biology midterm today. Number 1 in the class.”

 Addie’s my younger sister, smart as a whip. She wants to be a doctor and use her brains “for the greater good”, as she likes to quote Dumbledore. She’s obsessed with all things science, coding, Harry Potter, and puppies. 

 Speaking of puppies, Scout is waving his tail, wanting leftovers. Scout’s a mix between Labrador and golden retriever and snickerdoodle, and he’s been a puppy for most of his life. Addie jokes that she made Scout from a program she coded in computer science. 

 Key ingredients: sugar, spice, everything nice, and a bit of splice.

 I give Scout a bit of my scone and he jumps on it, all energy and buzz. 

Mom smiles at Addie, “That’s great! Keep up the good work.”

 Brad scowls at his plate. Biology and science aren’t his forte, which is why he resents Addie, due to the pressure to be a guy. He’s more hands-on, good with his hands. He’s always messing with electronics and he’s even created a miniature robotic dog companion for Scout. Mini Scout can only bark and walk, and he also serves as Scout’s favorite chew toy. He doesn’t break often, which is why he’s perfect for gnawing at. 

 Addie wants Brad to make her lab equipment for the lab she’s building in our garage. Brad doesn’t want to, he wants to use the garage for his band (he plays drums). Conflict of interest, he insists. 

 They were yelling at each other this morning, having a roaring fiery argument that shattered my eardrums. 

 “I’m not your slave, Addie! Build your own lab!”

 “Come on, I don’t know mechanical shit like you do!”

 “You just want to steal the garage from me! The garage IS MINE!”

 “BITE ME BITCH.”

 And so on.

 Brad thinks Addie’s sucking up to Mom to win garage privileges. I think Addie just likes to be praised for all of her accomplishments. And Brad’s just bitter that his friends suck at guitar and he can’t find a lead vocalist for his band.

 Don’t look at me, Brad, I don’t sing anymore. That ended when dad died.

 I’m less of a peacemaker, and more of an spectator. I refuse to get in the way of drama. Drama is how money is made, for a journalist. 

 I’m not passive, I just like to document everything. Life’s made to be part of an archives. Who else is going to annotate this shit?

 Brad clenches his fork in his hand and says quietly, “I got an A too. In gym.”

 I had to giggle at that. 

 Addie glares at Brad,

 “Who cares! Colleges don’t even look at gym grades!”

 Brad doesn’t reply and instead tosses his carrots around on his plate. He hates carrots, he finds their hue offensive. 

 “That was a joke Addie.” I intervene. 

 “Obviously,” Brad mutters under his breath.

Addie tosses her long braid over her shoulder, and smiles sweetly at Mom.

“Anyway, Mom, there’s going to be a state wide competition for my science team coming up, and I’m going to be participating in it. It’s in Rockwell next month.” 

Brad glares at Addie. 

Not one to lose, Brad announces, “There’s an essay competition and Sarah lee’s going to win.”

 Addie, Mom, and I whip our heads around and gape at him.

 I haven’t heard of any essay competition, and definitely not one that I’m going to win. I haven’t even submitted anything yet. 

I wasn’t expecting this at all. It came like a bullet in the rain, shattering the air and the space between me and all I've ever known.

 “What contest?” Mom says. “Sarah Lee, you’re doing a contest?”

 Brad straightens his back and looks directly at me,

“There’s going to be a nonfiction essay-writing competition, and Sarah Lee’s been chosen to be one of the participants in it. I heard from my English teacher this morning.”

 I frown. I haven’t heard of this. If I was chosen, they should have told me. I don’t say anything but I glare at my potatoes. Potatoes, you are offending me. 

 “Can I be excused?” I pick up my plate and stand up. 

 Mom ignores me and asks Brad,

 “Sit, Sarah Lee. Brad, What’s the prize?”

“$10,000 and an internship at The New York Times.”

 I drop my plate on the ground and the potatoes fall on the ground, smashed. 

 Addie shrieks, 

 “New York?!”

 Brad lets out a smirk,

 “Yup.”

Mom gets up and helps me pick up the pieces of my plate. 

“Sarah Lee, talk to your teacher tomorrow and ask him about this contest. This could open big doors for you. Don’t worry about the dishes.”

 My arms fall to my sides, and I nod. Scout goes to me, and he licks my leg. 

 I need a break. I leave the house, closing the door behind me, Scout following me. Collapsing on the patio bench, I stare up at the night sky. With Scout next to me, I pet his fur, thinking.

And yet not thinking. 
With some space in between the dinner conversation and the here and now, and between me and sky. 

New York, huh? City that never sleeps, city of artificial lights instead of starlights. I won't be able to see the stars there, way too much light pollution. But this could be good.

I let out a smile to the sky.

This could be good.