Everything happens for a reason.
October thinks about this as her family argues over whether they should go out and hunt their own turkey or just cook the chicken she had bought at the supermarket that morning. There was nothing wrong with the chicken, of course; in fact, it was plump and juicy. But Thanksgiving in the Owens family was all about tradition.
If her dad were here, he’d calm everyone down. He’d tell October that everything was okay and that Thanksgiving chicken wasn’t such a bad thing.
“October,” her mom begins, “did you really have to buy yourself a coffee? That money was only supposed to be for the turkey.”
Yes, October thinks, she did need to buy a coffee, because she was up all night worrying that her anger would once again get the best of her. Small family get-togethers were one thing; but when all of her bigoted relatives came together at one table it was absolutely unbearable. Coffee was her vodka, and she desperately needed to drink enough to numb her emotions. Or, better yet, pass out and sleep through the entire ordeal.
She says none of this to her mother’s face, of course. Instead, she responds with a simple apology.
“I just don’t understand. We do so much for you and you can’t even buy your lovely family their dinner,” her mother mutters, shaking her head in disbelief.
October wishes they would stop with the guilt trip tactic. Her family treats her like crap and they know it, too. She considers chucking the little journal the barista gave her at her lovely family’s heads, but they seem too valuable. Her family’s not worth the effort, anyway.
She thinks back to the encounter. The coffee was expensive and she was short on change, but the young woman behind the counter had taken a coin from her pocket and given it to October to cover the cost. In addition she had slipped a small leather-bound book under the coffee tray, claiming she had seen October writing in it the week before and wanted to return it.
This wasn’t the case, of course. October hated writing. Despite this, she’d decided not to question it.
She didn’t dare open the journal, though. She was afraid of what she might find.
Her mother’s shrill voice snaps her back to reality. The coffee is no longer hot; her family has ceased their argument.
“Since nobody wants to go hunt the turkey, I hope chicken is okay. Someone,” her mother hisses, “bought a coffee and only had enough to buy one measly chicken.”
October sighs. She knew that when her mother tried to act passive-aggressive, it meant she was actually seething with rage, not unlike a kettle that’s popped its lid.
Nobody seems to have a problem with chicken, thankfully. This calms her mother down a bit. She’s taking deep breaths, a trick her therapist taught her.
“Okay,” her mother says, trying to hold herself together. “October, why don’t you shower and come down when you’re nice and clean and ready to see your family?”
Translation: I can’t afford to be shamed by you any longer. You’ve done enough. Woe is me, I have a terrible daughter. Void yourself of all filth so you at least look presentable.
October complies. She’s desperate for an escape, anyway.
As the water runs, October wonders why her mother gets so mad at her for being such an angry child when it’s crystal clear that the anger issues run in the family. October’s aunt, along with two of her cousins and of course, her and her mother, all share the same DNA when it comes to being total hot-heads. The blame always seemed to fall on October, though. Sometimes she wishes she had a sister so she could share the burden. Or, better yet, a girlfriend to whom she could rant.
Someday, she tells herself. That girl will come along someday and when she does, her mother and every single member of her family will drop dead from shock and horror, and October will finally, finally be at peace.
That day is, sadly, not today.
October finishes her shower and throws her hair into a bun. Perfectly presentable. One more sip of the coffee and she is ready to go.
Downstairs, October is greeted with a slew of smiles and an array of arms waiting to suffocate her. Everyone is acting friendly enough; her mother’s antics haven’t caused any damage.
That didn’t mean she was going to escape dinner unscathed.
The mahogany chairs are filled, one by one. October’s relatives have found their seats, and the chicken roasts in the oven as all of the other dishes are brought out and stuck with serving spoons. The room is filled with a pleasant aroma and October feels relief wash over her, until the deep voice of her uncle pulls her from her trance.
“...two of them at the store today. Only God knows why they weren’t shown out; it’s a family establishment, you know? Kids shouldn’t be exposed to that, especially not the little ones.”
“Well,” another relative, one of October’s cousins, adds, mouth full of potato, “They’ve got loads of laws protecting...those people. Civil rights or something.”
Her uncle scowls. “Bull, I say. Everyone’s so dead-set on being politically correct. It’s time to stop beating around the bush and tell the gays to stop shoving their sexuality in our faces.”
Oh, no. Not this again, not now. Couldn’t they discuss this another time?
October can feel her stomach turning.
“There are a few in October’s school,” her mother says, voice laced with disgust. “I only pray she hasn’t talked to them, god forbid they influence her-”
She can’t deal with this nonsense any longer.
“Shut UP,” October yells, anger surging through her bones and filling her veins until they threaten to burst.
“October Owens!” her mother shrieks. “That is no way to-”
“I don’t care. I’m sick of everyone’s crap,” she shouts back. “You’re all so vile, talking about gay people like they’re the scum of the earth when really, it’s you.”
“You act like I’m always at fault, you blame me for everything, even the death of my own father, and you’re trying to mold me into one of you. But guess what? It’s never going to happen. I’m not your perfect little girl and I never will be.”
October tries to breathe and stay calm, she tries so hard. Alas, she can’t.
“I HATE YOU ALL. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE OF YOU. ESPECIALLY YOU,” she screams, looking directly at her mother. “YOU DON’T LOVE ME, DAMN IT, SO STOP TELLING EVERYONE YOU DO.”
Suddenly, October’s voice grows cold and sinister.
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t try and turn me into a carbon copy of yourself. If you loved me, you’d let me be myself, and you’d accept the fact that you didn’t love Dad enough before he died instead of forcing the blame on me,” she hisses.
“Also, I’m gay, so you’ve basically been insulting my existence for ten whole minutes.”
October waits for the explosion. The smoke, the shock, is making its way around the table, and-
“GET OUT!” her mother screams. “GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!”
October smiles to herself. “I thought you’d never ask.”
October doesn’t get out, though. Not before grabbing her babysitting money, the coin, and the stranger’s journal, and not before lying down in her bed for the last time.
Only when she hears her mother’s furious footsteps on the stairs does she open the window and jump six feet to the ground.
Her plan had worked. Drop the gay bomb and her mother would no longer worry about her. She was free.
What now?
There was a ShopRite five miles from the house; she had bought the chicken there this morning, but walking five miles through the dense woods at night wasn’t a good idea. October would have to wait until dawn to leave.
She passes time by looking through the stranger’s journal. The first page is blank. The second page is not.
She’ll be looking for you in the morning. She’ll want you to come back. She’ll force you. Leave at night; go to the drugstore and buy scissors and hair dye. Nobody will be able to find you if they don’t know who to look for.
Also. make sure to stop by Starbucks for a coffee.
-O.O
October closes the journal and smiles. She was meant to find it. She was meant to buy a coffee this morning. Everything that happened in the past 24 hours was leading up to this, her escape.
Everything happens for a reason.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The clock in the cafè reads 3:21 am. One barista remains behind the counter, glancing periodically at the lamppost outside, waiting for her 16-year old silhouette to appear in the faint light.
In her hand she holds her journal from her teenage years. She’d hoped that communicating with her past self via journal was the right idea; if it was, she could change the last five terrible years of her life.
If escape from that house was possible, what would be different? Her brain is alive with possibility.
She looks again.
There is a girlish figure standing under the light; she holds a journal in her hand.
The barista sighs in relief. Her plan had worked.
October Owens, the barista says to herself, it’s time to change your fate.