Black Licorice by Elaina Battista-Parsons

Author:Elaina Battista-Parsons [Battista-Parsons, Elaina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781952969089
Publisher: Inked in Gray LLC

It’s Friday night. Lorna and I are on texting terms again, but it’s awkward and a pinch too formal, especially during school hours, but I can feel us making our way back to each other. She’s been inserting cardinal emojis into her messages to remind me how we met on Black Licorice, but there’s this obvious wavering in her tone. It doesn’t feel like a situation where one of us is desperate for some kind of acceptance from the other, though, which gives me hope. She hasn’t cut me loose yet. I keep shoving Dad’s reminder to be careful out of my mind, even if it feels suddenly relevant.

Today Lorna is with Gram visiting one of her cousins up north, and Mom is out with her book club, so it’s just Dad and me. He asks me to sit with him and watch a documentary called Trees of the West Coast.

"I want to work on my blog a little. Maybe I’ll catch the ending,” I say as I open the front door, take in a whiff of the bay before hopping back up the stairs to my room. Things haven’t been the same between me and Dad since I met Lorna. Whatever. “I’ll be down in about forty,” I yell down. “Tell me when they get to the sequoias.” He always gets a kick out of it when I pay attention to his green thumb. He gushes about trees and whatever greenery is featured in his agricultural journal during his Sunday morning coffee and bagel. Knowing I retain a few facts gives him a sense of satisfaction, which I get. It’s nice to feel seen.

My flute is in its three parts on my bed comforter the way I left it all day. I knew leaving it there would remind me to make it a priority. My blog has to wait. The inside of my flute needs cleaning. Lorna had asked me to learn a Twenty-One Pilots song when we first met. I hold back my own feelings about her musical taste and print out the sheet music. I swallow the heartache when I realize I have zero upcoming events in my calendar. None that involve playing in a crowded auditorium.

Halfway through the song, I decide it’s a terrible arrangement. I tweak the notes just a little. As long as you know the key a song is written in, you can add your own notes in certain spots, and it still makes musical sense. After assembling and practicing the song so it’s recognizable, I record it on my phone, hit send, and decide I’m done. Dad is only twenty minutes into his tree journey, and I know he’ll be excited to see me sooner. We haven’t spent much time together since I started CB, and I kind of miss my dad, as uncool as that sounds.

“Freddi.” He pauses the TV and turns to me as I plop down onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn, scooping a handful of kernels in my mouth.

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