Page 59 of Cruel Pleasures

“What the fuck, Lyra?” I whisper, stunned.

The morbid drawings continue until I come across a few pages with paragraphs jotted down. The writing’s aggressive, again as though the pen was dug into the lines. Not at all like the relatively neat penmanship I’d seen out of Lyra. My lips move as I read what’s written down:

back straight, feet flat, fingers on the keys, back straight, feet flat, fingers on the keys, back straight feet flat, fingers on the keys, back straight, feet flat, fingers on the keys, back straight, feet flat, fingers on the keys…

Over and over again for entire paragraphs. For entire pages ’til I reach the last word and the stroke of the pen veers off as if she’d finally been interrupted. Yanked away from writing the words dozens of times like some punishment at detention.

I blink and realize tears mist my eyes. I’m not sure how I know, but intuitively, I’m aware of the pain felt when she wrote this. The dark emotions that had consumed her as she repeated the lines so many times her hands must’ve ached.

My own comes to my mouth and I snap shut the book, unable to stare at it another second.

I’ve known Lyra since our time together at Easton U. Not nearly as long as Grady, but she’d been my best friend. We’d stayed up late so many nights talking. We’d shared things with each other I’d never told anyone.

She’s always been more of a sister to me than Jamila, Kendra, Balinda, Amari and GiGi.

I’d known she marched to the beat of her own drum. She was open about how different she was and that’s what made me appreciate her when I first got to know her. Instead of being obsessed with guys and cliques like most of the girls in our year, she loved music and had the most interesting opinions on the world around us. She was self-depreciating and had weird habits like visiting the local cemetery to read under her favorite elm tree.

But these were always things that made her Lyra. Her quirkiness balanced our friendship, where I was more grounded and strait-laced, and she often had her head in the clouds.

I’d always suspected she had a rough childhood, though she usually kept the details under wraps. Over the years she only offered bits and pieces. Stuff like how she’d wound up in the foster system and how Grady was her next door neighbor.

Was this notebook from a time before she was cycled through different foster homes? From the time with her mother and sister she almost never spoke of?

Setting aside the notebook, I reach into the trunk for the photo album. In the past, I’d pointed it out to her when noticing her broken bed frame. She’d laughed and told me it was the only reason she held onto it. Otherwise, she said there was no use for keeping this album.

I splay it open and immediately discover why.

The album is full of family photos clearly decades old. Birthday parties. First days of school. Music recitals. It’d be sweet and sentimental if every single photo didn’t give melancholic vibes.

I turn to one page which looks like photographs from Christmas morning. There’s a frail-looking tree leaning lopsided to the left. The string of lights and baubles hanging off the branches weigh it down. Presents scatter the base of the tree.

In front stands a woman that must be Lyra’s mom. No maternal air exists about her. The expression she wears is harsh and her eyes are cold and dim, like she’s too dissatisfied to even pretend for the camera. Sitting cross-legged at her side on the floor are two little girls in their cartoon bear pajamas, a ‘J’ and ‘L’ stitched onto the front of their respective tops.

Lyra’s missing any childlike glee. She has no happy spark about her that children usually have on Christmas morning when opening presents.

I slip the photograph out of its laminated sleeve and squint, looking closer. Her eyes are reddened like she’s been crying. Does it have anything to do with the thick bandage on her arm?

Her sister sits next to her, slightly smaller due to age. Her expression’s harder to read, though it’s still not what you’d expect from a festive occasion like Christmas…

“What in the hell happened to you, Ly?” I whisper, my heart aching. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“What are you doing in here?”

I scream at the sudden sound of someone else’s voice. Looking up, I find none other than Timothee peering down at me, his hands folded behind his back. The door to the room hangs open. That must be why he wandered inside.

My hand presses into my chest to calm my racing heart. “I could ask you the same thing. Do you make a habit out of sneaking up on people?”

“Only when they’ve ventured where they shouldn’t be.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“Be that as it may, you have no right to be in this room,” he says tersely, his nose pointed in the air. “I’m going to have to ask you to vacate at once.”

My legs feel shaky as I push myself up into a stand. I don’t argue him on it. But I do keep the photograph that’s in my hand.

I wait until several stories separate us before I stop long enough for another glance down at the photo. I turn it over onto the back side.

X-Mas morning, 2001, Mommy + J + L