Black Licorice

By Elaina Battista-Parsons

Freddi's life is over. Her best-and only-friend needed her and she failed. After a series of bad decisions, Freddi is pulled out of music school and forced to prove herself, but a new school and volunteer work only add to her overwhelming anxiety. Freddi finds a potential new friend in Lorna, who forces h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inked in Gray LLC
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781952969096

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Black Licorice

Black Licorice

ELAINA BATTISTA-PARSONS

Inked in Gray

Copyright © 2022 by Inked in Gray

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Second title page

For Kev, I will always pay full price. xo

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Song List

Acknowledgments

About Elaina

Chapter 1

Mom rips open my bedroom curtains with a flourish. The winter sunlight threatens to sear my eyelids. I roll over and cover my head with a pillow.

He’s gone. Deal with it and get your butt out of bed this instant. It’s past nine. Up, up. She sprays my window with Windex and wipes it in caffeine-fueled circles. The squeaks and hustle are deliberate, a language all their own.

I rub the sleep from my face. A desert has nothing on my lips right now. Wait, WHAT? Why? No he’s not.

Your worry-wart father called Darlene to see if she was alright. The sun is out. It’s Christmas Eve, Mom says. Up! I need to strip and clean the sheets. She’s already tearing the pillowcase off my pillow with my head still on it. You smell like burnt oregano. She grips a handful of my hair and shoves her nose in it. And there better not be mud on your sheets from those boots.

I groan. Where’s Court, Mom?

Freddi, Court never listened to anyone’s advice. Now out of bed. Downstairs in five minutes. She races down the steps with the Windex in one hand and my bedding over her shoulder.

There’s no way Court left without calling. Or texting. He had asked me to go with him last night, which didn’t even make sense, but still. Friends don’t leave without saying anything.

I call Court. No answer. He’ll call. We’ll sit on my front porch and sort it out. We’d play our complex pieces of music, talk about those complex pieces of music, and argue about notes embedded in the complex pieces of music. All would be right between us.

I sit up in bed and grab two pieces of mint gum from my coat pocket. I peel off my boots and clothes and throw my bathrobe on. With feet that don’t feel like my own, I pound down the stairs where I’m sure Dad is waiting with a steaming mug of coffee and a script for the ages. Not answering my dad’s frantic texts last night was a terrible mistake.

Dad would have woken me up with jokes about horticulture or a gentle squeeze of my ankle instead of Mom’s stabby punch of words. I bet he’s the spokesman for grounding rules. I bet he will tell me Court is just sleeping. Grounded, just like I’m going to be, but still home.

Instead, Dad is hunched over at the kitchen table looking like he hasn’t slept a wink. Mom is red-faced, hustling in and out of the laundry room before finally landing next to Dad.

What I want to say is maybe you should’ve had more kids so that you’re not so hyperaware of my existence, but I love my father too much to tell him the truth. And he’s always been pretty fair.

I’m sorry I didn’t text you sooner last night, Dad. It’s complicated. Court didn’t leave, right? I ask. Mom chugs her coffee one-handed, a move that means she’s gearing up for discussion. "He just turned eighteen, and now he thinks the world is all his? Come on." The sun thrums through the kitchen window, illuminating the dismay on both their faces. I guess that wasn’t the right thing to say.

I think a week-long grounding is in your future, don’t you think? Mom’s manicured finger is pointed in my face, and Dad’s hand is on her other wrist as it trembles on the table. She’s scary sometimes, and Dad’s obsessed with her in a way every husband should be. Then again, it can be pathetic. And the discussion never goes in my favor.

Court better not show up here, Mom says. I don’t trust myself not to —

You act like you’ve been waiting for this to happen. It’s not like we walked out of Chestnut Bay, GOD. I stare out the back window at the depressing Christmas Eve silence. Why do you assume it’s all his fault, anyway?

Mom’s up, and Dad immediately guides her back into her seat with his please, Francesca. Federica Lisette Birdoni. I swear to God I’ll pull you from ARTS if this happens again, Mom says with a tone that could lacerate marble. That escalated fast, and I’m not even a tiny bit surprised. I’m not worried, though. Threatening to take away ARTS is a bluff. She’d never. School is the only place where my life clicks together and makes me me. My flute is a vital extension. It makes me complete.

I get it, Mom. Dad, where is he? I plead, tempted to knock my mom’s coffee cup out of her grip. It’s the trace of Mom that lingers in my veins. Instead, I grab a mug from the cabinet next to the sink, pour myself some coffee, and sit across from the two love birds.

We don’t know. Just that he left. Darlene is frantic. You should have said something. Dad stands up, and it’s his turn to stare out the window behind the kitchen sink. He didn’t leave on great terms. I mean, he’s eighteen, so . . . Dad shrugs. "She can’t do much."

You could’ve stopped me from being his friend in the beginning. I chug some coffee and choke back a tear. My black curls feel like steel chains on my head.

Freddi. Court is not typical. You’ll make other friends. Go somewhere new. Join the world. Spend the afternoon with your father volunteering at the Christmas tree farm. You need fresh air. It’s all going to be okay. It’s Christmas Eve. Like nothing bad is allowed to happen on this sacred day. Give me a break. As if she read my mind, she slams her mug down and stomps out of the kitchen.

Francesca, wait, Dad calls out, but I see her plop down in the family room, her face disappearing behind a book.

Dad and I sit alone in the kitchen. I scoot in closer to him now that mom’s oppressive energy has cleared out. All I ever wanted was to make a real friend. I made one. Now look where it got me. I put my face in my hands and press my elbows into the kitchen table for relief. "Please don’t tell me I’ll make new friends. I never can."

For the next two hours I sleep on a sheetless mattress. When I wake up, I ignore the urge to practice. The flute under my bed can burn in hell. It makes my stomach roll. If I can’t have my friend, the flute can’t have me. I text Court.

Me:

Where are you? Did you go to the city? Talk to me. We HAVE to talk. What did I do so wrong? WTF. You only have five months before you graduate.

Freddi. Wash up and meet me downstairs, Dad calls, a candy-cane kindness in his voice. I don’t know where his seemingly endless forgiveness comes from. His wiring is the antithesis of Mom and me.

Two hours later, Dad and I are roping fat Christmas trees and strapping them to people’s cars. Mostly I watch burdened by sullen thoughts. The Christmas trees are fragrant, begging me to give it all I’ve got. I need to show Dad I can do this. He has worked so hard at staying patient with me today. Mom can bite me. Even threatening to pull me out of ARTS is ridiculous. Leaving would be detrimental. Music is my life. I’m counting on the sheer fact that it’s Christmas Eve and Mom will calm down.

Most of the customers load their own trees onto their cars or into their pickup trucks. It’s colder than it was last night, which I find refreshing since breathing takes effort. He left. I’m alone again. I go through the motions but feel a storm formulating in my bones the way a tantrum would when I was younger, only those tantrums were quick and done. This storm is embracing a more circuitous path in my body. I struggle with the rope on the car in front of me. Mike, the owner of the farm, sees my failure and comes over to finish while Dad is off helping another customer. The other customer is accompanied by someone I think I recognize.

Freddi! Isn’t that your friend from ARTS? Come over here! Dad rubs his hands together rapidly, smiling with a certain mischievous optimism. He knows damn well Court was my only friend. Everyone else is a last name and an instrument. I walk towards him anyway because if I don’t, he’ll report my insolence back to Mom.

As I trudge through the mud toward Dad and a black SUV, the war inside my body ignites. I can’t say if it’s happening to my skin or my bones. I feel drumsticks on snare drums, slamming a cadence. Speed rolls, slow taps slapping down on my insides, making fun of my trepidation and covering every inch of my skin like rogue marching band drummers running in circles. I want to punch Court in the gut for leaving. I pause, look down at my plaid rain boots and notice snow flurries. Great. More for Dad to celebrate.

Come here! Dad waves me over like a hyperactive Christmas elf. The snare rolls quicker and quicker until the unyielding cadence peaks and the cymbals crash. I stop again and take a deep breath, but what I really want is to scream at the top of my lungs among the evergreens. I pop a piece of gum in my mouth, tuck my unruly curls into my hat, and inch toward Dad with a forced, upright posture. Standing beside him is DiTerra, second violin at ARTS. Court helped her with her violin once. I scrape my lip gloss off with my teeth, working up a phony smile that physically hurts to keep in place.

DiTerra waves as I approach. Hey Freddi. Your dad is so nice! Merry Christmas! DiTerra’s Christmas cheer sparkles through her freckles. She climbs into the front seat of her SUV. See you in a week!

I manage a limp wave, the rhythm in my mind swirls and I feel like I might pass out, but Dad’s smile comforts me. Wasn’t it fun to see a familiar face today? Dad says.

Snare drummers in triple time. Crash cymbals. Bang. Bang. Can we go home? I don’t feel so hot.

Already? Dad frowns. I guess it’s fine. We only have an hour left anyway. Let me go tell Mike. He hurries off, and I find a place on the cold ground to sit. Does my mom have these moments of internal chaos before she loses it and screams at the two of us? My mind is racing. I stand up, sprint a quarter of a mile across the tree lot and jam myself into the woods far enough out of earshot. Or not. I don’t care. I open my mouth and let out a painful scream in C-sharp. Relief. I’m back at our car before Dad gets there, and we head home. The snare drums have ceased. I look forward to getting away from all this cheer.

Let’s listen to Christmas music, huh? Dad doesn’t like when things are off. I nod, but in my head, I write an email to Court. The triumph of Carol of the Bells begs me to stop. I delete and rewrite angry pleas in my head at least five times before we reach the house.

I saw you out there. It’s gonna be okay.

Saw what? I’m sure he’s referring to the forest sprint, but I want to hear him say it. I want him to face the problem in the face with me instead of his preference for look how nice everything turned out. He doesn’t. We pull up to the house. It’s likely that Mom has lasagna and a salad waiting for us, but I want no part of fake family fun.

Where’s the fire? Mom asks as I whizz past her and her newest book club selection.

Leave me alone.

The fire is in my fingers. I flip open my laptop. The words burn through me onto the page.

Dear Court,

Why didn’t you say goodbye? Where are you? Are you okay? Did you go to Queens like you said you were going to? Talk to me. I’m going nuts here. I’m grounded for ignoring my dad’s texts last night.

Please write back. Tell me anything.

What do I do? Come back.

Freddi

Chapter 2

Istand, my body folded in half with my face pressed against my knees to stretch out my hamstrings and admire the dozens of lip glosses organized by finish on the carpet in front of me. Not one text or email from Court all week. The past twelve months of friendship are over, ending in a coda of bullshit.

My brief friendship with Court was nothing groundbreaking, but to me . . . it was precious. It showed me I was capable of being in someone’s world other than my own. Now it’s gone. I’m alone.

I assumed he wasn’t in the right mindset to check his email on Christmas Eve, so I sent the same email twice more. He had to have seen them and just won’t reply. All I have left is to play with my new glosses. I pop a few black licorice nibs into my mouth and mess up my freshly categorized glosses like it’s a game. Shimmers. Pigmented. Matte. Being grounded means I have all the time in the world to organize the variety as many times as I dare. My stomach growls. I bounce downstairs to the kitchen where my parents are drinking tea and reading the newspaper. Freddi, looks like this week is going to be one of the warmest on record for this time of year, Dad says as I hit the bottom and my feet slide in opposite directions. I grab the decorative hook on the kitchen wall to stop myself from landing on my ass. Like body, like emotions, I guess. Welcome to the wacky weather of Chestnut Bay, NJ! Melting heart of the Jersey Shore. Climate change is real, ladies.

Thanks for noticing I almost bit it, by the way. Who mopped? I open the fridge and contemplate nourishment. I should eat something today other than licorice.

Oops! Sorry, love, Dad says. I should have put up a sign.

Mom sips her tea, ignores Dad’s playfulness, and studies the front page of the newspaper. Freddi, do you mind taking a little walk for me? See another part of the world with people?

Francesca, I can go. She’s busy. Dad crams a few triangles of pineapple into his mouth. He blows me a quick kiss from his fruit-stuffed mouth.

She’s been in her room all day. She could benefit from a short walk. Mom shakes her head. Make up your mind in there? The electric bill is high enough.

"I’m curious, Mom. Where else should I be? I grab a bowl of grapes from the middle shelf and plop down next to Dad at the table. You grounded me, and I have no friends. Where would I go?"

I might like fresh air too. Dad’s stilted laugh hurts my insides. He squishes my forearm with his hand and pats it twice with his fingers.

I get what you’re saying Bob, but isn’t a walk good for clearing the head? Mom suggests. Here we go. It’s not that my parents argue all the time. It’s that my mom argues all the time.

Does she think air will help me to heal from the hole Court made in my life? It feels like when you punch the silver hole of a juice box with a knife instead of a straw, and mutilate the cardboard so badly the juice squirts everywhere. I sigh.

No Dad, it’s fine. I pop a few grapes into my mouth.

See. She can go. Mom plants her teacup on the kitchen table with a deliberate clink. She needs to get over herself. Mom squirts honey in her tea with a dramatic pull. Maybe run some dry shampoo through your hair. You look like a ragamuffin.

I ignore her insult and stroll out into the front foyer. I tie up my Docs and revisit how I’m totally going to die alone. All alone with my anger, my lip glosses, and my flute — if I ever play again. My gravestone will read: Federica Birdoni, a flute’s best friend. Lip gloss thought she was clutch, too.

Mom sends me off with enough money for fresh bread and a treat like I’m ten. Like I’ll choose a sprinkle cookie, and everything will be all better. Just the thought of sweets gives me a headache.

I’ve always loved the mint green walls of Conselli’s Bakery, covered in framed recipes and black and white photos from the 1950s. Those photos inspired me to snap pictures of the vintage things I’d come across all over town. I assembled them in an album I keep on my desk.

A couple sits at the smallest bistro table near the entrance. They sit next to each other which allows me full view of each other’s every move, every word. My stomach roils.

Conselli’s Pizzeria shares the inside of the building, off to the far left. At this time of day, it’s crowded with lunch guests. The aroma of garlic knots mingles with the fresh bread smells of the bakery.

Chocolate eclairs and sprinkle cookies fill the display case. The cannolis are overfilled and over chocolate-chipped. A loud giggle from the couple’s table only yards away churns my insides. It sounds like love. I try to drown them out, but I turn and see how lovely they are, sharing a cannoli in the Conselli's chairs with the heart-shaped backs. I stare and wish it was me and Court in those chairs, sharing a special moment with all that happiness and knowing we aren’t alone on Earth. We had each other and our instruments. Plenty.

I alternate between them and the pastry display case, back and forth as they lean into each other. One of the guys is bursting with a surfer look — tanned skin and bleached hair, and the other looks like a combination of every chiseled-jaw actor in every movie — his eyes and nose in perfect symmetry, and his skin, poreless. He’s smirking at Surfer while they mess with their phones. Selfies. Their smiles are authentic, though. I watch them as they eye their food and each other, and despite knowing it’s not what my heart needs, it’s too beautiful to turn away.

We’ve got something good, Surfer says to his boyfriend. My stomach is merciless. I’m goddamn jealous right now. I contemplate bailing, but Mom will just send me back if I come home with no rolls. I cannot give her any new material to work with.

Surfer picks up the pastry and leans over so that Chiseled-Jaw can nibble. I can see what they’re thinking as if it’s written in a hot-pink caption above their heads: Together forever. Like the other will never ever break his heart. It will always be like this. That’s what I thought about Court and me. A friendship people only wished for or read about. I get it guys. I lost. You win.

This is a slammin’ cannoli. We should get a few to go, says Chiseled-Jaw. Surfer’s eyes transmit so much love. I envision a cozy little townhouse with candles and bookshelves and décor that reflects both of them. I let out a sigh that’s probably too loud for a reaction to the pastries I examine in front of me. If they heard it, they’ll know it’s all for them.

Sounds good to me, Surfer says.

With every glance in their direction, I see the two guys show a devotion to each other with every interaction. My guts rumble. Blech. The cliché. The reality. Blended like a busy overture.

Excuse me, are you going to order?

Surfer catches my eye. I look away, embarrassed. Behind the counter, a guy I don’t recognize is waiting with gloves on, ready to fill a brown bag for me. I bite the inside of my cheek until it hurts. I’ve been watching the couple for too long. Give me a minute. Sorry.

I rush to the bathroom to take care of the consequences of my anxiety. The cinnamon spray underneath the sink makes it worse. If I’m being real, it feels good to feel anything, even if it did come in the form of sudden diarrhea. I scrub my hands with their almond soap and give myself a quick check in the mirror. I reach into my pocket and dab on some nude lip gloss. My curls look limp. They need shampoo.

I go back to the counter and order my ciabatta rolls. I forego the treats, pay, and head toward the door. Surfer is in my path wiping his mouth with a napkin while his boyfriend eyes the display case for extra goodies.

Want to tell me why you look so gutted, Curls? Surfer asks. The question stops me in my tracks. I can’t ignore him. And he used the perfect adjective, to be honest. I want to tell him everything, cry on his gorgeous shoulders and have him comfort me and be my friend, but I say nothing and shrug.