Everett stared into his closet, four shirts glaring back at him. Not a thing moved in the room except his small brown hands. Constantly moving, flowing, playing the air like a piano. Never stopping, never ceasing. No one ever heard the music. But that did not mean it was not there. Everett could hear it. It was his.
Momma wants Everett to pick, he thought. The list, the list, the list. Wake up; make your bed; pick out a shirt, shorts, and socks. The list. We follow the list. He turned his face away from the hateful cotton cloth, towards the rest of his cramped room. His bed was made, dinosaur blanket pulled taut with no wrinkles. The shades were closed but the lamp was on, a beacon of light. His toy chest sat in the corner, lid barely covering the action figures within. A laminated list hung on the wall, little pictures on each side. The sun, a bed, clothes. One step at a time, Momma said.
He reached a hand out to touch a red shirt. Each was the same to a normal person. Same colors, same cut, same feel. But Everett could see they were different. Everett could tell. His hand brushed the red one, and he flinched. “Too itchy,” he said. The blue one, maybe? “Too bright.” Each shirt passed under his scrutinizing eye and critical hand. Too itchy, too bright, too big, too small.
He went through the whole rack, then started to hyperventilate. He could not wear any of them. What was he supposed to do? Go outside in his pajamas? Another time he would have thought that funny, but right now, when his mom needed him to choose a shirt, the thought was frightening. He clenched his fists. His face was scrunched, and his teeth were bared. Down went the shirts, the cloth landing in a heap, hangers clattering to the floor with satisfying pings. Next came his shelf. A flimsy one from a yard sale. Underwear and shorts tumbled, socks bouncing softly. His heart pounded; his chest heaved.
And he did not like the way it felt.
Nice hands, Everett. Nice hands, Everett. He repeated the mantra over and again. He knew his mom would not like what he had done. He turned back to the now-empty closet; his breathing had calmed to the flow of his script. Purple caught the corner of his eye. He bent down and studied the purple thing, refusing to touch it until he knew what it was. It was a shirt, previously hidden behind his shelf. Not purple, he thought. Indigo. He did not have an indigo shirt. The shirt also had long sleeves. He did not have a shirt with long sleeves. It was different. New. Unexpected.
But... he liked it.
He put it on, gray pants on his legs and pristine white socks on his feet. Calmly, he stepped over the pile of clothes on the floor and left them behind.
The music followed him into the kitchen, brimming with optimistic notes.
“Hey, baby,” his mom said. Cybele was a tall, freckled-faced woman, with brown hair poofing out into a mass of springiness, strong hands and shoulders accustomed to weight, and a worn wedding ring on her finger, always. She stood in their small kitchen, eggs cooking on the stove and plates set out on the breakfast bar. The living room was connected to the kitchen, with a single couch and chair facing the TV. The radio spouted 80’s music, eggs sizzling in tune with Billy Joel. Next to Everett’s room was Cybele’s, one half of the bed ruffled and the other unused.
Cybele turned to look at her son, her nurse’s scrubs stained with something resembling vomit on the front. “Hey,” she said, white teeth gleaming as she smiled. “That’s a new shirt, ain’t it?”
Everett nodded, climbing up to sit in his chair. His fingers tapped the countertop next to his Ironman plate to light music.
"Purple’s my favorite color, you know,” his mom said, turning back to her eggs. Everett knew that, of course.
“Not purple,” Everett said. “Indigo.” He looked down at the shirt. “Not purple,” he whispered again. “Indigo.”
“Oh, I see.” She picked up her pan and put some scrambled eggs on her plate.
“Toast before eggs,” Everett said quickly to her before she put eggs on his plate.
“I know, silly,” she said. Two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster, causing Everett to nearly tumble out of his chair. Cybele picked them up, dropping one on her son’s plate as she exclaimed, “Hot!” The eggs came next, falling onto his toast.
They began to eat, Cybele humming along to the music as she stuffed food in her mouth, Everett meticulously wiping away any eggs that fell off his toast. His mom finished quickly, licking her fingers as she pitched her plate in the sink. Everett continued to pick away at his plate, flinging eggs he found too cold into a pile on the counter. “So, do you remember what today is?” Cybele asked her son carefully.
“Wednesday, August 26,” Everett quickly replied.
“Correct, baby,” Cybele said, smiling and sitting back down. “But do you know anything else about today?” Everett looked down, fork faltering in his hand. “Hmm?” His mom prompted. Everett stayed silent, fingers picking up the speed of a quick-tempered tune. Cybele gave a little sigh, smile cracking and eyes dimming. “Today is your first day of school,” she said, trying to pour enthusiasm into her voice.
“I’m not going to school,” Everett said. He dropped his fork and pushed his plate away from him.
“Honey,” Cybele said softly. “We’ve already delayed this a year now. You need to go to school this year. I can’t keep shuffling you from aunt-to-aunt, neighbor-to-neighbor.”
“I’m not going to school,” Everett muttered, brows furrowed.
“Baby, you have to,” she said, her voice sounding strangled.
“I’m not going!” Everett shouted, looking into his mother’s eyes. His music turned dark, violent.
“Everett!” Cybele shouted back in desperation, a thousand unheard emotions piling into three syllables.
The music stopped.
Cybele turned away from her son, the now-cold eggs, the kitchen. Towards the photo wall. Right in the center was a picture of a family. A family long destroyed. She dragged aching feet toward it, fingers flitting to the man on the right. Everett shuffled toward her; anger spent. She took the photo down, kneeling on the floor, tears springing to her eyes. He sat down beside her, staring at the people in the photo.
On the left was Cybele, wearing a navy dress. She was laughing, teeth gleaming, hair curly as always. On the right was a man, sable in color, with a shining bald head and thoughtful smile. His eyes were almost black, glinting with curiosity. His wide hands for hard work held a baby, a perfect mixture of the two. His skin was golden, black hair curling into an afro. He was staring up at his parents, hands poised in mid-air to the tune of love.
“Do you remember what he did, child?” Cybele asked, eyes captured by the man in the photo.
“He was a police officer,” Everett said, voice solemn.
“That’s right, baby,” Cybele said, smiling. “He was very brave, you know. He went to work each day determined to help someone out there.” She paused. “It scared me.” Everett looked up at his mother again, realizing for the first time that his mother could be scared. “I never knew if he would come back; if he would leave us alone.” She sniffed. “But he continued going, and with a smile on his face. You know what he would tell me every morning before he left, even... on the day he didn’t come back?”
Everett shook his head.
“He would tell me, ‘Today is a new day, Cybele.’ It gave me hope. As I saw that door close behind him, I would close my eyes and whisper, ‘Today is a new day.’”
She looked down at her boy, eyes wet and shining.
“Today is a new day, Everett,” she whispered.
“Today is a new day?”
“Yes.”
They sat there for a moment, both thinking about the past, the future, and where the two inter-mixed. Finally, Everett nodded. He climbed up, holding out a hand to help his mother. Then he picked up his already made backpack.
“Then I will go to school,” he said. “I will go to school,” he repeated. “For Daddy.”
Two tears spilled from Cybele’s eyes, running down her cheeks and meeting under her chin. She enveloped him in a hug, half-sobbing, half-laughing with her baby.
She plucked her purse from the rack, deserting breakfast and tears, holding one of Everett’s hands as the duo left their apartment, his other carefully plucking a hesitant tune.
It could be a bad day. But it could not be. Who knew? Today was a new day. It could be as good as an indigo shirt.
Word Count: 1,500
Word Limit: 1,500 XD
Summary: Everett, who has special needs, is starting school today, but he's scared. His mom, Cybele, must remind him of what his father (who died while on duty) would always say: "Today is a new day."
Hey, everybody! This is for a competition on my homeschool site. I entered this competition last year and won, but that was the junior division. I just submitted the final a couple of days ago, so I'm hoping I'll do well!
I'm also drawing a picture for this, so the shirt is only temporary :).
(I was supposed to make a "Thanks," section on the entry, so I figured I'd put it here:
First, I’d like to thank my Momma. She has been so supportive of my writing and is always willing to read and edit my pieces, and listen to me prattle on about them.
Second, I’d like to thank my Daddy. He’s talked to me a lot about people with special needs and has taken me to volunteer at special needs events. A big part of my love for people with special needs comes from him.
Third, my amazing friends Eden for her wonderful review, Anne Blackwood for such nice compliments she gave, and Keilah for her insightful questions and critiques!
Fourth, police officers everywhere who sacrifice themselves for us.
Fifth, God, for letting me write, and allowing me to lift people up through it.
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