Page 1 of Bring me Back

This town of ours stretched along the coast in sinuous grace. It thrived on diligence and ostentation. But mostly gossip.

The gossip fueled Bluehaven; it fed and destroyed. To make sure not ever be swallowed, I kept quiet. My eyes alert, my mouth shut, my opinions to myself. It was a foolproof way to remain untouched.

I floated away, cutting down my roots. But when you don’t belong anywhere,nothing belongs to you. As I drifted, I chanted the stories of my own life. The perdurable reasons I had to keep going and never look back.

There were three of them.

When I was six years old, my mother was taken from me. It was what the adults murmured between themselves at the funeral. I hugged my favorite doll as Dad taught me how to respond to the mourners. Though it was never required of me to respond, they never cared to address me directly. Nothing was sadder than a six year old without a mother.

“Left a small child…”They sighed above my head.

“It’s just too sad.”They shivered.

“Taken so young…”

Taken.

They said it like it was deliberate, but even at six, I knew it wasn’t.

Accidents were things that happened without time or reason. I knew there wasn’t a reason for mom’s death. She got into a car and was never coming back. It didn’t matter how much Dad cried, or how scared and young I was.

I was six years old when I learned some things justhappen.

The next precious thing I lost was my last name. We weren’t sure how, but I knew this time Dad and I were responsible. We let it be taken.

Dad—Preston White—liked when people called me theDelos Santosgirl. He was hellbent on holding onto anything that reminded us of mom.

My thick hair, tone of voice, my build. I looked more Filipino when I was a child, but even as my features changed and I looked more like my dad’s side of the family, it was already too late.

I was only Delos Santos. I wasn’t White anymore.

The last thing they took was the beach.

As a grieving man, Dad tried. He tried to like the same things I liked, but from a young age, what I liked was to make dresses and he wore the same pair of cargo shorts for the last ten years.

Preston White and Hallie Delos Santos were two strangers sitting at the same table. Time ticked by and the glue that held us together never came back from that car ride. The only thing we had was fishing.

I wasn’t sure why I liked it, but I did. It was soothing and required little talking. Dad gave me a horrible fishing hat with dangling pins and an inexplicable attached net, and I wore it each time.

On Saturdays, we’d pack a few sandwiches and threw the fishing hook into the shallow waters. My pants were rolled up to my calves so I could dip my toes into the warm sand.It was our thing.

But the beach that once belonged to the kids and families, now belonged to the pre-teens. The girls wore two-piece bikinis and the boys joked around and threw them in the water. I was thirteen when it started. I had nothing to fill a bikini top and I wasn’t ready to let the fishing go. I’d feared it was the last thread linking Dad and me.

By the time I was fifteen, it became unbearable. Dad didn’t notice. His lungs were filled with salty air and his gaze was focused on the ocean. He liked to get lost within himself while we were fishing, but I heard every word they said.

The teasing, the scoffs, the name calling. I heard it enough at school and I managed to keep my head high, but at the beach? Their words sliced through me. It felt like they invaded my home just to mock me. They picked my clothes apart; they smirked at my every move. I couldn’t fish, I couldn’tbe. My skin felt too tight stretched over my bones. And finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

On a particular Saturday, I took the hat off when we arrived home. Without explaining myself, I told Dad I was done fishing.

The beach was theirs, and I let them have it.

I left Bluehaven as soon as I could. Dusting off the town that was never mine, I tipped my head up and promised to find a home some place else.

Five years later, I was back.

Ilooked over the stage and sighed. I’d welcome anything to keep me busy after school hours, but for the first time in my life, I thought of backing out. Helen’s ideas were always too ambitious but this one might have taken the cake. My hands closed in fists as I scanned the stage filled with last year’s Romeo & Juliet props. I wish it was any other Shakespearian play we could’ve converted and adapted, but A Midsummer Night’s Dream required more than the old Juliet’s balcony had to offer.

Helen -Mrs. Carr -was a drama teacher with big aspirations. She still rocked the 80s mullet and had a quirky way with the kids. I had a soft spot for her. She was an excellent teacher who always went above and beyond to help the pupils. Plus, the drama department was grossly overlooked. Helen needed help, and I neededa reason.