Basic Read online

  Basic

  By: E.J. Mara

  Link to Basic’s webpage: https://basicbyejmara.weebly.com/

  Basic

  E.J. Mara

  Come Play Studios

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2020 by Come Play Studios

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Come Play Studios.

  www.comeplaystudios.com

  Cover by P.L. Jones

  First Edition

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I learned something important about human nature between the ages of thirteen and sixteen; I learned that people are basic.

  Humans are boringly predictable in that they will always choose to see only what they want to see, no matter what’s actually in front of them.

  They’ll stupidly cling to the version of reality that boosts their ego, instead of simply accepting the truth.

  People are selfish, spoiled, and prone to blind faith in their own abilities.

  I knew this about human nature because I watched it play out over and over again, every time my mother duped some goofy rich guy out of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

  Did any of these uninteresting millionaires pause to wonder why a beautiful woman was suddenly head over heels in love with them?

  Of course not. Instead of thinking logically, they’d cling to their version of reality, the version in which they were irresistibly handsome and charming. Until, of course, they’d wake up one morning to find my mother’s side of the bed as empty as their primary checking account.

  People are basic, and that’s why my mother and I became rich.

  That’s why I learned to be a liar.

  And that’s why I failed to make the most important application of my own observation.

  Blinded by my ego, I forgot to take one important fact into consideration: I’m just as human as those millionaires my mom swindled.

  It took my life turning upside down for me to realize that I’m just as basic as everyone else.

  Chapter One

  Last year my mother and I moved to Sunnyville, Texas.

  It was the eighth time we’d moved in the past four years.

  Needless to say, I was all the way over unpacking my suitcases every few months.

  But as sucky as the process of moving was, I never minded leaving one city behind for another.

  What I loved most was the thrill of choosing a new identity in every new place. It was like a fresh start!

  I also really liked meeting new people. Of course, Mom warned me not to get attached. So, I was careful about that. I kept people at a distance, and viewed them as ‘acquaintances’ instead of ‘friends.’

  So, while packing a ton of suitcases is not fun, the adrenaline rush of relocating more than made up for the nightmare of packing.

  Anyhow, I’ll bring you into the story three days after we’d moved to Sunnyville.

  That morning, while I put on my makeup in preparation for my first day as a senior at Sunnyville High, Mom yelled that breakfast was ready.

  I didn’t bother yelling back because I hated yelling. I just kept putting on makeup and trying to decide what I wanted my name to be that semester.

  There’s an art to choosing the right name. A name tells you who a person is before a word comes out of their mouth. For example, if you introduce yourself as ‘Kelli,’ people will assume you’re bubbly and fun and will instinctively feel compelled to befriend you.

  But if you introduce yourself as ‘Beatrice’ people will assume you spend your Friday nights with your grandmother watching reruns of Family Matters on a couch that smells like mothballs and cat puke and they’ll instinctively feel repelled by you.

  See how important a name is? It’s basically everything.

  That morning, I decided I wanted to be ‘Libby.’

  Libby was playful, fun, and carefree yet thoughtful. Libby was the girl next door who every guy on the street had a secret crush on. She was also the sort of girl who got what she wanted, and I wanted to be her for at least the next three months.

  So, right then and there, I became ‘Libby.’

  Well, until my mom ruined the moment.

  “Amanda,” my mother shouted. “Get your butt down here.”

  That was my real name: Amanda Grace Hollister.

  I hated it because it made me sound like a real estate agent from a small town, the type whose picture was plastered on every cheap billboard and bus stop bench in sight. It also made me sound like I had a bad perm and a penchant for turquoise eye shadow.

  Thank God Mom banned me from using my real name.

  Wherever we moved, she’d find a way to snag the appropriate ID’s and for the past four years, we’d managed to assume all kinds of identities without anyone suspecting a thing.

  I checked my reflection in the mirror. My lipstick was perfect and my eyes were just smoky enough for the first day of school; cute with a hint of drama, but not ‘auditioning for The Bachelor’ dramatic.

  Satisfied, I grabbed my backpack and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

  Mom stood over the kitchen sink holding a huge mug of coffee. It was almost as big as her fro. She stared out of the kitchen window.

  I glanced at the window and then eyed my alleged ‘breakfast’ where it sat on the counter- a banana. This was mom’s polite way of telling me I’d gained weight.

  Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the banana and shoved it into one of the pockets on the outside of my bookbag.

  “I decided on a name,” I said.

  “About time,” Mom replied, bringing the huge mug of coffee to her lips and taking a sip.

  “Libby. Short for Olivia,” I said.

  She nodded, her gaze still on the window. “That suits you.”

  I turned this reply over in my mind, wondering if it meant I was as cute as the name ‘Libby’ or if it meant I’d chosen a silly name.

  I knew I wasn’t an all-out uggo, but I wasn’t exactly the epitome of self-esteem when it came to my looks.

  When I was younger, before I knew how the world worked, I used to wish I looked exactly like Mom.

  She was beautiful. Model-thin with flawless chocolate skin and cheekbones so high they made Scarlett Johansson’s look low; my mom could’ve easily found a place on the runways of Paris and Milan.

  But the older I got, the more I noticed how differently people treated us. Especially in the southern states.

  When we went to posh stores to buy Mom’s LBD’s (‘little black dresses’ for her nights out), she was always followed by some over-zealous sales associate, and
it wasn’t because the sales clerk was incredibly helpful. It was because the clerk was sure a black woman couldn’t afford to shop in an expensive store.

  On the other hand, when I went to those same boutiques with acquaintances from school, no one followed us around. Instead, we were offered bottles of water and orange juice. We were smiled at and told that if we needed anything, we should just say the word.

  It took a hot minute for me to realize that the difference in the way I was treated when I was with Mom and when I was with my acquaintances all boiled down to skin color.

  While Mom may have been drop dead gorgeous, the color of her skin made her ‘dead wrong’ to a lot of people. On the other hand, my skin, which was as pale as my Irish-American father’s, made me ‘acceptable’ to those very same people.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. I hated seeing my mom mistreated. And I still wished I looked like her, but a small part of me was grateful that I could hide behind my skin. And that right there, made me feel even guiltier.

  “Just remember your official alias is Elizabeth,” Mom said. “That’s the name on your driver’s license and the name I used to sign you up for school. So ‘Libby’ will have to be a nickname. Next time don’t take so long to pick a name.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off?” Mom asked, her gaze still on the window. I followed her line of vision to check out what she was staring at.

  There was nothing but trees in sight.

  I should have known.

  Lately Mom was always staring out of windows, half-present and lost in thought.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I said. “I’ll take the bus today and then maybe tomorrow if you want to drop me off, we’ll see.”

  “Okay, see ya, sugar plum,” Mom said. Finally, she tore her eyes away from the window and turned to me.

  She looked me up and down and pinned a tight smile to her lips.

  I could tell she was thinking about my weight. I could tell because it’s what I was thinking about. It’s what I was always thinking about.

  “You look nice,” she lied.

  “Thanks.”

  Setting down her mug, she surprised me by pulling me in for a quick hug.

  She smelled like the perfume her last boyfriend had bought her. His name was Aaron and he’d been one of my favorites. I think he was one of her favorites too, because she’d seemed especially sad when we’d left him in New Orleans with a huge dent in his bank account.

  “Bye,” I said.

  We released each other and I slipped out of the back door.

  The air was cool with a slight breeze and the sky was perfectly blue.

  I looked up and was instantly reminded that we were in Texas.

  I’d noticed that wherever we moved, the sky seemed different. In our last home, the sky was far away and impossibly high. In retrospect, I guess that’s because New Orleans is below sea level.

  But here in Texas, the sky seemed endless and so close that I felt if I stood on my tiptoes I could touch a cloud.

  I took a deep breath and a smile made its way to my lips.

  The air felt fresh in my lungs and birds were chirping.

  Right then and there, I knew I was going to love Texas.

  I walked along the sidewalk of our new neighborhood, a small gated community comprised of exactly four streets. The houses were all different, and yet the same in that they were perfectly manicured and perfectly boxed-shaped two stories.

  But there were things that made each home unique. Some featured elaborate gardens while others were nearly hidden behind tall privacy fences and stately trees.

  Our house didn’t have any fences, sophisticated gardens, or trees. It was just a plain old two-story boxed shaped house; nice enough for a single-parent lawyer and her sixteen-year-old daughter.

  Nice, but not too nice because, as Mom said, “No one needs to know we’re the richest family on the street. That’s how you get caught. Stay low-key and move on quickly, that’s how you survive.”

  As I left our new home behind and headed towards the bus stop, which was just outside of our neighborhood’s gates, I spotted someone already waiting there.

  I wondered if we were headed to the same school.

  He was pretty tall, at least six feet. And I could see that he had unruly brown hair. It was almost as curly as mine, but squished underneath a Texas A & M baseball cap.

  He wore a matching Texas A & M t-shirt over a basic pair of jeans. Despite the boring outfit, he was cute… well, at least from the back. I couldn’t see his face yet.

  But so far, he’d do just fine for someone to talk to.

  I used my keycard to open the walker’s gate and as I closed it behind me he turned around.

  Our eyes met. His were blue. A soft blue, like the beginning of a song that starts off all quiet, but you know it’s going to get really good and really loud. That’s how the color of his eyes made me feel.

  He nodded and offered me a polite half-smile.

  I waved.

  “Hey. Are you waiting for the bus to Sunnyville High?” I asked as I walked up to him.

  His smile widened and he nodded. “Yeah.”

  He shifted on his feet and tugged at the brim of his hat.

  Nervous gestures.

  I wondered if he was nervous because he thought I was cute or if he was nervous because he had social anxiety.

  Though I figured it was the latter, I decided to test each theory.

  I locked a strand of my long curly hair around one of my fingers and twirled it.

  Mom once told me if you suspect a guy is into you, you should play with your hair and look him dead in the eye. If he’s got the hots for you, he’ll either blush and look away or lean forward and start flirting like there’s no tomorrow.

  So, I twirled my hair. And then I waited.

  He blushed.

  OMG. Does this dude actually think I’m cute?

  “Great,” I said. “Me too. I’m Libby.”

  I planted myself beside him and shoved my hands into my pockets as I continued to smile at him.

  Another tidbit my mother shared with me was that if a guy mirrors your body language, he’s interested in more than just your name.

  I held my breath and waited to see if the tall Texan with the messy hair and ocean blue eyes was interested in more than just my name.

  “I’m Jonathan,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets and taking a slight step back.

  Wow, maybe I haven’t gained as much weight as I thought!

  I bit back a giddy smile.

  “So, did you just move here or something?” Jonathan asked. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

  “Yeah, me and my Mom moved in last week, actually. From New Orleans.”

  “Oh.” Jonathan’s eyebrows went up and his hands came out of his pockets. “I have family there.”

  My heart sank.

  Crap.

  I should’ve lied. I should’ve known better than to tell him where we actually came from.

  “Do you? Nice.” With this, I laughed and tossed my hair over my shoulder. When my mom’s hair was longer, she used to do this all the time.

  She told me it was a flirty little gesture that, when done correctly, would distract a man just enough from listening to the actual words coming out of your mouth. And a distraction was exactly what I needed since I’d just over-shared.

  “Well,” I went on. “I say New Orleans, but we actually lived in a small town just outside the city. No one’s ever heard of it, so I always just tell people we’re from New Orleans.”

  He nodded in understanding. “Oh. Gotcha. Like Gretna, Grammercy, or Mandeville?”

  I felt heat creep into my cheeks.

  Clearly, this guy knew his geography. And clearly I was going to get in over my head if I wasn’t careful.

  “Yeah,” I nodded and decided to save myself by turning the focus of the conversation to him. “So, do you go to New O
rleans to visit your family a lot?”

  “Every summer. But they’re in the city itself. They have an apartment near the French Quarter. I really like it there.”

  “Yeah. The whole city’s magical.” I smiled, thinking of all the lazy afternoons I’d spent in my favorite café, a little place in the Bywater area called Satsuma’s. I’d spend hours camped out there with a couple of bagel and egg sandwiches and a hearty supply of lattés while I worked on homework or talked to friendly patrons and workers.

  Basically, I’d do anything to avoid going home to our big empty house.

  “And the food is great,” Jonathan continued. “Like the crawfish. It’s so good.”

  “Yeah.” I grinned. “I have to admit, I never tasted the crawfish. I’m a vegetarian. Don’t hate me.”

  He laughed. “Who hates vegetarians? Y’all are the nicest.”

  “Oh really?” I lit up, instantly liking this guy even more. “Most people want to, literally, kill me when they hear I don’t eat meat, especially coming from Louisiana. And don’t get me started on what happens when I tell them I don’t eat seafood. It’s almost worse than the reaction I get when they see me with my mom and realize I’m half black.”

  Jonathan’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, you’re half black? And people react badly to that? Seriously?”

  “You’d be surprised,” I rolled my eyes. “Some people are idiots.”

  “That’s horrible,” Jonathan shook his head and frowned.

  I shifted on my feet and tried to think of a way to get the conversation back on a positive track.

  “But that doesn’t happen often,” I lied. “Most people are decent.”

  Based on my experience, most people were not decent, they simply pretended to be. But for the sake of continuing a pleasant conversation with a cute boy, I lied.

  “Good.” He nodded. “And I hope you don’t have to deal with any of that here…” But as he said this, his expression darkened and his voice trailed off.

  “I gotta say, you don’t sound very optimistic,” I pointed out.

  “Well,” Jonathan winced as he said, “Sunnyville isn’t exactly the most progressive part of Texas.”

  “Great,” I groaned. “So, you’re telling me my mom and I moved into the real life version of Get Out?”