Noticed

Chapter One—Cassidy Maxwell

BEEP…BEEP…BEEP. AHH! Ouch! Dammit! My elbow hits my bedpost as I start swatting at my alarm clock. The pain radiates up my arm as I begin shaking my arm back and forth, and sleepily focus my eyes on the clock. The clock displays 5:30, and I hit snooze and sluggishly roll back over bleary-eyed and half asleep. I always set the clock fifteen minutes before I have to get up, so I can think about the day ahead of me. I relish those moments without the constant chatter of the other people that live in my house who incessantly invade my brain space—Mom, Dad, and Charlotte, my little sister. Every morning, the people in our house scurry around like little ants, opening drawers, searching for shoes, slamming cabinets, and making a mad dash out the door. My sister, Charlotte, starts in with the questions from the second her feet hit the floor, Is it going to be cold today? Should I wear tights? Do we have anything to do afterschool today? So, I lay there enjoying this moment of solitude and thinking about the historic day ahead.

One of the more monumental things in my life is happening today. I am going to get my driver’s license at the DMV this morning. Officially a driver, that’s right, one step closer to actual freedom. Some of my friends aren’t in a rush to get their license because they enjoy being chauffeured around. Lots of them are scared and have barely practiced. Not me, I have been counting down the days and driving any chance I can get. I don’t get this at all. At my school, lots of kids wake up on their birthday to a new or newish car parked in the driveway with a big, red bow stretched across the hood. This may sound cliché, and it is. In our suburban area, it is the norm to make grand gestures for your kids. I have often wondered if the display is really necessary, but who am I kidding, it’s not like I would complain if my parents decided to do it. No such luck, of course! My parents are both from middle-class upbringings with no-frills parents, so I am in for sharing a car with my mom, or possibly getting a used one that I will pay for with a little help from my parents. I have been saving some money from babysitting, so I am about two thousand dollars away from being able to buy the car I want, a used Volkswagen Rabbit convertible. I haven’t broken this to my mom yet because she’ll never approve of a convertible without some serious begging and pleading. She and my dad have even been known to have me create presentations (backed by research, mind you!) for them when I am trying to persuade them. But, first things first.

I start quizzing myself in my head for the millionth time about road signs and road rules, and all of the things I have studied in the Driver’s Manual. Lying on my bed, I see my outfit laid out down to the shoes. I am wearing a solid blue shirt because I read somewhere that solids photograph better than prints, and white jeans, with silver hoop earrings, and camel-colored flats. Should be perfect.

As the clock seems to race to 5:45, I peel myself out of bed one leg at a time. No matter what time I wake up, it is always hard to force myself out of my cozy, queen-sized bed with flannel sheets and with my gray and cream throw pillows perched between my knees. I love to bury myself in my down comforter with my phone in hand. Typically, I lie there texting until the wee hours of the morning, usually to my best friend, Madison. I don’t think there is a thought that has ever popped in our minds that we didn’t eventually share with each other. During our middle school years, we would always say we were basically sisters, but truly, we are, fights and all. My bedroom has become my safe haven in the last two years. My favorite place, my hideaway, my refuge where I can escape the peering eyes of my overinvolved mother.

Just then, as if on command, Mom appears at the door. Still in her nightgown, a little bleary-eyed herself, she hovers at the door. I look over at her, and she just stands there staring at me.

What? I said.

Just making sure you were awake, she explained.

This is kind of normal for us. Sometimes I just catch her staring at me. It is weird. She says it is because I have changed so much in the last few years. And, I really have. I look back at pictures of my 10-year-old self, and see a short, little girl, with squatty legs, and medium-length blonde hair falling towards my face. Since then, my legs have lengthened, my torso has stretched, and my hair now reaches well beyond my shoulders, darkening slightly over the years to a sandy blonde. Every now and then, I am even taken aback when I look in the mirror and see the beginnings of a womanly figure.

Why are you staring at me? I grumbled.

Oh, I’m not, I’m just zoning out for a minute. Hurry, we have got to leave on time, so we can make it to get your license and then to school in time for a faculty meeting I have to attend, she said with some urgency.

Mom and I are used to spending lots of time together. When I was younger we were known as two peas in a pod. We would run errands together, and we would do all kinds of things to make our chores more enjoyable like use funny accents, make up raps for the car ride, or pretend we were on a top-secret mission. Sometimes I really miss those times and her.

Even then, just like now, Mom would ask my advice about things and get my input before making major decisions. It may seem strange, but I have always been known for giving shockingly good advice. I remember people always describing me as ‘deep’ when I was younger, or say I seemed mature beyond my years. I would have endless questions about life, faith, and people. I remember things like why didn’t Santa give the poor children just as many presents as everyone else, filled my head. And, I was notorious for asking one ‘what if’ question after another. I was the compassionate one among my friend group. I had even earned the title of Mom among my friends which could sometimes be funny, but sometimes make me just want to prove them wrong, and shock them with something rebellious or dangerous. But among friends and adults alike, I was often referred to as a little counselor in training. I was and still am the go-to girl for my friends for advice on boys, parent problems, and girl drama.

Come to think of it, I don’t think my own Mom has ever made a major decision without getting my take on it. I remember her asking if I thought we should move out of our old neighborhood, and if she should take a job as a counselor at the high school I would eventually attend. Even then, I knew it would be weird. My major concern was that she would meddle too much in my life. No, she promised, she wouldn’t dare, but not surprisingly, she was never able to stop herself. Every year, she has tweaked my school schedule to make sure I’d get the right mixture of teachers for my personality, not too harsh, but who would still push me when I needed it. She always made sure I had a friend or two in my classes because she rationalized that I spoke up more in class if I felt confident. She would call it a little fine-tuning or just small adjustments to make sure I was secure and happy. Dad would argue with her that she was protecting me too much—shielding me at every turn and stunting my growth. His concerns didn’t do much if anything to deter her.

Mom finally leaves my bedroom and closes my door which snaps me back into the routine of getting ready. Walking into the bathroom, and turning on the lights, I give myself the once-over. My normally bright, blue eyes are slightly bloodshot and puffy. My skin is still tanner than normal from a recent trip to the beach, and my teeth are bright white from all of the whitening toothpaste I have been using. After getting my braces off, I have been obsessed with my smile. Jumping in the shower, I practice my smile for my driver’s license picture. It can’t be too big, but just a small upturned smile from the corners will be perfect.

After getting showered, straightening my hair, and putting on a little make up, I am ready to grab some breakfast and head out the door. On my way down the hall, I just can’t resist peeking in on Charlotte. Her nine-year-old little body is splayed out diagonally across her queen-sized bed. I see her dark head of hair tousled in front of her freckled, pale face. Her room as always is quite the disaster with stuffed animals, dolls, and construction paper on the floor. As I look in closer, I see she has been making something with a cardboard box. This makes a big, broad grin stretch across my face. This is so Charlotte. The cardboard is a stage for her stuffed animals and her dolls. This kid is always creating—always! Charlotte is always asking Mom questions like Can I have that cardboard box? Paper roll? Those scraps of paper you aren’t using? Each time, we all know what this means—a new Charlotte creation and a big mess. She is constantly trying out her cooking creations where she grabs whatever she can find, and begins microwaving, stirring, combining, and finally, achieving an end product that looks like something our dog, Bentley, will reject or even worse, something Bentley has yakked up. I love that little kid, though. Charlotte is my ultimate admirer, and even though she can be annoying, she does make life more fun.

Mom is always encouraging Charlotte, and me, too, for that matter. She has always been that mom, telling us we were special and hoping we would believe it. She would encourage our creativity and ‘spirit’ as she would call it. She said she hoped we would be stronger than her and not let the questions creep in. I remember not knowing what she was talking about it, and she said, You know, those doubts like maybe I’m just like everyone else, or maybe I’m never going to be exceptionally good at anything, or maybe I don’t have a real purpose. Mom was always questioning herself. Maybe she was going through some type of midlife crisis or something. I stare at Charlotte one more time, and close her door quietly.

I enter Mom and Dad’s room to tell them I