heavenward | n.scatorccio

Julianna's morning unfolded like so many others, mundane and unremarkable. She woke up, weighed the prospect of enduring another solitary day at school, and chose not to go.

The cycle was familiar, as automatic as it was troubling. Her absence had become a routine, one that didn't escape the attention of Wiskayok High. The school's concerned phone calls to her mother had grown sharper, escalating to threats of fines over her dismal attendance record.

Susan Sadecki drifted through life with a quiet, disjointed grace, untethered from the world she was meant to guide. She'd always believed in giving her children freedom. By the time her kids reached the age of eight, she loosened her grip entirely, convinced that independence would teach them more than she ever could. It wasn't indifference–she loved them with the kind of intensity that could paralyze her, but she was unsure if her influence did more harm than good.

Widowhood came early for Susan.

Her husband passed away when their kids were just six. A victim of a failed organ transplant. For siblings Julie and Jeff, he had been neither the ideal father nor the worst. A man of middling presence, kind in his own quiet way but never extraordinary. His absence, though, left a hollow space that neither his flaws nor his virtues could fill.

That morning, like many others, Julianna stretched out on the living room sofa, the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains in ribbons of warmth, accompanied by a gentle, refreshing breeze.

She aimlessly flicked through channels on the grainy box television, her attention drifting as the faint hum of static mingled with the quiet of the room.

Nothing held her attention. Minutes turned to hours in the haze of unfilled time.

Eventually, boredom nudged her back to her bedroom.

Her bedroom wasn't small, but it wasn't massive either. It was the perfect size for her. Thin lace curtains framed a wide window overlooking the pristine cul-de-sac in which her small family lived.  A white dresser stood against one wall, its surface cluttered with an array of jewellery and a modest collection of makeup: mascara, lip gloss, eyeliner, and highlighter.

Her guitar leaned in the corner, beside a neatly packed bookshelf, directly across from a wardrobe that had seen better days. The wallpaper was a delicate floral pattern, it's charm softened further by the pale off-white carpet underfoot.

The only thing that clashed with the cozy charm of her room was the mess, a constant source of frustration for her mother.

Clothes were strewn across the floor, casualties of frantic wardrobe changes that reflected her indecisiveness. Empty dishes and discarded wrappers dotted her shelves, adding to the mess. Julianna hated the clutter as much as anyone, but finding the energy to fix it felt impossible.

So Instead, she filled her days with small, solitary rituals that felt like fragments of a different life. One that felt more whole than the one she inhabited.

She spent hours flipping through the pages of old magazines, their faded images and outdated advice carrying a peculiar charm. Her record player spun endlessly, filling the room with the crackling warmth of music. And when she wasn't lost in sound or print, she poured her thoughts into her journal, scrawling long, winding entries, half reflection, half ramble.

When Jeff got home from school, the first thing he did was head straight to Julianna's room. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, hesitant, before stepping inside. It was then that he asked her about going to watch his girlfriend's practice. To be honest, Julianna wasn't sure whether it would have been better to be with him when it all went down or to have stayed at home. Not that it mattered now, her decision was made, and she was no Marty McFly.

—

The car smelled faintly of stale French fries and Jeff's cologne, cheap, overpowering, and distinctly his. Julianna sat slumped against the passenger seat, her forehead leaning against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the streets of Wiskayok blurred by: cracked sidewalks, the occasional dog trotting behind its leash, and old streetlights casting pale, weak shadows in the afternoon sun. The window was scratched, the marks like ghosts of whatever story this old car had lived before it landed in her family's driveway.

Jeff was talking. He always talked, his voice filling every corner of the car whether anyone was listening or not. She wasn't, not really, but she'd learned to hum in the right places, toss in a "mm-hmm" or a faint laugh when the pause in his sentence called for one.

"...and I told her–Jules, are you even listening?" Jeff glanced over, his sunglasses slipping down his nose just slightly.

"Yeah," she lied, straightening up a little. "What'd you tell her?"

He groaned, dramatic as always, and turned his attention back to the road. "Nevermind. You're so bad at this."

"At what?"

"Being a decent sibling," he teased, but there was no heat in it.

Julianna let her lips twitch into a faint smile, the kind she knew Jeff wouldn't even bother looking over to catch. She let her gaze drift back to the window, where two kids were walking home from school, one balancing precariously on the curb while the other steadied them. For a second, she envied the way their laughter echoed in the air, light and easy. She imagined what it might be like to walk home a child again, but accompanied by a friendship much like that.

The CD in Jeff's car stereo skipped, then picked up again, the jagged guitar riff of some 80s rock band, and men practically screaming shredding through the speakers. It wasn't bad, exactly, but it wasn't her thing. Jeff always got to pick the music, and she'd stopped trying to argue about it years ago.

"You like this one?" he asked, glancing at her like he already knew the answer.

"It's fine," she said, which meant no, but Jeff took it as a yes.

"See? I've got taste."

She rolled her eyes, but he didn't catch that either.

The closer they got to the field, the more Julianna felt herself shrinking into her seat. She hated this—the way she got so quiet when they were around other people. It wasn't like she didn't have things to say. Her thoughts buzzed constantly, circling her head like fireflies, but when it came time to open her mouth, they disappeared.

"What's that face?" Jeff asked, glancing over as he pulled into the parking lot.

"What face?"

"Your 'I don't want to be here' face."

She turned to look at him fully now, narrowing her eyes. "I don't want to be here."

"You'll live," he said, throwing the car into park.

"Will I?" she muttered under her breath, unbuckling her seatbelt.

The field was loud, as fields always were. Cleats clattered against the asphalt as girls jogged toward the grass, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. The air smelled like cut grass and sweat, mixed with the sharp tang of the fast food wrappers Jeff always left in the car. Julianna desperately wanted to stick her hands into the pockets of a hoodie, but she was wearing a large white knitted jumper, trailing behind her brother as he made a beeline for the bleachers.

"Jackie!" he called, waving one arm dramatically.

Julianna flinched. Why does he have to be so loud?

Jackie Taylor turned, her ponytail swishing like something out of a commercial, and grinned. She jogged over, her cleats crunching on the gravel path. She didn't even look out of breath. "Hey, Jeff!" Then her eyes flicked to Julianna. "Hey, Julie."

Julianna nodded, her throat tightening around the words she probably should've said back. Jackie didn't seem to notice.

Jeff plopped down on the bleachers, patting the spot next to him. Julianna stayed standing for a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The chatter of the team swirled around her, too loud and too full of names she barely recognized.

"Julie, come on," Jeff said, his voice somewhere between a plea and an order.

Reluctantly, she sat. The metal of the bleachers was cold, even through her jeans. Jeff was already talking again, something about how Jackie's pass in the last game was perfect—textbook, really. Jackie laughed, tossing her head back, and Julianna let herself stare for just a moment. Jackie had that kind of laugh that felt like it belonged to someone bigger than life.

Julianna turned her attention to the field, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. Her sketchbook was back in the car, tucked into her bag. She'd brought it, but now she wasn't sure why. Her hands felt too stiff, her thoughts too scrambled. She wasn't in the mood to draw anything except maybe a big black hole.

"Julie," Jeff said, nudging her shoulder.

"What?"

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?"

"Being a weirdo."

She rolled her eyes, leaning away from him. "You're the weirdo."

Jeff grinned, triumphant, like he'd won something. Jackie was already jogging back to her teammates, leaving them alone again. Julianna stared out at the field, the ache in her chest settling in like an old habit.

Julianna tried to focus on the game, but football—soccer, whatever—just wasn't her thing. It never had been. Watching people chase a ball around felt pointless, and yet, she couldn't completely tear her eyes away. There was something about the precision of the players' movements that kept her attention, however fleeting. Every pass, every kick, every feint seemed deliberate, even if it wasn't. They had to think fast, their decisions made in an instant, like second nature.

Julianna, on the other hand, couldn't make decisions to save her life.

Every choice she made felt like a maze she didn't know how to navigate. What to wear, where to go, what to say, or whether to even bother going at all. It all came down to endless internal debates, weighing pros and cons until she eventually settled on whatever felt safest. She envied people who seemed to move through the world with certainty, the kind of people who didn't agonize over whether their shoes matched their outfit or whether they were even wanted at the place they were headed. The people who didn't care what others thought.

Her gaze wandered back to Jackie, who was sprinting down the field with the kind of determination Julianna could never imagine mustering. Her ponytail streamed behind her like a comet's tail, her cleats barely touching the ground as she sent the ball rocketing toward the goal.

The small crowd clapped, Jeff included. He clapped way too loud, shouting something like, "That's my girl!"

Julianna grimaced, sinking further into her jumper.

"You're embarrassing," she muttered.

"I'm supportive," he corrected, shooting her a grin. "Try it sometime, Jules. It's fun."

"I'll pass."

Jeff leaned back, stretching his arms out along the top of the bleacher row like he owned the place. "You're such a killjoy, you know that?"

"Not everyone can be as fun as you," she said dryly, fiddling with her woollen sleeves.

"True, true," he said, nodding sagely. "But you could at least try. Like, I don't know, yell something encouraging. Maybe Jackie would notice you for once."

"I don't need her to notice me."

"Yeah, well, I notice you. And you're sulking again."

"I'm not sulking," Julianna shot back, but she could feel the corners of her mouth twitching into something dangerously close to a pout.

Jeff smirked, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure you're not."

She rolled her eyes, pretending to focus on the game again. Jeff's relentless teasing was annoying, but there was a strange comfort in it too. At least he noticed her, even if it was only to make fun of her.

"Who's that?" Jeff said suddenly, pointing toward the field.

Julianna followed his gaze to a girl who had just been subbed into the game. She was tall and lean, her dark hair tied back in a loose braid that swung with every step. She moved differently from the others, more fluid, like she was gliding instead of running.

"That's Lottie Matthews," Julianna said without thinking.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"

She'd noticed Lottie a few times at school. She was quiet but not invisible, the kind of person people gravitated toward without realizing why. Julianna had always thought she seemed nice, in that soft, approachable way that made her wonder if they could've been friends if she'd just had the guts to say something.

"Looks like she knows what she's doing," Jeff said, watching as Lottie intercepted a pass and sent the ball sailing across the field.

"Yeah," Julianna murmured, more to herself than to him.

The game dragged on, but Jeff kept her entertained, cracking jokes and giving fake commentary on the players like he was some overzealous sports announcer.

"And there goes Taylor with the ball," he said in an exaggerated broadcaster voice. "She's sprinting down the field—oh! Oh! Will she make it? Will she—oh no, she tripped!"

Julianna snorted. "You're the worst."

"I'm the best, and you know it."

"I really don't."

He gasped, clutching his chest like she'd just mortally wounded him. "You wound me, sister."

"Good," she said, smiling softly.

Jeff laughed, and for a moment, Julianna felt almost normal. It was easy to get lost in his ridiculousness, to forget about the ache in her chest and the endless swirl of thoughts that usually drowned her.