Burn Before Reading

by Sara Wolf

  The Lakecrest twitter scene suddenly starts moving again. People can’t stop commenting on Beatrix’s book dropping accident in the parking lot, or the way she and Eric smiled at each other. Some people even tag me, asking me why I haven’t gotten Eric kicked out yet. I scoff. As if it was that simple. The red cards are warnings, nothing more. If he keeps fucking up, that’s when I’ll boot him. But not until then. Until then it’s up to everyone else to watch him closely, and provide me the clues and information I need to remove him. That’s all I can do. I’m no vigilante, no matter how vividly I remember Beatrix’s smile at Eric. All I can do now is stalk his online presence, waiting and watching for any indicator that he’s about to do something disgusting again.

  But he doesn’t post anything. Not today, anyway. But I’ll be watching. I get off the computer and strip off my uniform blazer and shirt, collapsing on my bed. Every muscle in my body is sore. Coach is running us ragged during swim practice. I’m not on the swim team to compete – on the contrary, I’m there for the stress relief. It’s just a happy coincidence I’m good at the breaststroke.

  My hand wanders to my bedside table, where I keep a certain essay. I asked Fitz to grab it from Dad’s computer, not knowing how deeply it would suck me in. The theme was ‘hope’. I’ve read it so many times the edges of the pages are a little worn. Writing doesn’t usually get me like this. It doesn’t hit my core hard, make me stop and think. But as much as I hate to admit it, Beatrix’s essay did. It struck a chord with me I haven’t been able to shake since.

  I glance down to a paragraph.

  I originally wanted to go to college for writing. Not journalism stuff, but creative writing. It’s stupid, I know. There’s no money in it, I’d be an artist living a starving artist’s life. I know all those things. But there’s nothing I enjoy more than writing. Than reading. Books are my world, and I want to live in that world forever. I want to create worlds I can live in forever.

  But that’s not reality. The reality is Dad’s sick, and writing isn’t going to help him. Books with pretty covers aren’t going to magically make him feel better. No – psychology is. Real and true science, therapy and time and effort. Those are the only things I can do to help him. And creative writing is definitely nothing like clinical psychology. I can’t do both at once.

  So I had to make a choice.

  Maybe when I’m old I can go back to writing. Maybe I can learn to write when Dad’s better. But for now, I have to help. Helping is more important than art. Family is more important than what I want.

  My chest compacts painfully. This was the part of the essay that made me feel the worst – she was giving up her dreams for her parents. It’s wrong – her reasons for being at Lakecrest are just wrong. I had half the urge to ask Dad to reject her scholarship a few months ago, but I never worked up the courage. It wasn’t that Dad wouldn’t do it – he would. He always does what I ask if it regards Lakecrest, mostly because he likes nothing more than to assert his power over the school. It was just that, if I revoked her scholarship, I’d never meet her.

  So I didn’t ask. It was selfish, on my part. Stupid and selfish. And look how well it panned out – I hadn’t been able to talk to her until recently, and that’d been awkward as hell.

  I shake my head and keep reading, until I get to the last paragraph.

  No matter what happens, whether I get into Lakecrest or not, giving up will never be an option for me. I think that’s what hope is – not a fancy light, or a bright, positive feeling like they make it out to be in the Disney movies. It’s not some noble trait only heroes and Good People™ have. I think it’s just moving forward when all hope is lost. Hope isn’t some grand and mysterious motivation like love; it’s just never giving up in the face of hopelessness. When everything is lost, when you can’t physically go on one step further, but you choose to keep moving forward anyway? That’s hope. Hope isn’t a thing. It’s something you do when you can’t do anything else.

  So I’ll keep on hoping.

  The words are so simple. Sure, she uses some fancier ones much earlier in the essay, but her words aren’t pretentious, like so many other essays by McCaroll scholarship hopefuls I’d read. I read them all, of course, trying to get a sense of who these people were, if they ever made it into Lakecrest. I’d read dozens. Maybe even hundreds. But this one? This one didn’t simper, or flatter. This one didn’t brag or boast. This one was straight and true, like an arrow, a sunbeam – undeniable and strong. I was in awe. I read it over and over again, dissecting and memorizing my favorite parts.

  And then I met her.

  Well, saw her. For the first time. It was the first day of school, everyone primped and perfumed and Prada’d to their last hair, and then there was her. Beatrix Cruz walked into the front doors, her two brown braids slightly ruffled by the autumn wind. She carried a backpack that looked older than she – threads trailing from the frayed corners and a zipper that didn’t close all the way around the mass of school supplies she’d brought. Her uniform was carefully ironed, and from the essay I knew she had to have done it herself – her mother was rarely home. It wasn’t tailored like everyone else’s; it simply hung on her shoulders, wrinkle-free but far too baggy. Her stormy gray eyes never once shied away from someone’s gaze. She looked straight ahead, the sunlight illuminating her from behind.

  I knew in that moment it was her. There were always a few new students on the first day, but she was unmistakable. The unflinching gaze could only belong to the same person who’d written that essay.

  And now she hated me.

  I’d forgotten what it was like, to be hated. Well, the students I kicked out hated me, but they were scumbags who needed to be taught a lesson. I could care less what they thought of me. But someone who wrote such honest things? Someone who poured her heart out on paper and made it look easy? Someone who knew what hope was? I wanted someone like that to like me. Someone like that was rare and priceless. The last thing I wanted was for her to hate me.

  But she did.

  Yeah, maybe I built up our meeting a little too much in my mind. Maybe I’d been too nervous for too long, watching her from afar. Maybe I’d read the essay too much, instead of trying to talk to her like a normal human being. Maybe I was just being downright creepy about the whole thing. I liked her writing, and that was it. I shouldn’t have wanted anything more than that. It was greedy of me. And it was stupid of me - the last time I tried to get to know someone they betrayed me. Mark took my trust and ripped it into tiny shreds. Just because she wrote an essay I liked didn’t mean she was any different. I knew from her words that she and I were similar – two people who tried their hardest to save someone. Trying. She’s still trying, but my efforts are in the past.

  That’s why she doesn’t belong at Lakecrest.

  Her essay said nothing about her wanting to be here for her own sake. It was all for her Dad’s. And while that’s noble, and self-sacrificing, and a million other things, it’s also very, very stupid. Incredibly stupid. Maybe it’s because I would’ve given anything to make Mark ‘better’ again, but I can’t stand seeing her waste what’s left of her teenage years trying desperately to heal someone she can’t. He needs professional help. It’s a shrink’s job, not hers, to help with his illness. Putting all of that pressure on one person who isn’t trained for it - who doesn’t have years of study and practice under their belt – is wrong. Putting all that pressure on one girl is wrong. And the worst part is? She’s doing it to herself, stubbornly.

  She has to be expelled. It has to be done. She has to leave Lakecrest before it damages her psyche, her soul, and her dreams, permanently. And if I have to be the bad guy, then so be it.

  I don’t know her. Not really. But her writing sang to me. Someone who wrote like that had to be equally as graceful, as wise, as kind. Words don’t come from nowhere – they come from a mind, and I wanted to know hers.

  I’d never know. But at the very least I could preserve it. Prote
ct it. Protect her.

  All I have left is the essay, and I read it over and over until the sun sets and I fall asleep with her words dancing behind my eyelids.

  Chapter 5

  BEATRIX

  This is going to come as a shocker to you, pen-and-paper, but I've never been to a truly fancy restaurant in my life.

  The closest I'd ever come was the Cheesecake Factory in Seattle on a weekend sometimes. Going out and eating wasn't exactly Dad's thing - he always felt like he was ruining it for the rest of us, and got downtrodden pretty quick - so we stopped going. I'd definitely forgotten which one is the salad fork or how to sit in a chair for more than ten minutes without squirming into a more comfortable slouch, and I definitely, DEFINITELY didn't have anything to wear. Not that I usually cared about impressing people, it's just that Mr. Blackthorn held the future of my scholarship in his hands. I had to at least try and look smarter and older than I really was.

  Dresses aren't my style. I like sweaters and jeans and converse and that's it. Frankly, everything else in the fashion world can take a flying leap off a waterfall. With piranhas in the bottom. Mom did try to get me a sundress once with blue flowers on it. I barely fit it anymore. But it was all I had, and I was desperate to look like more than a sixteen-year-old girl belonging to a hovering-just-above-poverty American family. I squeezed into the dress and threw a sweater over it, convinced I looked like the world's dopiest kindergarten teacher.

  Mom wasn't home, thankfully. It was Dad and only Dad. Mom would've definitely noticed something was up when I walked into the living room wearing the sundress I hate. But Dad was oblivious, glued to the television as he had been since I'd gotten home. It was one of those days for him.

  "Hey Dad." I kissed the side of his cheek, his beard scratchy. He'd told me once he hated beards, but shaving had sort of fallen on the wayside for him. "I'm going to the store to get some things for Mom. Do you need anything?"

  "What?" Dad tore his glossy eyes from the TV. "No, no I'll be fine."

  "Okay. I have my phone with me. Call me if you think of anything."

  He grunted, and I tiptoed to the front door and closed it behind me. Only when I was inside the car did I let out a breath of relief. That could've gone way, way worse. I caught myself, for a split-second, being thankful for the fact he had no energy to stop me, or even pay attention to me long enough to realize what was really going on. But that was disgusting of me, and I knew it, so I shook it out of me like a bad bug. Of course I wasn't thankful. I wish he'd stopped me. I wish he'd notice even the smallest thing about me, these days.

  I rehearsed a speech for Mr. Blackthorn the whole time I drove to Ciao Bella. I couldn't look too desperate, because even a low-class scholarshipper like me had pride, but I couldn't let any bone he threw me go to waste. I'd have to accept, no matter what he wanted me to do. At that point, I would've done anything short of deal drugs to keep my scholarship. As I mulled over the list of potentially illegal things I would and would not agree to, a knock on my window startled me. A young man in dress whites smiled at me as I rolled down the window.

  "Hello, miss. Shall I valet park for you this evening?"

  I looked over his head only to see the sign of Ciao Bella glaring back at me. I'd been so deep in my own brain I hadn't even noticed I'd made it. I hastily cleared my throat.

  "Um, I'll just park normally, thanks."

  I parked and rounded the restaurant, which looked like a big hunk of black glass, shiny and smooth and impossible to see into. Beautiful candlelit tables waited outside on the patio, though with the chilly temperature most people were inside. A rush of warm rosemary-scented air greeted me as I opened the door, the crackle of real wood fires along the wall mingling with the low violin music. A hostess greeted me, and I asked for Blackthorn's table. She ushered me past rows of tables brimming with couples in expensive-looking clothes, tucking into plates of lobster pasta and glasses of thick red wine, the sort of wine the whole bottle gets brought to the table for. I tried not to sweat or meet their eyes when they glanced up at me, but I definitely noticed one lady laughing behind her hand at my shoes. I fought the embarrassed blush on my face.

  The hostess finally stopped at a booth in the far back, where Mr. Blackthorn sat. He looked every bit like he belonged in The Godfather, with his crisp tux and single shot of whiskey. He toasted to me as I took off my coat and sat down opposite him.

  "There you are, Miss Cruz." He smiled at me. "Is there anything you'd like to drink?"

  "Water would be fine, thanks."

  "Come now - an iced tea would be much tastier. Perhaps a soda? My sons prefer the wine here - I assure you, it's quite good."

  I gnawed my lip, cutting off my words of 'underage drinking is illegal' or something equally juvenile-sounding. "Just water."

  "Very well." He nodded, and the hostess silently disappeared and reappeared with a glass for me. When it was poured, she left, and Mr. Blackthorn cleared his throat.

  "Do you find this place to your liking?"

  I looked around. "Sure. It's cozy. Lots of pretty people. One of them even laughed at me. Well, I'm pretty sure she was laughing. Otherwise she must've been choking on pasta. But there aren't any ambulances or shrieks of horror, so I figure I'm definitely the source of her amusement. Always happy to help lighten the mood."

  Mr. Blackthorn looked shocked. "Laughed at you? Which one? Can you point me to her?"

  "Oh no, I'd rather not cause a problem -"

  "Marie," Mr. Blackthorn said. The hostess reappeared, seemingly from nowhere. "Kindly escort whichever of your guests laughed at my friend here off the premises."

  The hostess smiled. "Of course, Mr. Blackthorn."

  Horrified, I watched as she walked over to the woman's table and said something. The woman started to argue, and her date slammed his fist on the table. This caused two men in starched shirts and jackets I hadn't seen before come over, so tall they blocked out the light and sent long shadows over the table. One of the men said something, then pointed to our table. The woman and her date looked to us, and Mr. Blackthorn smiled and gave them a small nod. The couple's faces went ashen, and they grabbed their things and strode out as quickly as they could.

  When they were gone, Mr. Blackthorn sighed. "That's much better."

  "I didn't -" I swallowed. "I didn't mean to -"

  "You did nothing wrong, Miss Cruz. It was entirely them. I despise people who can't maintain good manners when in public. And to laugh at my own dinner guest! Such arrogance stifles my appetite." He opened the menu lying at his fingers and passed it to me. "You must be hungry. Please, take a look. I highly recommend the fettucine al pepperoncini and the heirloom bolognese."

  Still feeling queasy, my eyes roamed the menu and practically bugged out. Everything on the menu was upwards of forty dollars! I desperately flipped through for a cheap salad, but even that was a good thirty bucks! The wines - a hundred dollars a bottle! I swallowed hard.

  "I think I'm alright with water for now."

  "Oh, please. I insist. It's my treat. I know how much you high schoolers can eat - the answer is 'endlessly'."

  "I'm okay, really. I ate before I came."

  Mr. Blackthorn fixed me with a stare. It was more like Burn's unaccusing stare than Wolf's self-righteous one. But then he flipped on a smile, so fast and bright and sincere-looking. It was the same way Fitz turned on his smile, too.

  "We will need to improve your lying skills, Miss Cruz, if we are going to work together," He said. I opened my mouth to argue, but he bulldozed forward. "Work together on what, you ask? My sons, of course."

  Mr. Blackthorn tucked a napkin in his lap and took another sip of whiskey. I was about to ask another question, but held myself back. He was a Blackthorn - he'd tell me only when he was good and ready. The waiter came to our table, took his order, and left, and that's when Mr. Blackthorn continued.

  "As you may know, my sons are quite...privileged. I worry as a father that p
rivilege may be leading them down a path of wanton vice."

  "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Mr. Blackthorn." I tried.

  "Come now," he smiled. "We both know Lakecrest is filled with young adults, most of them with easy access to wealth. Wealth can buy all sorts of sordid things, Miss Cruz. Clothes, cars, cellphones...drugs."

  He said the last word lightly, though it carried weight.

  "You want me to, uh, spy on them?" I asked, suddenly nervous.

  "Spy is such a crude word," Mr. Blackthorn sighed. "I'd prefer the term 'befriend' them. You are their peer, after all."

  I snorted so hard mid-drink I nearly blew water all over the table. He looked very impressed. I nursed a napkin against my nose until I was decent, and then;

  "Sorry. In what world are me and your sons 'peers'? 'Peers' means 'equals', and I'm definitely not going around bullying people and smelling like Burberry while I do it -"

  I stopped, suddenly aware of my rant. Mr. Blackthorn only had a little smile on.

  "I'll be frank with you, Miss Cruz. Wolf has put in a formal request to me to revoke your scholarship to Lakecrest."

  The water that'd nearly gone up my nose danced in my stomach. "And you're going to do it?"

  "It's the first time he's ever approached me with a request personally," Mr. Blackthorn shook his head. "I almost felt like his father again." His eyes got a little misty, and I was quiet. They obviously weren't on the best terms with each other. "He clearly has strong feelings for you, Miss Cruz."