by Angel Lawson
My therapist. Jesus. “God, no. I’m just…” I’m holding in a sob. I press a hand into my chest, the thumping vibration of my heart so hard and fast that it feels like I’ve run a mile.
Dad coaxes, “What? Surprised? Annoyed? Freaked?”
“I’m sick!” I wail, grabbing the fabric covering my chest into a tight fist. “I’m sick of you not telling me stuff, I’m sick of being trapped here all the time, and I’m sick of you asking me how I feel and then never fucking listening!”
“Vandy Emilia Hall!” my mom shouts, eyes wide with shock. I’ve never once cussed in front of them before. Even Emory is gaping at me. “That language is unacceptable!”
I fling my arms out, helpless. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you with the feelings that you specifically fucking asked for.”
My mom’s eyes flash in anger. “One more time, Vandy, so help me...”
“What?” My laugh comes out slightly maniacal. “Are you going to ground me? That’ll be rich. Maybe I won’t be able to leave the house, or have friends, or talk to boys, or go to parties, or wear make-up. Oh, my mistake. Can’t ground me from something you’ve never allowed me to have.”
“Hey!” My dad steps forward, brows pulled together in anger. “That’s enough. Maybe we made the wrong move not telling you about Reynolds, but you talk to us like the adult you want to be treated as. Apologize to your mother.”
My ribs feel like they’re strangling my lungs, and I can’t even properly appreciate the irony in my parents wanting me to act like an adult when they treat me like a child.
I say, “I’m sorry,” because I have to get away. “If you’d told me, then I could have—I could have just—”
It doesn’t matter.
Emory’s stricken eyes watch as I pass him, hobbling my way up the stairs.
What I want to say is that, if I’d known, I could have found out who to be around Reynolds McAllister. The last time I saw him I was whole, body and soul. I’m not that person now. I’m just this mangled, nervous mess of wanting and not-having. I’m the shattered glass and the crushed metal. I’m the long expanse of asphalt and the pungent spatter of gasoline. I should have had time to become something more than the meager sum of that night’s parts. Because that’s the kind of person who could have seen Reynolds and not felt like a broken thirteen-year-old all over again. That person could have been brave. Fearless.
That’s obviously never going to be in the cards for me.
My blaze of glory would probably be a lot more effective if I could run, kick, or stomp my feet. Instead, I drag my defective leg behind me and do the best I can. I do manage a wall-rattling, vengeful door slam when I get to the room.
It doesn’t help the way my lungs feel like they’re being crushed. I just can’t breathe. I keep gulping in air, but it’s like everything is constricting me—my shirt, my skin, my bones. I frantically unbutton my shirt, no longer pressed and fresh like it’d been this morning, but eventually just grab the two sides and rip it open, flinging it away. I kick off my loafers and peel off the stupid knee-high socks that are required as part of the school uniform, despite the fact it’s still in the eighties outside. Then I shimmy out of the uncomfortable wool skirt, stepping out of it bunched on the floor.
Crossing the room, I walk over to the bedside table, illuminated brightly from a ray of sunshine coming through the arched window beside it, and open the drawer. Inside is a tiny ring box. It’s only one of many boxes hidden around this room that are filled with pills. I know I don’t even need them anymore. Well, no more than the rationed allotment in the bathroom, just to get me by on a physical dependence level. But I like to know they’re there, especially on a day like today. It’s comforting just knowing. If things get bad enough—if I just can’t take it anymore—then relief is only forty minutes away.
It helps.
I look at them and that overwhelming feeling of being crushed slowly starts to abate. I gasp in a short breath and release it slowly, counting them out in my head, palm pressed to my chest, feeling the choppy rise and fall.
This is life, I tell myself. This breath, this heartbeat, this is me being alive. I chant it like an affirmation inside my head, each exhale taking with it that debilitating panic until I finally stand there, drained and aching.
I trail my fingers over the uneven skin that slashes from just below my belly button around to my lower back. It’s thick and gnarled, and the skin surrounding it is strangely numb. I turn my face to the ray of sunshine, eyes closed as I soak it in, exhausted and worn. Instantly, the guilt sets in. I should apologize to my mom and dad, to Emory. They don’t know. They don’t understand what it’s like for me, weaning myself from the medication. That’s all.
I open my eyes and Reynolds McAllister stands opposite of me.
He’s still sweaty from his run, staring across the empty space between our houses from his own bedroom window—the one that’s been dark for three years. His green eyes hold mine, and he’s just as still and rigid as he was before, out in the street. It’s different this time, nothing of significance passing between us, just a flat, cold stare.
It’s not until his eyes drop that it comes to me in a rush that I’m half-dressed and staring at the boy responsible for all of this.
It should feel like a violation—like one more thing he’s taking from me. Instead, it feels weirdly necessary.
Yes, look.
Look what you did.
He raises his gaze back to mine and I want to feel satisfied. I want to spread my face with a malicious grin. I want to break him as much as he’d broken me.
I reach for my curtain and let it fall, his haunted eyes disappearing with the light.
Reyn is the one who rolls down the windows. “It’s better when you can feel the wind whipping around, you know?”
His face is bright, lit with the rush of stealing the car, illuminated in the soft light of the dashboard. My long hair whips across my eyes and my heart pounds like a jackhammer. For the first time, I get why they do this.
It’s wild, crazy, fun.
His hand rests so casually on the gearshift that you’d think he’s had years of experience driving a car, not that he’s just a fourteen-year-old without a license. I’m envious of that confidence. Where does it come from? How can I get it? My hands twist in my lap, and I look out the window at the landscape rushing by.
“I knew it,” he says suddenly, raising his voice over the loud rush of wind.
I glance at him, the swooping bangs of his copper hair blowing wild. “Knew what?”
“That you were cool, Baby V.” He spares me a glance, cheeks dimpling with a grin. “That you were one of us.”
He releases the gear shift and slides his hand down my forearm until our hands link together like pieces of a puzzle. He makes the move look so easy and nonchalant, but my stomach is bombarded with a stampeding burst of butterflies. Reynolds McAllister is holding my hand!
Oh my god, I can’t wait to tell Sydney.
Reyn drives the car one-handed, coasting down the long road that leads back to town. It’s a dark and rural, at one end of the lake. The Club is way out on a big piece of property. Out the window, I see a flash of light in the grassy fields lining the road. Fireflies, I think. But then, I realize it’s something else. My stomach lurches and I sit up, twisting my hand from his. “Watch out! There’s a—” I start, but it’s too late. The next moment is a flash of pale brown fur, the squeal of tires, Reynolds fighting against the wheel. I throw my hands up, a scream bursting—
I bolt up, gasping for air, and instinctively look next to me.
There’s nothing and no one there—just the empty side of my bed.
“Jesus,” I gasp, hand shaking as I check the time on my phone; 2:47. Rubbing my clammy face, I try to shake the nightmare. The reoccurring nightmare. Or well, mostly. It’s been a long time since I’ve dreamed it as it happened. Usually, it’s off a bit. Sometimes I’m the one driving. Other times, Reynolds is next to me, and h
e’s already bloodied up, mouth curling into a sick, malevolent smile. I haven’t had the real memory in so long, that sometimes I worry I’ve lost the pieces, like they just dissolved inside my brain at some point.
I’ve fought the nightmares off for a long time, mostly with the meds, but now that I’ve cut back, they’ve returned with an unholy vengeance.
Without turning on the light, I ease out of bed. I learned a long time ago not to let anyone in the house know about my nightmares or insomnia. Mom can’t stand thinking I’m alone and suffering. A thin coat of sweat makes my pajamas cling to my body and I take them off, dropping them to the floor and grabbing another pair out of my dresser. Once I’ve changed, I see the light coming from the house next door and push aside the curtain to take a peek.
The light is faint, coming from a lamp that’s out of sight. All I can see from here are Reynolds' bare legs, stretched out on his bed with a book open on his stomach. His face is out of view, so I’m able to watch him for a moment, wondering what keeps him up at night. Is it the same nightmare that I have? Or is it guilt?
Whatever it is, I think, dropping the curtain and heading back to bed, there’s a bit of satisfaction knowing that he can’t sleep either.
4
Reyn
Starting back at Preston Prep is an avalanche of overload. It was only a few mornings ago that I was living the Mountain Point life, and now all of a sudden, there are all these things. Decisions, for one. What to eat. When to sleep. When to wake up. What to do. What to study. School and football give me plenty of structure, but even the structured time here is unstructured as hell. I keep finding myself paralyzed in the face of it all, as if a choice between writing the date above or below my name on my AP Lit report is some life-altering decision.
I tap the pen against my notebook, casting my gaze around to see what everyone else is doing.
“What was up with that Vandy girl’s freakout in Art earlier?” The guy behind me whispers to his neighbor. “I straight-up thought she was about to cry.”
His neighbor lowers her voice when she replies, “Well I can’t believe Mr. Kent took it. It’s just lipstick, give me a break.”
“Do you think it’s because of that dude being back? The new guy? I heard he kidnapped her or something, and that’s why she’s so—”
I spin around. George Whoeverthefuck, the gangly, pimple-ridden fucker behind me, is using a folder to hide his flapping mouth from the teacher. I snatch it from his hand and fling it down the aisle. “My name is Reynolds. Now shut the fuck up.”
I can practically feel him gaping at the back of my head as I jot the date down in the opposite corner of my name. Who cares, anyway. This isn’t Mountain Point; I’m not going to be doing ten push-ups because I put the date in the wrong place.
I hear George get up from his seat, and then watch from my periphery as he slumps across the room to retrieve his folder, face all pinched and sour as he returns.
Try me, bitch.
The remainder of class is spent in a blissful, George-free silence, which is good, because it takes me half of it to decide whether or not I should use the back side of the paper, or just get a new sheet. It’d be hilarious if I weren’t so close to pulling my own hair out in frustration. Academically, Mountain Point was pretty competitive, which basically means I already covered most of this shit junior year. This should be a cakewalk, not a clusterfuck of indecision.
It’s easier on the field. Coach tells me where to go and what to do. I’m in my element there, physically excelling at every practice. All those mornings of mandatory runs and constant training make it impossible for anyone to question my last-minute addition to the team. I can already see the gleam in the other guys’ eyes, like they all know between me and the core team they already had, we’re definitely going to make it to State this year.
I stick around when class ends, feeling flustered and pissed off when I drop the three sheets of paper onto the teacher’s desk. “I didn’t know which way to do it.”
She picks up the pages, frowning in confusion. “You did the assignment twice?”
Once with writing on both sides of the paper, and again using the fronts of two sheets.
I chew out a terse, “Yes.” For the record, I don’t need her to look at me like that. I know it’s stupid. Better to do something stupid than spend an hour agonizing about it, though.
“Okay,” she says slowly, swivelling in her chair to tuck it all into the pile.
While her back’s turned, I bend over her desk to swipe her personalized stationary pad in all its hideous pink glory. I tuck it into my pocket—Mine now—and am already halfway out the door before she turns around.
In the hall, I stop at my locker, pulling the pad from my pocket and writing a quick missive. I tear off the top sheet and leave the rest inside. That could come in handy someday.
Minutes later, I discover Mr. Kent is the easiest mark yet. “Yeah, I’ve got some extra colored pencils.” He heads into a closet at the back of the room, raising his voice. “Are you all doing another book cover project?”
I nod as I rifle through his drawers. “Yep. It’s uh—” Pens, highlighters, soy sauce, napkins, beads. “It’s Fitzgerald.”
“I hope you’re doing some art deco!”
I open his bottom drawer, and there it is; a tube of lipstick.
Mine now.
“Here you are.” Mr. Kent hands me three boxes of unlovingly used colored pencils. “You can just tell her to hold on to them.”
I toss a lazy wave over my shoulder as I leave. “Sure thing.”
I wait until I turn down the east hall to chuck the pencils into the nearest trash can.
My eyes jump back and forth between the macaroni and the mashed potatoes. They’re both perfectly sufficient carbs. Although, the macaroni has more protein. On the other hand, potatoes have more vitamins. But who knows what kind of potatoes these are. They’re probably bullshit rehydrated flakes. Does that make potatoes less nutritious? Does the macaroni even have real cheese?
I swipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. I wonder if it’s just me, or if the lights in the lunch line are roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun. Someone behind me in line exhales loudly and the sounds of their shifting feet distract me, breaking my internal debate. Now, I’ll have to start all over. Fuck.
Thankfully, the decision is taken out of my hands when the lunch lady picks up a serving of each and dumps both on my tray. The ball of tension that’s been rapidly growing between my shoulderblades suddenly releases.
I nod, muttering a thanks as I leave the line.
The person behind me huffs, “Finally,” and someone else says, “Oh shit, that’s the guy?” and someone else says, “Yeah, I think I remember him from before.”
I’m not a fan of being the object of whispered talk in the hallways. In the classrooms. In the lunch line. In the seat directly behind me. It’s hard to know what’s basic ’new kid’ chatter and what’s gossip about what I’ve done and where I’ve been. At least having Emory by my side makes it easier. He might not be leading the Devils, but you wouldn’t know it going by the way he’s treated here.
It becomes obvious pretty quickly that scandals don’t carry huge weight at a school like Preston. Wealth and access make it so that parents can get their kid out of any kind of trouble. Drugs, DUIs, vandalism, and—if the gossip is true—even bigger charges, like assault. If anything, my mysterious background and the fact I came back a foot and a half taller, boosts my image—something that no one cared about at military school. Over there, I was just another fuck-up sent away for doing something dumb enough to get caught.
In short, I can survive the gossip. It’ll pay dividends. But you don’t exactly need super-hearing in this place to realize that people are talking about Vandy, too. Without consciously realizing I’m doing it, I’ve searched her out in the cafeteria. She’s coming from the south doors, eyes trained ahead as she limps into the room.
Watching her
walk is an exercise in masochism, much like having a knife buried into my gut, twisting sharply with each of her stilted steps.
I want to say it’s not as bad as when I initially realized it, that first day back at school. The way her hand supported her back as her hobbling gait carried her across the quad, right leg faltering with each step, it was undeniable.
That’s what I did.
I’d met up with Emory to walk to my first class and couldn’t force a single word from my throat the whole way. I wasn’t prepared, then. In photos, she looks perfect. And that day, standing in her window in nothing but a bra and panties, she looked... well, miserable.
Miserable, but also fucking breathtaking.
If fourteen-year-old Reynolds could see seventeen-year-old Vandy, he would have made a move so fast, her head would have spun. Of course, my crush on her back then was just a curious little hint of a thing. I never fully nursed it. Emory wouldn’t have even let me. He’s smart like that.
I expect it now, knowing exactly what it is to watch the consequence of what I’ve done. But in truth, even three days later, I still feel those vicious stabs just watching her.
My teeth are already tightly clenched when I finally find Emory’s table, dropping into the seat beside him. “Fuck.” I realize, “I forgot to get a drink.”
Emory uses my shoulder for leverage when he rises from his seat. “It’s cool, I need to get something from the vending machine, anyway. What you want?”
“I don’t know.” Choices, choices. Goddamn it. “Something wet.”
Emory shoots me two finger guns. “I don’t think they’re putting pussy in the vending machine yet, bro.”
I flip him a middle finger as he walks off. “Walked into it.”
“So, what’s the word on that?” Ben Shackleford asks through a mouthful of food. “You managed to score any yet?”
I don’t know any of these guys well enough to talk about pussy with them. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t brag that there are a lot of choices. Well. Not too much. I’ve already gotten looks, had notes passed to me, girls asking for my number, girls giving me theirs. Paying dividends. It’d be like shooting cum in a barrel.
