Always, Abby: Freshman Year
Page 9
WILD HILLBILLY IN TULLE.
Anyway, this year’s theme picked by the juniors is “The Arctic”. I’m not sure what they were trying to go for exactly, but the decorations around the school are something out of a fairytale. Apparently, every year on the day of prom, most people skip classes. For those of us who choose to stay, we get roped into helping with final decorations. Everything is black, deep purple, and silver. There are massive black velvet curtains with tiny silver stars sectioning off the hallways and blocking the view of the ceiling. I walked by them, running my fingers over the soft fabric, imagining being swallowed up by such decadence, caressed by whispers of fabric.
I wonder what it would be like, to spend a few hours under the velvet stars. Where your only worry is finding your shoes after dancing for so long.
I also wonder what theme my class will pick in a couple of years. I hope it’s something just as beautiful.
Mason came to school, too. We had a lot of fun decorating together. We laughed a lot and came up with stupid themes to secretly write in on the voting ballots. I really had my doubts if anybody else would like our Buffy the Vampire Slayer theme with fake wooden stakes as centerpieces. The colors would just be black and red. Instead of the fancy champagne flutes, we were going to have goblets. We came up with so many ideas.
Dawson skipped today because he didn’t want to help decorate. But he promised that next year he’d help me pick out the perfect dress and dance with me under whatever silly decorations his class picks. He laughed when I told him I didn’t think it was silly.
Things with him the past few weeks have been okay. Anytime we’re together at school Drew is MIA. Dawson says everything is fine between them, but that Drew doesn’t want to be around me. I asked why but he didn’t have an answer. He hinted that he thought Drew was jealous of our relationship because I “stole his best friend,” but also because he didn’t have a girlfriend, too. Like he felt like the third wheel or something. I’m not sure it really made sense to me, but I want to believe him.
We haven’t had a lot of time to be together outside of school since his party. He embarrasses me sometimes by writing notes about what happened. I have to wait until I get home to read them because if anybody saw me trying to make it through one at school, they would absolutely laugh at how red my face gets.
I asked him if he was sad that things like that didn’t happen more often. I didn’t know how to tell him that a part of me was, but he promised that any time spent with me, whether out in the open or alone, was everything he wanted it to be.
Do you think it’s okay to revel in the physical parts of a relationship because they feel so good? I mean, I like our talks and how he makes me feel on the inside. It’s just that most of my life, neither side has felt good. Especially the outside. I can hide my thoughts, my feelings. I know and can understand that the way I feel on the inside is fleeting, depending on how brave I am to walk away in a few years. But the outside is harder to transform, to mend. When you’re used to nothing but bruises, is it okay to want more of the warmth, the light, the high of being softly touched, desperately wanted?
Mom’s words about turning into a whore keep popping into my head, but for now, Dear Heart, I’m going to sweep those away. I don’t ever want to look at how Dawson and I choose to care for each other with my mother’s vile remarks floating around, touching and discoloring the memories.
For the rest of the night, I’m going to lay here and pretend we got to go to the prom under the stars, and that each glimmering one is a happy ending for all who chose to dance.
Always,
Abby
June 6, 2004
Dear Heart,
Today was graduation for the seniors. Part of it was televised on the news. I sat in the living room for a while and watched as they filed into the gym with their marching partners. Mason had promised me when were little that we'd always be partners. I made him also promise not to let me trip while I was walking.
A lot of the girls walking together were clutching each other, huge tears rolling down their cheeks. I kept wondering if they were sad tears or happy ones. Sad tears because they’re being thrown out of the small pond and into the ocean. Or happy tears because the pond was never quite large enough to begin with.
Do you think that it’s a tangible feeling? When you feel so smothered, cramped by your surroundings that you just ache to be somewhere else, somewhere different. That you can feel the walls closing in so fast that you feel the pressure on your skin.
Sometimes when I’m lying in my bed, thinking about where I’ll be at in a few years, five years, ten years, my muscles start to protest. I have to get up and stretch to remind myself that I’m not really hiding in a too-small box shoved under a bed to be forgotten. I have to remind myself that it’s not much longer until I can breathe so deep that my lungs won’t know what to do with all of the fresh, new air.
I stretch, reaching my hands as far as they’ll go above my head, pretending each of my fingers are different points on a map of somewhere, anywhere, that I could end up.
Sometimes I’ll smile because it seems like such a happy thought.
Sometimes I’ll start to cry because it seems like such a huge space of time that I have to fill. Every day. Every year. YEARS.
Sometimes I worry that I’m not going to make it through the day because of how rough it is. Thinking about trying to make it for several more years is terrifying to me.
I’m hoping the summer is good to me, that I won’t have a lot to tell you about. I hope that for at least a couple of months the days are short and boring. I hope that the next school year is just another step towards that something bigger.
I have a lot of hope.
Always,
Abby
Acknowledgement
I want to take the time to thank my husband, first and foremost. I would have never been able to sit down and write this, let alone finish it and give you the story that you have today. Your patience and support, your overwhelming love, your cute little butt. All of it helps me, every day.
Thank you to Rachel, Leigh Anne, and Maranda. You guys never once questioned me when I told you I was thinking about writing a book. You always asked me how it was going and reminded me that you would aways be there to help, and that you were so proud of me. I'm lucky to know you.
Thank you to the real-life Mason, Douglas. You've been my very best friend for over twenty years and the best confidant during this entire shitshow.
Thank you to Brandy. I was in one of the biggest funks of my life, and I can never tell you enough how helpful finding your stories were. We both know I'm going to read them once a month for the rest of my life. Please don't ever forget your gift of writing. I need more of you in my life.
Thank you to Kelly. I love bitching with you about books and cheesy covers. I appreciate you and all the help you've given to me.
About The Author
M. Boothe
She first found her love of writing while living down a tree-sheltered holler in West Virginia. As her surroundings grew, so did her need to share her creations.
When she's not trying to write, she can be found at home with her family, both humans and the fur variety, probably ordering DoorDash.
She loves all things coffee, pizza, and book related.
Her hobbies are overthinking, eating, making up stories, and yelling at her cats to shut up at 2am.