A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  Paloma grasps my hand a little tighter and says, “Me too.”

  (written on drive home) (undelivered)

  40.

  Kiss me again. Let me kiss you again. Kiss me again.

  I say it to myself as we take each step up to her door.

  This was the best prom night I ever could have imagined. There were no streamers, no fancy ballrooms, no king and queen.

  Just Paloma and me. She scribbled in her sketch book during the car ride home. It was mostly quiet, but that’s okay.

  “Tonight was—” I start.

  “Who gave you the drink, Oliver?” She tries to wrap the words in sweetness, in concern, with a big smile. She’s trying to get me to let my guard down. She’s failing.

  “Ah, Paloma,” I say. I take her hand in mine and pull it to my lips. “Tonight was pretty damn perfect. Can we just end it like this?”

  She shakes her head, pressing our interlocked hands to my chest.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t let it go,” I say, each word out feeling a little colder. Like the mini thaw we had tonight is being quick-freezed. “It’s just not important.”

  “It is,” she says. “It is because I feel like there’s something here. Between us. Or there could be. Maybe.”

  “There is,” I say. I take a step closer to her and slide my palm against her cheek, then let it slip back around her neck, catching the tiny hairs at the base of her head in my fingers.

  “Who gave you the drink, Oliver?” she repeats. She’s not backing down this time. I step back, and it feels all wrong.

  I stare up at the dark sky, full of a zillion stars and none of the answers I need. For how to make her understand. How to fix this.

  “Do you know how much I wish I could go back to that night? Do it again? Walk you home, kiss you goodnight—can’t we just make tonight our do over? Can we pretend this is the first time that I’ve dropped you off at your doorstep?”

  “I don’t want to forget that night,” she says. She sounds disappointed that I would.

  I run a hand through my hair. “I know. I don’t either.”

  “Then I need you to tell me the truth, Oliver. Who gave you the drink?”

  “Paloma,” I start. “Fuck, don’t make me say this.”

  I feel like everything is draining from me. It feels like I’m floating a little. Watching myself open and close my mouth a few times before I finally speak the words I’ve tried so damn hard to keep to myself.

  “You did.”

  41.

  It takes a minute for it all to click into place for her, but I know when it has by the way her face contorts.

  I know that look exactly.

  Paloma’s hands crush into the sides of her head like she’s trying to stop a migraine. Like everything is spinning and she wants to get off this ride.

  I’ve been there.

  “What?” Her voice is barely a whisper at first. “What?!” she repeats, this time, with a rage that bubbles up from her gut.

  I try to pull her into my chest, knowing it has to be too much, but she shoves me away.

  This is the moment I’d tried so hard to protect her from. Why wouldn’t she just let me do that?

  “This is all my fault,” she says. She’s covering her face completely now.

  “No, no, no,” I say again and again. “It had nothing to do with you. You didn’t make this happen.”

  Paloma pulls her hands away from her face and frowns. “How can you even say that to me?”

  I sit on the top step outside of her front door and tug on her fingers until she joins me.

  “Paloma,” I start. “Don’t you think I’ve run through that night a thousand times? More, probably. Do you really think I’d be sitting here if I felt like it was in any way your fault?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice shaky and cracking. “God, Oliver, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. It isn’t. But it’s better. And I finally have hope that it will keep going that way.

  “The girl? At the party?” she asks, watching me.

  I wish she wasn’t watching me so intently. “I didn’t know her at all. I thought she was helping me get somewhere safe. I didn’t realize … I didn’t know she would … I never agreed…”

  “Oh my God,” she repeats, her fingers pressed tight to the lips I was kissing not so long ago.

  “It wasn’t what I wanted, Paloma,” I tell her, stumbling over my words. “I never … I didn’t even know her. I wasn’t okay. And she knew that. She knew and she just … I don’t even know if she knows that I wasn’t in to it. I’ve tried to talk to her. She seems just as confused as I am, and fuck! I just don’t know.”

  It’s as much as I can piece together. It’s so little and everything all at the same time.

  “No. No. Not fucking fair!” Paloma says. Like this is something that could be undone based on the fact that it’s not fair. “You’re the best person I know. You didn’t deserve that! And it happened … she did that … because of me.”

  “Hey,” I say. I pull her head onto my shoulder. She still feels stiff next to me, though. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “Oliver!” Paloma jerks away from me. “What happened that night, what she took from you—”

  “Stop.”

  But she doesn’t.

  “She took advantage of you. She took something from you that she shouldn’t have.”

  “Please, stop,” I say. It’s too much. Paloma knowing. Paloma feeling responsible. Paloma looking at me—the spark gone, replaced by nothing but pity and guilt.

  “Oliver…” She says my name, but doesn’t finish her thought.

  When I look over at her, she’s crying. It’s that awful, silent cry that makes you wish the person would just wail and snot all over the place. This is the kind of crying that means you’re in so much pain that it’s wrapped its way around your insides, your stomach is tight and it’s pinched your throat closed so you can’t even make a sound.

  I reach over and rub my thumb under her eyes, trying to dam some of the tears, but they just fall right over my finger.

  “Paloma,” I say. I turn my body toward her, our knees touching, and hold onto her legs. “It’s okay. Bad shit happens, and people move on. I’m okay.”

  I’m going to be okay. I’m halfway there.

  “Don’t make this the end of—look, I told you. You’re the only person I needed to tell. Now I can move on. Now I’ll be all right.”

  “This is not all right, Oliver.” She takes a shaky breath, like she’s trying to muster her courage. And then her face falls again when she says, “That water was meant for me.”

  “Exactly,” I say softly.

  Her shoulders fall forward. “I knew I couldn’t trust him. I knew I needed to stay away from him. But I never thought he’d … if he did anything, I guess I figured I could handle it. I always put up with his shit. But it wasn’t me he hurt.”

  Exactly. It’s what keeps me going.

  “How can you not hate me? How can you pretend that any of this is okay? That it’ll ever be?”

  She’s still not seeing it. How much she’s always meant to me. How I sleep a little better at night knowing that I’d gotten her home safe, even if it had fucked my own world up.

  “Paloma, I’ve been crazy about you for—for an embarrassingly long time, to be honest,” I admit, because now is the time to stop hiding. I’m done hiding from her. “I would have done anything to keep you safe if I knew. But I didn’t. And what happened sucked in every fucking way. But there’s one thing that keeps me from losing my shit completely.”

  “What is it?” she asks, her hand grabbing mine and squeezing so tight it hurts a little. Which is fine. Sometimes caring about someone hurts like hell.

  “Me drinking that water that night meant that you were okay.”

  (Written after Oliver left) (Undelivered)

  42.

  “Oliver,” Mrs. Driscoll says. She sets a white sl
ip of paper on the edge of my desk. “I’m going through the essays now. I passed yours along to Mrs. Cameron. She’d like to see you.”

  She pats at the paper again, and then makes her way back up to the front of the classroom.

  I flip it over; it’s a hall pass.

  So I guess the school counselor wants to see me. Now.

  Fuck.

  I shove my book back into my backpack and duck out of the classroom as the rest of the class is filing in.

  I know my essay didn’t follow the traditional format, but I didn’t think I’d be called up to the office over it.

  I pass a fire alarm and wish I had the stones to pull on it and send everyone running into the parking lot. I could slip out and be to work early.

  I walk slowly, trying to draw out having to defend my work. Which sort of defeats the entire purpose of the project. I told my truth. That should’ve been good enough. By the time I get to the glass, office doors, I’m amped up and pretty damn mad.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Cameron,” I say. I hand the hall pass over to the receptionist, and she pages Mrs. Cameron.

  The interior of the office is a ton of oak, aqua walls, and an accent wall that has a mural painted by a student a few years ago. It’s a mural of our school. Inside our school. I’d roll my eyes, but I just don’t care enough right now.

  I haven’t heard from Paloma in days. I’ve texted her twice, called once. I’ve decided to give her some space. At least for now. But hanging out in the school counselor’s office isn’t something I wanted to do on top of missing Paloma.

  I stare outside into the parking lot. So close, yet so far away from being able to escape.

  “Oliver,” Mrs. Cameron rounds the corner into the main reception area. She knows my name because the slip says it and she’s expecting me, not because we’ve ever met. “Good to see you.”

  “Hi,” is all I can muster.

  “Let’s go on back to my office and have a quick chat, okay?”

  I nod and follow her through the maze of cubicles and to her office in the corner. She closes the door behind us, so I guess it’s serious.

  I sit in one of the black chairs across from her desk. It’s too low, and I sink deep into it. It feels like it’s closing in on me. Why would you choose this for a counselor’s office?

  Mrs. Cameron sits at her oak topped desk and smiles.

  “Any idea why I called you in today, Oliver?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Mrs. Driscoll said it was about my essay?”

  Above her desk are a bunch of cut-out paper puzzle pieces with emotions written on them. Sad. Happy. Scared. There’s a dozen of them. There’s also letters that spell out: Feeling Puzzled?

  I frown.

  “Exactly. Mrs. Driscoll was concerned with your essay.”

  “Was it not good enough?” I ask, defensive.

  “No, no. It’s not that at all. It was just so vague, she felt like there might be something deeper there? Something you may want to talk about?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  Mrs. Cameron leans back in her chair, looking disappointed.

  “The school year is just about over, Oliver. I’d hate to know that there might be something bothering you and we just let you go out there in the big world. We need to help you if we can.”

  I close my eyes and sigh.

  I fidget in my chair, trying to come up for air from this octopus I’m sitting on.

  Mrs. Cameron tries again.

  “You know, sometimes, when we’re holding things too tightly, they eat away at us. We just have to let them go. We have to let someone else carry some of that weight. I’d like to do that for you, Oliver, if you’ll let me help you.”

  For a split second, I contemplate opening up. Telling this sweet, old woman everything. Making her day that she had something to do for once, and maybe taking Martin down in the process.

  But I’m not spilling my secrets to her.

  I clear my throat before saying, “I’m in a band. I just write songs that I think people will like. That’s what I did here. I thought it would be a cool anthem for people my age, you know?”

  Lie.

  She sizes me up, trying to decide if she should let this go.

  Ultimately, Mrs. Cameron can’t make me talk to her, and she must realize it, because she gives me a sharp nod and tells me to have a good day.

  I don’t go back to class, though. I grab my backpack and leave.

  ***

  “Oliver Wu,” Colm says. “You’re early.”

  I hang my keys on the hook in the storage room and then pull on my polo shirt.

  “Just finishing crap up at school. Nothing going on. I ducked out early,” I say. “And I missed your face.”

  “It’s a hard face not to miss,” Colm says. “Saw you gave your notice, huh? You’re really leaving us soon?”

  “Looks like it,” I say. “Berkley waits for no man.”

  “So, what’s up?” he asks, but doesn’t elaborate.

  “I told you,” I say. “Just took off a little early from school. No big deal.”

  “Wu,” Colm says, shaking his head. “I’ve been working with you for two years, and you’ve never left school early.”

  “I’ve never been this close to graduation before,” I say.

  “Fair enough,” Colm reasons. He pulls down a couple of boxes from the top shelf of the stock room. “But your girlfriend hasn’t been buy in days, either—”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  He slits the tops of each of the boxes with an X-Acto knife. “Anyway, she’s always here. And you’re miserable. And showing up early, and staying late. And, just cut the crap, Wu, tell me what’s up.”

  Colm sets the knife down on top of the stack of boxes, then plops down on the small bench next to me.

  “Dude, I know we’re bros, and we’re not supposed to have big heart-to-hearts, but something has been off with you for weeks. What’s going on?”

  I lean forward and press my face into my hands.

  I start to open my mouth to say ‘nothing’ or ‘I’m fine.’ Instead, I say everything I don’t mean to.

  I say the truth.

  I tell Colm how I’d ended up at the party after walking Paloma home.

  I tell him how I’d felt strangely grateful that it was me, rather than her.

  I tell him how I’m not sure if Tarryn is a black-hat villain, or just as confused as I am.

  I don’t look at him the entire time.

  I tell him it’s because I feel embarrassed. Ashamed. Confused.

  I tell him that I’m sorry I’ve been a shitty employee.

  “Oliver,” Colm finally says, long after I’ve stopped talking. “You have nothing to be sorry for. None of this was your fault.”

  “I know,” I say. My voice is gravelly. Rough.

  “No, man.” Colm nudges my shoulder. “I need you to hear me. You have nothing to feel bad about.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Oliver,” he begins. Colm’s voice is serious. “Who else have you told?”

  I shake my head. “Just her. Just Paloma.”

  He nods like he understands.

  “I just wanted her to be okay,” I say. It doesn’t even really make any sense right now, but in my core, it’s the truth.

  Colm springs up to his feet and starts pacing the tiny room.

  “I’ve got some friends who used to go to Mater Dei,” he says. “I bet I can get an address. I could handle this for you. Just say the word.”

  “No,” I say. I jump up, too. “I don’t want that. I don’t want you involved, too.”

  “All right, man,” he says. “But you’ve got to do something.”

  I rake a hand through my hair. “I just want to forget it ever happened. That’s it. I want to go to college and move on. Bad shit happens to people all the time, that’s life.”

  Colm shakes his head back and forth.

  “Oliver,” he says. Then he runs his hand down his
long-as-hell beard. “You might be able to move on. You’ve got a rad family, a good life plan, all that. But what if he does it to someone else? You want to sit by and do nothing to try to prevent that?”

  I slump back onto the bench. “What am I supposed to do? Fight him? Confront him? He’ll just deny it. I have no proof. What can I possibly do to fix this?”

  Colm takes the seat next to me again. He looks just as defeated.

  “I don’t know, Oliver Wu. We’ll figure something out.”

  43.

  From Paloma:

  We need to talk.

  I’ve been staring at the text message for ten minutes, trying to figure out the best way to respond. There isn’t anything left to talk about. I told her everything days ago, and have been waiting for her to tell me it’s okay. That it won’t change things between us—whatever they are. But all I’ve had for days on end is silence.

  And I meant what I’d said. As big as the weight that I’d felt lifted once I’d told Colm was, I still feel like I’d told the one person I need to—Paloma—and now, I feel like I can move on.

  I just don’t think the same is true for her.

  I’m working over how to reply when there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

  “Come in,” I call. I toss my phone aside and pull myself up to sitting.

  The door creaks open, and I fully expect it to be Paloma, wide-eyed and on fire that I didn’t reply to her text yet. I hope it is.

  “Sorry to barge in,” Ryan says, hovering in the doorway. “Your mom told me it was okay to come up.”

  “It’s cool, come in.”

  Ryan steps into the room and finds his usual spot on my desk chair. The place he used to sit all the time while we’d hammer out lyrics or new chords together.

  “What’s up?”

  “My mom wanted me to bring this to you,” he says.

  He tosses a white envelope to me.

  “It’s just a graduation card, and a gift card to Guitar Center.”

  “Wow, that’s really generous. I’ll give her a call to thank her. Thanks for bringing it by.”