Crushed

by Dawn Rae Miller

  I was born during their junior year.

  No one ever talks about that. How I was a mistake.

  Or maybe not. Maybe Mom planned what happened.

  I wonder if Dad has any other mistakes.

  “I’m trying to understand how you can claim to love Mom, but you fuck around behind her back.”

  Color drains from his face. “Watch yourself.”

  My confidence grows. “And why aren’t you pissed your teenage son is standing before you, clearly hung-over? Why?”

  Dad glares at me. “I didn’t come here to get the third-degree from my eighteen-year-old son.”

  “How can you do that to her? She loves you.”

  Dad presses his lips together and studies me for a moment. “What goes on between Jules and me is our business. Not yours.”

  “But—“

  He cuts me off. “But nothing. You don’t even live at home. What I do or don’t do, as long as I continue to pay your bills and provide for you, is no concern of yours.”

  His words pierce my heart. “It is my problem, because all I ever wanted to be is you. I looked up to you. I tried to relive the stories you told me about your days at Harker. I’m doing everything you told me to. Fuck, the only reason I considered Princeton was to make you happy.”

  “That’s why you’re upset? Not because I find women irresistible, but because you’re just like me?” He laces his fingers together behind his head. He’s preparing for battle. “You could do a lot worse.”

  “You’re not who I thought you were.”

  “And who is that, Fletch? Who did you think I was?” His voice grows louder. My breath lodges in my throat. Exhale. Heat burns my ears, and all sounds seem distant – like I’m listening to them through a conch shell.

  I falter a little, but my bravado stays fast. “I don’t know. Not this. Not some womanizing asshole.”

  “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it, son?” He straightens his spine so he’s at his full height, which is exactly the same as mine. My mind automatically calculates my chances of taking him, if it comes to blows. I have youth; he has a physique sculpted by hours spent with a personal trainer.

  He’d win hands down.

  “You need to grow up. It’s time you stop thinking you know better than everyone else. Just do as you’re told.” He dismisses me with a wave. “Now, get your shit together, find some eye drops and get your ass down to the field before I have to knock some sense into you.”

  His words hang in the air, waiting for my response. I stand there, inches from my father, the man I have always admired, and the urge to hit him vanishes.

  He has never spoken truer words.

  Dad has never grown up. He still lives in a world where, if you have enough money or political clout, you can do anything.

  Maybe that has always been my problem — and Dad’s. I haven’t understood that getting away with things isn’t always okay. Doing things, just because you can, doesn’t make them right.

  I back away from him. “You know what, Dad? You’re right. One of us needs to grow up.”

  From the top drawer of my desk, I yank the Princeton acceptance letter.

  “Here. You earned it.” I toss it at him and force my feet into my shoes.

  “What’s this?”

  I don’t look up, just keep tying my shoes. “I’m not going to Princeton. I already sent in the decline form.”

  “To hell you aren’t.” He grabs me by the back of the shirt.

  “I’m not. And I’m not you. I’ll never be like you.” I push him off me and walk out of the room. To my surprise, he doesn’t chase me.

  I should be angry. Or upset. Or even disappointed. But I’m not.

  I’m relieved.

  39

  “And Tabs, I’ll never forget you or all the time we spent in the music room working on my instrument. Thanks for that.”

  Oh. Dear. God.

  Mr. Tolst looks torn between storming the stage and letting Brady continue, like he’s hoping maybe somewhere in all his tales of debauchery, Brady has a lesson.

  He doesn’t.

  Say what you will about the guy, but he’s got balls. So far, he’s told the audience what life at Harker is really like: drinking vodka under the redwood trees, cruising into town to score weed, and sneaking out after hours to hook-up with girls.

  He reaches under his gown and produces a silver flask. Someone in the audience gasps, but Brady keeps going. “This one’s for you Harker, for teaching me not only to be a drunk, but a highly functioning drunk.” He toasts the audience, half of which sits in stunned silence while the other half cheers wildly. There are going to be some very pissed parents after the ceremony.

  I catch Ellie’s eye from my spot on the stage. Tears run down her face. That was awesome, she mouths.

  Yeah, if you’re not the one following it. Mr. Tolst doesn’t bother to hide his fury as he takes the podium. I’ll never forgive Brady if Tolst doesn’t let me give my speech.

  “Please welcome, William Fletcher Colson, this year’s valedictorian.”

  Mr. Tolst squeezes my arm behind the podium. “Keep it clean, Fletcher, or so help me.”

  I nod. My speech is downright boring. He has nothing to worry about.

  After adjusting the microphone, I say, “Someone once told me not to live my life in a fog, or I may not see what’s right in front of me.” I pause and find Ellie’s face in the crowd. She beams at me. “Looking back at my high school career, I wish I’d spent more time really seeing things and not just moving through the motions. What’s the point of being alive if you don’t live?”

  I meander through the rest and receive a nice round of polite applause. I think the audience is just pleased I didn’t tell them the school is actually a front for the mob or a prostitution ring.

  Once I take my seat, the administrators take turns calling the names of the one hundred-sixty-three graduates. When mine’s called, I walk across the stage, shake hands with Mr. Tolst and a few other administrators, grasp my diploma, and return to my seat. It takes thirty seconds tops.

  After the last student crosses the stage, Mr. Tolst proclaims us graduates. We turn our tassels, throw our hats, and that’s that.

  We’re done.

  Brady barrels across the stage and pulls me into a suffocating bear hug.

  “You crazy bastard. What were you thinking?” I ask.

  He grins. “Just giving the people what they want. Besides, it was only lemonade.”

  I duck under his arm. “You single-handedly caused a crack down on every class that comes after us. Your parents, and most of the other parents here, want to kill you. Probably even some of the grads. You know that, right?”

  “You know it was awesome.”

  “I bet the five-hundred-plus returning students won’t think so next year.”

  He laughs. “Who cares? We. Are. Done!”

  Mr. Tolst sidles up next to Brady and me as we try to leave the stage. Momentary panic builds in me for him. Can Harker keep him out of Stanford?

  “Completely inappropriate, Brady. Completely inappropriate.”

  “And yet so true,” Brady says, completely unworried. And why should he be? If you have enough money, you can get away with anything.

  We disappear into the chaotic crowd – friends searching for each other, parents looking for their graduates. Paige sits up on Reid’s shoulders, scanning the mob.

  “Brady, Fletch. Over here.” She waves at us.

  Everyone congratulates Brady on his epic speech. Then, one-by-one, we scatter, our parents collecting us. Brady’s mom and dad are pissed when they find him. I can only imagine what they’re going to say in private.

  My parents stand at the back of the crowd, with Cal and the Desmaraises, looking picture perfect: Dad with his carefully sculpted messy hair; Mom in a dress and sunhat. Next to them, Calista giggles at something Catherine says. When she spots me, Cal’s eyes light up, and she delivers the smile that used to make my knees
weak. Now, it sends my stomach rolling.

  They’re all waiting for me to step into the frame and complete the image. Like I’m supposed to.

  Only now, I know who they really are. And who I am.

  And I am not this.

  A hand darts out and grabs my arm.

  “Fletch, hey. I want to introduce you to my dad. Dad, this is my friend, Fletch. Fletch, my dad.”

  I recognize him from the picture in Ellie’s room, but I don’t say that. He doesn’t seem like the type who would want a boy to step foot in Ellie’s room.

  We shake hands.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” I say.

  He smiles – a wide toothy smile, like Ellie’s. “Nice speech, nothing like…” He glances at Ellie.

  “Brady.”

  “Nothing like Brady’s.” He pats the top of Ellie’s head. “You didn’t do any of that, did you Sweet Pea?”

  She bats her eyes. “Do I look like a girl who would act like that?”

  I try not to choke on my spit. Ellie looks exactly like a girl who would do things like that. Her wicked-half smile, the mischievous glint in her eye.

  Behind her, Mom waves frantically, telling me to hurry up, but I ignore her.

  “Fletch, c’mon,” Calista shouts. “We need to get pictures.”

  I shake my head slightly, and Dad narrows his eyes. Get over here now he mouths, jabbing his finger angrily at the ground.

  “You should go,” Ellie nudges me forward. “Take your pictures.”

  My gaze darts between Ellie and my dad. “Can I introduce you?”

  Mr. Jacobs clears his throat. “We have dinner plans, Elle. We have to get going.”

  Disappointment grows in my gut. “When’s your flight?” I know she’s leaving tonight for Michigan, and the chance of seeing her again – at least like how I’m used to seeing her — is vanishing.

  “Eleven. It’s the red eye.”

  “Cool. I’ll come by later?”

  Her eyes rest on my parents and the Desmaraises. Her shoulders sag. “Okay.”

  I grit my teeth as I walk toward my parents. They’re smiling and laughing and looking as perfect as normal. It’s as if the past five months never happened. As if Cal and I are same. As if I don’t know the truth about my parents. Or Cal.

  Part of me wants to believe that if they can forget, maybe I can too. It would be easy, sliding back into place. Going to Princeton. Finding a girl like Cal. Or maybe ending up with her after all.

  So easy.

  But it did happen. I do know the truth.

  I stumble toward them, slipping back into their uncomfortably comfortable life. Each step tears the air from my lungs.

  I’m suffocating.

  ***

  I drop my gown off at the admin building and walk back through The Quad. Reid lies on the low stone bench with one foot planted on the ground, arm under his head, and guitar at his side. His half-closed eyes stare up at the thick gray cloud of fog that hangs over us.

  “We’re done,” he says when he notices me. For the first time, I realize we’ll never come back here — at least not as students. We’re moving on.

  I’m moving on. Whatever that means.

  “Fun times, eh?” He’s high, as usual.

  “The best.” I bump the fist he offers. “Where’s Paige?”

  “Packing.”

  The dorms close tomorrow, and we all have to be out by noon. Alex already left with his dad and the mysterious ‘uncles’ that constantly surrounded him. Brady and Reid think they were bodyguards. Guess we’ll never know.

  “What time do you leave?” I ask.

  He rolls his head lazily in my direction. “Ten tomorrow morning.”

  Paige convinced her parents to let Reid stay with them this summer. He’s going to UCLA in the fall — Paige is going to nearby USC — and he plans on using the time to try to break into the music industry. Paige’s dad has promised to help.

  “How about you?”

  I told Mom I’d meet them at home. That I wanted one last night with my friends. I lied. “In a few minutes, I think.”

  “I saw you and Cal after the ceremony. You guys make up?”

  “Not exactly.” Although from the way she pressed her body to mine and went out of her way to touch me, you’d think so.

  He stands up and holds out his arms. “Give a guy a hug, you dumbass.”

  We pat each other’s back the appropriate amount of times. “So, see you around?”

  “I’ll visit you at Princeton.”

  I don’t tell him I’m not going to Princeton. “We should get together for Spring Break.”

  “Definitely.”

  I leave him on the bench. It seems like a good way to say goodbye to Reid.

  With a confident stride, I hike up the stairs to the student parking lot. I packed my stuff up yesterday — at least the things I want to keep. I’m leaving the mini-fridge and carpet for future generations.

  I dash across the parking lot, keys pressed into my palm. As I run, I realize I can’t go home. All year, my life’s been like running down a fog-covered path. I couldn’t see where I was, but I knew, or at least thought I knew, where I was headed. Until the path ended at a cliff.

  And now, the only way out is to jump.

  So I do.

  My heart pounds as I guide my SUV down the hill and park it in front of Ellie’s dorm.

  I breeze past the abandoned RA station and towards Ellie’s room. My hands shake. My hands can’t shake. They need to be steady. I don’t want her to doubt this.

  I don’t doubt this.

  My fist strikes the door. Once, twice. As I start to rap a third time, the door pulls open.

  Ellie’s hair hangs softly around her face. She’s still in her graduation clothes, but her shoes are off.

  “Hey,” she says, kind of like she’s surprised I’m at her door.

  “Hey.” I peer around her. “Your dad around?”

  “No. He went back to the hotel to pack. Why?”

  I take her hand in mine. “I’m not going to Princeton, and I’m going to try to defer Stanford for the year.”

  Ellie’s fingers work across the back of my hand. “What are you going to do this year?”

  “Feel like a road trip?”

  She leans against the doorframe, her chocolate eyes mesmerizing me. “Will you deliver me safely to Brown in the fall?” she asks, placing her other hand against my chest.

  “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Ellie Jacobs.”

  “And some places I probably don’t want.”

  “Probably.”

  “Wait here.” She closes the door behind her, leaving me standing in the hallway. I ignore the few kids and their parents who walk past, and only move when one nearly hits me with a ridiculously huge cardboard box.

  When the door opens, Ellie’s changed into a pair of jeans and has her backpack. “I needed to call my dad.”

  “What did he say?” I ask.

  “Let’s not discuss that right now.” She grabs my hand and leads me outside.

  We run across the small lawn, toward my car. With each step, the oppressive heaviness that’s been crushing me for months fades, and in this moment, in my life, anything is possible.

  “I’m glad I bet on you,” I say when we stop.

  “Me too.” She turns to me, her wicked-half smile lighting up her face.

  And I kiss her, deeply, with all my heart, the way she deserves.

  Author’s Notes

  Crushed was never supposed to be published.

  I was told no one wanted to read stories like this.

  So I left it sitting on my hard drive, and every day, when I’d open my writing file, I’d see it and become depressed. Until one day, when I decided to send it off to Sarah Fine and Jennifer Walkup, just to see what they thought. They told me I had a story; I had a character; and I had to follow my heart.

  After that, I worked on Crushed in between my other writing projects, revising, editing,
and getting beta reader feedback. I drafted and redrafted. I had long conversations with my writing friends where, like an insane woman, I would discuss my characters’ love lives as if they were real people. I stewed and simmered and dreamed of the day when Fletch would be a real boy, ready for the world.

  I think at some point, my entire Write Night crew - Rachel Allen, Kathy Brady, Erin Brambilla, Lindsey Culli, Summayah Dawd, Laurie Devore, Deborah Driza, Sarah Enni, Rachael Kirkendall, Stephanie Kuehn, Cory Jackson, Vahini Naidoo, Veronica Roth, Kara Taylor, Jennifer Walkup, Kaitlin Ward, Brent Watson, and Margo West - read parts of Crushed, or as we called it - Fletch (the actual title was Life Like Fog, but that was nixed as being too literary sounding by these same very smart people). With their help and guidance, Crushed became the book you (hopefully) just finished reading and enjoyed.

  I especially need to thank is my husband, David, for forcing me to not give up. One night, while lounging around our sweltering Paris apartment, he asked if he could read the book I’d been obsessing over for two years. I gave it to him reluctantly - why bother reading something that would never be published? To my surprise, he poured over it, and when he was done, he grabbed my hand and insisted I figure out a way to send Fletch out into the world. I shrugged and put the book away again.

  Until one day, when, as I sat at my computer struggling to write a book I felt less-than-passionate about, David said, “You’re going to publish Crushed. And you’re going to do it now.” He opened my document and proceeded to do the first round of copy-edits. Something in me changed, and instead of feeling worried and scared about writing something no one wanted, I felt excited. Publishing Crushed suddenly became real.

  While not as long of a journey from idea to page to publication as some books, Crushed is the book I’ve worked on longer than any other. It’s been a long road, and one I’m so happy I took.

  ~ dawn

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

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