I rap along to my favorite lines. I have no idea what they’re saying, but I have the Korean words memorized. I’m probably butchering the words, but it doesn’t matter. It’s fun.
I watch a few different people, but none of them hold my interest. A girl who looks nervous and a bit sad as she hugs people who I can only assume are her parents. I see a couple fighting, but quickly they begin to kiss instead.
Gross.
I turn away, not wanting to see the PDA.
I watch as a boy gets out of a yellow cab. He’s all alone, which makes me sad for him. My mom is an airhead, but at least she drove to school to see me off. I just hope she doesn’t kill herself or somebody else on her way home. She likes to tweet and drive, which is why I don’t ride with her.
The boy grabs a guitar case and slings it over his shoulder. He has a computer bag on the other shoulder. Out of the trunk, the cab driver hands him a large duffle bag, and I wonder if that is all he has—a computer, a guitar, and a duffle bag full of clothes.
I study him more carefully. He looks about my age, but he doesn’t seem nervous. Maybe he’s a sophomore or something. He’s got thick, dark brown hair. So dark that it almost looks black. He’s got pale skin, like me. And he has on black-framed glasses. I can’t tell what color his eyes are from here, but I think they’re probably dark brown, like his hair.
He’s got on a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt that says West Raven Academy. That must be the high school he went to. He’s also wearing a pair of black Converse shoes. They look well worn, which means they are probably his favorite pair. They’re probably broken in and comfortable.
I try to imagine the guy’s story.
Maybe his parents are workaholics who couldn’t be bothered to take their kid to college. Or maybe he’s from somewhere far away. Maybe he’s smart and got in on a scholarship. It’s possible that his parents couldn’t afford plane tickets to come with him. Maybe he worked all summer long just to get enough money to fly here from wherever he’s from. Or maybe his parents are dead.
No, that’s too sad for him. I don’t want his parents to be dead.
I watch the guy as he looks up at the school. Now he looks nervous, meaning he probably is a freshman and not a sophomore like I originally thought. Maybe seeing just how big the school is made him nervous.
The song playing in my ears comes to an end and another one starts playing. I look down at my phone so I can skip the song, because I’m not in the mood to hear it. When I get to a song I actually want to hear, I look back up and see that the boy is gone. I’m disappointed because I wanted to see where he was going.
Oh well, guess I can find somebody else to watch.
As I’m scanning the horizon, somebody steps in front of me. Their mouth is moving and they’re looking at me, but I can’t hear them over the music. I yank one of my headphones out, still listening to music in my right ear.
“What?” I ask.
I look into a pair of green eyes.
“I said that it’s impolite to stare,” he says.
It’s the guy from the cab.
Oops.
I’ve never been called out on staring before. Most people don’t even notice.
“Sorry,” I say.
He takes a seat beside me. “What are you listening to?”
I hold out a headphone towards him, knowing there is absolutely no way that he will know the band.
He smiles. “BTS. Nice.”
My mouth falls open a bit. “You listen to Korean rap?”
“I listen to everything,” he says. “Plus, I dated a girl once who was obsessed with the K-Pop. BTS was her favorite band.”
“Huh,” I say, studying his face carefully. He has nice cheekbones. His nose is the perfect size for his face. I notice there is a bump on it. He has probably broken it at some point in his life.
I also notice a small scar on his forehead, and I wonder what happened, but I don’t ask. I know enough about people to know they don’t like it when others point out their flaws. Not that I think it’s a flaw. Scars are interesting to me. They add character.
“Do you always stare?” he asks.
I shrug, but don’t stop staring.
Next, I study his green eyes. They’re a dark green, but there are tiny flecks of gold inside. Around the outside, they are dark brown. I like his eyes. They’re unique. Like him. I am glad I was wrong about his eye color. Brown is too ordinary for him.
“I’m Micah,” he says, holding out a hand. “Micah Stevens.”
I look at his hand before shaking it. I notice a small scar on his thumb. I put my hand in his. They’re soft. Not girl soft, but soft so I know he has probably never done physical labor. There goes my theory about him coming from a poor family and having to work for his plane ticket. If he had to flip burgers all summer, I would be able to tell from his hands.
“I’m Isla McAdams,” I tell him.
“Are you a freshman?” he asks.
I nod.
“Me too,” he says.
“Where are you from?” I ask, wanting to know if my theory about him being from far away is right.
“Atlanta,” he answers. “But I just got back from Europe. I caught a cab from the airport to here.”
I guess I was half right.
“Interesting,” I say. “Your parents didn’t want to bring you?”
“They’re somewhere in Africa right now,” he says. “At least my dad and stepmom are. My mom is in California. Besides, it’s not like I needed them to drop me off.”
“I’m from Atlanta too,” I say, trying to process what he just said. Maybe his family is, like, really rich.
“Cool,” he says.
“Where is West Raven Academy?” I ask, pointing at his shirt.
“Massachusetts,” he answers. “I went to boarding school there.”
Boarding school?
How awful.
Maybe his parents are workaholics. Only parents who don’t care about their kids send them away for school, right?
I look at the guy more, noticing that he is studying me too. I don’t like to be watched, but it’s only fair since I did it to him.
Micah keeps his dark brown hair cut medium length. I can tell that he has a fresh haircut. It’s messy, but I have a feeling that it’s an intentional mess. A boy in my high school used to always fix his hair like this. He would look in a mirror in his locker between class, fixing it. He was worse than the girls. Olivia and I used to make fun of him, secretly. But Micah doesn’t look like the kind of guy that’s worried about primping. Not that he needs to. He’s handsome just the way he is, in his own unique way. I can already tell that I want to be his friend.
“Where is your car?” I ask him, needing to know more information about him.
“My car?”
“How will you get around?” I ask. “You know, since you brought a taxi.”
“My dad will have somebody bring it to me in a few days,” he says, shrugging, like it’s no big deal.
I may not like my car, but I’d go crazy without it. I like to take daily drives to clear my head. Sometimes, I wish I could get in my car and never stop driving. I’d go somewhere far away, where nobody knows me. I could start a new life. But even if I pretended to be somebody else, the nightmares would still be there. It wouldn’t change what happened. So, instead, I will continue being Isla McAdams.
“Can I hear you play?” I ask him.
He shifts his guitar on his shoulder. “Um… I’m more of a play in private kind of person. The world isn’t ready to hear Micah Stevens.”
“Maybe the world isn’t ready, but I could listen. Despite my weird obsession with Korean pop, I actually have a good ear for music. I used to play the violin,” I say.
“Why’d you stop?” he asks.
The question is too personal.
“I just did,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
“How about this—I’ll play the guitar for you if you play the violin for me,” he says.
I shake my head. “Sorry. No deal.”
“Come on. Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to,” I say. “Besides, you don’t look like the kind of guy who enjoys Beethoven.”
“Classical music. Nice,” he says. “Wouldn’t have thought you were that kind of girl. But you’re wrong. I love classical music.”
“What kind of girl do I seem like?” I ask. I’ve always been curious how other people see me.
“The type who sits alone on a bench, listening to weird music and watching people,” he says. “Might want to be careful though. Some people aren’t as nice as me, and stalking is a crime in this state.”
“I’ve watched hundreds of people and you are the first person to ever notice,” I say. “So, I think I’ll be okay.”
“Wow. You really are a people watcher,” he says. “What else should I know about you? Beside the loner part. And the violin part.”
I don’t know why, but I want to answer his question. Maybe if I answer his questions, he will answer mine.
Maybe we can be friends.
“Well, I loathe the color pink,” I say. “My mom had a cat when I was a kid named Fluffy. Fluffy hated me. She destroyed my room at least once a week. She actually pooped on my bed once. Therefore, I also hate cats. Big houses freak me out, especially at night.” Including the one I live in. “I think cherry flavoring is disgusting. It reminds me of the taste of cough syrup. And when I grow up, I have no idea what I want to be.”
“Interesting,” he says. “You remind me of this girl I know. From school.”
“Do you like her?”
“Is that your subtle way of asking me if I have a girlfriend?” he asks. “Because you don’t seem like the subtle type of girl.”
“I’m not subtle,” I say. “I just want to know if I remind you of somebody likable or somebody you hate. Because I’m thinking you’re going to be my best friend for the next four years, but only if I remind you of somebody you like.”
He laughs. “Oh. Well, I like her, yes.”
“Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“To tell me about you,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. “Well, I like the color pink. I wouldn’t wear the color or anything, but love seeing a pink sunset. I also hate cats, but don’t really have a reason to. I’m more of a dog person, even though my parents have never let me have a dog myself. Big houses also freak me out. Especially being alone in them. Cherry flavoring is good, but watermelon is my favorite. And I also have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.”
“You just stole all mine. That’s not fair.”
He shrugs. “I guess if you want to really get to know me, you have to hang out with me.”
So, we exchange phone numbers.
Micah Stevens is definitely my new best friend.
…
That afternoon, I check my email again and see that I have one.
From: Lonerguy279
To: Pinkstar737
Subject: RE: RE: You’re the only girl who could EVER get me to listen to K-Pop.
Dear Pinkstar737,
You might be the only eighteen-year-old girl on the planet that doesn’t like American pop music. It’s so happy. Even I like some of it…. Though, now that I think of it, most of the bands I enjoy are British or Canadian.
I am sorry to hear about your therapist. I know you were looking forward to getting away from her, but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe she is helping more than you think. And I’m glad you’re looking on the bright side of things now. You were kind of a depressing person when we first started talking.
I made it to college. It’s crazy here. But I’ve already made some friends.
And don’t worry. I will NEVER be too busy for you.
I’ve got to get off here. My friends are wanting to hang out.
Sincerely,
Lonerguy279
My phone vibrates with a text from Micah. He’s wanting to hang out.
I shut my computer, deciding to respond later.
Real life friends might just be better than online ones.
THREE
I’m tired of feeling crazy.
On Monday morning, before my first class, I meet Dr. Sanchez at a local coffee shop for my therapy session. They have a private room set up just for us. I hate walking in that small room, but I know that nobody here knows what I’m doing.
“Hello, Isla,” Dr. Sanchez says.
I take a seat across from her, with a coffee in hand. Maybe therapy with coffee will be better. Everything is better with coffee, right? “Dr. Sanchez.”
“How are things so far?” she asks.
“Well, my mother hired an interior decorator to decorate my dorm room,” I tell her.
“That sounds… nice,” she says. She knows me well enough to know that whatever I say next will be bad.
“Yeah. It is. Except everything is pink. I hate pink,” I say.
“It used to be your favorite. I’m sure your mother just forgot,” she says.
“Like she’d put down her phone long enough to notice that my favorite color has changed,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Have you made any friends yet?” Dr. Sanchez asks, changing the subject. Sometimes, we talk about my mom all session, but she says that’s counterproductive. Mostly because, no matter how long we talk about her, nothing changes. Maybe my mom is the one that needs therapy.
I shrug. “Maybe one.”
“Your roommate?”
“I’ve hardly seen my roommate. She seems like a party girl. She’s hardly ever there, and when she is she’s usually asleep,” I say. “I only know her name is Zoe because she has it pinned up on her board. Her side of the room is purple, so at least it matches.”
Dr. Sanchez laughs. “Well, most people don’t become friends with their college roommate.”
I can’t imagine why.
Living with a complete stranger. Having them in your personal space. It’s like they find somebody who has nothing in common with you and put you both in a small space, just to see what happens. If we both survive this year, it’ll be a miracle.
Though, if she stays gone as much as she has, I might just enjoy the year.
“Tell me about your friend,” she says.
“I think I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Because you analyze everything that comes out of my mouth,” I say. “If I tell you about my friend you will find some way to judge me because of it. So, until I gather more data, I am going to refrain from saying anything.”
“I don’t judge. And stop saying that you’re gathering data. People aren’t computers. You’re getting to know a human being,” Dr. Sanchez says.
“See! You do judge,” I say. “And no offense, but I know I’m crazy. I don’t need you to tell me that.”
“You’re not crazy, Isla,” she says, leaning forward. She does this when she thinks she has something really important to say. “You just went through a very traumatic experience. Most people would be a lot worse off than you. You’re strong. I admire that about you.”
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes. She is getting paid to say stuff like that. Probably a lot of money, considering she just drove two hours just for one therapy session at eight o’clock in the morning. And she has a two-hour drive back after this is over.
“We won’t talk about your friend,” she says, sitting back in her chair. “I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me.”
“Okay,” I say.
“What about your online pen pal? Have you two still been talking?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Not so much this week. He left for college too, and we’ve both been busy settling in.”
In fact, I need to message him back. I got distracted and forgot.
“And you’ve been busy making new friends,” she says.
I have.
“I’m glad you are making a friend,” Dr. Sanchez says. “It’s progress.”
/>
I think she’s right about that. But I don’t say that out loud. I don’t want her to think she’s right.
“Your mom told me that she put up pictures of you and your old friends,” she says.
“Yeah, she did,” I say.
“Are you okay with that?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve only looked at one of the pictures,” I say. “One of Olivia and me. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the other ones just yet.”
Just seeing Olivia about broke my heart.
“What do you see when you see yourself back then?” she asks.
“I see a very happy teenage girl. A girl who could spend hours talking with her friends and a girl who crushed on boys and was carefree,” I say. “Part of me wishes I could go back to that. To be the girl I used to be. But maybe it’s better to know about the evils of the world. I was ignorant back then.”
“You are the same girl,” she says. “You’re still Isla McAdams. If you tried, you could be happy again.”
“I am trying!” I raise my voice, but then remember we’re in a coffee shop. This isn’t her office. I lower my voice, not wanting everybody to know my dirty secrets. “You know I’m trying. I try so hard that it hurts.”
She smiles. “I’m glad you do, Isla. Because a few months ago, you weren’t.”
She’s right. Trying is a new thing.
For a long time, I wanted to give up. And sometimes I still do. But I have to try.
Olivia would try if she were me.
“Hang out with your new friend this week,” she says.
“I will.”
Because Micah, whether he knows it or not, is stuck with me for the next four years. I recruited him. He doesn’t know what he’s in for…
…
Later that night, I get online and finally send an email to Lonerguy279.
From: Pinkstar737
To: Lonerguy279
The Day My Life Began Page 2
