by Stacey Kade
I take a deep breath. No matter what I say, it’s not going to come off sounding good. But I have to try.
So I tell her everything. The move, how different it was here, how I wasn’t particularly good at making friends to begin with, why Felicity was—and still is—important to me. Then I brace myself for the yelling to begin.
But she’s silent instead, and that’s worse. So much worse.
“You . . . borrowed them?” Mom says finally, her shaking voice lifting in question. “You made up stories about them? Made me think that they were real people? For years?” She sounds genuinely baffled, like I’ve told her I want to coat myself in honey and roll around on a nest of fire ants.
I wince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know maybe I wasn’t handling everything very well, especially not during our first few months here but—”
“Mom, it’s not that,” I say.
She hesitates for a long moment. “Was this . . . honey, did this have anything to do with your dad leaving? I know you must have felt abandoned. But his leaving has nothing to do with you. He loves you, I’m sure of it.”
A pain like poking at a bruise rises up. Sure, he does. That’s why he cut me off as cleanly as a sixth finger, like those surgeries he performed on needy babies from other countries. People get divorced all the time and still stay in contact with their kids. But not my dad. His girlfriend and Guatemala—or wherever they’re saving lives this week—are more of a draw than I am, apparently.
“No,” I say. “I . . . I’m over that.” I peel my sticky self from the kitchen tiles and stand to face my mom. Her arms are folded tightly across her middle, as if she’s holding herself together.
“It’s only . . . when we moved here, it was so different,” I try again.
In the backyard, the band strikes up the first chords of a familiar song. “Brown-Eyed Girl.” Murmurs of conversation and laughter from the adults drift through the closed door to the living room.
“Everyone here has been friends practically since birth. And they don’t have to wear uniforms . . .”
“This is about school dress code?” Mom asks in disbelief.
“No! It was . . .” My words fail me.
She rubs her forehead wearily. “This is my fault,” she says, more to herself than to me. “I knew I shouldn’t have moved you once you’d started high school, but I couldn’t—”
“No!” This is veering way too close to the arguments she and Dad had before he left, the ones they thought I couldn’t hear. The blaming, the recriminations, Dad raining down the verbal blows—“too needy and way too damn emotional”—and Mom simply taking them. “You were so happy when I had something to report. When I told you about Felicity that first time. And I liked feeling like I fit in better than I did, better than I ever could,” I add in a small voice. “It just got out of hand.”
“But you went to the art show at school for Joanna and Felicity last year,” she says, still trying to process. “To support them.”
“The art show was real,” I volunteer. “And Joanna had a couple of drawings in it. But . . .”
“But not Felicity. Because she’s fictional.” She gives a strangled, disbelieving laugh. “Her sweet-sixteen party, though—I saw pictures. I’ve seen pictures.”
I squirm inwardly. “I . . . it’s not that hard to borrow someone else’s stuff on Instagram. I found a party that looked like it could be the right one. And some of the pictures were from Stella’s sweet sixteen.” To make it seem more real. None of the birthday girl herself, in a tiara, of course. But the partygoers had familiar faces, people my mom might recognize from town. Like Liam.
“You went to Stella’s—”
I snort before I can stop myself. Stella Weaver is Liam’s girlfriend, probably the most popular girl in school, and kind of a bitch. “Like she would invite me anywhere.” I bite my lip. “I went to the movies. When I was supposed to be at Felicity’s party.”
Mom’s hand flutters at her neck, like the words are lodged in her throat. “I think maybe you need to see someone,” she says.
It takes me a second to process what she means. “Like a psychiatrist?” I ask. “No, Mom.”
The thought of talking to a stranger about my feelings or whatever—and seeing judgment, or worse, pity, in return—makes my chest hurt. And then what if I can’t convince them that I’m okay—what if they think there’s something really wrong with me?
What if there is?
I shove that thought down. “I’m fine,” I say.
“I don’t think you are,” my mom says. “You know I tell my colleagues about you, about what you’re up to.” Mom takes a deep breath. “If they recognized the names from that television show—”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“This is serious, Caroline. I’ve worked hard to rebuild the foundation. People at the hospital and in town, they need to trust me. With their money, with their important patients. And I’ve been talking to them for years about these girls who don’t exist. Do you realize what kind of damage that could do?”
I shift miserably. The truth is, I hadn’t thought about it that way. I was just trying to make life here . . . livable.
She sighs. “I’m assuming that you’re not really friends with Liam Fanshaw, either?”
Liam. Immediately I get a flash of him standing over me in the hall at school, helping me off the floor with that smile that makes his dimples show, those deep divots high on both sides of his mouth. I wanted to touch them, smooth them out.
I hesitate. “Not exactly.”
“I can understand, sort of, why you might make up friends,” she says, though her tone suggests otherwise. “But why would you lie about real people?”
“He was nice to me,” I mumble.
“So why not actually be friends with him?” she demands, incredulous. “Why make up these stories and—”
“Because I can’t!” I burst out. “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t know, maybe back when you were in high school, you could just walk up to people and start talking to them. But you can’t do that now. Or . . . I can’t.” And maybe that was the real problem: I couldn’t. Not here.
“I work with his mother,” my mom says. “Not directly, but still. I’ve spoken to her about you in passing, in the cafeteria, in the coffee shop.” Her fingers worry the jet beads of her necklace, before she forces herself to stop. “She must think I’m crazy after that phone call.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” I say. “There’s no way she knows all of Liam’s friends. He knows everybody.” He was the student council president, varsity basketball team captain, and homecoming king, twice.
Mom blanches. “So that makes it okay to lie about him? Because you can get away with it?”
“No, of course not! It wasn’t like that,” I say, curling my fingers over the edge of the counter in desperation. I can feel this conversation slipping away from me—if it was ever in my grasp to begin with. “But look, it doesn’t even matter anymore.” I fling my hand toward the window and the empty graduation party outside, the band still playing away. “High school is over. In three months, I’ll be starting over somewhere else. At Ashmore. And this time I’ll handle it better. I’m ready for it. I have a plan.” College is about reinventing yourself, right? That’s what Felicity did.
“Caroline, how am I supposed to send you off to a college halfway across the country after this?” she asks in disbelief. “I’m not even sure you can distinguish between reality and fiction.”
I can’t breathe for a second. “Mom, that’s ridiculous! I know the difference, okay?” I just choose to ignore it. Most of the time. I blink back a sudden wash of tears. “Besides, Ashmore is expecting me. I have a roommate and everything.” Lexi Chandler, from Iowa, a nursing major. From her profile picture, she looks just like what I imagined people from Iowa should—pretty, with wheat-colored hair and a big, open smile. She’s local, too; she lives in Ashmore (the town), so she’ll have
a handle on what we need to know, good places to eat, cool things to do.
Mom ignores me. “You could still register for classes here and—”
“No, Mom, you don’t understand. I need the chance to start over. I can’t do that here.” The thought of two or four more years of what would essentially be high school in a different location makes me shudder.
“But why Ashmore? It’s a small liberal arts school in the middle of a bunch of cornfields.”
This is a conversation we had multiple times in the spring.
“It has to be Ashmore,” I say firmly. “It’s the right place for me. They’ve accepted me and I’m going.”
“Caroline . . .”
“So it’s okay for you and Dad to pick up and leave, to split up and start over somewhere else, but not me?”
My mom stiffens. “You know that’s not fair.”
It isn’t. It’s not fair that she got stuck with me, that my dad got to take off and forget that we existed. Nothing about this situation is fair. Fair is no longer a guideline. For anything, it seems.
Her expression softens, revealing weariness beneath. “Caroline, you know I want you to have every opportunity in the world, no matter what you choose.”
Relieved, I nod. “Thank you. I’m telling you, once I’m at Ashmore—”
“That’s why I have to make sure you’re okay.”
I straighten up, opening my mouth to protest.
She holds up her hand to stop me. “You need to talk to someone. Maybe this is some kind of phase or coping mechanism”—her forehead furrows at the idea—“but I want to hear that from a professional.”
And there it is. My future, my fresh start, hangs in the balance, on the opinion of a stranger. What chance do I have of convincing a stranger of my reasons for doing what I did, when the person closest to me can’t even understand?
My stomach hurts already.
“I don’t want to mess you up any more than I already have,” she says in a choked voice, before her hand flies up to cover her mouth, tears shining in her eyes.
Guilt sears through me. “Mom, you didn’t,” I say, moving forward to hug her awkwardly. “I’m okay, I really am.”
She opens her arms, pulling me close. Maybe everything is going to be all right.
Then she steps back and squeezes my shoulders. “I’ll call in a favor and make an appointment for tomorrow.”
I need a plan. And fast.
Chapter Three
Dr. Wegman’s office is not what I was expecting. Unlike what I’ve seen on various shows, it’s not a rented space with cool gray walls and black-and-chrome furniture in a high-rise somewhere. Instead Dr. Wegman works out of a sunny room in the lower level of his house. It smells like peppermint and, vaguely, wet dog. But in a comforting, homey way.
The wood blinds are dusty and partially closed; I can see a sliver of bright turquoise water in his backyard. Every once in a while, a splash or shriek of laughter penetrates the glass of the window—the doctor’s kids are playing in the pool.
“I’m not crazy,” I say again, shifting uncomfortably on the soft, worn leather sofa. In my pocket, the edges of the talking-point index cards I prepared last night dig into my hip. It wasn’t a great plan, but I managed to make it through my prepared speech without fumbling or stammering too much.
Dr. Wegman nods. “So you’ve said.”
He isn’t what I was expecting either. He’s older than my mom by like a decade. Going bald and trying to make up for it with a beard. But as I shared my story over the last forty minutes, he really listened—and without the judgmental, narrow-eyed expressions I was anticipating.
“Your ability to distinguish between reality and the fiction you’ve created for yourself was, I believe, your mother’s primary concern,” he says. “But from what you’ve told me, I see no reason to be worried in that regard.”
I try not to show my relief.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his feet on the ottoman. “You clearly understand that your ‘friends’ aren’t real. I’m seeing no evidence of delusion.”
Would he still think that if he knew my real reason for choosing Ashmore? Probably not.
“It seems to be a coping mechanism,” he says. “Albeit an elaborate one. I suspect you felt powerless in a new environment, and taking the risk of rejection, after your father’s abrupt departure, felt too overwhelming.”
I sag against the cushions. Yes, yes. That sounds good. Well, not good, but not a diagnosis that will panic my mother. She even mentioned the coping mechanism thing last night.
“If you’re looking for a specific name or condition . . . ,” he begins.
I’m not, but I bet my mom is.
“You should know I try to avoid using labels, as I don’t think it aids in the healing process,” he continues. “That being said, I think we’re dealing with a combination of several things, including anxious introversion, some abandonment issues, and low self-esteem.”
My mouth falls open.
“All of which we can work on. But I want to loop back to something you said earlier,” Dr. Wegman says.
Uh-oh. Please let it be something covered on my cards.
“You mentioned that you’re excited to start college because you’re ready now, you’re going to ‘get it right’ this time,” he says.
I nod cautiously.
“Talk to me about that.”
Great. I hate open-ended questions, no simple “yes” or “no” to move things along. How much is enough of an answer? How much is too much? I have no idea.
I open my mouth, and he holds up his hand to stop me.
“It’s okay to take your time, if you need to gather your thoughts,” he says, not unkindly.
“I just . . . I mean, it’s a chance. For me to make friends. Real ones, like the ones I . . .” My words dry up.
“Like the friends you made up for yourself here,” he says.
I nod.
“By getting it right?”
“Yes,” I say, relieved.
“That’s what I want to know. What does that mean, ‘getting it right’?” Dr. Wegman studies me intently.
“I mean, I didn’t . . . know before,” I say, squirming.
“Didn’t know what?” he asks.
“It was like . . .” I shut my eyes. Sometimes that helps me find the words. “When I moved here, the merry-go-round was already spinning, right? So I couldn’t figure out how to get it to slow down to let me on.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
I open my eyes. “That probably sounds crazy,” I mutter.
“No,” he says. “I think it sounds lonely.”
My eyes fill with tears. It was lonely, and talking to someone who understands, without judging me, is a relief.
I take a deep breath, trying to will the tears away. “But at Ashmore . . . the merry-go-round isn’t moving yet, you know? We’re all getting on together.”
“And what do you think that being on the merry-go-round—your metaphor for being included—will give you?”
Friends. A place to belong. Home.
“Caroline?” Dr. Wegman prompts.
I clamp my mouth shut against the thoughts running loose in my head, afraid of what I’ll see in his expression if I say them aloud. “Something better.”
He lets the silence hang for a few seconds, trying to get me to elaborate, but I’ve said everything I’m going to say on that.
“You think Ashmore will give you the opportunity for a clean slate,” he finally says.
I nod rapidly, swiping under my eyes with the backs of my fingers.
“Which is a valid point. But what I don’t understand is what you expect to happen. What do you plan to do differently there that you couldn’t do here? Changing locations isn’t going to make some magical difference. You’re still you, just in a different place.”
“No,” I say.
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t have to be me. I can be anybody.
” Someone outgoing. Friendly. Popular. Not weird.
I sit forward on the couch, the leather cushions squeaking behind me. “I have a plan.”
His eyebrows go up, only a fraction of an inch, but enough that I know I’ve caught his attention. “All right. Let’s talk more about that.”
I hesitate. “Like I said, I wasn’t ready when we moved here, but I’m prepared for Ashmore. I signed up for the ‘social’ freshman dorm. I’m working on an entirely new wardrobe, one that will fit in with everyone else’s.” Unlike when we moved here. “And I’m going to go out for . . . activities. Parties, maybe even, I don’t know.” Whatever it takes. “I’m going to say yes to stuff. Seek out new experiences.”
“Do you think you’ll enjoy those things?” he asks.
“Sure. I mean, some of them. Probably.”
“Because I would think that some of those things might make you quite uncomfortable.”
“Maybe at first. But not once—” I cut myself off.
“Once what?” he prompts.
“Once I get used to it,” I finish lamely, avoiding his gaze.
Wegman sits up in his chair, as if this posture will convince me to take his words more seriously. “Caroline, college is certainly a common time for reinvention. However, most adolescents are using that space and newfound freedom to become more of who they perceive their true selves to be. My concern is that you seem to want a version of yourself that has little grounding in who you actually are.”
But I don’t have to be me. Not at Ashmore—that’s the point.
“For example,” he continues, “I could decide to quit my job and follow, I don’t know, the Grateful Dead on tour around the country. Live in a tent or a van, drag my family with me.”
“I think they’re dead,” I say. “The band. Aren’t they? Like, dead dead. Not just the name.”
“I don’t know, actually,” he says after a beat. “I’m not really a fan. That’s what I’m trying to say. I can reinvent myself into someone who has no connection to my current self, but do you think I’ll be happy? Camping out all the time, using porta-potties?” He shudders.
I don’t think anyone is happy using porta-potties. Though I might be slightly happier if he never uses that word again.
