“Mom, I’m dead serious,” I say to her one night after one of her string of shifts. Her eyes are tired, her hands dry and rough; she’s massaging a cramp out of her left calf. “Why don’t we just move to Reno with Dad? What’s holding us here?”
She looks up from the casserole pan she’s scrubbing, trying to work something out in her mind. “I guess we could always sell this place, or rent it out,” she says, surprising me and probably herself.
“Yes! We could just start over. I could start over, Mom,” I say, the tears pooling in my lower lids.
She puts down the dish and brings me in close and I can feel her heart beating. We stand there together in the pain of so many different emotions. “I know, baby,” she says, surveying the room around us with a stinging nostalgia, while her tears plop one at a time onto the top of my head.
Mom is crushed. And maybe even a little in denial that we’re going to move. She reluctantly holds a massive garage sale for us to shed most of our things, stores a bunch of our special stuff in a barn, and gives our whole living room set to my aunt. My parents try to sell the new house, to no avail, so they find a way to rent it out to a local college, which is a perfect way for us to earn some monthly income, especially now that we’re officially going to move.
I can tell she’s struggling with the idea of relocating, but she’s made peace with it, thinking about how good it will be for me. Because each day my fragility has become more evident. I feel like a thin piece of glass, always at the threshold of a shattering. On one of the days when she picks me up after I’ve suffered another private panic attack in the school bathroom, we’re in the car and I’m heaving and weeping into the palms of my hands. I gasp for air between each sob, trying to cling to life, but desperate to leave it. I tell my mother that I want to die. She stops the car.
“Paige,” she says looking me straight in the eye, her own filled with tears that she tries to conceal. “That’s not an option.”
“I can’t take it anymore!” These words shout from the deepest parts of my pain.
“I have an idea,” she says, shaking. “Let’s change your name.”
“Mom, I’m the problem—not my name!” I scream, frustrated.
“Stop for a second and think about this. What if we legally change your name so that once we move to Reno you get a clean slate? A chance to start fresh as someone completely new?” The air stands still, and we both linger in the silence of her suggestion. This never occurred to me, that I could start fresh, that I could really start fresh. I think about it some more. If I change my name, I really might have another chance—in a new town, on social media, and in my own mind. No more “Slutton.” One hundred percent total newness.
My grandpa isn’t thrilled; after all, it is our family name, and why on earth would anyone feel the need to change her name? But not even my sweet grandpa can dissuade me from shifting into this newness, and when Mom drives me to the government office to make it so, I rejoice in the prospect of this exciting rebirth. In fact, when Mom and I sit at the kitchen table one day brainstorming, she starts rattling names off like we’re trying to name a newborn baby.
“What about Paige Summers?” I say, and she crinkles her nose.
“What about Paige VanZant?” she says, her eyes lit up.
Bingo! I can feel the hairs on my arm stand up, and a sudden chill passes through my body, as if with the discovery of that name I’ve somehow struck a deal with my destiny.
“Paige VanZant!” I scream, trying it on for size.
“So, young lady, why is it that you feel the need to change your name?” the judge asks from across a hulking mahogany desk. He’s got thick glasses on, through which he sizes me up as I contemplate my answer. I try not to fidget with my hands while I look for the words.
“I want to change my name, Your Honor, because ‘Sletten,’ um, sounds like ‘slut,’ Your Honor, and it’s making my life very difficult in school.” I try to sound as composed as possible. Mom puts a hand on my arm and looks right at the judge.
“I see,” the judge says, adjusting the glasses and scribbling a note.
“I just want to have a shot at being happy, Your Honor,” I go on. “I need to, Your Honor.” He looks at my mother and then at me again, the tenderness between us palpable.
“Well, let’s call this day one of your being happy then,” the judge says, and he signs the document that renders my name change official. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Ms. Paige VanZant,” he says with a playful emphasis on the “VanZant,” my new name, a word that may seem like nothing to most people, but to me in this moment feels loaded with possibility, and even more so, salvation.
I scrape by the rest of the school year, knowing—praying—that Newberg will soon be a speck in my past, and that I’ll be able to rid myself of all this bullshit once and for all. Each day in that building with those people feels like death by a thousand paper cuts. I’m not able to keep a 4.0 average like I used to, but I manage to wrap up the year with decent-enough grades.
I’m drinking now. Cheap vodka mostly. Not because I like it, but because it helps me fade. Also because Joley and Emma, two senior girls who start semitalking to me, like to take shots after school, and I’m hanging on to whatever I can. They buy it with fake IDs, and convince me that drinking after school is awesome. Since they are the only two people who give me the time of day, I follow suit. They also convince me to ditch school one day. They encourage me to snag my parents’ Suburban and drive us to my grandparents’ beach house, where we guzzle booze and talk smack. I don’t particularly even like these girls, but I allow myself to slip into their unruliness, to surrender to the dark. Fuck it, I don’t care. The world is nasty to me, so I’m going to be just as nasty back.
“What the hell is wrong with you!” my dad screams, the wheels of his truck screeching hard onto the beach house’s driveway just after he’s called. We were sloppy and the neighbors called my folks to tell them what was going on. Joley and Emma scamper off, drunk and terrified, leaving me alone with my parents, who stare wide-eyed and heartbroken at the nearly empty vodka bottles that litter the floor. This is not the daughter they know, not by a long shot, so I can’t tell what they’re feeling more, anger or disbelief. But my misery has turned into Teflon, and not even their disdain has the power to shake me. I move through my life with a new kind of numbness, an indifference that starts to pluck out my dignity one judgment call at a time.
When summer arrives, we pack our five-bedroom house and load up the car, and I sit in the back seat, watching our now ex-home shrink smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Never going to miss this shit, I think as Newberg whizzes by me into the past, without so much as a shred of nostalgia tugging at me. I hate this place, I hate who I have become here. And as we drive away I begin to pray. I pray because as I watch my hometown blur into a history that I hope I can forget, I can still feel the presence of the demons within me—hissing into my consciousness, whispering miseries into my brain. It doesn’t matter that we’re leaving, going to a whole new state, because just as our car pulls onto the highway, I can feel that these demons defy geographical rules, and like toxic vapors, they swirl in the very air that I breathe.
Reno, Nevada—the biggest little city in the world. That’s its tagline, anyway, but for us this quirky desert town with a stubborn blaze of sunshine feels more like Times Square with a panoramic Sierra Nevada backdrop, the massive crystalline Lake Tahoe acts as our very own local pool. You would think this would be a welcome change for my mom, but for the first few weeks all she does is cry. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, and she’s obviously worried about me. She fears the new town and new school could also mean new problems.
“Please just try to remember how much my life sucked in Newberg,” I remind her. Sometimes, I use the words “kill myself” to really make the point.
And on the one hand, Reno does feel like a fresh start; but on the flip side I am still grounded for months over the beach house i
ncident. My dad is still outraged over it, in disbelief of the fact that I would (a) hang out with those girls and (b) let them exploit me that way.
“Don’t you see? They used you,” he says. And as for Mom, she just can’t handle the alcohol part and wants her sweet daughter back.
I know I should feel bad about this transgression, but there are too many other emotions happening inside me, so the guilt becomes dwarfed. The depression is like this thick cloud, a fog really, that blurs the importance of anything else in my life. Nothing matters anymore. Not grades, not cheerleading, not friends, not even family. I have officially given up on caring—even when it comes to my parents. As I sit cooped up in my new bedroom, my mind is a flurry of deeper questions: Why am I still so down? What the fuck is wrong with me? Who do I want to be? Where do I start? And the one question that lurks like a hungry shark in brackish waters: How do I erase the past?
There’s also the matter of our new lifestyle. Gone is the rolling green and the dewy mornings. It’s all strip malls and dry heat now. And gone are the days of endless space and ample square footage, because instead of the five-bedroom house that we were used to in Newberg, we now live in a two-bedroom apartment. My parents don’t let me hang anything up on my bedroom walls, because we’re renting, so there is this feeling that we’re between lives somehow. The blank walls stare back at me but offer nothing. It feels clinical and devoid. Money is so tight that we don’t even buy a television or a computer. Although I am not allowed to do much, my folks do let me use the pool, gym, and spa in the building, which is new for us, since we’ve never lived in an apartment complex where amenities are a thing. They also buy me a goldfish, which I name Bruce. For now, he and my dog, Chester, are pretty much my whole world.
I didn’t bring much to Reno—but I definitely have my social anxiety with me. In tenth grade at Reed High School, I self-impose two rules: no dancing and no cheerleading. If I’m here to re-create myself, I have to start from scratch. Nothing that resembles the past, nothing that requires swarms of girls, nothing that’s going to trigger those memories. The trouble is that I am at a loss, and I have no idea what to do, where to place my focus. So I mostly just linger and sulk. I’m happy to be gone from Newberg—but I’m not happy, per se.
“You can’t just sit around all day hiding in your room,” Dad says, a consummate hater of inertia. “Find something to do. Find something to put your heart into.” He starts listing off ideas of activities for me to try. “Tennis. Basketball. Baseball. Boxing. Running cross-country—”
“Yeah, why not?” I say, faking vigor.
“Atta girl, that’s the spirit—why not try something new?” He’s pleased to see some effort. I don’t want to add to his stress; he’s got enough going on with his new job as the newest employee of a power plant, for which he’s still on trial. He’s got three months to prove that he’s worth his paycheck, so we all walk on eggshells around him and try to keep any drama to a minimum. It doesn’t help that funds are tight, with all the moving costs.
So I quietly join the cross-country team, mostly to appease Dad. My heart isn’t in it, but it does feel good to move my body again, and I try to rally some semblance of motivation in the face of my overpowering lethargy, a physical heaviness that’s new to me and that I can’t seem to lose. If nothing else, running starts to shake the cobwebs off a bit. It throws me into rhythmic meditation and allows me—if only for a few brief moments—to replace my inner monologue with sheer physical output. It feels good to be in my body again. At one practice, the coach shows up with team jackets for everyone to wear. I’m mostly indifferent to the whole thing at first, until she hands me mine. It’s black with gold accents and tapers on the torso. Then I turn it around to look at the back, only to discover my name VANZANT embroidered in giant capitals, covering the width of my shoulders. Coach paid for it herself, knowing that $150 would be too much for my family right now. The gesture moves me, catching me completely off guard. I marvel at how amazing it feels when people show that they give a shit, even just a tiny bit. I put on the jacket and stand with my back to the mirror in the bathroom, and for a half of a fraction of a second, I see the faintest little streak of light.
“Hey—Paige, right?” someone says while I’m sitting alone in the parking lot, waiting for my mom to pick me up.
“Yup,” I say, slightly startled as I turn around to see a boy I recognize but don’t particularly know. I am unaccustomed to any attention at this point, so I feel a layer of sweat building at my temples and on my palms. Fighting through a thick layer of anxiety, I quietly say, “And you are?”
“Alan. Nice to meet you.” He stretches out his hand, which feels warm and soft in my grip. He has a smiley expression and he makes direct eye contact. It seems like besides my family, no one has looked me in the eye in ages, so this sudden gesture of intimacy feels novel. His face is sunshine. He sits down next to me, unsolicited. I pretend to be reading one of my books.
“Anything interesting?”
“Nah. Just passing the time.”
“Wanna pass the time at Port of Subs? I’m starving.”
“Now?”
“Why not? Life is short,” he says, his smile electric. I don’t answer for a moment, the last thing I want is a boyfriend, but there’s something about him that feels safe. I quickly text my mom.
Don’t come get me
Gonna take the bus
Meeting a friend
Love you
“All right, why not,” I say, standing up, gathering my things. Right away, Alan offers to carry my books, which is the kind of thing I thought happened only in the movies. We start walking down a busy street, and he moves himself to the other side of me, over to the traffic side, which I can’t help but read as yet another sign of subtle chivalry. He smiles softly, as if to say, That’s just how I roll. We sit at the Port of Subs and order sandwiches too big to finish in one sitting, and sip on enormous cups of Sprite. The common denominator through all of Alan’s behavior is the honeyed quality of his smile, effortless and ever present, like he came to the world clearly knowing his MO: to be happy. He doesn’t interrupt me when I talk, and if he does, he immediately notices and apologizes for it. He says “please” when he asks me to pass him another napkin, and when he listens, his eyes blink a lot. His simplistic joy is contagious, and while we chat, I feel my own smile—which has been out of practice—now soften into my face.
“So, where you from?” he asks, which I know is a perfectly natural question for a new person to ask another. But my trauma, hell-bent on never looking back, speaks for me.
“I’m a citizen of the world,” I say, pleased with my enigmatic answer, which also somehow resonates with me.
Alan slurps on his Sprite and lets out a little laugh. “I like that,” he says, raising his eyes to meet mine.
Alan is my first-ever boyfriend, which is markedly different from having friends who are boys. With Alan, I am introduced to the world of affection, to the idea of tenderness. I am shown courtesy. I am given compliments. For some reason, he is able to see through my sadness into the core of me. He sees the truth beneath my standoffish exterior and he wants in. His warmth is a much-needed medicine, like a balm for my soul. Neither of us has a car, so we spend our time walking from place to place under a fat Reno sun, chatting about everything, learning little details of one another’s lives. Sometimes he shows up with fresh flowers, other times he writes me sweet cards. He doesn’t push me to say or do anything that doesn’t feel right, and he seems content to just hang out and get to know me, with the occasional kiss, which are sweet and innocent. I can feel myself starting to soften when I’m with him, layers of my anxiety melting into comfort. Sometimes I want to tell him everything, but I always catch my tongue, remembering that words are like truth stamps that have the power to make things real. And I am not ready to face the reality of my past. So instead I relish the sweetness of his breezy companionship, the warmth of his chest, the softness of his earlobe, the shape of hi
s shoulders, the way he says my name.
I’m feeling so much better than I have in a long time and I want to soak in my new feelings and never think of Newberg again. I want to keep gliding into the future, stamp out the past with each new experience here. And with every new happy moment, I do manage to slink farther away.
But even during the easiest, loveliest moments, when I think it’s impossible to go backward, when life feels like it’s at last taking me somewhere good, when the prospect of love and romance feels too good to be interrupted, the beast of my past shows its fangs again, reminding me that it still lurks close by. One day, I receive a text message from a number I don’t recognize.
hey loser
we know you left because you’re pregnant
now you’re just a pregnant slut
The cruelty of the message claws through any sense of peace I have managed to achieve. My mind goes into overdrive: Who sent this? Why would they? What the fuck is this story? How did one stupid Halloween night in stupid Newberg turn into my everlasting disgrace? Why the fuck is this thing still following me?
I erase the message right away. I don’t tell anyone about it. It starts to sink in that Newberg is a shadow that will slink behind me wherever I go. And the fear of never being able to sever myself from it will be my lifelong punishment, like a karmic penalty. Maybe I really do deserve this. Maybe it is the price I am destined to pay for sneaking out that night when Mom had clearly said no. Maybe this is what I get for choosing the wrong friends. Maybe every soul has a script before it’s born into the world, and maybe there will never be anything I can do to change the fact that this is my story.
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