Outcast
Page 30
“I’m so sorry, Noelle.” Chad found his way over. Henry gave me a forlorned wave and stepped away.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
I knew Chad was talking about Grace’s death. I was fooling myself to think he meant anything beyond that. I had messed up in irreparable and irreversible ways.
“Are you going to the Hallarans?” he asked.
I looked over at Grace’s family—just holding it together on the outside, but completely shattered on the inside. They didn’t want me there.
My eyes moved back to Chad. “I don’t think so.”
He nodded his understanding. “Well, if you change your mind…” He let his words hang for my imagination to finish.
If I change my mind what? He’d comfort me? He’d forgive me? Or, he’d simply see me there—in passing.
I nodded.
He studied me for a moment as though considering whether he wanted to say something. Reconsidering, he stepped away.
I didn’t need the graduation ceremony to move on with my life. I avoided it altogether. Instead, I made plans for my future. I wasn’t exactly sure what I intended to do, but I needed change. I’d always carry my memories of Grace with me, but others had to be left behind.
Aunt P invited me to go to San Francisco with her. Somehow she met a gynecologist who lived there, and she planned to visit him. Like a broken mirror, history was enough of a portent to predict the future. The last thing I wished for was an encounter with another version of Doctor Doug.
After much consideration, I decided to move to Chicago. There were so many things I wished to see in the city that I wasn’t able to in my first trip. I knew Chicago housed a grand art museum in the downtown area. That would be my first stop.
I saw Cassie once after graduation. She briefly dropped by Aunt P’s house where I continued to stay. Her sole purpose was to give me the diploma that she accepted on my behalf. Mr. Gabreen called the day after the news, telling me he knew the truth about the paper. He refused to hold me back from graduation.
Cassie and I stood in the front of the house, uncomfortable with one another. A part of me figured she knew about Pete and me. She tapped out a cigarette and extended the pack to me. I shook my head. If I truly wanted to depart from the past, I had to do it in every way. Breaking a bad habit seemed like a good start.
“You should come to California and party sometime.”
“California?”
“Yeah, that big state on the West coast,” she jested. “I’m moving back.”
She unintentionally blew smoke in my face. I waved away the temptation of it. “I’m tired of the whole Arizona scene.”
She never once mentioned Grace.
“Yeah, maybe.”
We both knew we’d never see each other again.
“Well,” she said, unsure of what to do. “Keep in touch.”
“Yeah.”
Then Cassie meandered to her car, waved, and was gone.
At the start of summer, I packed my car, withdrew my graduation gift money from savings, and drove to Chicago. P cried when she saw me off. It was the first time she displayed her emotions like a theatrical mask.
I called my mother from the motel in Amarillo, Texas. I didn’t want to reveal my plan to her until I was gone. I was afraid she’d guilt me into staying. She sounded surprisingly strong. I gave her kudos for working to regain her sense of self. It would have been so easy for her to run away to her mother’s womb in Orlando. But she didn’t. She stayed. I knew the stigma of divorce was not an easy badge for her to wear. I was proud of her for trying.
I arrived in Chicago with no plan and no place to live. I quickly rented an apartment in a dingy area on the north side of town. I found a job at The Book Cellar and earned enough money to pay the rent and buy a few groceries. I entertained myself with my art books, journal writing, and by exchanging emails with Henry. I was surprised we kept in touch. He decided to attend the University of Arizona and pursue a degree in medicine.
After corresponding with Henry over the course of six months, I learned a great deal about him. I always knew he was smart, but I never took the time to find out that he possessed a love for jazz—just like me. He also enjoyed bowling and Woody Allen movies. His father died when he was ten, and his mother remarried an abusive man. Henry always seemed like the high school geek who came from a picture-perfect family. I never bothered to look beyond his exterior to see who he really was. Until now.
I couldn’t pinpoint the precise moment it happened, but it did. At the start of the spring semester, when he was supposed to complete his first year of college, Henry temporarily dropped out and moved to Chicago. It seemed like a natural blossom to our budding relationship through the World Wide Web.
Henry enrolled at the University of Chicago. When he wasn’t studying, we indulged in the city. We ran together, spent Friday nights in jazz clubs, and even went to the art museum. I pointed out Monet, elaborated on Matisse, and rattled on about the nuances in Renoir. In the midst of the Impressionist exhibit, he kissed me for the first time. It was gentle like raindrops that I dreamed would fall forever.
Henry convinced me to enroll at the University, as well. I couldn’t decide on a major, so I indulged myself in a cornucopia of classes from art history to theater. I even auditioned for the production of Butterflies Are Free and received a small part.
My nerves held a stranglehold on me. Whether it was the memory of high school Drama or the stage fright of appearing before a college audience, I was a bit frazzled. Before taking his seat, Henry gave me a good luck kiss.
“Break a leg.”
I reeled around, expecting another face from the past. “What did you say?”
“I said break a leg. Is that wrong?” He was genuinely concerned.
I pictured Chad standing in the wings, smiling at me with his beautiful dimples.
“No. It’s perfect.”
Becca married Doug in a small ceremony at the Justice of the Peace. I stood up for Becca, and Flip played the role of Doug’s best man. His girlfriend, Lucy, sat in a fold-up chair next to Henry. She was real and not the ghost of his imagination that I pictured her to be.
Though I’d always harbor resentment for Doug, I knew he truly made Becca happy. His love for her had to count for something.
I never heard from Chad again, though I thought of him often. I wondered what he was doing, where he ended up, if he fell in love. Like a ghost, he floated through my thoughts, but only for a while. Though Henry acquired my heart, a small part of it would always be reserved for Chad.
In Chicago, I felt surrounded by all the things I loved: theater, art, jazz, parks in which to run, my love for Henry, and lots and lots of rain.
One weekend, instead of studying, we decided to drive to Wisconsin to camp. It had been a year since Grace’s death, and I still felt the presence of the phantoms of the past. Along with rented camping gear, I packed my journal—the one with Monet’s water lilies, as well as some mementos.
Henry and I found a secluded spot in the woods, pitched a tent, and built a campfire. When Henry went to sleep, I pulled out that journal and read by the dying firelight. I conjured memories of Trina and all the hateful thoughts I possessed for her and had etched on the lined pages. When I finished reading the excerpts, I felt drained. A light rain began to mist the air. One by one, I tore the pages out of the binding and hurled them into the fire. Each one burst into a firework of flames. A loose page fluttered out of the binding like a large moth. It was the poem Chad gave to me. Before reading it, I pulled out a chain tucked beneath my jacket. The pizza pendant dangled from it, and I let my fingers linger on the agate while I continued to tear and burn the pages. When the whole journal was finally consumed, I read the poem, and then gently tucked it into my coat pocket. Maybe I would burn it, and maybe not. Either way, the peaceful night rain would extinguish the fire before daylight.
Resources on Bullying
If you or someone you know is the victim of bullying, kno
w that you are not alone. Please reach out for help. The following websites offer outreach to those who have had the misfortune of being bullied.
Pacer Center’s Teens Against Bullying
Stomp Out Bullying
Acknowledgements
Outcast has been 11 years in the making. So many people have given me their love and support during those years.
I have met so many amazing writers through the extensive world of cyber space. I thank all of you for reading my blog posts, encouraging my writing, and helping me in countless ways without ever expecting anything in return. I couldn’t possibly list all of you, but I know you know who you are.
I am forever grateful to my husband and two sons for allowing me to be a writer, as well as a wife and mom. To my mom for reading my books and always encouraging me to write more. Thank you for your love and support. To my dad for feeding the inner artist in me throughout the years.
Many thanks to the friends who continue to stick with me through it all, especially Samantha Shultis for being the friend I needed in high school and today. I am so blessed to have met you so many years ago.
And a special thanks to Shawn Railey, my critique partner, who offered awesome suggestions to make Outcast so much better than it was and for catching all those tricky editing issues. You’re the best!
Finally, I would not be able to do any of this without the ongoing support of my readers. I am grateful to each and every one of you. Thank you for taking the time to read my books.
About the Author
Susan Oloier is the author of My Life as a Misfit, Fractured, and Superstitions. She has written both fiction and narrative non-fiction. Her articles and essays have appeared online in both regional and national publications, including The Daily Beast. Susan lives in Southwestern Colorado with her husband, two sons, and a fish. She can be found on her blog at Susan Oloier, Author, on Twitter, and on Facebook. She is also a contributor to the YA blog, Moxie Writers.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Other titles by Susan Oloier
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Resources on Bullying
Acknowledgements
About the Author