Tell Me Why It's Wrong

by B. Celeste

Almost on cue, my phone dings with the same reminder it gives me every evening at this time. I grab my bag, dig through the contents of piss-pour organization thanks to my bad habit of tossing everything inside freely, until I find what I’m looking for.

  Unzipping the little black carrier, I stare at the nearly empty weekly pill organizer. It’s a reminder of why I’m sitting in my parked car stuffed with all the belongings I could fit into the backseat and trunk instead of my cozy two-bedroom apartment right outside of Los Angeles. I was proud when I signed the lease—feeling grateful that I could live my dream as a journalist and afford such a great place of my own at only 21. But when work got rough, rent got raised, and my health started declining, I’d had to succumb to getting a roommate to help cover half the rent and bills. A roommate who recently moved back to New York City to pursue her Broadway dreams after spending years in the California Ballet Company.

  I don’t have any ill feelings toward Tiffany for leaving. I gave her a tear-filled hug and waved her off after helping her pack because I’m happy for her even though I knew I’d be screwed in the long run. When I got the eviction notice, I wasn’t surprised. I’d like to think the property manager even felt slightly bad for me, not that the sweet older man could do anything about it.

  So, here I am.

  Poor.

  Living in my car.

  All so I can afford the medicine I need to stop my psoriatic arthritis from getting worse.

  I know I’m lucky in the grand scheme of things. At least the doctors figured out why I was always in pain after dealing with stiff and achy joints, random rashes, and chronic fatigue for years. I know some people have a much longer diagnosis journey than me, so I should be grateful to have medicine preventing the disease from spreading. But it doesn’t make spending money on the treatment any easier, especially when funds are so low on the daily.

  I tell myself not to complain, though there are days when the pity party starts and I’m the only one invited. Then I remember the few bad experiences I’ve had from the first doctors my mother took me to when the rash on my face kept reappearing and my fingers would constantly hurt. After the general practitioner I’d seen first made me feel like it was all in my head and suggested therapy and anti-depressants, I’d gotten a different opinion that led to the referral to a local rheumatologist. I’d had hope, but that was short lived. The initial doctor I’d gotten an appointment with was an older gentleman who could barely hear a thing. I’d repeated myself ten times and he still logged the wrong information into the computer, never letting me explain my history or get a word in otherwise. He’d passed his judgement the second I told him I was the patient after he’d looked between me and my mother the moment he walked into the room.

  The words he asked still taunt me to this day. Are you sure you’re not overexaggerating like young girls tend to do?

  When you’re young, very few people want to take you seriously. You’re either seeking attention, drugs, or making it up because you’re crazy. If my mom hadn’t encouraged me to see another specialist, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Sure, that would probably include not being homeless, but I’m sure I’d be too sick to even think about moving across the country to live out my dreams of writing for the press.

  You’re lucky, I remind myself despite my current circumstances. I do what Grandpa Al used to whenever he’d have his doubts. I think of three things I’m grateful for. His were always the same—Grandma Birdie, me, and his health.

  One is instant. I have a wonderful family who love and support me even from nearly 3,000 miles away.

  Two comes as quickly. I have a best friend who lets me vent whenever life gets to be too much without judging me for it.

  And then there’s three. I have a job. It may not pay much these days, and I may not have any insurance, but it’s work. Better than some people have considering the tents set up on sidewalks for the homeless population that grows every single day. At least I have a car and an income, as small as it may be.

  Taking a deep breath, I nod to myself and roll my shoulders back. Those three things are worthy of being thankful for, so I chant that to myself a few more times before staring at the sad apple and dry nut-based granola bar waiting for me as dinner. I know it isn’t going to cut it but I’m not willing to drive into the city for something on a fast-food dollar menu, and I have to eat something so the medicine doesn’t make me sick like I’ve learned the hard way in the past.

  Clicking on one of the interior lights to see better, I grab my water and begin going through my nightly pill routine. I curse to myself when I realize I’m low on supplies, which means I’ll have to go to the pharmacy soon to pick up what I need. I’m already cringing at the thought of the number the screen will show that’ll drain even more from my account, but there’s nothing to do but suck it up and look around for another job to supplement my income until I figure out a better option.

  I count my blessings that tonight isn’t injection night. I used to hate needles, but there’s really no way around using one ever since the doctor told me I’d need to be on injectable immunosuppressants for the rest of my life to counter the inflammation in my body. I’ve learned to adapt, even if I have to close my eyes before stabbing myself with my syringe that gives me my dose of medicine.

  If I roll the hem of my shirt up I’d find small spots along my lower abdomen where I inject each of my doses since I was taught to rotate the sites. It still freaks me out, but I don’t cringe as much since getting the hang of it. The hospital educator, a lovely woman Mom and Dad took me to when I was still on their insurance, taught me the do’s and don’ts—things I’ve had to engrave into my mind that way I don’t mess up or hurt myself when it’s time to self-administer each week.

  Moving across the country to an entirely different coast means not being covered by my mom’s insurance like I would have until 26, the age I’m turning way sooner than I’d like to accept. She told me to reconsider the job I’d been offered since I had a few years left of coverage, but I was eager. Excited.

  Naïve.

  I don’t regret the decision to move, but I do miss the cheap copays and low stress pharmacy runs where I didn’t feel like breaking down as I slid my card through the machine after the pharmacist read me my total.

  My cell phone starts vibrating in the cup holder I tossed it in to charge, startling me out of my thoughts. After taking all my medication and putting away my things, I smile when I pick it up and see my best friend’s name on the screen.

  “Mrs. Moffie,” I greet my newly married friend, instantly feeling my chest lighten the second I hear her featherlight laugh.

  “Miss. Rylee,” is what I get back. “It’s so good to hear your voice. Is everything okay? You didn’t answer my call this morning and I know you better than to give me a one-word reply. I had to make sure you weren’t murdered or something.”

  I snort over her theatrics. It could be all the true crime shows we watched together growing up that always leads her to that conclusion. One time when an ex of mine had stayed the night, she blew up my phone and employed others to do the same when she hadn’t heard from me the next morning. My ex-boyfriend and I had slept in, but Moffie was sure I’d been killed when my phone—which I’d put on silent and left in the living room—had rang without me picking up. I’ve learned to always check in now before she calls the local police to do a wellness check. Or worse. My parents. The last thing I need is for my family to find out I’m seeing someone because my friends barrage them with worried texts and phone calls about a man they didn’t even know I was seeing.

  Shoulders dropping slightly, I settle into the seat and rest my head back. “I’m fine. I had to finish packing my things this morning and ended up leaving before I could see anyone I talked to in the building. It was too bittersweet.”

  There weren’t very many tenants I enjoyed chatting with at my old complex. Most of them were loud, or had loud pets that annoyed me, and others were too nosey for my liking. But there was
a little old man who always walked his beagle that reminded me of Grandpa Al. We’d never exchange many conversations but being able to ask how he was when we pass each other, or ask how his dog, Bruiser, was doing, made me feel like I was that much closer to the man I missed dearly.

  Moffie Mae, her God-given name that made me instantly love her, releases a tiny sigh that makes me frown. “I wish we had the room for you here, Ry. You know I’d offer you a couch if we had one but—”

  “None of that.” She and Eli have only been married a few months, and I wouldn’t accept their offer to bum on their couch even if they had the room in the home they just purchased in our hometown of Liberty. No offense to them, but it’s one thing to hear a recap of their rabbit-like intimacy from my best friend, I don’t need to hear it firsthand. “I’ll figure something out. There’s always a story to crack around here, which means I’ll never go out of work. It’s job security. Don’t worry about me.”

  The pregnant pause makes me squirm because I know she’ll suggest what she has every time we talk about my situation. “You could always go back to your—”

  “No.”

  “Rylee…”

  “I love my parents, Moff. You know I do. But I’m meant to be in California, not New York. They don’t understand that, and they never will.”

  “They want what’s best for you.”

  Sighing, I nod in agreement even though she can’t see me. “I know, and I love them all the more for it. But I’d rather not worry them with my business. If they find out I lost the apartment, they’ll send me money for a ticket and tell me to come home. It’ll break my heart to tell them no.”

  The glorious thing about my friend is that she knows when to stop pushing. “Fine. If there’s anybody who can make things work, it’s you.”

  I’ve never done well with compliments and feel my cheeks heat with telltale signs of embarrassment over her sweet encouragement.

  She continues to say, “You could always do what Birdie told us. Remember what she said right before we graduated high school about finding a wealthy man and marrying for money?”

  We both laugh over the fond memory of my grandmother. She was a firecracker—always witty and fast on her feet. Mom hated that piece of advice, but always chuckled whenever her mother would give it because she knows nobody ever took it to heart.

  But… “It’s not an awful idea,” I surmise.

  I swear I hear crickets.

  Then, “You’re kidding, right?”

  More crickets.

  “Rylee!” I get scolded. “The last thing you need in your life is some old, wrinkly man to take care of all for some money.”

  My nose scrunches at the thought. “Who says he has to be old and wrinkly? It isn’t like Grandma Birdie suggested we marry someone on the verge of death who’d need sponge baths every day because they can’t take care of themselves.”

  “Get real, Ry. Just because you live where all the hot celebrities are doesn’t mean you’re going to find some young thing to marry.”

  One of my brows quirks. “Oh, really? How much do you want to bet?”

  “No,” she says quickly, groaning after she realizes what can of worms she opened. “I know that tone. I’m not challenging you. This isn’t some bet to see if you can prove me wrong. Plus, neither of us has money to spare.”

  True.

  “And,” Moffie points out. “It’s stupid. We always said we’d marry for love. Remember? I got my happy ever after, so it’s time for you to get yours. Even if you find it on the east coast.”

  My heart plummets into the bottom of my stomach over the thought of moving home. It’s the last thing I want to do. The small town in New York that I come from is suffocating, with more cows than people in the rural community. There’s no opportunity, no excitement. The town practically partied when a pizzeria moved into an old store front on Main Street, but the lack of population and traffic made it close a year later.

  I always told myself I’d get out of there, and I did. I won’t go back for more than a few days at a time to visit family around the holidays because I’m afraid of being stuck.

  I drop my head onto the headrest. “You know, sponge baths don’t sound so bad.”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  I smirk. “But you love me.”

  “And I question why very often.”

  “You’d be sad without me.”

  “I’d certainly be bored,” she surmises.

  Knowing I need to eat now that my medicine has kicked in, I reach for my apple. “I need to get going so I can have dinner. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? I promise I’ll be fine.”

  “No old men, Rylee,” she tells me in her serious voice. It’s the same one I imagine she uses on her elementary class full of first graders. The thought makes me snicker.

  “I’ll do my best,” I say before saying goodbye and hanging up. I don’t want to hear a lecture on true love and fairytale endings that she’s believed in since the day we watched Beauty and the Beast for the first time. She’s a hopeless romantic and I’m just…hopeless.

  Grandpa Al has always believed that things happen for a reason, and his life may not have been easy, but it was happy. So, he must know what he was talking about to find contentment in everything he did.

  Biting into my apple, I stare out the window and shake my head. Unlike Moffie and my grandparents, I don’t believe in love at first sight, or anything related to it. True love seems more daunting than its worth, like we’re pressured to find our one perfect person. There are billions of people on our planet—how can only one person be the main source of my happiness?

  Exhaling through my nose, I turn to glance at the photo of my grandparents on the dashboard. They were free spirits, always smiling and laughing no matter what moods they were in. It’s one of the reasons why I loved them so much—they were positive people who found something to appreciate in everyday life.

  Swallowing down emotion, I squeeze the bitten fruit in my fingers. “What do I do, Grandpa Al? Send me a sign. Something.”

  Nothing happens.

  And by the time exhaustion takes over sometime later, I let it take me into a peaceful oblivion to get what little sleep I can.

  I’m awoken to the brutal ray of hot sunlight beaming me through the windshield, then the extra noise I soon recognize as my phone going off where I tossed it in the passenger seat.

  Launching for it when I see my boss’s name flashing, I hit the ACCEPT button and press the cell to my ear while wincing through the morning pain I have every day in my shoulders and back, certainly not helped by the uncomfortable seats I slept on. “Hello, Sarina.”

  “Took you long enough,” my irritable, thirty-something boss greets me. “You wanted to know about any hot stories the press wants printed, and I found you one. Based on the history you have with the people involved, I think you’re the best option to cover it.”

  I sit up too quickly, feeling lightheadedness take over. I blink a few times to adjust and dig through my bag for the travel notebook and pen I keep with me for times like this. “Who’s the story on?”

  There aren’t many people I’ve covered that would require history for new stories. We’re all sharks in the water circling people we could make money on. I’m not the proudest of what I’ve done to get a scoop, and even still wake up in the middle of the night when my conscious haunts me with the memories, but we do what we have to in order to make money for ourselves.

  To survive.

  “Violet Wonders,” Sarina replies casually. I’m glad she can’t see the way my shoulders straighten and square—my body becoming rigid with tension. “Specifically, Garrick Matthews. Word around town is that he and Zayne Gray are on the outs again and not one of the band members has said a word since news broke over the juicy gossip. There are whispers that he’s thinking about leaving the group for good, some cell phone audio too that someone recorded. It’s hard to make out, which is why the scoop is so sought after. You already have an in wit
h them, which means…”

  She thinks I can get the gossip.

  I refrain from sighing…and groaning. I rest my forehead against the edge of the steering wheel and internally exhale. “Last time I was around them, things were complicated.”

  Her laugh is dry. “Rylee, if breaking a story that could make or break someone isn’t complicated then I might be worried about you. Or maybe proud. It’s a tossup.”

  My lips press into a flat line. Unlike major newspapers, free presses and tabloids don’t care about morality that much. In their minds, you do whatever you can to get the story of the century even if it’s questionable. Sarina certainly always tells me to forget about what I believe in for a decent payday, and I’ve had too many close calls with over drafting my bank account to second guess what she says.

  But what I did…

  Shaking my head to free myself from the memory, I sit up and remember how much I need the money. Even though my voice is reluctant, I tell her, “I’m on it. When is the deadline?”

  “As long as you give me something juicy before anyone else can, I don’t care. They’re on my ass about online views, so we need something to spice up the e-readership. Do you think you can handle that?”

  I’ve learned where Zayne Gray is involved, anything is possible, so I’m sure the Australian rocker won’t be any different. “Yes.”

  “Good. We’ll talk soon then.” She disconnects before I can even respond, something that used to irritate me. Now I’m glad. I don’t want her to sense my hesitation over the job just because I’m not cut out like the others I work with. Maybe that’s why I got so close to Violet Wonders the first time to get a story. I didn’t play the same games or toy with their minds, I simply…observe.

  Something tells me this time will be ten times harder, though, considering how it all went down all those years ago.

  “What am I doing?” I grumble to myself, readjusting my seat and turning the car on. I pop a couple Motrin to dull the ache in my body and crank the heat to rub my hands together for some extra warmth, glad the sun is out. I open the internet browser on my phone and read the latest gossip on my new subjects. Sarina won’t want anything that’s already been reported, which means doing research every chance I can. New stories surface all the time, so whatever I get needs to be better than the rest.