And boy, did I learn a lot about my girl.
I found her Instagram easily enough, but Facebook told me her full name: Delilah Laura Wong. She had a Chinese name: Shu Ping. It meant peaceful book, which suited her. She was an old soul, like me.
Goodreads told me her favorite books—upmarket suspense novels by someone named Tan Jing Xu. I bought all of the author’s books, picturing Delilah’s fingers, long and slim, caressing the pages, her index fingernail caught ever so lightly between her teeth (she was a nail-biter, I was sure) as her deep, brown eyes took in the words. I imagined her resting her head on my chest as she read. What would her hair smell of? Roses? Jasmine? Maybe frangipani. Definitely some sort of flower.
I wasn’t expecting Google to have much on Delilah, but a quick search rewarded me with a whole bunch of news articles. Her father was an oil rig engineer who’d died in an offshore explosion large enough to be caught on satellite, leaving her with a trust fund from his life insurance. Mom worked at some giant tech company in Silicon Valley, which meant she was out of the house more often than in. They lived ten miles away from school. Delilah did not board; the life insurance money was only enough to enroll her at Draycott as a day student.
My heart hurt at the thought of what Delilah had been through. I knew the sort of loss she’d had, the hole it gouged in your entire being, so big and gaping you didn’t think you could possibly continue, while everybody else kept on living and expecting you to limp along like you didn’t just have a part of you ripped out. But I got it. I was the only one who really got Delilah.
So, on to Instagram and Snapchat. Back in her old school, Delilah was an outgoing girl. There were hundreds of pictures of her laughing with friends, their skinny, tween-girl arms twined around one another’s necks. Aisha was in quite a few of them. Delilah looked so different from the pale, silent girl who turned up at Draycott that I sat there, staring at my computer for a long time, mourning the death of Happy Delilah.
I understood transformations all too well. The version of me right now was nothing like the version I was during freshman year. Sometimes my idiot friends would repost some old photos and tag me in them, and it always hurt to see what I looked like at the time—lanky, all elbows and knees. It had all changed when I met Sophie. She was a sophomore then and was the most beautiful thing I had ever come across. She’d bewitched me. I knew I had to change myself to be worthy of her, and I did. I hit the gym hard. I choked down protein shakes. I tried out for various sports teams and made friends with the right people. It took about a year to leave that skinny, awkward kid behind. And it was all worth it.
Delilah’s transformation was a different one. A heartbreaking one, but maybe Happy Delilah wasn’t really gone. Maybe she was just hiding under all the layers of grief. My purpose was clear as day. I was meant to restore the old Delilah.
Too bad she’d largely stopped posting on social media weeks ago. On one hand, I liked that she wasn’t like every other kid our age, faking everything on social media, desperately gobbling up every Like they could get their hands on. On the other hand, it made my job so much harder than it needed to be.
As I paced about my room, scratching the side of my neck with increasing ferocity, Sophie’s voice floated through my head.
I could see her plain as day, her lips curled into a nice-but-mostly-naughty smile. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy, Lolo. You must know that by now.
She was right, as usual. Shame on me, getting frustrated so easily. Since when did love come easy? I had to figure shit out. Delilah may not be the type to publicly check in at every location she visited, but others sure were. Others like Aisha.
Aisha’s Instagram was a cacophony of selfies, smiling faces, kissy faces, long legs being showcased at a million different angles. Aisha had nice legs. Aisha also liked to announce her whereabouts to the world at all possible moments.
@Aishazzam checked in at Freddy’s.
Come hungry, leave happy! #FreddysBurgers #PiggingOut
@Aishazzam checked in at AMC Draycott.
Movie night with the girls! #PopcornTime
I scrolled through nearly a year’s worth of banality—if only Delilah knew the lengths I was going to for her sake—before striking gold:
@Aishazzam checked in at 1876 Woolworth Dr.
Sleepover with the BFF! #JustLikeWhenWeWereKids
And there was a picture of her and Delilah in matching pajamas.
I stole out of the dorms that same night, climbing out my window and keeping in the shadows until I was off school grounds, then I ran. And it felt. So. Good. I was Lazarus. I was alive again. Everything was amazing. I wanted to fly through the sky, shouting, but I managed to keep my excitement inside.
It took a bit of effort, but I managed to make myself sit down when I caught the bus to Woolworth Drive instead of pacing around and freaking the other passengers out. Delilah’s neighborhood was nice; modest but respectable. Trimmed lawns and lush trees lined the sidewalk. I stopped across the street from number 1876, my throat sandpapery and dry, a fist squeezing my heart, because there she was: my Delilah, sitting in her room on the second floor braiding her hair, her curtains wide open, putting her on display for all the world to see. Really, she should be more careful. She was so luminescent, she could easily attract some creep’s attention.
My heart squeezed tighter at the thought of some asshole taking advantage of Delilah’s naivety. It’s okay, I told myself. It’s fine. It’s why I’m here, to protect her. I will never let anything bad happen to her.
Never.
Chapter Three
Delilah
I was sorting through the latest inventory sheet for Lisa, the school librarian, when I heard the door open downstairs, startling me. Work always made me jumpy, especially when I had to take it home, like I did today, because Brandon—my mom’s asshole boyfriend—didn’t understand the meaning of privacy. All he knew was that I worked at the school library, and I didn’t want him to learn any details about it. A glance at my phone told me it was five o’clock, too early for Mom to be back. Which meant it could only be Brandon, which meant—well, it meant nothing good. I hopped up, grabbed a textbook, and opened it at random. I hunched over the book at my desk because Brandon found it less threatening to see me curled over a book.
I held my breath, listening for his heavy footsteps, but all I heard were soft steps and cupboards being opened and closed. Then a feminine sigh. My breath came out in a whoosh. It was Mom. Weird. The only other time Mom had been home this early was when we received the news about Pa. Maybe something similarly awful had happened to Brandon. One could hope. That’s a horrible thing to think, right? Still, I couldn’t deny the coil of twisted satisfaction at the thought of Brandon pushing up daisies. Sick, sick, sick.
I crept out of my room—even though Brandon wasn’t around, the habit was hard to break. I was used to creeping everywhere now, making my footsteps as diminutive as possible—and stopped on the third step to watch Mom as she emptied the dishwasher. She looked tired. She always did, I guess that’s how most Silicon Valley employees look, but I liked to think she also looked happy when Pa was still around. Now she just looked haggard.
“Why are you home so early?” I said from the steps.
She jumped. “Sweetheart, I didn’t think you’d be home!”
“Yeah, they called off volleyball practice today cause Coach had to take her dog to the vet.”
“Awww. Is it okay?” Mom went back to stacking the dishes.
“Probably not.”
“Oh, Dee. Don’t start.”
I swallowed my retort. Forced myself to take a deep breath.
“What were you up to?” Mom asked.
I shrugged. “Just doing some work for Lisa.” I’d started working there over the summer, just so I didn’t have to stay here in this house and watch my mother scurry about like a frightened rat, tryi
ng to appease Brandon’s endless demands. I’d never thought anything involving the library could be interesting, but my second month there, I walked in on Lisa dealing with inventory, and she trusted me enough by then to let me help. And, as it turned out, I was a natural. Lisa often told me I was the best assistant she could ever hope for, and I was pathetic enough to lap up any compliment thrown my way.
The corners of Mom’s mouth lifted, though I wouldn’t call what she was doing smiling.
“You know, I wish you wouldn’t work, Dee,” she said. “We can afford Draycott. I’d much rather you spend your time studying or going out with your friends like a normal teen.”
Once again, I had to bite back my caustic reply. These days, there were thousands of unsaid retorts burning a hole in my throat. I’m doing this because of you, I wanted to yell until my voice stripped the flesh off her bones. Also, it was rich of her to say we could afford Draycott when we’d had to defer my enrollment for almost a year, until Pa’s insurance money finally came in.
Instead, I said, “Why’re you home early?”
“Oh, you know. Thought I’d take some time off work. I haven’t had a vacation in five years, so why not?” Mom’s eyes flicked toward me, pale, nervous. I could smell the lie on her, coming in waves so thick, it was almost visible.
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re taking a vacation from work,” I said flatly. “You, the woman who returned to work one week after giving birth, are taking a vacation.”
“It’s been known to happen,” Mom chirped.
I sighed. “What’s really going on, Mom?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about how nice it would be if I had more time at home, you know? I could do all the things I’ve always wanted to do but never had the chance to…”
“Like what?”
Now that she was finished putting the dishes away, Mom had no choice but to look at me. She didn’t do it for very long before she picked up a dishrag and started wiping at the kitchen counter absentmindedly. “Like baking.”
“Baking,” I parroted back.
“Yes, baking. I loved baking when I was younger.”
“Mom, you don’t take time off work because you want to bake. What the hell is this all about?”
“I just needed a break, okay?” Mom cried. “Is that all right with you, Dee? Do I have your permission to take time off work? Do you know how hard it is for a woman working in tech, Dee? You know the amount of shit I take every single day from men who think I don’t deserve to be there just because I happen to have a vagina?”
“This is because of Brandon, isn’t it?” I growled. I knew I was being a jerk, but it wasn’t the fact that she’d taken time off. It was the fact that this was my mom taking time off, and my mom never took time off work. She’d always been a tech designer first, wife second, mother third, and I loved her for it. And now, all of a sudden, here she was, an aspiring baker? It was all wrong. It smelled like Brandon’s doing.
“Well, he and I have been talking, yes, about how nice it would be if I—if we started a family, and—”
“A family?” I squawked. “You’re thinking of procreating with that man? Jesus Christ, Mom! You’ve lost it. Look at what he’s done to you, to us! You still can’t rotate your wrist without it clicking!” My entire world was spiraling out of control. “Mom, you’re smarter than this. Why do you keep him around? You can do so much better.”
“Sweetie, it’s not as simple as that. I’m in my forties; it’ll be a miracle if I can conceive at my age, and there aren’t many men out there who would be willing to take me, you know, what with all my baggage and my craziness.” Mom laughed her new laugh, the one she’d developed about a month after Brandon moved in.
“Mom, listen to me. Brandon’s been brainwashing you. All that stuff about nobody wanting you isn’t true. You’re a catch! I bet half the guys at your company are lusting over you.” But even as I said it, I knew I’d lost her. This was my fault, all of it. Pa had been the engineer in charge of making sure the rig ran smoothly, and he’d missed something, or he’d miscalculated—whatever it was, his mistake led to the explosion and left us with nothing but twisted metal and a thick layer of oil that spread poison across the ocean beneath a cloud of greasy, black smoke, an ecological disaster that the world mourned.
And in the months following his death, I’d taken all the fury boiling inside me and flung it at Mom’s face, and she’d had no one to turn to but Brandon. I had ripped her apart piece by piece, and Brandon had been there to catch the bits that remained. He’d pretended to put her back together, but his glue had turned out to be poison, too. By the time we were done with Mom, she was nothing but a shadow of what she used to be. I’d realized this too late. I could rage as hard as I wanted to, and Mom would still believe that she needed Brandon to get by. This was my doing.
“Look, Dee, I just need you to be supportive, okay? Can you do that for us? I’ll be home a lot more from now on, and I would really like us to get along.”
“What do you mean you’ll be home a lot more? I thought you were just taking a vacation. It’s temporary, right?” I asked.
“Well, it’s temporary, but if it goes well, maybe it can become something more permanent.”
“And what would we live on?”
Mom smiled. “Oh, sweetie, Brandon’s assured me he’ll look after us, I mean, look how well he’s looked after our finances—”
I blew up then. “How well he’s looked after our finances? You mean him taking your paychecks and—”
The door banged open. Brandon expected us to tiptoe around him, but he loved making explosive entrances. “Boy, am I glad to be home,” he grunted, stripping off his gear and flinging it to the floor.
Mom shot me a warning glance. Like I needed a reminder that her live-in boyfriend was a monster. I rounded my shoulders and bowed my head (eye contact was a dangerous thing around here) and started walking toward the stairs, but Brandon stopped me.
“What’s going on with my two favorite ladies?” He dropped onto the couch, making the entire thing sag, and manspread his legs, taking up more space than he should. “Babe, can I have a drink, please?”
“Coming right up, sweetheart,” Mom cooed. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the shrill note of fear lacing her voice, but Brandon did not seem to notice. Or, if he did, he relished it.
“What have you two been up to?” he said, beaming at me.
“Um, not much. I was just finishing up my homework—”
“Yeah? You need any help with schoolwork?” Brandon said. His expression was earnest—eager. Even after everything, he liked to think of himself as a Nice Guy.
I was too well trained by this time to laugh in his face. Instead, I wrangled my expression into a simpering, grateful one and said, “Thank you, Brandon, but I think I’ve got it.”
“Aw, come on. Let me help. I’m practically your dad by now. Didn’t he like to help with your homework?” He gave me a big smile, one that said, Aren’t I sweet?
You’re not my fucking dad, I wanted to say. Pa was the exact opposite of Brandon in every way. He was soft-spoken, his fingers as elegant as any pianist’s. He’d moved here from Singapore for grad school. That was when he met Mom, and what was supposed to be a two-year stay in California turned into twenty. Even though he’d lived in California for so long, he never quite lost the Singlish accent. He tried hard to hide the accent in public so it wouldn’t mark him as a foreigner, but at home, he’d relax and I’d tease him for punctuating all of his sentences with lah.
He taught me many of the hallmarks of Singlish—saying aiya instead of oh my god, one of the delightful Hokkien curse words that sounded so much fiercer than your usual English ones. He liked to cook us Singaporean dishes—chili crab, Hokkien mee, roti prata.
We visited Singapore twice when I was little, and though the heat slowed me down to a sweaty crawl, I fell in
love with the country immediately. I loved everything about it, the breakneck speed at which everybody spoke, the way people so casually included you in everything, the cleanliness and efficiency of the place. And Pa’s family was there—loud and welcoming, always shoving food in my face. It was the reason I was working my ass off on my studies and at work. I was going to apply to Pa’s alma mater: the National University of Singapore.
Brandon thinking he could replace Pa made me want to plunge a knife in his eyeball and twist. I scrambled my brains for something to say. Something that wouldn’t get me in trouble. I’d made the mistake of asking him to help with my math homework once, when he insisted, and he’d stared at my textbook forever before—well, never mind. So math wasn’t in the cards. Same with Shakespeare. In fact, anything that made him feel stupid was off-limits.
I’d taken too long to think. Brandon’s face had lost its generous smile, and his jaw was now clenched. His jaw was always the first to tighten up. Then it would be his fist, and that would be that.
“Somebody thinks they’re too smart for good ol’ Brandon,” he said in a joking tone, but beneath the singsong voice was a small vibration of anger.
“No, no! I don’t want to waste your time with my stuff,” I said hurriedly. “You have more important things to deal with.” I forced a halfway sincere-looking smile onto my face, my insides shriveling up with hatred. It was, ironically, mostly hatred toward myself. I still hadn’t forgiven myself for not being the badass I’d always thought I would be. The past year or so, he had broken me down, softened me until I was nothing more than this useless, simpering lump with a quavering smile. Keeping my head down and my shoulders hunched had stopped being a survival trait and started becoming an actual habit that I did everywhere, even when Brandon wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity. I was becoming less me, less present, less alive. And I deserved it for being so pathetic, for not fighting back.
Brandon frowned. “Nothing’s more important than the two leading ladies of my life.”
The Obsession Page 2