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TO SENATOR ELIZABETH WARREN
1
RAINA PETREE,
:
IN THE COURT OF
:
COMMON DECENCY OF
Plaintiff,
:
CAMBRIA COUNTY
:
v.
:
CIVIL ACTION-LAW
:
BRANDON ROTH,
:
Docket No. 2020CIVIL0908
:
:
JURY TRIAL
Defendant
:
DEMANDED
JANUARY 4: COMPLAINT
Everything was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
Everything was great, actually, until Brandon had to go and ruin my life.
School was back in session from winter break, and I was ready to live it up in my final semester at Steelton High. I’d killed it as Katherine Minola in the Stackhouse Players’ winter production of Taming of the Shrew. (Everyone said so, including the reviewers in This Town: Steeltown and the Tribune Republican. And nothing usually impresses those people. Nothing.) The admissions department at Carnegie Mellon had caught wind of my performance and everyone said they’d be fighting NYU and even Juilliard for me, even if I hadn’t applied to Juilliard. My evenings were filled with talks with my best friend, Megan, about theater craft and Brandon and college and Brandon and method and Brandon. (Brandon and theater were kind of tied together for me, since he’d been the one to encourage me to audition for my first play in elementary school, way before we were even going out.) At the end of last year, I’d just been elected Drama Club president to replace Cate Berry, who got cast in a movie and moved to LA. I’d narrowly edged out the awful Claire Fowler by two votes. She’d been my chief rival since she won the lead at fifth-grade summer camp (and every blasted summer after that), but I’d finally triumphed over her. Life had hit perfection by New Year’s Eve, and it was only going to get better.
Or it would have, had it not all come crashing down because of dick Brandon.
I came back to school on day one of the new term ready to persuade Mr. Cooper that we should ditch Almost, Maine (which we had done for the spring production two years in a row) and perform Radium Girls instead. I had notes and a USB-saved PowerPoint. We had a full hour for clubs and sport meetings right after lunch, thank you, Football Boosters, so I planned to corner Mr. Cooper before he got an earful from Claire about Arsenic and Old Lace or, God help me, fucking Our Town.
I practiced my pitch on Megan between bites of my sandwich.
“Almost, Maine sucks!” said Megan. “Isn’t Arsenic and Old Lace done everywhere? We need something different.”
“Well, Radium Girls is super popular, too, but we’ve never done it here,” I said. “And I want it for my portfolio.”
“Yes. Heaven forbid we not have something in our portfolio,” said Megan.
(She might have been hearing about said portfolio since Claire first bested me at aforementioned camp.)
“You need to show diversity—”
Megan held up her hands. “Yes, yes. For Carnegie Mellon’s competitive drama department. I know, I know. You’ve convinced me. Down with John Cariani. Ring in the reign of D.W. Gregory to Steelton High’s spring production.”
“Yes,” I said, but I was pleased she had been listening to my presentation. The PowerPoint had crashed her laptop.
“Go get ’em, tiger,” said Megan as the bell rang.
I strode out of the cafeteria and down the hall with a purpose. This was my year. We were going to do the play I wanted, and everyone would thank me for it. Even Claire. I rounded the corner by the guidance office to hit up my locker before my date with Mr. Cooper. I practically exploded with joy to see Brandon standing there.
“Hey!” I said, rushing over to him. Before he could say anything, I threw my arms around him and pressed my mouth to his. That was not allowed in our sacred hallways of learning, but if you were fast the teachers didn’t say anything.
The asshole even kissed me back.
“I thought you were doing some fancy extra chem lab today?” I said.
“Oh yeah. Mr. Bower is out sick, and the sub didn’t want any active flames. Something bad happened in his past involving eyebrows. I don’t know. I’m going to stop in to Mock Trial. New session is upon us. We have so many members this year, we might have a whole crew dedicated to researching for the competition team.”
“Awesome,” I said.
I meant it. Brandon had wanted to be a lawyer ever since we started going out in eighth grade. He was the only kid I knew who read Supreme Court decisions for fun. His passion for law stuff kept me going in theater, even when I wanted to try something else like debate or Mock Trial myself. But Brandon said it was better to stick with one thing. He always said it’d distract him if I branched into his activities. I respected that. I could be incredibly distracting. Though I always thought I’d kill it up there in front of a real judge.
“I’m going to convince Mr. Cooper that we can’t have yet another year of Almost, Maine—”
“Listen, Raina?” he said, putting up his hands. “Can I just stop you right there? I actually need to talk to you.” He looked at the floor. He dug the toe of his loafer into a gray hole in the dirty hallway linoleum.
“Uh. Sure. You okay?” I said. Oh God, did his grandma die? She’d been sick since shortly after her ninetieth birthday party. Brandon’s mom was stressed about it every time I ate dinner over at his house. “Is it your grandma?”
“No, no. Nan is fine. It’s just … well, you know how I went to Model UN camp this last week?”
“Yes,” I said. He hadn’t been home for New Year’s Eve, but I’d made the best of it with Megan.
“Well, some stuff happened there I didn’t tell you about. Because I didn’t think it mattered and because of your Stackhouse show and everything. But now…” He trailed off.
Dig went his shoe. Dig, dig.
“Stuff? What stuff?”
“Ruby Carol and I hooked up.”
His dialogue came out all wrong. Rushed. Forced. No emotional connection at all. I didn’t believe it.
“Ruby Carol. From Model UN,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You hooked up,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“But you were happy to see me. You were really happy to see me just this Sunday,” I said. I hadn’t been ready to sleep with him until this year. But once we got started, woooo boy. Brandon’s parents both worked late on Sundays, so we had his house to ourselves and believe me—I always got a great start to the week over there.
“We were safe. I would never…”
“You were safe?” I said. My voice bounced off the silver lockers and the diversity mural and the skylight outside the auditorium. “You had sex with her?”
“That’s what I said.” He glanced around. “Maybe you sho
uld lower your voice…”
“No, you … there are a lot of meanings to ‘hooked up.’ And you can shove my loud voice up your ass.” I stepped toward him, forcing him to back up against my locker. “Why are you telling me this shit in the hallway? Between classes? Before drama period?” I said.
“Apparently there are pictures of me and Ruby. My buddy Kyle—well, you know he’s an idiot—he posted them someplace. And I’m tired of it being a secret. She wants to go to Duquesne, too, so we wouldn’t have to break up in May, even. We’re together.”
His blocking was all off. The movements were slow. Labored. Rehearsed.
“But we’ve been together for five years. CMU and Duquesne are in the same city. What about last Sunday?” I gasped.
The bell rang. I could feel the staring eyes of the people who were trying to pretend they weren’t milling around in the hallway to watch the fight.
“Five years is a long time. We’re just not in the same place anymore,” he said. “We were both bored, Raina. Admit it.”
I would not. I could not honestly say that, ever. I loved Brandon. His blue eyes, his blond hair, his crooked nose, his round ears. And his brain. I loved his brain. He remembered everything, even stupid details like your favorite cartoon from when you were a kid or that you didn’t like coconut. He first asked me to the movies under the apple tree in Central Park on September 4. We had our first kiss on the day after Thanksgiving at the mall. We’d talked every day since then. He laughed at my jokes. He ran lines with inflection and improvised blocking. He said he believed in me and my talent.
“I’m not bored,” I said. “I love you.” I balled my hands into fists and willed myself to breathe slower, steady breaths. “You said you loved me, too. Every day. Until now,” I said.
“I did. I do. But it’s just not the same, Raina.” His eyes pleaded. For what? Forgiveness? Understanding?
“But…” I said. My nose was starting to burn and my eyes to throb. I was standing next to a “Six Foods Teen Bodies Need to Thrive” poster. And the love of my life was shitting all over my heart.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said. How did he manage to sound like he actually meant it?
I stared into his crystal blue eyes, looking for the gag. The joke. The prank that this had to be. A tiny part of me grew pissed off that this asshole was ruining the color blue for me.
“If you see the pictures, I’m sorry.”
I just stared. Mouth open. Comic, exaggerated features. Jagged little shards of my heart poked against my chest.
Brandon edged his way to the side, until he slipped outside of my reach. He straightened his sweater and ran a hand through his hair. He walked away and didn’t look back.
I put one hand on the wall, another on the locker. Tears threatened. Tears of shock, rather than grief or sadness. I’d studied how my face felt when angry or sad or excited, so I could replicate the feelings needed in a given scene. But now—only shock.
Breathe in, breathe out, I told myself. From the diaphragm. Shallow breaths reduce vocal power. Brandon turned the corner. But I knew he heard my scream.
JANUARY 7: ANSWER AND NEW MATTER
I didn’t do much in the few days after Brandon stomped my heart into dust. Mom only let me stay home from school one day, saying that since life would continue on, I had to, too. Mom wasn’t a sit-at-home-and-cry type. She was a night nurse at a retirement community and took care of a lot of people whose minds and bodies no longer did what they were supposed to. It gave her too much perspective to be able to put up with much from me. And since Dad was away most of the year hauling dairy freight, it wasn’t like she had any backup in the daily-life department.
She patted me on the head before leaving for her shift. “There are plenty of other boys, Raina.”
“We were together for five years,” I said. He knew I collected teddy bears. He knew exactly when to put his arm around me at scary movies. I let him know everything about me, even things I wouldn’t admit to Megan. He was another part of my body. A limb. An internal organ you couldn’t just donate to some other girl without a thought.
“You are babies. You have nothing but time and chances. Use this in your art.”
“Are you kidding?” I said.
“No. I know it hurts. But there are worse things. Find a new boy,” she said. “Or a new whoever. Maybe we should get a pet. I’ve always thought having a cat would be nice.”
She’d never liked Brandon much. She said that he was too pretty and that the pretty ones take what they want and then leave when they want. I hated how she might have been right about that.
Mom left to go work a double, and I buried my face in the old, overstuffed fuzz of the couch.
Still mourning? Megan’s text buzzed my phone.
No one cares. No one understands, I texted back.
I care. I understand. Want company? she wrote.
Yes, I texted.
Megan brought chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream and slightly more empathy than Mom.
“I saw them today,” I told her. “Making out by the gym. You’d think he’d have some respect for me, in our shared space.”
“Yes. Surely the dude who broke up with you for two weeks sophomore year so he was single for his spring-break trip to Cancún would have some consideration,” said Megan.
Megan didn’t like Brandon much, either.
“Was I this unsympathetic when you broke up with Todd? Or Kevin? Or Jack?”
“Jake. Most recent one was Jake,” she said. “And mostly. But I was only with them for about a month each.”
“I will never get over this,” I said. “I feel like I’m going to barf if I even hear his laugh.” I had, in fact, barfed twice just from hearing his laugh. I’d made it into the bathroom, but each time had been a close call. I didn’t even know what I had to throw up, since I’d barely eaten.
“You know what I think you need? Professional advice,” Megan said.
“Like a shrink?” I said.
“Oh, maybe. Your mom has health insurance, doesn’t she? She’s a nurse.”
“Yeah. But it’s super expensive. We have the probably-will-keep-you-from-dying plan. I don’t know if it’d cover much. Maybe I could go to the guidance counselor.”
“Oh. Maybe,” said Megan.
“What do you have against him?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing. He’s a nice guy. I went for my college-application stuff. It’s just…” She chewed on her thumbnail. “Ruby is a student volunteer in that office.”
I stared at her. “You aren’t serious.”
“I am. I saw her sitting at the desk, folding brochures.”
“Well, forget that,” I said. “I don’t want to go anywhere near her.”
“Yeah,” said Megan. “Well, how about here?” she said, digging through her backpack. She unearthed an Oprah magazine.
“You think I should call Oprah?” I said. “A shrink would probably be cheaper, even without insurance.”
“No! Well. I mean. If only. No—I think you should write for advice. They have life coaches in here. And money coaches and relationship people. You don’t have to do the Oprah staff. Write to that woman from the Tribune Republican who does the Two Hearts column. Bet she’d be all over this. She loves heartbreak.”
I glared at Megan.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “This is her job.”
“What are her qualifications?” I said. I sniffed back tears that always lurked anytime we started talking about Brandon the dick.
“You are worried about the newspaper lady’s credentials?” said Megan.
“I just don’t want someone who is going to mess me up more,” I said.
“Okay, okay, here,” she said, picking up my phone. “I’ll look at her blog online.” She tapped on the screen. “Here’s a good one. ‘Dear Hearts, I have been with my boyfriend for two-and-a-half years. Recently, I flew to France with him to meet his family.
I thought it went well. His sister and I really hit it off, and his mother and father were so sweet and kind. When we flew home, we talked about shopping for an engagement ring! Everything seemed perfect. But then fast-forward to a few months later, and things seem to have fallen apart. He barely calls, cancels plans, and asked for my key to his apartment back because “repair people” will be doing work in his place soon. When I asked what is wrong, he says it’s “family stuff,” and nothing more. I don’t understand what is happening. Did I insult his parents? Am I missing signals I should understand? Help?! Sincerely, Confused Constance.’”
“Ouch,” I said. “What’s the answer?”
“‘Dear Constance,’” Megan read. “‘That sounds so hard. You think you are on one route, and then the plane turns in the middle of the sky and heads off into the clouds in another direction. I wouldn’t read into the family visit—it sounds like that went well. It might be related, but since the behavior is more recent, it might be tied to something else. Perhaps your boyfriend was caught up in the excitement of the visit when he started the marriage conversation and is now pulling back. I would encourage you to sit down and have an honest talk about where you both want your relationship to go and the pace at which you want to pursue that vision. Take heart, he could be acting this way for reasons completely separate from you. But the only way to find out is through open, honest communication. Readers—do you think the French family made her boyfriend want to say au revoir? Comment below!’”
“She didn’t tell her that the boyfriend was probably banging Ruby since sophomore year spring break,” I said. “So how could she help me?”
“Well, that wasn’t what the question was about. There are others that are more related to your situation. Read those.”
I flopped over onto her lap, knocking the phone out of her hand.
“Or you could continue to imitate a wounded orca,” she said.
Six Angry Girls Page 1