by Ellie Wade
Mr. Williamson begins his lecture, and my mind races, thinking of all of the things that could be wrong with Wyatt.
What if he’s hurt? What if he was in an accident?
God, I wish I could text him. Why didn’t we exchange numbers?
My brain is torturing me with the worst-possible scenarios when Wyatt finally arrives.
He’s okay.
He hands a late slip to Mr. Williamson and begins to walk toward the back of the room. The closer he gets to our table, the more anxious I am to talk to him, to find out if he’s okay. Only he continues past me without so much as a glance in my direction.
I turn around and watch as he sits on an empty stool next to Clarke, the goth loner who usually sits at the back table by himself.
When it’s clear that he’s not going to make eye contact with me, I turn my attention back to Mr. Williamson. I’m so confused. I think back to the kiss we shared—my first kiss. My body hums at the memory. I’m finding it hard to process this reality. The Wyatt whose lips caressed mine a couple of days ago doesn’t match up to the sullen boy seated at the table behind me.
After an hour of Mr. Williamson rambling about who knows what, the bell rings, and I jump up out of my seat. As quickly as I exit the class, Wyatt is faster. I almost have to run down the hall to catch up with him.
I grab his arm. “Wait. What’s going on?” I ask, desperation lining my voice.
Wyatt doesn’t say anything; he simply glares down at me with what seems like hatred in his eyes. I’m not used to seeing Wyatt look at me this way. In fact, I’ve never seen him appear so angry. He’s different. I release my grip and drop my arm to my side.
“What is it?” I plead, knowing that nothing good is going to come out of his mouth but wanting to know nonetheless.
I have to know.
Wyatt raises his hands in front of his chest in a stop motion. “Just go, Georgia.”
I’m thrown off by his dismissal and the way in which he addresses me. He’s never called me by my real name before.
I ignore his warning. “No.” The conviction in my voice surprises me. “Why didn’t you show on Saturday?”
He scans the hallway as other students hurriedly pass us on the way to their next classes. He shifts uneasily on his feet. I see the moment when he decides to talk. He stands taller, his body rigid as he peers down at me.
“I didn’t meet you because I didn’t want to,” he says between gritted teeth.
“Why?”
He throws his head back and takes a breath before returning his gaze toward me. “You’re a spoiled, rich brat, Georgia. Your life is a fucking joke. I would never waste my time with you. Now, stop following me.”
He turns on his heel and is gone before I can close my gaping mouth. Tears stream down my cheeks, soaking my shirt as they fall. But still, I stay, frozen in this space in time where my perfect dream has morphed into a nightmare. At some point in this haze, the bell for the next class rings, leaving me alone in this abandoned hallway.
My chest stings as my broken heart continues to beat. I thought I could’ve loved him. I thought maybe he could’ve loved me. Now, I know what a fool I was.
I drop my chin to my chest, unable to find the strength to hold it up anymore. My back shakes as I cry.
I knew better. This is my fault.
I let myself hope against my better judgment. I allowed my heart to dream of a Prince Charming with striking blues, who was made to love me unconditionally. I fell victim to the false fables of my childhood. But I had known all along that fairy tales weren’t real. Even if they were, why would the prince choose me?
Yet Wyatt Gates is no prince. He’s an asshole, one that I refuse to waste another second of my life on.
I pull in a deep breath and stand tall, wiping the tears from my face. No way in hell am I going to let a jerk like Wyatt break me. Maybe my first kiss didn’t turn out the way I’d thought it would, but it taught me a valuable lesson, one that I’ll never forget.
True love is a concept only valid in storybooks. A boy will never save me. Only I can do that.
When I get home from school, my mom lets my sister, London, and I know that my dad has acquired a new company in California, and unfortunately, we will be moving again. London is furious, as this is her senior year in high school, and she wanted her last year to be one without a relocation.
Had this news come two days ago, I would’ve been devastated, too. Yet my mom’s announcement only makes me smile. Six months was more than enough time here. Who needs autumn and multicolored leaves when one can have the beach and the ocean? After all, the leaves change colors and fall because they die. It’s pretty morbid when I stop to think about it.
Wyatt can have this stupid place surrounded by death. I’ll take sunny California. When I’m surfing in the blue ocean, I hope Wyatt knows that I won’t be thinking of him. In fact, I’m never going to think of him again.
1
Seven Years Later
“I might not be able to change the world, but I can make one person’s day a little brighter. There’s a euphoria that comes with that. It’s unlike anything else.”—Georgia Wright
I wake with a start. A small yelp escapes my lungs as I sit up in bed. I hold my hand to my chest, my breathing ragged.
It’s dark as I look around, trying to get a handle on my bearings.
Where am I?
One might think that this sensation of not knowing where I was would be an uncommon one, but they’d be incorrect. I actually wake quite regularly, not knowing where I am. That’s one of the downfalls of moving around as much as I do.
It takes me a minute to realize that I’m in Paige’s guest bedroom. I can breathe again. I allow my head to fall back to my pillow, but I don’t dare close my eyes. I can’t risk falling back into the nightmare I just awoke from.
I can still see the fear in Ye-jun’s face as he sprinted across the border between China and North Korea, fleeing the country he served. The moss-green military uniform he wore as he ran for his life said nothing of his loyalty, only of his desperation.
Some think that the soldiers in North Korea are treated well, seeing that they are serving their country, but they’re not. Their service isn’t a choice, and their quality of life is an afterthought. They are starving, just like the rest of their people.
Ye-jun’s life was so miserable that he was willing to risk it as he dashed into China with the guns of his brothers firing at his back.
The organization that I worked with tried to save him, but his injuries were too great. I held his hand as he took his last breath. The part that haunts me is that I got the feeling he was happy to die. His life on earth was so bad that his looming death was a relief.
How sad is that?
I can remember all of their faces—the ones we were able to save and the ones we weren’t. And the overwhelming similarity between them is that they were all willing to die to escape North Korea. Mothers risked their baby girls’ lives to escape. I can’t begin to imagine how bad life must be in order to sacrifice everything.
Honestly, the world is a messed up place. I’ve fed starving children. I’ve held people while they died from AIDS. I’ve tied myself to a hundred-year-old tree in the rainforest of the Amazon in an attempt to stop it from being chopped down. I’ve aided in rebuilding schools that were demolished from a hurricane. I’ve delivered clean water to people who acted as if it was the most amazing gift they’ve ever received. I’ve spent every free moment of my adult life trying to make the world better because I feel I have to.
I was born into money. I was given a trust fund amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars simply because I existed. I had done nothing to earn it. Truthfully, part of me doesn’t even want it. My guilt overwhelms me.
I’ve always had all that I needed. So, I choose to spend my money traveling to places where I can help people in need. Giving myself in this way alleviates some of my guilt but not all of it. There is so much more to be done
.
I should say that I chose—past tense—to spend my money on important travesties taking place. At the present time, I no longer have access to my trust fund. My parents hate that I travel and put myself in dangerous situations. So, when I came back from China a couple of weeks ago to surprise my sister, London, for her birthday, they seized their opportunity to cut me off, so I couldn’t leave again.
My dad still deposits a monthly allowance into my bank account so that I can afford my living expenses—not quite enough to travel the world, but more than enough to live comfortably. The concept of being cut off doesn’t mean the same to me as it would to others—yet another privilege that brings me shame.
I suppose I don’t blame my parents for wanting me to stay in the same country as them. If I had a daughter, I’m sure I’d feel the same way. I’d want to know that she was safe.
My sister’s best friend, Paige, offered me her guest bedroom until I figure out where I’m going next. I accepted her offer immediately. I love my parents, but I love them more when I’m not living with them. I’m sure I could’ve stayed with London as well. Yet she and her husband, Loïc, are still newlyweds, and they’re trying to conceive a baby. I didn’t want to cramp their style.
I roll out of bed and put my running gear on, making sure to wear my fleece-lined leggings, as it snowed last night. When I step out onto Paige’s front porch, my face is assaulted with a bitter wind. The sun is just starting to peek up over the eastern sky, and it’s freezing.
I’m not a fan of the cold, but then again, I’m not a fan of watching my mom and her acroyoga coach bending their bodies into weird positions in the middle of the living room as I’m trying to watch reality TV. Nothing ruins a good episode of Property Brothers like seeing my mom’s ass in the air.
Yes, Paige’s place in Michigan, cold and all, is better than living with my parents.
As I jog down the sidewalks of Ann Arbor, certain buildings and places bring back memories. London went to college in this town, and I visited her several times. Plus, once upon a time, I lived here with my family for a few months. There aren’t many places I haven’t lived.
Despite the cold, the fresh snowfall is stunning. A blanket of white covers everything, creating a clean canvas to start the day. With each crunch of snow beneath my feet, I pull the brisk air into my lungs. The icy burn feels oddly pleasant and invigorating.
I turn the corner onto Main Street and see a homeless man huddled with his dog against a building. The two of them are wrapped in a tattered fleece blanket, and my heart sinks.
“Come on, Georgia,” my mom says from the sidewalk.
I hop down from the car and shut the door, skipping over to meet her.
“Sorry, I couldn’t get my seat belt undone,” I tell her.
“It’s okay. We don’t want to be late for our appointment. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a closer parking spot, so we’re going to have to walk for a few minutes,” she says.
I love spa days with my mom. She usually takes both London and me, but today, it’s just me. We started a new school last week, and London made a friend. She has a playdate with her today. I was a little jealous when she told me that they were going to Chuck E. Cheese’s. Mommy never lets us go to Chuck E. Cheese’s. She says that the food is garbage, the games are germy, and the prizes are crap.
I don’t know if that’s true since I’ve never been, but it sure looks awesome on the TV commercials. But I stopped feeling jealous when Mommy told me that we were going to have a spa day, just the two of us. Mommy said we were getting our hair done, a manicure, and a pedicure. She even said that I could get designs on my nails if I wanted.
Mommy gets some other stuff done, too. But she says I have to be grown up for that stuff.
Sometimes, the salons have this yummy lemon water that they give me, and sometimes, they have cucumber water. I really hope they have the lemon today. I think the cucumber water tastes like grass.
I walk fast next to Mom as she pulls my hand. Her heels click against the pavement, and it sounds like small drums.
Sitting up ahead on the sidewalk is a man. His beard is long, and his clothes are dirty. He has a bucket in front of him. When we pass him, I pull my hand from my mom’s grasp and turn to face him.
“Hi,” I tell him. “I’m Georgia.”
“Hi, Georgia. I’m Stan,” he says.
He sounds nice. He seems like he’s younger than my dad, but when I really look at his eyes, they look older, like my grandpa’s.
I feel my mom pull my arm.
“Let’s go, Georgia.”
I look down in his bucket and see that there’s some change. There are a couple of pennies and a quarter.
“Mommy, can I have some money?” I ask as she continues to pull me away from Stan. “Mom, stop,” I tell her.
Doesn’t she see that Stan needs money?
“Let’s go now,” she says in her mad-mommy voice.
As Mommy pulls me away, I look back at Stan, and he smiles and waves at me. I don’t know why, but I start to cry.
“Mommy, he doesn’t have any money,” I tell her through my sobs. Maybe she doesn’t know. “He might be hungry. We need to give him some money.”
“We don’t have time for this, Georgia. We’re going to be late. It’s not polite to make Gretchen wait,” she snaps at me.
“But it won’t take long,” I plead.
“I don’t have extra cash! I need it for Gretchen’s tip. You stop acting like this right now, or I’m not bringing you next time.”
Mommy never gets mad at me, so the anger in her voice makes me stop questioning her. When we get to the salon, the receptionist tells us that we’re a little early for our appointment and that we can have some cucumber water while we wait.
Our spa date isn’t as fun as it usually is. I don’t talk to Mommy, and she doesn’t talk to me. I keep thinking about Stan and wondering if his tummy is hurting. Sometimes, when I don’t eat, I get a tummy ache.
When all of Mommy’s procedures are finished, she pulls out her wallet to pay Gretchen. She has a big wad of bills in her hand, and she only gives Gretchen two of the bills. The rest go back in her purse.
I feel like I hate my mom. I know I really don’t and that I’m just mad. It’d be impossible for me to really hate her. Yet, right now, I do. She lied to me. I think Stan knew she was lying, too. I wonder how that made him feel. I hope he’s not sad.
Maybe now that she knows she has enough money, we can give him some on the way back.
“Mom,” I say as we walk back to the car, “can we stop by and give Stan—”
She cuts me off, “Stop. Not another word about the bum, Georgia.”
“But we have extra money.”
She stops walking and turns to face me. “Listen.” Her voice is softer now, and I’m happy she isn’t mad. “There are tons of homeless people in the world. I know you want to help them. I do, too. But we can’t. If we give all of our money to the homeless people, then we won’t be able to pay for our house, and we’ll be living on the street. Don’t you see that if you help everyone, you won’t have anything left for yourself?”
“I know, Mom. But I don’t want to help everyone. I just want to help Stan.”
“Did you listen to what I said? We can’t help everyone, Georgia. It’s just the way it is.”
“But—” I start to protest.
“No more. I’m serious,” she says sternly before smiling. “Now, where would you like to eat?”
I shake the memory from my head and stop running. Looking up and down the street, I see most places are still closed, but I notice a gas station open a block down.
I run to it.
The selection is pretty good for a gas station. I’m assuming this one is frequented by drunk college kids coming home from parties at all hours of the night.
“Can I help you find anything?” the clerk asks me as he stocks the shelves with canned goods.
“Do you guys carry dog food?”
> “Yeah, two aisles over.” He points in front of him.
“Great. Do you have an ATM?”
“Yep, back by the restrooms.” He sticks up his thumb and swings it behind him.
“Awesome. Thank you.”
I grab a small bag of dog food, some snacks, and some sausage and cheese sticks. The idea of unrefrigerated meat and cheese grosses me out, but there’s not much in the way of protein in this store. Plus, they won’t go bad if he doesn’t eat them right away. I throw some more nonperishable food items into the basket and grab a six-pack of water. I withdraw two hundred dollars from the ATM and pay.
Arms full of supplies, I walk back toward the homeless man. The memory with my mom and Stan is still vivid. I’ll never forget that day. I’ve thought about it a lot since it happened. It’s honestly one of the saddest days of my life. It’s the day that I realized that I didn’t want to grow up to be anything like my mom.
That’s a hard reality for a little girl to swallow. At that age, one’s mom is their everything. But after that day, my mom wasn’t mine. It was also the day I first started to feel guilty for who I was, for the family I had been born into.
I reach the man and softly say, “Good morning,” afraid to startle him.
He lifts his head up from his knees. “Good morning.”
His dog sniffs me a few times, and he must decide that I’m cool because his tail starts wagging.
“I hope it’s okay that I brought you some things.” I set the bag down beside him.
“Oh. Sure. Thank you.” He smiles up to me.
“Hi, I’m Georgia.” I extend my gloved hand to shake his.
He reaches his hand out toward mine. “I’m Mark.”
“Nice to meet you, Mark.”
I bend at my knees and pet Mark’s dog. He’s a gray pit bull. His mouth is big, smiling with a long tongue hanging out the side.
“He’s so cute,” I say as I hold his big head in my grasp.
“Yeah, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“I brought you a small bag of dog food, but I can bring you more if you need it.”