by Mia Castile
“I don’t have any excuses; I don’t have anything that can make it up.”
“Then other things make sense,” he continues as if I said nothing. “Like when you asked how I knew Farrah so well, why you closed your blinds after so many years. Gawd, Lacey, I almost kissed you. I felt bad for liking you.” He trails off. We drive in silence the rest of the way home. I park in the driveway and turn off the car. I put my hands in my lap. “Do you want to know why Byron and Bea hate you so much? It’s really stupid, but hey, it’s Byron.” Our eyes meet. “In kindergarten I was so excited because we were in the same class, remember?” I do. “But the first day of school you met Jade. You two were instant friends, and you forgot about me. I was upset at recess because I had this image of what scary school would be like with my best friend, Fearless. I wasn’t afraid because you were going to be there with me. Byron asked me if I wanted to play, and when I hid, he found me and got the truth out of me. He and Bea became my friends and immediately hated your guts. I guess it just grew over the years. You didn’t deserve the way they treated you. It wasn’t fair. But I didn’t either.” He looked out the window, one hand on his back pack, and the other on the door handle. “Byron will always be my best friend, no matter what he does. I questioned him for a while, but he’s the most honest person I know; what you see is what you get.” I sit in stunned silence. “I always kept an eye on you, Lacey, over the years, tried to watch out for you. But I just don’t see us coming back from this. I felt like you should know how I feel; I need some time away from you.” He looks over at me, and I’m confused. He’d had time away from me. His chest rises and falls slowly. “Don’t call me, chat with me online, don’t say hi to me, or talk to me for any reason. I don’t exist to you anymore. Don’t expect me to do the same; you don’t exist to me either.” He opens the door and walks slowly across my front yard. I manage to get inside my room before the tears find me. My life is over, shattered.
Chapter 30
I’ve become a recluse. I eat my meals in my room. I listen to my world rock that puts me in a mellow mood. I imagine that if I knew a drug dealer, I would consider becoming a stoner. But I don’t know any drug dealers in my school. I don’t even say hi to them in the hallways, let alone have a way to hook up with them over the summer. Every drawer and shelf have been organized and the clutter thinned out. All of the books I’ve bought throughout the year have been read and shelved by favorite author, storyline, year published, etc. I am exiled, whether by force or choice I’m not sure anymore. I look forward to my Saturday visit with Lana. It will be our first since her relocation to the stress center. It will be our first solo visit too. My parents are going to see her on Sunday. I am sitting on the floor playing video games, working on my record-high scores, my hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun, in my comfy tank top and comfy sweats with the waist stretched so far I have to roll it three times to get them to stay on my hips. My computer chimes, and I rise from the floor to see a video request from Jade. I accept it, and she smiles at me from her room.
“Hi, Mama, hold on,” she says and clicks some buttons. Tasha appears on a split screen.
“Hey,” I say waving.
“Hi.” Tasha smiles.
“How are you feeling?” Jade asks motherly.
“It is what it is,” I shrug. Henry has been true to his word and is becoming an expert at ignoring me, which I am making easier on him by becoming a recluse.
“Are you going to come over tomorrow?” Tasha asks. “My dad said my car will be ready.” For her sweet sixteen Tasha gets a custom Cadillac convertible. “I will try,” I say, knowing that I probably won’t. I am in a funk, and I am not sure when I will get out of it.
“She’s going to see Lana on Saturday,” Jade reminds her, giving me an excuse.
“Yeah, she’s way north of Westfield. I have to leave early just to get there by ten so I can spend the whole day with her.” I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching too, and that is something I’m afraid that I can only do on my own.
“This is the only way we get to see you these days it seems like, and I leave for cheer camp next week. Can we do it another night?” Tasha pleads.
“Sunday?” I offer, hoping that seeing my sister will cheer me up and instantly feeling like a selfish pritch. Yes, I just made up a word—prick and bitch—that summed my feelings.
“Just don’t bail this time like you did last week,” Tasha pleads still. “We miss you.” Tasha is the soft voice of sympathy while Jade is the crisp voice of reason. They really are pieces of my whole. I’m glad that through this whole complicated mess I haven’t truly lost them.
“I won’t; I promise,” I say. There is a knock at my door, and I look up to see my dad poke his head in.
“There’s someone at the door for you,” he says. I look at my screen, and both my friends shrug. I log off and follow him down the stairs. There is Chase, ripped jeans, plain white T, and his motorcycle boots. I cross my arms and stare at him hard for a moment. I’d managed successfully to avoid his phone calls, texts, and Status Quo messages for the past two weeks. Now we stand in awkward silence, his eyes holding mine in that spell.
“I hear your mom calling me.” I roll my eyes at my dad as he retreats toward the back of our house.
“What do you want?” I demand, as I sit on the bottom of the stairs.
“There seems to be some confusion as to who told Bea who Farrah really was. It wasn’t me.” He still annoys me with his whole referring to Farrah as if she really were a person. As if it doesn’t matter to us, it was someone else we knew in passing. I lean my head against the banister.
“Why should I believe you?” I ask, staring a hole through the beveled glass front door.
“Because I told you I wouldn’t tell Henry.” I look at him, remembering that conversation. It was the most real he’d ever been with me.
“But then, there were times you threatened to tell him,” I continue, as if I were simply talking to myself.
“I promised you that I wouldn’t, and I always keep my word. Bea was already going after you when I stopped and flirted with her.” He waffles his fingers over his knees. “I thought it was working, but then I realized what she was looking at. You had a strip of your natural hair mixed in with the wig. I gave her one last chance for a ride on my bike, but she blew me off. I left in order to make it look like I was really leaving anyway.” He turns on the stairs toward me. “I wish I hadn’t though. As much grief as I gave you, I would never hurt you.” His eyes search mine, trying to convey some secret message. Unfortunately, I don’t speak his language and continue to look at him blankly. He smooths the loose hair from my face and tucks it behind my ears. “I would never hurt you; you are too important to me,” he repeats as he leans his forehead against mine. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His lips are so close to mine, I have a flash back to our kiss and I almost want to lean in and kiss him again, but that’s not fair to him or me and I wonder why I want to do that anyway; he’s just my friend. Instead I hug him, forgiving him, and he holds on to me tightly. I feel safe with Chase, like he sees me for who I really am, and who I want to be. He believes in me. We sit like that for a long time not saying anything. Then all too soon he pulls away from me and stands. Before he leaves, he says, “I promise I’ll never let anyone hurt you again. When you’re ready, I’d like to prove that to you.” I blink wildly, realizing that I’m dense. He is telling me he cares for me. He’s on his bike and pulling away before I realize it’s too late. All the moments we have shared flash across my eyes—gym class sitting on the bleachers, in my room, riding on his bike, hanging out in his room, that kiss. DUH! That kiss, it was the best kiss I’d ever had, and not just because I’d had only one kiss ever. I stand and go to the porch as I watch the sun chase the horizon. I could accept that I lost Henry, but I don’t see in myself what he sees in me anymore. Deceit. It destroyed us but it was necessary for me to be able to see in myself what Chase sees. I had it all along and didn’t
even know it. Farrah was the cocoon of my creation; I was the butterfly.
Chapter 1
Lana
I’m riding shotgun in my sister’s car. It’s the first day of my freshman year, and I’m nervous to say the least. She looks cool, calm, and collected, but I know inside she’s nervous, too. Her two best friends sit in the back seat. Jade is texting her boyfriend of two months, Evan. He’s in a band called Cate’s Ashes with my sister’s other friend Chase. Tasha is already sharing the gossip she’s heard from over the summer. My sister and I dread the first day of school for different reasons. She tricked everyone into believing she was a made-up person at the end of last year and was put on blast at a year-end party, causing her to lose the relationship she’d started with Henry, our next door neighbor, and any credibility she’d had. I had tried to take my own life. My summer vacation was spent in a stress center, known by most people as rehab. I guess they wanted to cure me of my addiction to my death. Today I’m wearing my arm warmers, a vintage AC-DC T-shirt, grey hoodie, and jeans. In an act of solidarity, the others are wearing the arm warmers I made them during my activities time over the summer. I now have madd knitting skills, and I appreciate their effort of support.
I colored my naturally platinum blond hair black in the stress center, but when I came home last week, my mom dragged me to her salon and had the over-the-counter color stripped out and replaced with a chocolate brown. I looked so different with dark hair against my pale skin and light grey eyes.
“You are still going to be on the squad right, Lana?” Tasha asks me leaning forward. Lacey, my sister, watches me out of the corner of her eye. “I mean you’re a freshman who made varsity. That never happens, so you can’t pass that up.”
“I think if she doesn’t want to, she shouldn’t have to,” Jade smiles, patting me on my shoulder.
“Tasha, I don’t think cheerleading is a healthy activity for me right now,” I say, thinking about how everyone would freak if I ran out on the field in a little uniform, make a V with my arms, and show the still-red scars that go halfway up my forearms. “Or anyone else.” I hug myself tightly. Tasha just stares at me in disbelief. She’s not shallow. She doesn’t think the world revolves around jocks and parties, but she has been cheering since elementary school and is passionate about it. I can’t blame her; I used to be, too. We arrive and Lacey parks. The other girls get out of the back seat, but she sits there a minute with her keys in hand and looks at me.
“Are you ready?” she asks in a motherly tone. I love my sister. She has been my rock through my cutting last spring, through my suicide attempt, and through my rehab. I think secretly she blames herself, but it’s not her fault. It’s mine, and I’ve taken ownership of it, but still she worries. I nod, and she squeezes my hand. We get out of the car and meet the girls in front of it. She takes my hand, and we walk in together. This school is huge, but I’ve been here plenty of times and for student orientation last week. Chase finds us instantly. I think he has a low jack on my sister. He smiles warmly at me and wraps me in a hug. I hug him back. He’s so into my sister it’s ridiculous. I used to have a crush on him, but now he’s like a big brother. He’s definitely cute, though, if I were still into looks and romance. He leans back and surveys my outfit.
“Nice shirt. Are you ready, Short Stuff?” That’s his nickname for me.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I nod. Jade and Tasha wander away, but Chase and Lacey walk me to my locker. The halls are abuzz with gossip and greetings, but the volume lowers as I walk by. I expected this. I haven’t seen anyone from my class since that Monday. We arrive at my locker, and Lacey stands there. Chase takes her hand for encouragement. They do that a lot, hold hands, hug, sit really close, and whisper to each other.
“I’m OK now. You guys should go, or you’ll be late for homeroom.” I shoo them away. They nod, and Lacey hugs me one more time, and they turn to leave. I watch them go, feeling eyes on me, but I don’t acknowledge the gawkers. I get my tunnel vision and begin unloading my stuff into my locker. I look up in time to see Amanda and Deacon walking down the hall holding hands. Amanda still has her blond hair, but she’s colored the underneath red. Deacon smirks at me, and she glares. Amanda looks really soft. I’ve lost a lot of weight over the summer. Thanks to my scars, I’m anemic and can’t keep weight on myself. I went from being voluptuous to skinny and frail looking. I always have dark circles under my eyes. I hate it! Amanda reminds me of the confidence and popularity that I used to have, what I used to be and what I’ll never be again. They pass, and I go back to unloading into my locker. I can feel the uneasiness building in my chest. It’s like I’m swimming, and I can’t get enough air, but I do my breathing techniques and start to feel a bit better.
“If I feel overwhelmed, I will not be afraid or ashamed. I am who I am; no one can change that. I am strong and brave. I am worth my life.” This is the mantra my therapist wants me to tell myself to remember my value. The hallway has emptied, and I close my locker, afraid that I might be late on my first day.
Slam. I’m suddenly pushed up against my locker and drop my books. “Hey, skank,” Deacon whispers in my ear as he presses all his weight against me.
“Get off of me, you piece of shit!” I grunt, but he kicks his feet between mine and spreads them like a policeman would. He pins my hands behind my back. My face is pressed against the vents in my locker and is starting to hurt.
“We just need to make sure you’ve not brought any drugs or contraband into our school.” Then he wiggles his free hand under my shirt. He touches my stomach and feels me up over my bra. And I feel gross. It’s not like he hasn’t before, but then we were going together, and that was before he spread the rumors about our nonexistent sex life. He gropes my butt and puts his hand at my front pocket. “Anything here that will poke me or slit my wrists?” I can feel tears burning my eyes. I don’t answer him. “No? I guess you’re free to go.” He lets me go, but as I lean away from the locker, he slams me against it once more. “Loser,” he throws in and walks away. I’m shaking, and I could just hold it in, but if I want to be healthy, and if I want to live, which I do, then I have to tell someone what just happened to me. It’s not OK, and he can’t get away with it. I don’t care if it’s going to make my life more miserable because at least I have a life. And maybe he’ll think first before he messes with me again. So I ignore the final bell and go to the office. The office is crazy busy, so I stand off to the side. Then a secretary notices me.
“Can I help you, dear?” She’s maybe in her forties, definitely too young to use the word “dear.”
“I think I need to speak with my counselor,” I say. She looks at me and her eyes widen a little. I’m still shaking a little and my left cheek burns a bit.
“All right then, what’s your name?” She takes a Post-It and pen, poised to write.
“Lana Baxter.” She doesn’t even write my name down.
“I’ll be right back.” And she disappears through a door. I stand there tapping my short, dark blue fingernails against the counter. Finally, she returns and leads me down a hall to an office. Sitting there is another middle-aged woman. She’s wearing square-rimmed glasses and has a really short haircut, but has a pleasant trusting face.
“Lana, please come in. I’m Miss Simpson. Have a seat.” I do. She appraises me, but I’m not sure if she approves of what she sees. She opens my folder, and I see a picture of the old me, blond, flashy, total attitude, even in my school picture. She raises one eyebrow as she reads my file. Then she asks, “What can I help you with?” I lean back and think for a minute. If I do this, then there is no going back. Honestly though, I can’t afford not to. So I tell her—everything. She leans back in her chair and looks at me when I’m finished.
“Is that where you got that mark on your face?” I only nod. “You are aware of what you’re saying?” she asks.
I nod again. “I can’t afford to cover up for someone or endure this type of treatment,” I say, holding her eyes, pl
eading with mine. She nods now. She takes out a digital camera from a drawer in her desk.
“Do you mind?” She asks looking at my cheek again. I shrug. She stands and adds “Follow me.” I do. We go to the nurse’s office, which is only down the hall. She tells the nurse my story, and they appraise my cheek again. I wonder how bad it looks. The nurse takes out a ruler and holds it to my cheek as Mrs. Simpson takes a picture. Then the nurse hands me an ice pack.
“Can I see it?” I ask placing the pack against my hot skin. She leads me to a private bathroom and then leaves me alone. I turn and look at it. It’s three red lines across my cheek bone and just below it. If I weren’t so delicate now, it probably wouldn’t have left a mark. I frown. This is worse than I thought. Mrs. Simpson appears again with a small compact.