Table of Contents
Title Page
One Carefree Day
AUTHOR’S NOTE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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About the Author
One Carefree Day
Copyright © 2021 by Whitney Amazeen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For information address Swan Pages Publishing, 100 Maple Street PO Box 1568, Hollister, CA 95023.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyright or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Disney, Harry Potter, In-N-Out, Everytime You Go, Ellie Goulding, Phoenix, My Cherie Amor, Stevie Wonder.
Cover Design by Murphy Rae and Ashley Quick
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-7348997-7-1 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-7348997-0-2 (paperback) | ISBN: 978-1-7348997-3-3 (e-book)
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***
First Edition: February 2021
For Ashley—
the jelly to my peanut butter, my other half, my person, my parabatai.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
The book you just picked up spawned from my feelings of loneliness.
Loneliness, in terms of the state of my mind. I've always been a huge reader, but growing up, I'd never read a book told from the perspective of a character who thought the way I did. Not even close. In fact, I remember thinking there was something specifically wrong with me, because every book I read contained characters who thought so—for lack of a better word—clean. And while my mind was a mess of intrusive thoughts and a tangled web of urges to perform rituals, reading books about "normal" people made for a somewhat refreshing experience. I got to take a break from my own head. But at the same time, it made me feel lonely. Like I was the only person in the world who thought the way I did. Which isn't true, of course.
As a result, I created a character who thinks in a similar fashion to the way I did—a character who also struggles with OCD, and I put her in situations that would trigger her, thus, creating this book and its protagonist, Willow.
Growing up, if I’d read a book about a character like her, I probably wouldn’t have felt so lonely and strange. I hope anyone who thinks they’re strange because of something they can’t control realizes they aren't. You’re not alone. I'm here too, along with so many others who are doing the exact same thing as everyone else: playing at being "normal".
You’ve got this. I promise.
Lots of sincere love,
Whitney Amazeen
One
I’d like to think I’m in control of my life, which is why today is such a problem.
It’s the first day of cosmetology school, so it makes sense that I’m more on edge than usual. Today is the start of something new, which makes it unpredictable and uncontrollable.
Even for me.
My cousin Ash sits on my bed, waiting for me to get dressed. I’ve been staring into my closet for far too long now. Deciding what to wear is an important decision. Opening a salon together has been our dream since we were kids, so I don’t want to do anything to mess this day up for either of us, like choosing the wrong thing to wear on our first day.
“Hurry up,” Ash says, gesturing towards my closet. “Just pick something.”
I sigh and scan the neutral-toned display.
The clothes in my closet are perfectly arranged: first by color, then by type. I bite my lip, scanning everything I have in white. I move on to gray, but my mind remains as blank as the moment before. These choices are part of the butterfly effect of my life, whether I like it or not. If I make the wrong decision, it will affect the rest of my day. It sounds crazy, but I know from experience the complete and utter devastation caused by one misplaced judgment.
Ash glances up from her phone and catches me still staring at my clothes. She stands up from where she was lounging on my bed and nudges me gently aside. “Move, babe,” she says. “You’re taking too long.”
Getting dressed in the morning is never easy for me, but it usually doesn’t take me this long. There have been too many changes lately. They’re throwing me off.
Starting a new school is one thing. It’s always been just the two of us, me and Ash, doing things together. And that’s how I like it. That’s what works. But now the guest house has a new tenant. The damn guest house that’s mere yards from my bedroom window. It used to be my grandma’s dwelling until she passed away almost a decade ago. It’s been empty all this time—but last night someone moved in.
Ash rummages through my closet, her back facing me, and I admire the contrast between her blond hair and black romper. She pauses and pulls a tank top off its hanger. “Everything in your closet looks so similar.” She re-hangs it the wrong way though, causing my heart to race.
“You are underestimating the value of basics. And you hung up that top the wrong way,” I tell her. “It’s not facing the same direction as the others.”
Ash ignores me and continues her search, probably hoping to find something trendy in which to clad me. Her simple error aggravates me so much more than it should. She’s completely oblivious to what’s happening inside me. The way my heart is racing, and how my senses feel heightened. The sound of her in my closet rings in my ears: the way she mutters impatiently to herself when each garment lets her down, the jangling of the hangers as they’re shoved aside. I think my palms might even be sweating. Disgusting.
I’m not going to be able to focus on anything else until that damn shirt is fixed. It’s like a curse. But my attention to such detail is mandatory, because as soon as one thing in my life goes wrong, everything else tends to follow suit. If I don’t turn that stupid tank top in the right direction, how can anything else go right from here on out?
I slide past Ash and grab the shirt off the hanger.
She huffs. “It’s fine, babe.”
“It’s not fine.” I ignore her tapping foot and her taut, impatient posture and do what needs to be done.
“We have to hurry, or we’ll be late,” she warns.
American River College has the best cosmetology program in town. It’s affordable, with a great passing rate. But according to the introduction pamphlet, tardiness is their equivalent to first-degree murder.
I can’t focus on Ash’s words because I’m still bothered after fixing the top, so I remove it and hang it back up again. I do this until my anxiety ebbs, which turns out to be five times. I exhale sharply.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ash eyes me
. When I don’t say anything, understanding crosses her features. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
I nod but don’t meet her inquisitive glance. I’ve had OCD for a long time, but it’s been progressively intensifying for about three years. My compulsions used to be limited to small rituals that weren’t so outwardly apparent, like obsessive thoughts. I still have those thoughts, in addition to a complicated mess of other issues that decided to join the party. These past years have proved my problem is only getting worse. Some days, I can barely function. I’ve never told anyone this, but I’m afraid someday I’ll become a shut-in, so absorbed in my compulsions and rituals that I won’t have enough time to ever leave the house.
Ash resumes going through my closet, her concern palpable. She eventually settles on a lilac shirt—one of the only colorful pieces I own—and a denim miniskirt. “This will have to do,” she sighs. “But shopping is happening this weekend.” She throws the outfit at me.
“As fun as that sounds, why even bother?” I ask her. “We’ll be wearing scrubs the rest of the semester anyway.” Since scrubs are the default uniform at American River Cosmetology, we can only wear regular clothes on the first day—today—and on holidays.
She grins at me. Her usually pale skin has a healthy tan glow. Despite us being nearly the same height, her inherent confidence makes her seem so much taller than me somehow.
“Because I drank too many Mai Tais in Hawaii. All my pants are getting tight,” she says.
I let out a breathy laugh. “You’re so lucky. I wish I could spend a week in Hawaii with my mom, just because. Just the two of us.”
Ash’s little brothers were supposed to go along too, but it was their dad’s week, and he refused to budge on their court-enforced schedule.
I take the outfit from her and hold it to my body, facing the mirror. “Don’t you think this is a bit revealing?” I ask, staring at my reflection. “What if I get sent home?”
She laughs. “It’s a beauty school, not a convent.” I start to protest but she shakes her head. “I’ll be damned if you’re going dressed as a nun.” Her tone is final, but I swap the skirt for a pair of less-revealing shorts when she’s not looking.
“Babe.” Ash stands next to me in the mirror and frowns. “What the fuck happened to your hair?”
“I know.” I sheepishly try to smooth down my frizzing hair. My long curls are damp, pulled back in a low ponytail, tickling my elbows when I turn my head from side to side. I take it down, hoping to somehow improve whatever Ash is commenting on, but she only bites her lip.
"Your hair makes Medusa’s look tame," Ash informs me.
I smooth it down with my hands again. I should have just straightened it. It would have been easier.
My doorknob turns without a knock and my mom peeks inside. “Willow,” she says. Her cheeks are slightly flushed and she’s wearing her nurse scrubs, the blue ones with pink flowers on them. She worked the night shift at the hospital last night, so she’ll probably head straight to bed after we go to school. “Good. You haven’t left yet.” She doesn’t react to Ash’s presence, primarily because Ash, as both my cousin and best friend, is here all the time.
My mom looks me over from top to bottom and offers me a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I know what she’s seeing: me, still in my pajamas, my long curly hair a complete mess, and my dark face, taut with nerves.
I look nothing like her. And though Ash and I are cousins, I hold no resemblance to her, either. In fact, Ash looks more like my own mother than I do. They both have the same shade of white skin and hair a similar shade of blond, but their resemblance ends in their eyes. Where Ash’s eyes are a warm brown that can see right through anyone, my mom’s are the blue ocean of the beach she left behind in South Africa. The beach she’d spent her days surfing and petting penguins before she became a mom.
My mom clears her throat. “Don’t forget, Mildred’s son moved into the guest house last night,” she states.
I shake my head. As if I could forget the fact that we have a new neighbor. Especially since that neighbor happens to be my mom’s dead best friend’s son. “I haven’t.”
“And I know it’s late notice, but he’s going to need a ride to school today.”
I blink. “What? Who is going to need a ride to school today?”
“Mildred’s son,” says my mom, bordering on impatience. “Theodore.”
I blink again, sure I missed something. I knew Theo moved in. But I must not have heard my mom tell me he’s going to college here. “He’s in school? College?”
“Yeah. He offered to ride the bus, but obviously I can’t allow that.”
Of course not. Mildred was my mom’s friend for longer than I’ve been alive. She lived in London so I never got to see her much, but my mom used to visit her at least once a year. They would constantly talk on the phone together; time differences be damned. For as long as I can remember, talking on the phone with Mildred was my mom’s default state of being. Four months ago, Mildred committed suicide. She didn’t leave a note, and as far as my mom knows, the reason she took her life is a complete mystery to everyone.
I throw my hands up, unable to ignore my frustration. “I wish you would have asked me before this morning, right before we need to walk out the door.”
My mom frowns. “I’m sure I mentioned it to you before.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Definitely not. This is a huge change of plans. I wouldn’t forget something like this, Mom.” I huff. “It’s going to influence the rest of my day now.”
My mom raises her eyebrows at me. “Are you serious, Willow? The poor boy lost his mother. I lost my best friend. You’re being ridiculous.”
My cheeks burn. A wave of sympathy mixed with chagrin crash into me, sympathy for my mom, losing her best friend so unexpectedly, and chagrin for my inconsideration.
I glance at the guest house through my bedroom window. No new cars are parked in the driveway. No sign of life is visible next door at all.
I never actually met Mildred or her family as an adult but know what they look like from a Christmas card she sent a few years ago. They were the stereotypical picture of a happy family. One mom, one dad, one son. All three of them attractive. All that was missing was a sibling for Mildred’s son, Theo.
“You’re right,” I say, eyes cast downward. “I’m sorry.”
It was considerate of my mom to reach out to Theo last month, offering to let him come stay with us if he wanted to for any reason. I must admit, I was surprised he took her up on the offer. He hardly knows us, after all. To him, my mom is probably nothing more than a phone call and an occasional visit from America, regardless of how close she was to Mildred.
“How’s he doing?” Ash asks my mom.
She purses her lips. “He hasn’t spoken much since he arrived, so please be sensitive. And nice.” For some reason, my mom narrows her eyes at me when she says this. “He just lost his mother.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
I suppress a sigh. How am I supposed to be mad, or even express my annoyance, when she’s clearly still grieving? “He’s going to American River, at least, right? I don’t need to make a detour to drop him off somewhere else?”
“American River College, Willow,” my mom confirms in a tight voice. “He’s doing cosmetology school, like you.”
Perfect. Even better.
Ash tilts her head. “Is he gay?”
I shake my head. “Really, Ash?”
“What?” She holds up her hands. “He’s going to beauty school.”
I frown at her. “So? What does that matter?”
Ash shrugs, but the mischievous glint in her eye suggests she’s probably considering trying to hook up with him. I hope she does. Maybe if Theo has Ash as a distraction, he’ll focus on something other than ruining my plans in the future.
I arrange my expression into one that resembles benevolence. I need to muster up a polite demeaner for Theo, in order to please my mom. I also need to try not to
focus on the possibility of him potentially ruining my life by throwing this unexpected curveball into my morning. I know my reasoning seems harsh and insensitive, but schedules and advance notices exist for a reason. Then again, it’s probably my fault for not interrogating my mom more thoroughly when she told me Theo was moving in.
My mom sighs and rubs one of her temples. “I don’t know if he’s gay. I haven’t seen him since he was a kid. Even when I used to fly out to see Mildred, he’d never hang out with us much. But he’ll be over here any minute.”
Any minute? The thought of it instantly makes me break out in a cold sweat, like I do every time I’m forced into an interaction I’m not prepared for.
“Theo is lucky he got a spot on such short notice, Aunt Charlize,” Ash tells my mom. “Cosmetology fills up fast.”
“Mom,” I interrupt, realizing in horror that we’ll all three have to squeeze into my car. “Mitten Chip isn’t exactly spacious,” I say, referring to my Volkswagen Beetle. Ash can’t stand when I refer to my car by the name I gave it, but I can’t stand not to.
“We can take my Mustang,” Ash offers.
I groan internally. That’s an even worse option than us crowding into my Bug, because sitting in the passenger seat of a car is the greatest source of my anxiety. If I’m not driving, I can’t stand the fact that I’m not in control. That my safety is in someone else’s hands. That I’m forced to perform a ritual that consists of imagining us crashing over and over, because doing so is like playing reverse psychology with life. Kind of like how expecting a specific scenario to play out according to your predictions almost always guarantees that it won’t. I do the same with my ritual. I imagine the worst possible thing happening, over and over again, until it feels like I’ve done it enough. I tempt life, daring it to make the living hell inside my head a reality.
It never does.
No rituals are necessary when I drive because I’m in control.
"I suppose we can make it work in Mitten Chip," I whisper.
Ash reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently. She’s one of the only people I confide in when it comes to my OCD. She’s also the only one who knows how to help me lighten up when I’m on the brink of an anxiety attack. “If you name one more of your inanimate objects,” she tells me, “I'll disown you."
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