A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Advanced Praise

  copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  Epilogue

  Author's note

  Acknowledgments

  "A courageous and daring look into the complicated issue of sexual assault and culpability. This smart novel asks difficult questions about who we are, what we believe, and how to carve out an identity in the face of grief. I was riveted from the first page."

  - Christa Desir, Author of FAULT LINE and OTHER BROKEN THINGS

  "A Postcard Would Be Nice is a brutally honest, unflinchingly brave coming-of-age story with a wicked sense of humor. Oliver Wu's journey from affable shy guy to wary assault victim is nuanced and achingly believable, and the sense of self he's ultimately able to achieve with the help of a rich cast of friends is satisfying without ever veering into sentimental territory. This authors sparse, striking prose is a perfect complement to a story made all the more gorgeous because it refuses to smooth out the rough edges of pain and confusion. "

  -Liz Reinhardt, Author of REBELS LIKE US

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or win it from an author sponsored giveaway, this book has been pirated. Please delete it from your device, and support the author by purchasing a legal copy from one of its many distributors.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

  A Postcard Would Be Nice

  Published by Steph Campbell

  steph.campbell725@gmail.com

  Cover Design: Makeready Designs

  Editing: Madison Seidler

  Formatting: CookieLynn Publishing Services

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2016 Steph Campbell

  All rights reserved.

  For the beats of my heart:

  My girls,

  Hailey & Britta.

  And my boys, Chris, Liam & Finnian.

  “Don’t smoke. Don’t drink. Don’t fuck.” Ryan leans into my locker and glances around the crowded hall. “It’s pretty simple, Oliver. Just…” He pauses until I look up at him. Barely. He’s my best friend, and I can hardly stand to make eye contact with him. “Just tell me this shit isn’t true.”

  I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to slow the spin of an Earth that I’d just as soon let fly off its axis and fling me into a new galaxy.

  Ryan shakes his head, his brows pinched tightly together as he says, “And don’t fucking lie, either.”

  “It’s complicated.” My lips curl around the words in disgust. Because this isn’t how things were supposed to be. Being me, Oliver Wu, is all about tutoring trig and working at the art museum and playing in a mostly-straight-edge band. Being Oliver Wu isn’t supposed to be complicated.

  “Uncomplicate it. You—” he lowers his voice before saying, “Tell me they’re full of shit. That you didn’t get drunk and then sleep with Tarryn Alridge.”

  The words float between us. Dangling in the air, making every breath feel heavier and stale.

  “I told you. It’s complicated.” I yank my black backpack from my locker. One of the straps gets caught on the hook inside, so I tug harder until it’s free, all while keeping my head down. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  That’s the truest thing I’ve said in two days.

  I push past him and into the thick sea of people rushing to class. For once, I just want to be lost in the crowd.

  To blend in.

  To go back in time.

  To forget.

  ***

  39 hours earlier

  1.

  I’ve heard that there are a million ways to fall in love with someone. A crush, an unrequited “romance,” that platonic “just-friends” crap, selfish crazy love, the unconditional real-deal that lasts until you die holding hands.

  But in my experience, I’ve only found one way: from afar.

  It probably shouldn’t even be possible, unless maybe you’re a serial killer and have a basement full of heads in jars. But I’m not. A killer, that is. And I did. Fall in love, I mean. With someone I don’t really know.

  With Paloma Medina.

  I watch her now, like I do most days, standing in the coat check line at the museum where I work. She tugs at the edge of her blue skirt, the same color as her tights, and stares up at the marble pillars of the lobby. The only time things really change here in the lobby is seasonally. A Christmas tree goes up in the far corner at the end of November, and they drag out some fake ferns and tulips in the spring. Even though Paloma is here nearly every day, she still takes it all in like it’s new, from the thick velvet drapes that hang between the gaudy columns, to the long gray rugs that cover the shiny floors. They’re mostly frayed at the edges and constantly trip people up, but management refuses to change them out. She looks at all of it.

  Sometimes, she even looks at me.

  I stash a few stray hangers on the rack before turning toward her again.

  Paloma takes a map from the plastic holder as she moves up in line. She unfolds the pamphlet and examines it like the rest of the patrons, as if she’s planning her visit. I don’t know why, she’s gotta have this place memorized better than I do.

  I hang another coat on the rack and give out another claim tag. The same thing, over and over. It’s a Saturday night, and there’s a members’ event going on upstairs in the Impressionist Wing. Lots of rich people, wine, and pretension tonight. Whenever we have these hoity events, I’m reminded of the place where Dad made us have dinner while we were on vacation in New Orleans. There was a jazz clarinet. I wanted to set my ears on fire.

  The line moves up, and two people dressed for the event cut in front of Paloma. She lets her eyes wander and pretends not to notice. Standing in this line never seems to bother her like it does most people. Paloma shoves the map back into her bag, and then unrolls a mint from the foil. Most days she’ll throw back an entire roll of breath mints while she’s in line. She must not realize that some days, even though she’s successful in making her breath not smell like a distillery, the sharp bite of alcohol still clings to the heavy fabric that she hands over to me.

  Working the coat check isn’t glamorous, and maybe it’s even a little pointless considering the fact that the number of days people in Southern California wear a proper coat are few, but we stay busy during events like tonight and the handful of real winter weather days we have each year.
For some reason, Paloma wears a coat nearly every time she comes.

  She tucks the pack of mints back into the leather bag that hangs at her hip and glances up.

  Three. Two. One.

  I look away.

  Because everything about her—from her stance, to the way she tips her chin down when people near her start talking when the line is long, to the way she hugs that notebook to her chest like her world depends on it—says she’s here to escape, and anything more than three seconds of eye contact feels like intruding.

  Plus, I doubt she even remembers me.

  Which sort of makes the fact that I’m fucking crazy about her even more awkward/pathetic. And even if she technically knows who I am, I’m sure to Paloma, I’m just the quiet kid from middle school. The last time we had an actual conversation was in eighth grade computer lab, back when everyone knew me as the kid who had a freakish growth spurt—I shot up five inches from seventh to eighth, and my ears grew three sizes. Lucky me.

  Now that I’m a senior in high school, the height thing isn’t as much of an issue, and I’ve grown into my ears. Or maybe it’s just that my hair is long enough to cover them now—except at work, where I have to pull it all back into a ponytail—and work is the only time I see Paloma.

  “Next,” I call to the man in line.

  I allow myself one more glance in her direction before I help the couple dressed in formal wear.

  Dark brown eyes lock on mine. Her mouth curves up into a small, shy smile, and my eyes must go wide as shit because she laughs a little before looking away.

  I run my hands down the front of my khakis, trying to avoid being the freaky kid with the sweaty palms.

  We lost touch completely, if you could even call it that, in high school when she went to a private school, and I opted to go to public school.

  I convinced myself that I’d pissed away any chance of talking to her, that it was never anything real or meant to be. Until three months ago, when Paloma started showing up at the Museum of Art where I work. Not just a day here and there—almost every single day.

  We make small talk while I check her coat—if, “dropping off?,” “yep,” or “Enjoy the museum,” qualify as small talk. Sometimes I see her wandering the halls of the museum, searching for the perfect light for whatever she’s sketching that day. Some days she just sits in the Chinese Garden Court with a book.

  I’ve spent months looking for a reason to talk to her. Really talk to her. I’ve been waiting for something to happen that would make her notice me before she disappears from my life again. But every time I have a sliver of an opening, I, as my pseudo boss, Colm, never misses a chance to tell me, “puss out” and never say a meaningful word.

  “Next guest,” I call, waving the older woman with bluish-white hair up to the counter.

  Paloma casually lets her fingertips graze over the soft red velvet of the stanchion as she steps up in the moving line.

  “Picking up?” I ask, taking the claim tag from the woman in front of me.

  “I’m not tipping you,” she informs me.

  “That’s fine, ma’am,” I say with a smile. She doesn’t return it.

  Most people don’t tip. According to Colm, tipping is a dying concept. He says things like that, all full of authority and wisdom, even though he’s only two years older than me.

  “Forty-seven,” I say her claim number out loud to myself as I thumb through the coats on the rack. “Here we go, forty-seven. Just one coat.” I pull the old fur off of the hanger and lay it across the counter for her to inspect.

  “Do you know what this coat is made of?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure, ma’am.” From the looks of it, my guess would be a golden jackal, but I doubt she’d appreciate me saying so. “Is there a problem?”

  “Grey wolf!” she yelps.

  I don’t know enough about fur to know if grey wolf is good or bad. In all honesty, I thought naked celebrities posing for PETA ads had shamed anyone from wearing real fur at all—especially in Southern California—but what the hell do I know?

  What I do know for sure is her voice is loud.

  I nervously spin the leather bracelet on my wrist, and glance around to see if anyone (if Paloma) can hear me being chewed out.

  “Do you think grey wolf deserves to be on a metal hanger?” she demands. Before I can apologize and try to explain that we only have a limited amount of wooden hangers, she continues, “Because I think not! You should feel lucky I’m in a hurry and don’t report you to your manager!”

  She yanks the coat off the counter with far less care than I’ve just learned grey wolf deserves, and storms off, her rubber soled shoes squeaking loudly.

  “’scuse me, I’ll just be a second.” I swear I hear my best friend, Ryan’s voice, though that can’t be because it’s Saturday night and he’s probably—

  I look up from the counter, and Ryan is there, pushing past the next two people in line.

  And there go my tips for the rest of the shift.

  “Ryan, what are you doing?” I lean in and whisper-yell. “Other than trying to make sure I lose my job tonight?”

  “They don’t mind, do you folks?” He glances back at the line. Nothing but glares and crossed arms over tuxedos. These people are the opposite of sympathetic to whatever Ryan’s cause is. And truth be told, I sort of feel the same.

  “I’m not cutting. See, no coat.” Ryan stretches his arms out to show that he’s only wearing a thermal shirt. Like that’ll appease the people who just want to get upstairs, get their glass of champagne, and be seen rubbing shoulders with other rich, important people. “Just here to share some good news.”

  “What good news? Make it fast.”

  “All right, listen. There’s this party tonight—”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t even let me finish.”

  “Fine,” I say. I re-tie the band around my hair. Even though it’s past my chin, Mom’s finally stopped harassing me about getting a haircut now that my grades are up across the board.

  “So there’s this party tonight, and the band that was hired backed out—”

  “No,” I repeat. “Ne—”

  I start to wave the next person up, but Ryan cuts me off and swats my hand back down.

  “Come on, dude, don’t be a prick. Casey says it’ll be cool. The money is good—”

  “A friend of Casey’s?” Ryan may be my best friend, like family even. But his sister, Casey? She’s far from anything like that. The girl lives in trouble, and if she’s not in it, she’s trying to pass blame onto Ryan to get him into shit with their parents. “That's really not helping your case, bro.”

  A few years ago, Casey jacked the fireworks my parents had set aside for our New Year’s celebration, and nearly burned down the shed behind my house. My grandma was in from China, and to this day, every time she calls, she asks if I’m still friends with ‘the fire starter.’

  “We’ve got nothing going on tonight, and the party sounds pretty cool.” His eyes are pleading. I don’t get it.

  “Right,” I chuckle. “Cool is definitely how I’d describe a bunch of straight-edge kids. At a kegger.”

  This is the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard. And not because we care so much about pushing our values on anyone else. If that were the case, Paloma would be off limits, since she clearly partakes in a little boozing. We don’t label ourselves a straight-edge band, but all but one of our members are straight-edge, so parties aren’t usually how we spend our weekends.

  We don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone else does.

  But we do care about legitimacy. The plan has always been to stick with playing weddings, bar mitzvahs, and community events, rather than getting sucked into the party circuit where the only thing lower than the pay is the respect we get.

  Ryan taps his fingers on the counter like he’s waiting for a different answer than the one I’ve already given him.

  I don’t have time to stand here and argue with Ryan. “This pla
n … it’s … nonsensical.”

  “It’s money,” Ryan qualifies. “It’s one step closer to getting the dough we need to get new equipment.”

  “I can help you here, sir,” Colm says, taking the spot in the line next to me.

  Shit.

  Colm is about as laid back as bosses come. I’m not too worried about upsetting him, even with the long line tonight. But I’ll be pissed if I miss the one chance I’ll have today to talk to Paloma.

  Even if ‘talking’ only amounts to, “Here’s your claim tag.”

  I also don’t want Ryan to recognize her. He knows I’ve always had a thing for her. What he doesn’t know is she comes to the museum regularly. Mostly because there isn’t much to tell, but also because it felt a little more special if only I knew. I wouldn’t have to explain to anyone when nothing ever came of it. And if I told Ryan, he’d likely show up here and make a scene.

  Sort of like he’s doing now.

  “And we only have to sell our souls to do it,” I whisper.

  “Don’t be an asshole. We aren’t hired to do what they’re doing, or even to judge what they’re doing. We’ll be there to play some rad music, collect our shekels, and go home,” Ryan says.

  “I don’t know man, I have to work.” I point over his shoulder to the line behind him.

  “What time are you off?”

  I look away without answering. I’m off in a couple of hours, but that’s not going to help me with Ryan.

  “I just—”

  “Stop,” Ryan says. He leans over the counter and tugs on my shoulder. “Don’t even give me some BS about having something to do after work, because I know that’s crap. It’s Saturday night. We don’t have many of those left before graduation. We’re going to the party.”

  He kicks at the wooden counter with his battered Chuck Taylor, and Colm glances over at us. Colm is decent, but the look he shoots me from under those freaky white-blond eyebrows that don’t match his red beard says that Ryan and I are seriously treading on his patience right now.

  I slide my phone out of my pants pocket and glance at the time.