by Dahlia Adler
I am…stunned. “You hit someone?”
She nods, looking so full of self-loathing, I think she’d crawl out of her own skin if she could. “I was just so, so done. Day after day of being treated like I was less than human for literally no reason. It builds.”
Oh God, how well I know this. How I hate that I didn’t know that she was living with this too. Worse, even. She didn’t make the choices that got her into this shit. She just was.
What a fucked-up world.
“Did you get in trouble?”
She takes a deep breath. “You know how I said we came here because my parents needed new jobs?”
The coffee gurgles in my stomach. “Yeah.”
Her eyes squeeze shut. “We’re here because of me. Because I got expelled. Because we needed to leave and start somewhere else, and this is where they found jobs. But I’m why they needed them.”
Holy. Shit. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?” I ask slowly, still trying to process everything she’s telling me.
“Because how do you tell a new friend that? Oh, hey, I’m here because I slapped a chick. Don’t you wanna be BFFs with me now?”
“I think you know that would only make me like you more.”
I expect her to laugh, and feel an unexpected twinge when she doesn’t. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know that when we first met. They made me feel like I was a psycho for losing my temper like that, and I was afraid you’d think the same thing. By the time I knew you’d understand, it felt weird to admit I’d lied. Anyway, I just wanted to forget about it. Start over.” She shrugs, and it is so, so sad. “Same thing we’re both hoping to do with college, right?”
I don’t even know what to say; I can’t imagine Vic getting violent with anyone. Things would have to be so, so bad for her to lift her hand to someone, and I hate that I wasn’t there for her then, even though of course we didn’t know each other yet. I don’t even know what to say, so I blurt the first thing that comes to my lips. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea it was so bad for you there.”
“It’s weird that you didn’t know that,” she says, taking another slow sip and letting her gaze drift out the window. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and you didn’t know that. And I didn’t know you used to be engaged. Doesn’t it bother you that for all we know each other, we barely know each other?”
I’ve never heard Vic talk like this. I feel like a massive oak tree has taken seed in my insides, its roots wrapping around all my vital organs. I flash back to my panic attack, to when she came to see me in the nurse’s office, and I take a couple of deep breaths.
And then it’s my turn.
“He fucked with our condoms,” I say quietly, training my eyes on her even though she’s still looking out the window, watching a guy in a flannel shirt examine a dent in his rear bumper. “We started having sex about a year into dating, and I couldn’t exactly get hold of birth control pills, especially with no insurance. So we used condoms, and he always bought them because I had no money and he worked on the construction site after school. I trusted him with our birth control; I had no reason not to.”
I realize then my coffee’s getting cold, and I take a quick sip. “Even when we were engaged, I was adamant about getting out of Charytan when I graduated, and I obviously wasn’t crazy about the idea of getting married, either. I was constantly pushing off any wedding talk. Who the fuck wants to be a fourteen-year-old bride, right? I was in love, not completely and totally insane. I agreed in order to buy time in our relationship.”
She looks over at me then, her eyes shining with horror as she takes it all in. “You were…you had…you were fourteen,” she blurts.
“Trailer park fourteen is older than regular fourteen,” I say, even though, thinking back on it, I couldn’t feel more childish. “Anyway, one day I…” I squeeze my eyes shut and look away. “I miscarried. I hadn’t even known I was pregnant. I told John, and he admitted about the condoms. He said he thought if I got pregnant, if we had a baby, it would convince me to stay, to be near our families. And that was it. I broke up with him on the spot.”
I glance back at Vic; she looks as if she’s about to throw up the few sips of coffee she’s consumed on top of this morning’s omelet. She tears her eyes away from me and looks back out at the pickup truck. Even though I know it’s probably pity she feels for me and not disgust, it doesn’t make it all any easier to take. I hate the thought of her feeling either one. I’ve always known I was too pathetic to have her—or anyone, really—as a friend, but this seals it.
It’s too much, sitting there with her, an uncomfortable silence weighing over us. Somehow, I think we were closer when we still had some secrets. I feel like both a slut and a child in front of her now, too stupid and naïve to take control of my own life sooner while she was dealing with shit brought to her through no fault of her own.
“You ready to go?” I rasp, feeling the urge to crush my cup in my hands, if only it wasn’t still mostly full. I take a long sip, as if that’ll take me closer to some sort of relief. She just nods and we get up and go.
This time, we listen to Fleetwood Mac on the ride home.
VICTORIA
My tongue keeps twisting into a zillion different things to say to Rae, but I know none of them are the right ones. I wish Hallmark made a “Sorry your boyfriend was a freakin’ nutjob who tried to trap you by knocking you up” card. Honestly, I’m not even sure what Oprah would do in this situation.
For what it’s worth, she doesn’t seem to have anything to say to me either, though whether it’s because of my revelation or hers, I have no freaking clue. All I want is to go home and talk to my mom or Javi about this, but there’s no way I’m telling my mom Reagan’s secret, and I have no idea when the next time I’ll even speak to Javi could be.
Suddenly, I find myself overwhelmed with the desire to see Freckles; I need to be in the presence of someone who is utterly incapable of judgment. Unfortunately, the only way I’m going to make that happen now is if I follow Reagan to work. I decide instead to text him when I get home and see if he wants to see a movie or something.
“Am I dropping you off at home?”
I’m so surprised to hear her voice in the car that’s been quiet for so long that it takes me a minute to realize she’s speaking to me, and another to realize that she’s getting off at the exit that’ll take us back to Charytan. “Yeah.” At least I have the letter from Javi to look forward to.
We exchange lukewarm goodbyes and I grab my things from the trunk and let myself inside. There’s a note waiting on the kitchen counter informing me that my parents are at brunch with another professor and her husband, and that the letter from Javi’s on my bed. I take the stairs two at a time, drop my bag right inside the door of my bedroom, and collapse onto my patchwork sheets, plucking the envelope between my fingertips and ripping it open.
Bula, Little Sis!
Thanks for your last letter. I appreciate that you’d send me one of Mom’s messed-up churros if you could. Amazing how much you can miss oil-soaked lumps of dough. (Now, if you can get Abuelita’s churros, you send those here immediately.)
I hope you guys are having fun on your college visits! (But not too much fun. Big brother is watching you!) Chase and I took some of the local kids out on boats this week and they loved it, especially since they were way better at it than we were. At least we finally won a soccer game against them, which means they have to honor their promise to teach us a traditional dance. It’s cool to do some fun stuff with the kids, since they know us from our school visits where the focus is all on scary stuff about HIV and disease. But it’s all stuff we’re here for, and it feels good to connect with the kids on multiple levels.
The longer I stay out here, the more I think you might really love doing something like this. Think about all the design inspiration! Plus you’d love working with the kids and getting to see new places—you’ve never even been to another country except for Mexico! I’m already working on pla
nning my next vacation. Sam wants to go back to Australia, but I wanna see as many different places as possible while I’m here, so I’m trying to pulling toward Samoa.
I know Mom really wants me to come home for Christmas, but I don’t think I can. There’s so much stuff going on here around then and I really wanna be here instead of blowing all my vacation days on four hundred different flights to get there. But don’t tell her, OK? I wanna break it to her myself.
Love,
Javi
PS—I got a tattoo. Don’t freak out and don’t tell Mom.
My stomach feels like lead by the time I get to the PS. Mom wasn’t the only one who wanted Javi to come home for Christmas. Why does he have to be so far? And I’m glad he says he’s having fun, but my heart breaks for him that all the joy is sandwiched between the harsher realities of death and disease.
He’s right about one thing, though—I’d love to travel. Every time he goes somewhere new, I pretty much burn with jealousy. I don’t even know when I’d do that, though. I’m already a senior, and next comes college, and then comes a job; how do people even do this? How do they get to see and do everything? And Javi has Chase and Sam and his other Peace Corps friends; who would I even travel with? Even if Reagan had the money to go on a trip, I’m not sure she actually wants to leave the state, like, ever.
Ugh, just more choices. I don’t need more choices. I’m sick of choices. I grab my cell phone and text Freckles. Hey, wanna do something tonight?
It takes him a few minutes to text back, but I know he’s on the day shift with Reagan today. Sure. Reagan too?
Well, this is awkward. Nah, I thought we could hang out just us. Not that I’m worried he’ll say no to that, but I really don’t want him to ask why.
Fortunately, he doesn’t. Okay, cool. Pick you up after work? Then my phone beeps again. Better yet, let me shower first so I don’t smell like French fries.
I happen to love the smell of French fries, but I’m afraid being too enthusiastic will lead him on, so I just say, OK, cool.
Then, because my curiosity has totally been piqued, I turn on my computer and start looking up Fijian fashion.
“How is it?”
I’m in mid-bite when he asks, and I swallow too quickly to answer, nearly choking. “Good,” I squeak, though it feels like there’s a sprinkle stuck in my throat. “How’s the mint chocolate chip?”
“Good.”
We’re sitting on stools at The Ice Cream Bar, and with my legs dangling free and a vanilla soft serve in a sugar cone in my hand, I feel just like a little kid. I wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up here instead of in Arizona. “Did you come here a lot when you were younger?” I ask Freckles.
“It’s pretty new. Just opened up maybe three, four years ago.”
“I’m even newer,” I joke.
He smiles, a small one. “I remember.” He takes another lick of the bright-green ice cream. “Have you liked it here, so far?”
“I guess so.” His smile disappears, and I wonder if I’ve offended him. “I mean, it’s a lot better than Arizona,” I add quickly, and I see his shoulders relax. I wonder if he’d still be relaxing if he knew what I’d done, why we’re here, but I don’t want to talk about that. Now that I know he likes me, I see it plain on his face, and right now, I don’t think I could stand to watch it fall away. Besides, what I actually want to talk about is Reagan, but I don’t want to put Freckles in a weird spot. “How was work today?”
“Same old Sunday shift,” he says with a shrug. “How was Barnaby State?”
It feels like a loaded question, even though he obviously doesn’t know anything. Suddenly, I feel guilty for hooking up with Jamie, and paranoid, as if maybe Freckles knows. He couldn’t, though; there’s no way Reagan would’ve said anything. I’m sure of it. “Good.” My voice is slow and careful, testing. “Went to my first college class and everything. Other than Miss Lucy’s, of course.”
“My friend Caylee’s in that class. She loves it. She’s dying to do some workshop with Miss Lucy over winter break and then maybe even intern for her this summer. She’s pretty obsessed.”
A workshop? An internship? My dangling foot has moved into a full-on jiggle. How awesome does that sound? I’m dying to learn the secrets to the beadwork that girl in the class did, and I definitely need some help with sleeves. Plus, I got this great idea after looking at those websites this morning—
All thoughts float out of my head when I spot a familiar face, and it takes me only a moment to realize that it’s Sean Fitzpatrick and nasty Becky Holtzmann from my gym class, who always rolls her eyes when anyone misses a basket or hits a volleyball out of bounds.
“Friends of yours?” Freckles asks.
“No. Definitely not.” I tear my eyes away from them and dive back into my ice cream cone.
“I didn’t think so. I know he and Reagan aren’t exactly…” He waves a hand meekly in the air but doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah.” I flick a glance over at them again, and then back to Freckles. “Did you know his brother?”
“Fitz? Yeah. He was an okay guy, most of the time. He was already gone before you moved here, no?”
“Guess so. Was it weird when he left?”
“I think everyone was shocked as hell. I know I was. That family’s been in Charytan for generations, and as far as I know, none of them plan to leave. Plus, he and Reagan…” Again with the unfinished sentence.
It didn’t occur to me until right now that Freckles had known them as a couple. In fact, everyone in Charytan probably did. What a strange thing that they all did and I didn’t, and never will. “What were they like?” I can’t help asking. “I can’t picture it.”
He shrugs. “I dunno. Like a couple. Together constantly. Always holding hands, kissing in the hallway, that sort of thing. If you ever went over to the Fitzpatricks’ house, she’d be there, no question. Every baseball or basketball game, she was in the stands. It was weird, at first, because she was so young, but you know Reagan. Wise beyond her years and whatnot.”
“He’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he? If he left right before I moved, then he’s already been away over two years. Shouldn’t he be home by now? Or did they keep him over there?”
Freckles tips his head and furrows his eyebrow. “You… don’t know?”
I don’t even know why I’m surprised to hear that I’ve been left in the dark over something important yet again. And the way he’s looking at me makes it clear I’m about to hear something I don’t like. “Know what?”
“Fitz is MIA. Has been for six months. No one’s heard from him, no one knows where he is, no one even knows if he’s alive. I mean, by now the odds are pretty lousy that he is.”
Just like that, my entire body turns to ice. I put my cone down on the counter, letting the soft serve smush into the Formica, because if I don’t, I know I’m going to drop it onto the floor. Fitz, the love of my best friend’s life, the guy who left her heartbroken and secretive and untrusting, isn’t even a living, breathing human being anymore. It feels like all the knowledge I had on him has turned into dust in my brain. Like none of it was real.
“Does Reagan know?” I have to ask, because even though I know the answer, I’m holding on to the hope that her “confession” wasn’t one big lie.
“Of course. I thought everyone knew, honestly. How could you not?”
“Rae and I don’t really talk about him,” I say through gritted teeth. And when you make one person your whole social life, and they choose to hide things from you, you’re gonna find yourself in the dark a whole lot. “Not one of her favorite topics of conversation.”
“Can’t really blame her,” Freckles says with a shrug, clearly oblivious to the fact that he’s just sent my mind in some sort of crazy whirl. I can’t even tell what I’m feeling now. Sympathy? Hurt? Anger? Mistrust? I want to hug Reagan and shake her at the same time. How could she tell me so much and leave out the most important part of all?
I feel bad bailing on Freckles, but I need to talk to Reagan. Immediately. And judging by the way he’s staring between me and my cone as if I’m some sort of crazy person, he’s probably okay with ending this “date” early. “Would you mind driving me to Reagan’s?” I ask, knowing I don’t sound nearly as apologetic as I should.
“Sure.” He hops off the stool and takes a few more swipes at his cone before tossing it into the trash while I clean up the mess I’ve made. A few minutes later, he’s dropping me off in front of the trailer park, and I’m shaking as I try to think of what to say. I almost wish I could take him in with me, as if he were some sort of security blanket, but I wave goodbye and then he’s gone.
When I first met Reagan, I thought she was a little intense, but I was never afraid to talk to her. We clicked hard and fast, and we’ve been tight ever since, but now—since we started doing this whole college visit thing, I guess—things keep getting weirder and weirder and I don’t know if it’s because we’re getting older or talking about the future or what.
All I know is that I don’t like it, and I want it to stop. Now.
“Who the hell is that knocking at this hour?” I hear her mom yell sourly, annoyed enough that the southern tinge she usually adds to words isn’t there. I don’t know what the hour has to do with anything—it’s only seven thirty—but I’m guessing it has something to do with whatever TV show she’s watching right now. She hates being interrupted from doing absolutely nothing.
I hope Rae will be the one to answer the door, but no such luck; her mom’s actually peeled herself off the couch long enough to swing the door open and give me her usual suspicious once-over.
Then she points to Reagan’s room with a grunt and goes back to the couch without so much as a “hi.” Typical visit to casa de Forrester.
Rae’s door is partially open but I knock anyway. “Come in,” she calls, her voice quiet. Distant. I do, and I close the door behind me. She’s bent over something at her desk, obnoxious static coming out of her radio, with only the slightest hint of music in the background. She doesn’t look up.