The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  I burrow into the waiting room chair and close my eyes, drifting off to the sound of Matty’s snores.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “BIRDHOUSE IN YOUR SOUL”

  —THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS

  Abi is released from the hospital the next morning with instructions to take it easy over the next few days. She’ll be monitored by a neurologist and treated with anticlotting medication. Mom lectures her about taking it every day, and in a stream of Spanish, Abi insists to all of us that she’s fine, that she could go to the Y tomorrow, that we’re all paranoid and she just had a slight fever.

  Even though she’s at her most difficult and stubborn, I want to cry with relief. My parents don’t tell her what happened with me last night, so she still calls me her corazón, her heart. She’s the only person who treats me like me.

  Back at home my parents are freezing me out. Mom still won’t look at me, and Dad doesn’t say a word to me, even when I eat cereal with a generous serving of whole milk.

  I spend the day listening to playlists alone in my room. I put on one of my favorites, called Running Away. I made it halfway into my first year at Evanston and have been adding to it ever since, with songs like “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen and “Let’s Dance to Joy Division” by the Wombats. When I listen to it, I imagine ripping off my royal-blue Evanston blazer and sprinting out of the campus’s wrought-iron gates. Today I imagine leaving this apartment, suffocating me with its disapproval. I could hop on the train to Greenwich Village and kill time at a café (even though the taste of coffee makes me retch) or go to Sam’s Records and stock up on vinyls from the dollar shelves.

  Annie calls me late in the afternoon, speaking through the phone in a low, hushed tone.

  “I can barely hear you,” I say.

  “I’m trying to be discreet.”

  “Why? Are your parents around?”

  “Not right now, but it’s been full Big Brother around here. Yours?”

  “No,” I reply. “They’re avoiding me. I’m pretty sure they’re going to hate me forever.”

  “Please, Vi. Your parents are obsessed with you.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Have you told Levi what happened yet?” Annie asks.

  “No,” I say. Levi’s going to freak when he finds out what happened. The Battle of the Boroughs is only a month away, and now the band is out a lead singer.

  “What about Strand?”

  Just hearing his name sends a cold wave of guilt down my body.

  “No,” I say again. I don’t want to tell Annie what happened between me and Strand. She’ll ask me a bunch of questions and make me relive the moment all over again. I don’t need to feel any crappier than I already do.

  “I think they’d let you play in the Battle,” Annie says.

  “Do you know my parents at all?”

  “Yes. Very well, actually. You might try talking to them, Vi.”

  “I think it’s finally over,” I say. “The band.”

  “They’ll come around. I promise.”

  I don’t tell Annie the truth: that I don’t think I’ll come around.

  I’m devastated to lose the band from my life, but the Battle of the Boroughs still terrifies me. The idea of not doing it makes me feel a lot of things—regret, sadness, guilt. But the sensation of relief overpowers everything else. I’m relieved to have a reason to back out of the Battle. That if someone questions my decision, I can point to my family and say it’s not my fault.

  The fear of my Battle debut has lurked inside of me for weeks, a cold, black fear that runs through my veins. I picture myself onstage in the Battle, freezing up under the lights the way I did during my audition. Letting everybody down, including myself. I wasn’t ready for it. It’s too big, too scary.

  “Right,” Annie says loudly. “So he wants it in MLA format and a bibliography included.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, it’s due next week.”

  “Oh,” I realize. “Your parents are there?”

  “Right. Let me know if you have any other homework questions, okay?”

  “Very smooth. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  We hang up, and as if on cue, Matty bounds into my room.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” I ask him, grabbing him by the earlobe. It wouldn’t be the first time Matty played undercover agent.

  “Ow!” he laughs. “No! I swear!”

  “Uh-huh.” I give him a little push and he falls back onto the floor dramatically. “So what do you want?”

  “I’m bored.”

  “Go play a game.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Go talk to Mom and Dad.”

  “I don’t want to.” He rolls onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling.

  “Well, I’m not going to entertain you. I’m busy.”

  “You’re listening to music,” he says, pointing toward my computer.

  “It’s for school.”

  He says nothing in response. His body, usually a blur of moving limbs, stays perfectly still.

  “Matty . . .”

  “Can I just stay in here? I won’t make any noise.”

  I roll my eyes. Fat chance. Matty has the attention span of a fruit fly. “Whatever. But if you get annoying, I’m kicking you out.”

  He nods solemnly.

  About a minute passes in silence. Then, still looking at the ceiling, Matty asks, “Is Abi really okay?”

  My heart thaws a little bit. In the midst of all Matty’s usual brattiness, sometimes I forget that he’s just a kid. I remember what it was like to be his age, to constantly feel like everyone but you is in on some big secret. I don’t know if you ever grow out of that stage, really. You just pretend to know the secret as you get older.

  “Abi’s okay,” I say firmly. “I promise.”

  “Well, Mom and Dad are acting weird.”

  “That’s not because of Abi.”

  “Oh.” He flops over on his side and begins to trace patterns on my rug. “Are you guys in a fight?”

  “Kind of. I guess.”

  “Why?”

  I would usually throw Matty out of my room at this point, but I know he’s freaked about Abi, so I sigh and slip off my headphones. “They don’t want me to sing in a band.”

  “Why?”

  “They want me to do other things.”

  “I think you should sing,” he says decisively. “You like it.”

  Typical Matty, boiling everything down to its simplest point.

  “Maybe if you sang for them, they would change their minds,” he says.

  I laugh, even though I find my situation far from funny. “I don’t think so, Matty.”

  “They might. Strand says you’re the best singer he’s ever heard.”

  “What?” I look at him. He has my full attention now. “When did he tell you that?”

  “I dunno. The other day.”

  It takes everything in me not to grab Matty by the collar and interrogate the crap out of him. Exactly what day? What was the context of their conversation? Was Strand just being Strand, or did he really mean it?

  Except the conversation took place before Kaitlyn’s party, when Strand didn’t hate me. Thinking about him now, especially considering the way I treated him, hurts. And as much as I want to know more, I also don’t. I keep my mouth shut and face my computer so Matty can’t witness my internal dilemma.

  “Hey, Matty,” I say, clicking through my playlists. I think a change of subject will be the best thing for both us. If I think about Strand or the band right now, it might just break me. “Want to hear one of the greatest songs ever made?”

  He jumps up from the rug, energy fully restored. “Yeah!”

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  I put my headphones on him, and they immediately slide off his small ten-year-old head.

  “I don’t know . . . ,” I say, readjusting the band. “You’re so young . . .”
>
  “So?”

  “So your brain is undeveloped. If I play this song for you, it could literally explode.”

  “Come on!” he’s moving again, back to Matty mode. Every limb is jittery and excited. It’s nice to know that I don’t have to cause pain to everyone in my life, that I can still make someone happy.

  I hit the play button and hear the muffled noise flooding through his ears. I watch Matty’s face move through a dozen microexpressions all at once. Curiosity, wonder, awe, calm. When he smiles, I smile. I can temporarily forget how much has been taken away from me.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “GIVE IT UP”

  —ANGEL OLSEN

  You’re what?” Levi asks me, but it sounds more like an accusation than a question.

  I predicted that he’d be upset when he heard the news, but I didn’t predict the eyes bulging out of his glasses or the vein pulsing in his temple.

  I try to repeat myself in calm, dulcet tones, like you use for trauma victims. “I’m out of the band.”

  “You can’t be serious, Victoria. You can’t do this to me right now.”

  This is a new, angry Levi. His anger doesn’t scare me. The fact that I’ve never seen it before scares me. It makes me wonder what else he’s holding inside.

  “My grandmother’s okay, in case you were wondering,” I can’t help but add, because he didn’t ask me once how Abi’s doing. I told him about getting the news from my dad, about fighting with my parents in the hospital waiting room, and his only response was to fixate on the band.

  Levi blinks, the color returning to his face. “Vi, I . . . of course I’m glad she’s okay. This is just . . . a lot to take in right now.”

  Annie and Krina pass by. They shoot me a wave and pointedly ignore Levi.

  “What’s their problem?” he asks.

  “We’re all in trouble.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “I know it isn’t,” I say, but I think he deserves some of the blame. Krina was clearly pushed into something she wasn’t ready for. Then again, he didn’t force us to perform at Kaitlyn’s. He didn’t force Krina to drink too much or insist that Annie and I sneak out of the house when the Lins went to bed.

  I don’t tell him any of this, and he doesn’t ask.

  “I can’t do this right now,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “I have class.”

  “We still have a few minutes,” I say. “If you want to talk.”

  “No.” He shakes his head, and all his anger is back in its cage. “I mean, no thanks. I just have to sort this all out.”

  “Okay.” I give him a kiss on the cheek, but it barely registers. I can almost see his mind computing all of the weekend’s events, trying to figure out a way around them and orchestrate a miracle.

  * * *

  I spot Kaitlyn from a distance at lunchtime, sashaying across campus, her hair back to its perfectly styled former state. It’s different now. I can see past the mirage of perfection. Kaitlyn Fielding, of all people, thinks I’m brave. She was obviously drugged out of her mind. Brave people don’t sit in their rooms making playlists all weekend.

  But then, Strand thinks I’m brave too.

  I feel shivery all over when I see him at lunch. Levi’s catching up on work in the library, so it’s the three of us, and we don’t talk about what happened over the weekend. We’re all in silent agreement to pretend none of it ever happened. We don’t talk much at all, actually. The worst thing is that Strand doesn’t completely ignore me. He’s polite, and he uses my proper name. He says Annie told him about Abi and he’s glad she’s okay.

  He treats me like an anybody.

  I used to think Strand had a perpetual grin on his face. Sometimes I wanted nothing more than to smack it off him. But when I see him frown, it’s all wrong. I would give anything to restore the grin to its rightful location.

  “Maybe it’s better like this,” Krina says unconvincingly while we’re silently picking at our food. “Maybe we all need a break from the band.”

  No one argues with her.

  On Friday night, after a full week of Strand’s irritating politeness, I have an idea. I shut myself in my room, eyes glued to the computer, frantically plucking songs out of my sprawling music collection. I don’t realize how long I’ve been at it until my mom walks into my room and flicks on the lights. My eyes need to readjust to the sudden brightness. The glare of the computer screen has been my only light source for two hours.

  “Dinner in half an hour,” she says.

  “Okay.” I look at her, but her face is impassive. “Thanks.”

  She nods and closes the door. This is what now passes for conversation between me and my parents. They command, and I obey.

  Annie calls a minute later with a homework question.

  “Why are you doing your homework on a Friday night?” I ask.

  “Because I have nothing better to do. And I know for a fact that you don’t either.”

  “Still,” I say. “I haven’t gotten that desperate.”

  “And what are you doing that’s so much cooler?”

  “Making a playlist.” I don’t look up as I scan my selection of artists. I’m only on letter N.

  “Ah,” she says knowingly. “Valentine’s Day gift for Levi?”

  I stop scanning. Shit. I forgot about Valentine’s Day, only four days away.

  “Yes,” I say. I don’t explain that all of this is for Strand. She’ll get the wrong idea.

  After we hang up, I eat a silent dinner with my family and return to my incarceration. I spend the rest of the night crafting a masterpiece of a playlist. It’s filled with songs of regret, like “All Apologies” by Nirvana, “Swallow My Pride” by the Ramones, and “So Sorry” by Feist.

  My apartment is dark by the time I’m finished. I upload the songs onto a flash drive and label it VICTORIA’S APOLOGY.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “O BABY”

  —SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES

  I’m half expecting Strand to be a no-show for quince rehearsal the next morning, but he’s at my door twenty minutes early, charming my mother and regarding me with detached politeness. He has a new Pixies shirt on, black with a monkey wearing a halo.

  “Follow me,” I say to him when Mom heads to the kitchen for snacks.

  He looks at me, silent.

  “Please?” I add. He motions for me to go first.

  I take him straight to my room so I can give him the playlist in private. He stands in the middle of my chevron rug with his hands in his pockets. We’re both stilted and awkward and not us. I clear my throat a couple of times, but my voice still comes out fuzzy.

  “I want to apologize,” I say. “For how I talked to you at Kaitlyn’s party.”

  “It’s okay. You’d had a lot to drink,” he says, but he won’t look at me. His eyes rest on a spot directly above my head.

  “It’s not okay. I had no right to criticize you. You’re single. You should do whatever you please with whomever you please.”

  On a practical level, I believe those words. I don’t have to like that Strand flirts, that women flock to him like bees to pollen, but I have to accept it. There’s no reason not to.

  I hold out my peace offering. “Here.”

  Strand takes it, but he still doesn’t look at me. I want so badly for him to go back to normal, even if it means dealing with the smirking and the nicknames.

  His expression changes slowly as he takes it from me and reads the label. The corners of his lips twitch. “What’s this, Cutlet?”

  For once, I love the way the word sounds. I’m Chicken Cutlet again. The natural world order is restored. “You should know I’ve never made a playlist for anyone before. Not Levi. Not Annie.”

  He twirls the flash drive between his fingers, then looks at me. “Thank you.”

  “No biggie,” I say, suddenly embarrassed.

  Strand smiles his vague little half smile and sticks the drive into his back pocket.

&n
bsp; “So all is forgiven?” I ask. I can’t help but feel that if Strand isn’t mad at me anymore, things will be the slightest bit more okay.

  “How else would you make it up to me if it weren’t?” His smile grows wider, showcasing two straight rows of teeth. That’s when I know he’s back to his old self.

  “Oh, shut up.” I check the time on my cell phone. “We should get going. Are we . . . good here?”

  “We’re good.”

  As he follows me out of the room, he says to my back, “I didn’t sleep with Rachel. In case you were wondering.”

  I pause, unsure of how to respond.

  “Good to know,” I finally reply, and I keep my back to him so he can’t see the look on my face.

  Chapter Forty

  “DO YOU”

  —SPOON

  It’s impossible to find a Valentine’s Day gift for Levi. What do you get for a boy who has everything? How much should you spend on a boyfriend you rarely see anymore? When the sole thread holding the relationship together is snipped apart? Without the band, Levi has devoted all of his free time to not being around me. He’s usually holed up in the library or practicing his bass alone in the band room. Our relationship has been reduced to routine pop kisses between classes and a recitation of all the work he has to do.

  When I ask Strand’s opinion on a gift, he says to buy Levi a wholesale tub of hair gel. I don’t know why I ever go to Strand for advice.

  In my desperation, I ask Mom if I can go to Sam’s Records to find Levi something. I have to gear myself up to ask her the question, because talking to her feels unnatural these days.

  “You’re grounded,” she reminds me immediately. “Remember?”

  As if I could forget. Ever since the night of Kaitlyn’s party, I’ve no longer been playing the model daughter—I am the model daughter. You could stick me in the middle of a 1950s family sitcom and I would fit right in. Well, except for my massive ass, wild hair, and ambiguous ethnicity. Still, my efforts aren’t enough for my parents, who continue to regard me as the spawn of Satan.

  “I wouldn’t be going for fun,” I say, even though Sam’s is one of my favorite places in all of New York City and I haven’t set foot in there since the grounding. “As soon as I find Levi a gift, I leave.”